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“Goddamn it, Zsadist! Don’t jump—”
Phury’s voice barely carried over the sound of the car crash in front of them. And didn’t stop his twin from leaping free of the Escalade while the thing was going fifty miles an hour. “V, he’s out! One-eighty us!” Phury’s shoulder slammed against the window as Vishous sent the SUV into a controlled skid. The headlights swung around and caught Z rolling on the snow-covered asphalt in a ball. Split second later he sprang to his feet and hauled ass, gunning for the steaming, crumpled sedan that now had a pine tree for a hood ornament.
Phury kept an eye on his twin and went for his seat belt. The lessers they’d chased out toCaldwell ‘s rural edges might have just had their ride screwed by the laws of physics, but that didn’t mean they were out of commission. Those undead bastards were durable.
As the Escalade heaved to a stop, Phury popped his door while going for his Beretta. No telling how manylessers were in the car or what kind of munitions they had. The vampire race’s enemies traveled in packs and were always armed—Holy hell! Three of the pale-haired slayers got out, and only the driver looked wobbly.
The goat-fuck odds didn’t slow Z down. Suicidal maniac that he was, he headed right for the undead triangle with nothing but a black dagger in his hand.
Phury tore across the road, hearing Vishous pound it out behind him. Except they weren’t needed. As silent flurries swirled in the air, and the sweet smell of pine mingled with leaking gas from the busted car, Z took down all threelessers with just the knife. He sliced the tendons behind their knees so they couldn’t run, broke their arms so they couldn’t fight back, and dragged them across the ground until they were lined up like gruesome dolls.
Took four and a half minutes tops, including stripping them of their IDs. Then Zsadist paused to catch his breath. As he looked down at the oil spill of black blood smudged across the white snow, steam rose from his shoulders, a curiously gentle mist teased by the cold wind.
Phury holstered the Beretta on his hip and felt nauseous, like he’d hammered a six-pack of bacon grease. Rubbing his sternum, he looked left, then right Route 22 was dead quiet this time of night and this far outside ofCaldwell proper. Human witnesses were unlikely. Deer didn’t count.
He knew what was coming next. Knew better than to try to stop it. Zsadist knelt down over one of the lessers , his scarred face distorted with hatred, his ruined upper lip curled back, his fangs long as a tiger’s. With his skull-trimmed hair and the hollows under his cheekbones, he looked like the Grim Reaper; and like death, he was comfortable working in the cold. Wearing only a black turtleneck and loose black pants, he was more armed than dressed: The Black Dagger Brotherhood’s signature blade holster crisscrossed over his chest, and two more knives were strapped on his thighs. He also sported a gun belt with two SIG Sauers.