Dark Lover

She opened her mouth. Worked it slowly. No words came out.

He looked for blood and found none, so he gingerly rolled her onto her back. She was pale as a grave marker, clammy, barely conscious. When she opened her eyes, her pupils were totally dilated.

He extended her arms, searching for track marks. There were none, but he wasn't about to waste time stripping off her shoes and checking between her toes.

Butch flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911.

When the service picked up, he didn't wait for the greeting. "I have a probable drug overdose."

Beth's hand fluttered up, and she started to shake her head. She was trying to bat the phone away.

"Baby, be still. I'm going to take care-"

The operator's voice cut him off. "Sir? Hello?"

"Take me to Wrath," Beth moaned.

"Fuck him."

"Excuse me?" the operator said. "Sir, can you tell me what's happening?"

"Drug overdose. I think it's heroin. Her pupils are fixed and dilated. She hasn't vomited yet-"

"Wrath, I need to go to Wrath."

"-but she's going in and out of consciousness-"

And then Beth jerked up from the floor and snatched the phone out of his hand. "I'm going to die…"

"The hell you are!" he yelled.

She gripped the front of his shirt. Her body shook, sweat staining the front of her T-shirt. "I need him."

Butch stared into her eyes.

He'd been wrong. So very wrong. This wasn't an OD. It was withdrawal.

He shook his head. "Baby, no."

"Please. I need him. Going to die." Suddenly, she jack-knifed into the fetal position, like a wave of pain had snapped her in half. The cell phone skittered out of her hand, out of reach. "Butch… please."

Fuck. She looked bad. As in death's-doorstep bad.

If he took her to an ER, she might die on the way over or while waiting to be treated. And methadone was meant to ease cravings, not pull an addict out of a free fall.

Fuck.

"Help me."

"Goddamn him," Butch said. "How far away?"

"Wallace."

"Avenue?"

She nodded.

Butch couldn't allow himself to think. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her out through the courtyard.

He was so going to nail that bastard.

Wrath crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall in the drawing room. The brothers stood around, waiting for him to speak.

And Tohr was there, though from the minute he'd come through the door with Vishous, he'd refused to meet Wrath's eyes.

Fine, Wrath thought. We'll just do this in public.

"My brothers, we've got two pieces of business." He stared at Tohr's face. "I have gravely injured one of you. Accordingly, I offer Tohrment a rythe."

Tohr snapped to attention. The brothers likewise were surprised.

It was an unprecedented action, and he knew it. A rythe was essentially a free shot, and the one to whom it was offered could choose the weapon. Fist, dagger, gun, chains. It was a ritual way of assuaging honor, both for the offended and the offender. Both could be cleansed.

The shock in the room didn't come from the act itself. The brothers were quite familiar with the ritual. Given their aggressive natures, every one of them at some time or another had offended the hell out of someone else.

But Wrath, for all his sins, had never offered a rythe before. Because according to vampire law, anyone who raised an arm or weapon to him could be condemned to die.

"In front of these witnesses, hear me now," he said loudly and clearly. "I absolve you of the repercussions. Do you accept?"

Tohr's head went down. He put his hands in the pockets of his leathers and slowly shook his head. "I cannot strike you, my lord."

"And you cannot forgive me, can you?"

"I don't know."

"I can't blame you for that." But man, he wished Tohr had accepted. They needed to be healed. "I will offer again at another time."

"And I will ever decline."

"So be it." Wrath pegged Zsadist with a dark glare. "Now about your goddamned love life."

Z, who'd been standing behind his twin, sauntered forward. "If anyone nailed Darius's daughter, it was you, not me. What's the problem?"

A couple of the brothers muttered curses under their breath.

Wrath bared his fangs.

"I'm going to let that pass, Z. But only because I know how much you like to get hit, and I'm not in the mood to make you happy." He straightened, in case the brother lunged. "I want you to chill with the whores. Or at the very least, clean up after yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

"We don't need the heat."

Zsadist glanced back at Phury, who said, "The bodies. The cops found them."

"What bodies'?"

Wrath shook his head. "Christ, Z. Do you think the cops are going to let two dead women left to bleed out in alleys slide?"

Zsadist came forward, getting so close their chests touched. "I don't know dick about that. Smell me. I'm telling the truth."

Wrath breathed deep. He caught the scent of outrage, a tangy flare in his nose like someone had blasted him with citrus air freshener. But there was no anxiety, no emotional subterfuge.

Trouble was, Z not only was a black-souled cutthroat, he was an accomplished liar.