Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

Fucking Band of Bastards, cramping them all—and the fact that the rule made sense just pissed him off even more. Xcor and his boys had proven to be cagey, aggressive,and completely without morals—not exactly the kind of enemy you wanted to meet up with all by your little lonesome.
    But come on.
    Blay grabbed his phone, intending to text John—but he stopped because he didn’t want the guys distracted by his trying to get details. “Is there anyone who can get to them quick?”
    “V called the others. Fighting’s heavy downtown and nobody can break out of it.”
    “Goddamn it.”
    “I’ll drive as fast as I can, son.”
    Blay nodded, just so he didn’t come across as rude. “Where are they and how far?”
    “Fifteen to twenty minutes. And out past the ’burbs.”
    Shit.
    Staring out the window and watching the snow streak by, he told himself that if John was texting, they were alive, and for godsakes, the guy had asked for a tow truck, not an ambulance. For all he knew, they had a flat tire or a broken windshield, and getting hysterical was not going to shorten the distance, decrease the drama, if there was any, or change the outcome.
    “Sorry if I’m being an ass,” Blay muttered, as the Brother shot onto the highway.
    “You do not need to apologize for being worried about your boys.”
    Man, Tohr was cool like that.
    As it was late, late at night, the Northway didn’t have any cars, just a semi or two, the wired drivers of which were going like bats out of hell. The tow truck didn’t stay on the four-laner for long. About eight miles later, they got off at an exit well north of downtown Caldwell, in a suburban area that was known for mansions, not ranches, Mercedes, not Mazdas.
    “What the hell are they doing out here?” Blay asked.
    “Researching those reports.”
    “About
lessers
?”
    “Yeah.”
    Blay shook his head as they went by stone walls as tall and thick as linebackers, and gates of fine, wrought-iron filigree which were closed to outsiders.
    Abruptly, he took a deep breath and relaxed. The aristocrats who were moving back into town were spooked and seeing evidence of
lesser
activity in everything around them—which did not mean that slayers were in fact jumping out from behind garden statuary or hiding in their basements.
    This was not a mortal event. It was a mechanical one.
    Blay rubbed his face and slapped the shit out of his inner panic button.
    At least until they came out on the other side of the zip code and found the accident.
    As they rounded a bend in the road, there were a pair of taillights glowing red at the side—far off the shoulder, and upside down.
    The fuck this was just a mechanical problem.
    Blay jumped out before Tohr even started to pull over, dematerializing directly to the Hummer.
    “Oh, Christ, no,” he moaned as he saw two sunburst patterns in the front windshield—the kind of thing that could only be made by a pair of heads slamming into the glass.
    Tripping through the snow, he went for the driver’s-side door, the sweet sting of gas knifing into his nose, the smoke from the engine making him blink—
    A high-pitched whistle cut through the night from over on the left. Whipping around, Blay searched the snow-covered landscape…and found two hulking shapes about twenty feet away, clustered at the base of a tree nearly the size of the one the Hummer had gotten hung up on.
    Scrambling through the drifts, Blay rushed over and landed on his knees. Qhuinn was sprawled on the ground, his long, heavy legs stretched out, his upper body in John’s lap.
    The male just stared at him with those mismatched eyes, unmoving, unspeaking.
    “Is he paralyzed?” Blay demanded, looking over at John.
    “Not that I’m aware of,” Qhuinn replied dryly.
    I think he’s got a concussion
, John signed.
    “I do not—”
    He went flying off the hood of his car and hit this tree—
    “I mostly missed the tree—”
    And I’ve had to hold him down ever since
.
    “Which is pissing me off—”
    “How we doing, boys?” Tohr said as he crunched over to them, his boots crushing the ice pack. “Anyone injured?”
    Qhuinn shoved himself free of John and leaped up to the vertical. “No—we’re all just—”
    At that point, the guy’s balance went wonky, his body listing so hard that Tohr had to catch him.
    “You go wait in the truck,” the Brother said grimly.
    “Fuck that—”
    Tohr jerked the guy forward so they were face-to-face. “Excuse me, son. What did