Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
The eyes that met his were not his friend’s.
He didn’t know whose they were.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
And now he hunted.
As Lash stepped out of the drug dealers’ shitty apartment, he closed the door and locked it with his mind. No one was in the hallway, but he could hear the other humans inside their little rat cages, scurry, scurry, scurry. He started walking without paying any attention to which direction he was going. It didn’t matter.
Striding along, he heard TVs, video games, cursing. Smelled food that actually made his mouth water, some kind of meat that was seasoned well—also scented weed. A lot of weed.
By the time he got to the battered stairwell, he was aware someone was following him. They were good at the stealth, their footfalls muffled to the extent that, had he been a human, he wouldn’t have heard them.
But he wasn’t human.
He knew they’d strike at the landing, and wheeled around just as the switchblade was raised. He had a brief impression of dark hair, light eyes, and black clothes—and then he was taking control of the arm, bending it back, breaking the wrist. As the weapon dropped with a clatter and the scream started to rip, he slammed his palm on the front of the throat and pinned the slick bastard to the concrete wall.
Right by a stretch of red and orange graffiti that read: PUZZY
Which suggested, as talented as the artist had been, they couldn’t spell for shit. Zhit. Whatever.
Unholstering his hunting knife, Lash leaned in and got eye to eye with the guy, which was only possible because he was holding his attacker about a foot off the ground.
“This was stupid on your part,” he said softly as he watched the slack mouth click.
With a vicious thrust, he drove his blade into the guts, twisted it sharply, and jerked up until he hit the base of the sternum.
A warm blanket of blood tickled his hand on the grip of his weapon, and he had a thought the thing had proven quite handy in the last twenty-four hours. Too bad they couldn’t use any of the ways he’d put it to work in a commercial. Retail price was about a hundred dollars. Considering the number of slices he’d made? Stabs? He’d be down to four or five bucks a job.
Of course, he’d stolen it. So the economics worked even if he’d just been using it as a paperweight.
“Very stupid.”
He let the man drop and stepped back as the crumple happened, the limbs drawing in on themselves as his victim curled up around vital organs that had been breached, ancient lizard-brain instincts overriding the logic that would have informed the dumbshit it was too late: The mortal wound had been made, so there was nothing to defend against anymore.
Shifting his weight, Lash lifted one of the hunting boots he’d boosted, and as it came up, he noted that the things were waterproof. How handy.
He placed the tread on the side of the face and skull, right at the ear, and as he transferred a little of his heft, there was an immediate intensification of writhing, a muffled holler bubbling as bloody hands clawed at the chipped tile and one of the legs bobbed up and down, like a dog getting its belly scratched.
Lash relented the pressure, watching the movements ease. Then he brought it back—
“What… the… fuck…”
Twisting his head, he looked behind himself. A young kid, about the age of the punks who’d been inducted, skidded to a halt in the doorway of the first apartment on the left. In his baggy clothes, fresh kicks, and waft of cologne, he was clearly ready for a good night.
“Do you want some of this,” Lash drawled.
“No, sir. Sure don’t.”
As the interloper backed the fuck up and shut his door, there was the clunk of a dead bolt getting thrown and then the skitter of a chain. Cute, really. Like any of that would keep Lash out if he wanted to infiltrate. Yet respect had been paid, and therefore respect would be shown. For the moment.
“See?” he murmured to the dying guy who’d had all the bright ideas. “That’s what you should have done. But no, you wanted to dance with me.”
With a quick hop, he transferred all his weight onto his raised boot, going ballerina, balancing himself with the help of a palm on the PUZZY. Beneath the treads, the body spasmed wildly, everything clapping on the stained linoleum tile, one hand getting thrown out and smudging through the bright red blood. But two hundred and fifty pounds wasn’t enough. At his will, his specific gravity increased to industrial standards—
The crack was so satisfying that Lash closed his eyes and parted his mouth.
He was a little less satisfied with the results when he stepped off and had to kick free all kinds of glistening debris.