When it was over, the slayer was going to be nothing but an ashy residue. And Butch was going to be sick as a dog and relatively useless.
V jogged over, ducking a throwing star and manhandling a pinwheeling lesser back into Hollywood's punching zone.
"What the f**k are you doing," he bitched as he peeled Butch off the pavement and dragged him out of his suck zone. "You wait until afterward, true."
Butch curled over to the side and dry-heaved. He was semipolluted already, the stink of the enemy rising from out of his pores, his body struggling with its load of poison. He needed to be healed here and now, but V wasn't going to take the chance of their -
Later, he would marvel at getting blindsided twice in one fight.
But such introspection was hours off, as it turned out.
The baseball bat caught him in the side of the knee and the fall that came right after the blow was a yard sale in the worse way. He went down hard, his leg pretzeling beneath his considerable weight at an angle that turned his hip into a screaming ball of agony - which suggested that karma might not be about payback so much as it struggled with independent thinking: As he was felled by an injury like the one he'd just given someone, he cursed himself and the bastard with the Louisville Slugger and the Johnny-disloyal-Damon aim.
Time for some quick thinking. He was flat on his back with a leg that hummed like an engine on overdrive. And that bat could do a lot of damage -
Butch came from out of nowhere, lurching with all the grace of a wounded buffalo, the bastard's heavy body careening into the slayer just as that bat went over-the-shoulder with an aim at V's head. The pair of them slammed into the bricks, and after a beat of motionless, f**kin'-hell-that-was-a-stinger, the lesser pulled a full-torso jerk and gasped.
It was like watching eggs slide down the side of a kitchen cabinet: The slayer's bones went liquid and the thing slumped onto the pavement, leaving Butch to collapse back with his black-blooded dagger in his hand.
He'd gutted the motherfucker.
"You ... okay ..." the cop groaned.
All V could do was look over at his best friend.
As the others continued fighting, the pair of them just stared at each other against the audio backdrop of grunts and metal-to-metal strikes and inventive cursing. There should be something said between them, V thought. There was just so much ... to be said.
"I want it from you," V bit out. "I need it."
Butch nodded. "I know."
"When."
The cop nodded down at V's f**ked-up leg. "Get healed up first." Butch groaned and got to his feet. "On that note, I'll go get the Escalade."
"Be careful. Take one of the brothers with - "
"Fuck off with that. And you stay put."
"I'm not going anywhere with this knee, cop."
Butch walked off, his stride only marginally better than V could have pulled off with the dislocated mess he was rocking. Craning his neck, he looked over at the others. They were prevailing - slowly but surely, the tide was turning in their favor.
Until about five minutes later.
When seven more slayers showed up at the alley.
Clearly the second wave had likewise called for backup, and these were also new recruits who were unsure how to handle the mhis: They'd obviously been provided an address by their comrades, but their eyes could see nothing but an empty alley.
They were going to get over the what-the-hell's fast, however, and breach the barrier.
Moving as quickly as he could, V shoved his palms into the ground and dragged his ass into an inset doorway. The pain was so bad, his vision momentarily fritzed out, but that didn't keep him from stripping his glove off and putting it into his jacket.
He hoped like hell Butch didn't double back and come to fight. They were going to need transport as soon as this was over.
As the enemy's next wave surged forward, he let his head flop onto his chest and breathed so shallowly his rib cage barely moved. With his hair falling into his face, his eyes were shielded, and he was able to stare through the black veil at the onslaught of slayers. Given the incredible number of fresh inductees, he knew that the Society had to be drawing psychos and socios from Manhattan - the pool in Caldwell simply wasn't big enough to account for this surge in forces.
Which was going to work in the Brotherhood's favor.
And he was right.
Four of the lessers went straight for the thick of the fighting, but one, a bulldog with thick shoulders and arms that hung like a gorilla's, came over to V - probably to check him for weapons.
Vishous waited patiently, not moving, giving off a f**kload of next-stop-coffin.
Even when the bastard went to lean down, V stayed where he was ... little closer ... little ... closer -
"Surprise, motherfucker," he bit out. Then he grabbed the nearest wrist and yanked hard.
The slayer went over like a stack of plates, right across V's bad leg. But it didn't matter - adrenaline was a hell of a painkiller and gave him the strength not just to withstand the agony, but to hold the SOB in place.
Lifting up his glowing hand, Vishous brought his curse down on the face of the lesser - no reason to slap or slam; simple contact was enough. And just before it landed, his prey's eyes popped wide, the illumination making the whites fluorescent.
"Yeah, this is gonna hurt," V growled.
The sizzle and the scream were equally loud, but only the former persisted. In the latter's place, a nasty stench like burned cheese wafted up along with a sooty smoke. It took less than a moment for the power in his hand to consume the slayer's puss, the flesh and bone eaten away as the bastard's legs jerked and his arms flailed.
When it was a case of Headless Horseman, V disengaged his palm and sagged. It would have been great to get the weight off his bum knee, but he just didn't have the strength.
His last thought, before he passed out, was that he prayed his boys kicked this one fast. The mhis wasn't going to linger if he wasn't there to support it ... and that meant they would be fighting in public on a big scale -
Lights. Out.
Chapter Twenty-nine
As Payne's feet hung off the side of her bed, she flexed one and then the other over and over again, marveling at the miracle of thinking something and having her limbs follow the command.
"Here, put this on."
Glancing up, she was momentarily distracted by the sight of her healer's mouth. She couldn't believe that they had ... that he had ... until she ...
Yes, a robe would be good, she thought.
"I won't let you fall," he said as he helped her into the thing. "You can bet your life on it."
She believed him. "Thank you."
"No problem." He jogged his arm. "Come on ... let's do this."
Except the gratitude she felt was so complex she could not leave it unexpressed. "For all of it, healer. Everything."
He smiled at her briefly. "I'm here to make you better."
"You are."
With that, she carefully pushed herself onto her feet.
The first thing she noticed was that the floor was cold on her soles ... and then her weight was transferred and things went haywire: Her muscles spasmed under the load and her legs bowed like feathers flexed asunder. Her healer was there when she needed him, however, scooping his arm around her waist and supporting her.
"I stand," she breathed. "I ... am standing."
"You sure the hell are."
Her lower body was nothing like it had been, her thighs and calves trembling so badly her knees knocked together. But she stood.
"We shall walk now," she said, gritting her teeth as shafts of hot and cold rocketed up and down her bones.
"Maybe taking it slow is - "
"To the lavatory," she demanded. "Whereupon I shall relieve myself unattended."
The independence was absolutely vital. To be allowed the simple, profound dignity of taking care of her body's needs seemed like manna from above, proof positive that blessings, like time, were relative.
Except as she tried to step forward, she could not pick her foot up.
"Shift your weight," her healer said as he pivoted her and moved in behind her, "and I'll take care of the rest."
When he clasped her about the waist, she did as he'd told her and felt one of his hands grasp the back of her thigh and lift her leg. Without cueing, she knew to lean forward and place her weight gently as he put her knee in the correct position, restricting the bend in the joint as she straightened her leg.
The miracle was mechanical in its expression, but no less heartwarming for its one-step-two-step: She walked to the loo.