Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
As the slayer started laughing in a series of gurgles, Shuli moved his grip up and cut off that windpipe completely.
“Stab the fucker or I will,” he whispered to L.W. “We gotta get out of here.”
Unlike this undead, backup for him and his boy was going to be harder to come by tonight. He wasn’t about to pull a Fredo and speak candidly against the family in front of the enemy, but for some unknown reason, there was just a handful of their fighters in the field this evening, both the Brotherhood and the Band of Bastards being tied up at the same time. The reasons for whatever it was were totally above Shuli’s pay grade, although he knew without asking that it had to be something to do with the King.
Except who gave a fuck about the why’s, if they got ambushed by a squadron of slayers.
L.W.’s head cranked to the left as the male assessed what kind of bad news had shown up on that street corner. And then the movement was so fast, there was no tracking it. The male jerked his arm—
Pop!
The flash was bright enough to freeze-frame the scene on the backs of Shuli’s eyelids—maybe fucking permanently—and the heat was like opening the top of a grill when you were flipping a dozen burgers at once. That was it for the lesser. Gonzo, and not in a Hunter S. Thompson kind of way.
So Shuli fell face-first into the bricks.
He managed to catch himself right before he turned into a pug, and immediately pinwheeled around. Too late. L.W. was already jogging down toward whatever was waiting for them over there.
Because of course he was. Why hang back for the guy who was not just your assigned partner in the field, but your fucking ahstrux nohtrum?
Shuli started hauling ass. “Like a… fucking two-year-old… gunning for a light… socket.”
Keeping his eye on that shadow, he got out a gun for his right hand, switching the steel dagger that was dripping black blood to his left palm. He was determined to catch up, but L.W. moved like a Ferrari even though he was built like a tank. So ground was lost over a couple of yards—
Right before the king’s only heir engaged with the enemy—fucking solo—the figure disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. One second there, the other not, and L.W. skidded to a halt in the snow as he reached the curb.
Shuli’s heart stopped even though he was running like his life depended on it: Classic ambush setup. Set the bait, draw the predator, close the trap.
L.W. was about to get riddled with bullets—or at the very least brown-bagged and shoved into a murder van.
He ran even faster through the frozen ice and—
When he arrived beside the male, he had both his weapons up and his head going owl, even though his cervical vertebrae weren’t meant to function on that kind of swivel.
Nothing.
Just more decaying buildings across the street. Steam rising from a manhole. A distant horn and a siren even farther off.
“What the hell was that,” L.W. muttered.
“The worst fucking idea”—Shuli blew out his breath in a cloud—“you’ve had lately.”
He put his weaponed hands up on his head and walked around, panting into the cold air. “Which considering you also tried to ditch me last night is really saying something, you goddamn maniac. We’re supposed to stick together. I’m your ahstrux nohtrum—”
“That was my father’s idea, not mine,” L.W. said as he scanned the deserted streetscape. “Keep up—or don’t. Either way, it’s not my problem.”
With that, the male just turned away and started walking.
“Excuse me, motherfucker,” Shuli called out.
When there was no response, he jumped forward and caught the male’s arm. “FYI, the pink slip that comes with this job I didn’t want is my own coffin. So will you work with me here?”
“No one needs to know,” the heir to the throne tossed back.
For no good reason, the big dumbass came into sharp focus. L.W. was a chip off the ol’ block for sure, tall, broad, and black-haired, with a center braid keeping his long-and-straight out of his harsh face, and a set of pale green eyes that gossip said were just like his sire’s. He was also highly impatient, very autocratic, and about as fun to be around as a bag of Tannerite two seconds before the bullet hits.
Shuli poked the guy in the chest. “You need to stay with me.”
“No, you”—L.W. returned the favor twice as hard—“need to be better at your job if you’re not keeping up.”
Don’t do this, Shuli told himself. Not here, at least. Later, when they were home—
His body stepped forward on its own, closing the distance so they were chest to chest. Too bad he had to look up to meet that nasty stare.
“What the fuck is your problem,” L.W. gritted.