Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Even though Saxton was a born and bred aristocrat, he had no love for his class. Then again, he’d been kicked out of his bloodline because he preferred the company of his own sex. The good news was he had found a new family of choice with the Brotherhood and mated a helluva guy. Ruhn was good stuff.
So, yeah, fuck the glymera.
“What’re they going to do to us?” V started a second roll. “They have no power, and Wrath is democratically elected now. They can’t touch him.”
The attorney looked back down at the inked symbols on the open folio of parchment. “Yet if we proceed with precision, then there can be no rightful complaints.”
“We’re just going to raid the place and burn it down. Who’s going to rebuild it out of the dozen of the aristocrats that are left.”
Assuming they could find the new site. After years of losing track of the glymera’s private repository for vampires who pissed them off, the Jackal had gotten free of the place and come to the Brotherhood. By the time they’d all gone back to the underground location, however, the “facility” had been deserted: Whoever was running the camp now had somehow managed to disappear five or six hundred prisoners, an entire drug operation, and all staff and guards, right into thin air. Poof!
But to where? They couldn’t have gone far, considering.
“I say we cold-lab it.” V licked another strip. “Shut it all down with an edict and clean up the paperwork afterward.”
“Have you found the location—”
“No, but we’re going to. Even if it kills us.” He took out another rolling paper, and then barked across the dining room, “Jesus, will you two just look it up on the Internet!”
Butch and Rhage turned and looked at him as if he had suggested putting a “For Sale” sign in front of the mansion. And was prepared to deed Fritz, butler extraordinaire, along with the property.
V jabbed a hand into his ass pocket and took out his Samsung, waving it around. “Not sure if either of you are aware, but you have the world at your fingertips here. Typey-typey.”
Butch tugged at the sleeve of his Tom Ford jacket, prim as the good little Catholic boy he had been, and still was. “That’s not the point.”
“And you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet.” Hollywood motioned with that bathtub-sized spoon. “Also, we don’t really care about what other people think.”
“So this is a private jerk-off,” V muttered.
“Exactly.”
“About a very important horror franchise,” Butch footnoted.
For some reason, the sight of the two of them standing there by one of the long windows, Rhage all big, blond, and beautiful, eating out of a Ben & Jerry’s container, Butch looking like he was waiting for someone from GQ to hand him his Best-Dressed Vampire of the Year award, made V remember the early days of the troika, the three of them single and hanging out in the Pit.
He wouldn’t return to that time, even if someone paid him with a lifetime supply of hand-rolleds that he didn’t have to twist and lick himself. But they were good memories. Just like the pair of airheads were very good males, very good brothers.
Very good fighters.
V checked the time on his phone. The three of them had been early for tonight’s audiences, some kind of buzzy animation making it impossible for them to hang out all the way through First Meal back at the mansion. Wrath would be arriving soon, and not long thereafter, the citizens for their appointments with their King.
V hated this part of his job, cooling his jets while he listened in on private conversations about matings, births, deaths, and property disputes. However, the Black Dagger Brotherhood had always functioned as both the defenders of the species and the King’s private guard.
So Wrath never did this on his own.
And who knew, maybe some night, the brothers might be needed.
In the meantime, he was staring down the barrel at six hours of twitching in his shitkickers. When he could be out looking for that fucking prison camp.
The more they couldn’t find that place, the more he was determined to hunt down the location. It wasn’t that he knew anybody who was currently incarcerated, and he was not a bleeding heart with a rescue complex. He really fucking hated the glymera, though, and even if the camp had been co-opted by some faction and wasn’t being run by that bunch of self-righteous snots anymore, there was satisfaction in taking a toy with their name on it away.
And okay, yeah… maybe he didn’t like the idea that there were people in there who’d done nothing wrong. According to the Jackal, there had been a number of murderers thrown behind bars, but there were others who’d been tossed in there who’d done nothing but break social rules that were total bullshit. Like females who had busted out of sehclusion or left abusive mates. Males who were competition, politically, socially, romantically.