“You’re something else,” the old man muttered. “And I don’t think I’m making myself clear. Do you know who I am.”

Syn focused on the heartbeat that pulsed on the side of the man’s throat. And as his fangs tingled, he knew that the wrong question was being asked. The real question was not who, but what, and it was about Syn. But as with the whole money thing, that was hardly a course correction he felt it necessary to make.

The cell phone rang again, and when the old man looked at the screen, he muttered to himself. Then sat back down in his chair and rubbed his eyes like his head hurt.

“You know what, it’s your lucky fucking night.” Looking at Syn, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you a chance for redemption. As opposed to a grave.”

“Do tell,” Syn said in a bored tone.

“I want you to take care of a reporter for me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

When Syn left the Hunt & Fish Club, he went down the back alley to a rear parking lot that had a dumpster, ten spots for cars of the narrow variety, and no exterior lighting. There was only one vehicle in the square of asphalt, a Chevy Suburban that was parked laterally across many sets of faded yellow lines. As a cigarette flared behind the wheel, it was clear the old man’s chauffeur was ever-ready, and as soon as Syn was out of sight of the driver, he dematerialized about twelve blocks up. Upon re-forming, he registered his position with the Brother Tohrment, clocking in for his shift prowling the largely-empty-of-slayers downtown.

He missed the old days. The Old Country. The way things used to be with the Band of Bastards sleeping together like a pack of dogs in the rough, the only rule being that as long as you cleaned up the messes you made, no questions were asked.

But nooooo they had to come over to the New World.

Then again, there had been even fewer lessers overseas.

For tonight’s shift, he was in the territory next to the Brother Butch’s, and he was supposed to be with his cousin, Balthazar—and the latter was a good thing. Balz didn’t mind working alone, with the pair of them covering the area assigned without walking side by side. Syn hated that grafted-at-the-hip shit. He was so not a chatter, which was a natural corollary of him not giving a shit about anyone else’s life.

Hell, he didn’t even care about his own.

Technically, the lone-wolf, on-your-own routine was a violation of protocol. But Balz was a thief with no conscience, so lying by omission was like sneezing to the guy. Plus Syn was god-awful company, and he had the sense that Balz, who was in fact a chatter, would rather be by himself than stuck in a strained silence as they pounded the pavement in search of what they rarely, if ever, found.

The idea that the war was coming to an end was something to herald for everybody in the Brotherhood’s mansion. Except for Syn. He was not built for peacetime.

Choosing a random direction to go in, he strode over damp asphalt and used his nose as radar. The fact that all he picked up on was old motor oil and the sweet perfume of gas—thanks to the beaters he walked by—made him worry about the future. As he pictured endless nights of nothing to do, no one to kill, nobody to torture, a cold, numbing despair washed through him—

The falter in his step would have been a surprise if he’d noticed it. He didn’t. He was too busy testing the air to see if what he was scenting was right.

Syn’s body stopped dead without his brain giving his muscles and joints an order to cease fire. Then his head moved from side to side on its own as he sifted through the shitty bouquet of the city.

Meadow. He was smelling a fresh, summer meadow in the midst of the grime and the trash, the pollution and the exhaust. The scent was so compelling, so resonant… so overpowering… that he blinked and saw an image of wildflowers in moonlight.

Drawn by what had to be a mistake of his senses, some wire getting crossed between his sinuses and the synapses in his brain, he walked forward like a dog, snout out, body dragged behind. Passing under fire escapes and by doors locked with chains and deadbolts, he continued along the street. Off in the distance, there were sirens, and then the dampened beat of a car stereo’s subwoofer. Some human on a moped with a milk crate full of food that was going to be ice cold when delivered swerved out of his way when he refused to divert from his course, the man barking a curse at him—

And then the wind changed.

Syn stopped and put his arms out like he could fight the thief that had robbed him of the scent. Circling in place, he tried to catch the trail again, drawing night air in through his nose like it was his last shot to breathe before he drowned.

Someone came out of a doorway, took one look at him, and quickly retreated back into wherever they’d tried to leave. They probably thought he was on drugs.

Given his sudden lack of control over himself, he felt like he was on drugs.

Unable to regain the scent, he closed his eyes and had to wait before he could sufficiently calm himself to dematerialize. When he was able, he ghosted up to a rooftop and prowled around the lip of the drop-off, looking down, searching, his blood pounding in his veins.

But for once, it was not because he was hungry to kill.

No, this was hunger for a different reason entirely. And it was the kind of thing he was wholly unfamiliar with.

Yet there was no one he could see in the maze of streets and buildings, his target eluding him in spite of the number of vantage points he shifted to. And in all his frustrated, frantic searching, he felt as though he were in a dream, the object of his desire ever out of reach, a figment of imagination rather than anything of true flesh and blood.

Eventually, he forced himself to stop.

He had obviously imagined it.

As he resolved to get back to work, he was aware of a ringing disappointment in the center of his chest, sure as if he had been cheated out of a promised benediction.

Then again, for one brief moment, he had had something other than killing on his mind.

Considering the fact that murder and the desecration of corpses had been his only motivator for as long as he could remember, it was a surprise to mourn his return to normal.

* * *

“Of course Gigante wasn’t happy when he answered,” Jo said, keeping her voice down. “But that’s not a surprise.”

Officer McCordle, the beat cop friend of Bill’s who she’d come downtown to meet, frowned like someone had accused him of wire fraud.

“Wait, you really called him?” he asked.

“What did you think I was going to do with the number? Play Uno with it?”

The pair of them were about three blocks west of the crime scene, not that it would have mattered if they’d been right in front of where Frank Pappalardo’s nephew had been peeled like a grape. The CSI unit had done their thing and cleared the site, and then a commercial cleaning crew had come in to make sure none of the club-goers in the neighborhood took selfies with the aftermath. Not that there had been much blood or guts. But still.

And man, you could smell that bleach.

“Did he threaten you?”

“I’m not afraid of Gigante,” she said.

Officer Anthony McCordle had “Good Guy” stamped all over him. Underneath the brim of his police hat, his honest face seemed to struggle to contain the not-happy expression his mood had cast his even features in, and his hand went to the holstered gun at his hip. Like he was protecting her from the mob even though the two of them were alone.