Page 99 of Sloth
“The detective is with an ambulance. Doc is on standby.” Parker’s meaning was not lost on Sloan. If their sister was there, she could commandeer the ambulance, and instead of taking it to the hospital, they could take it to their medical room in their basement headquarters. Grace, Evan’s mate, was an excellent surgeon. But would surgery be what they need to help Max? He wasn’t special like them—the safest place would be where the best quality equipment was...
“We should take him to the hospital,” she said.
“Negative. We now have more knowledge at the base.”
Barry. He meant Barry.
Sloan ripped the pinned paper note from Max’s shirt in disgust. Fuck Daisy. Why did she have to be like this? If Max died, she’d end Daisy. End that fucking cow... but as the thought formed in her head, she noticed something written on the back of the piece of paper, another sentence scrawled in blue:The answer is in your blood.
A strange nervous fluttering tumbled in Sloan’s stomach, lifting her spirit. The note was from Daisy. It had to be. Could this be a lifeline? She scrambled the paper and tucked it up her sleeve.
“Let’s get him back to base,” Parker said, jogging up the steps to meet her, but she was already heaving Max’s limp body over her shoulder in a fireman’s hold. She was strong enough to carry him, and she wasn’t afraid to show it. Not anymore.
Thirty-Two
Tony Lazarus wavedat the bartender in the nightclub, Hell. P-something-or-rather was his name. Pete? Paul? He couldn’t remember. Too much booze in his system. A few hours ago, he’d been next door in Heaven with Sloan, having a celebratory drink after his latest training session with her. She’d gone to shower, he’d stayed on. Before he knew it, the dinner crowd started filing in, and it got busy. People noticed him. People stared. He moved across the way to the recently opened nightclub where it was less busy.
Behind the bar, the bartender walked over and raised his under-plucked brows at Tony. “Another bourbon, Mr. Lazarus?”
“Nope. All good.” Tony checked his Rolex. The blurry watch-face told him it was either ten minutes to five, or ten minutes to… six? Maybe seven? The hand wouldn’t stay still. Wait. It was after nine. That made sense if the nightclub was open. Parker had texted earlier. Something about Max. Didn’t sound like he needed Tony’s help, but he should probably go otherwise he’d never hear the end of it. He should. Maybe one more drink.
Nah. He should go.
Tony looked back at the bartender, still waiting for Tony’s answer. The man had a smudge of something on his chin. Oh. It was a goatee.
Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.
Tony lifted his gaze to meet the man’s. “I got my marching orders, bud. Time to go. Put it on the tab?”
P-something nodded and flicked his dark gaze to Tony’s right. “And what about the lady? Another drink for her?”
Tony blinked. Lady? He looked to his right and, sure enough, a woman sat next to him. He looked at the bar in front of her. French manicured fingers gripped an empty champagne flute. She was pretty. Blond. Typical model type. He’d probably had an entire conversation with her and forgot. He swayed back as he tried to focus on her face. Must be drunker than he realized. No matter. It would burn out of his system in mere minutes. That was the curse—and blessing—of his supernatural biology. He imbibed like a sinner. He also detoxed like a bitch.
That was Future-Tony’s problem.
He looked at the woman again. She smelled like Lavender. Did he like Lavender? Forgot her name. God, he was drunk. He blinked again. But she watched him withthoseeyes. Loved-up-groupie eyes. She knew who he was, and she was up for it. Present-Tony could definitely get on board with that.
He stood up. “Nightcap—my place?”
The instant the words came out, he regretted them. He’d never invited anyone back to his place. It was too personal. Too encroaching. But it was literally around the corner. Lazarus House was between Heaven and Hell.
Purgatory. He snorted. Sounded about right.
She jumped up, firmed her jaw and widened her babydoll eyes. She collected her clutch from the bar and curved those lips into a smile. “Absolutely.”
Tony scratched under his ear. Right. Suppose he should live up to that reputation of his. He gesture-waved at the bartender. “We’re out of here. See you next time, bud.”
Tony curled his arm around the woman’s shoulders and half leaned on her for support. One step. Two steps. He’s all good.
Straight line.
Head outside. Eyes wide, he forced his vision to focus on the exit—a blast of soft light in the gloomy nightclub. Damn Parker for installing so many levels to this place. The architecture was set out like an amphitheater for the nine circles of hell. Steps everywhere. Not too many patrons this early in the night. His sense of gluttony was dulled from his own intoxication, but he felt the people in the club as they imbibed—like a worm wiggling in his gut.
He stepped. Wobbled. But he got it. He was good. Light shone from the vestibule of the exit, acting like a beacon for him. The vestibule led to the coat room. The coatroom connected to the street.
“The leg bone connected to the… something bone,” he chuckled to himself, singing. The model giggled.
Of course, he was hilarious.
