Tohr visit the first time his house after Wellsies death / © J.R Ward

After the shooting, the Brotherhood had taken the SUV and disposed of it, and Tohr didn't even want to know what had become of the thing.

Never had asked. Never would. The scent of both her perfume and her blood was too much for him to handle even in the hypothetical.

He shook his head as he stared at the closed door. You never knew the last time you were seeing someone. You didn't know when the last argument

happened, or the last time you had sex, or the last time you looked into their eyes and thanked God they were in your life. After they were gone? That was all you thought about. Day and night.

Heading around the side of the garage, he found the door he was looking for and had to force it open with his shoulder.

Shit . . . it still smelled the same: the dry breath of concrete and the sweet oil from the 'Vette and the lingering gas from the mower and the

Weedwacker. He flicked a switch. Christ, the place was like a museum of an era long, long ago; he recognized the objects from that kind of life, could

extrapolate their uses . . . but damned if they had a place in his existence now.

Focus.

He went over toward the house and found the stairwell to the second floor. The attic over the garage was fully finished and heated and filled with

an eclectic combination of trunks from the 1800s and wooden boxes from the twentieth century and plastic Rubbermaid containers from the twentyfirst.

He didn't actually look at what he'd come to get, but he got what it had

always been stored in and humped the old LV wardrobe down the stairs.

No dematerializing with it, though, damn it.

He was going to need a ride. Why hadn't he thought of that?

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the 1964 Sting Ray he'd rehabbed himself. He'd spent hours on the engine and the body, even during the day sometimes--which had made Wellsie mental.

Come on, honey, like the roof is going to blow off?

Tohr, I'm telling you, you're pushing it.

Mmm, how 'bout I push something else, too. . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut and wiped the memory away.

Going over to the car, he wondered if the key was was still in the . . .

Bingo.

He opened the driver's-side door and squeezed in behind the wheel...

Du willst weiterlesen? Dann schau vorbei: http://blackdagger-vampires.forumieren.com/t542-tohr