Free Lover Enshrined by J. R. Ward

other, they assessed the sitch as the two human men looked over.
    “Get the fuck out of here,” the one on the left said.
    Okay, this was obviously a case of dealus interruptus . And the guy to the right was definitely on the buy side of the exchange, and not just because he wasn’t trying to take control of the intrusion. The mangy bastard was twitchy in his dirty pants, his fevery eyes wide, his sallow skin waxed out and spotted with acne. Most telling, though, was that he went back to focusing on his dealer’s jacket pockets, not at all worried about the possibility of getting capped by Phury or the slayer.
    Nah, his biggie was about getting his next fix, and he was clearly terrified he’d have to go home without what he needed.
    Phury swallowed hard as he watched those empty-house eyes bounce around. God, he’d just had that stinging panic . . . had tangoed with it right before the shutters had gone up for the night back at home.
    The drug dealer put one of his hands to the small of his back. “I said, get out of here.”
    Fuck . If the asshole pulled out a gun, all hell was going to break loose because . . . Okay, right, the slayer was also reaching into his jacket. With a curse, Phury joined the party by putting his palm to the butt of the SIG at his hip.
    The drug dealer paused, clearly realizing everyone had lead accessories. After doing some sort of risk evaluation, the guy put a pair of empty hands out in front of him.
    “On second thought, maybe I’ll just take off.”
    “Good choice,” the lesser drawled.
    The addict didn’t think that was such a hot idea. “No, oh, no ... no, I need—”
    “Later.” The dealer buttoned up his jacket like a store-keeper would lock up a shop.
    And it happened so fast, you couldn’t have stopped it. From out of nowhere, the addict brought out a box cutter and with a messy, more-luck-than-skill slash, he sliced the dealer’s throat wide-open. As blood went everywhere, the buyer busted the dealer’s shop apart, going through jacket pockets and stuffing cellophane packets into his beat-to-shit jeans. When the raid was over, he tore off like a rat, hunched over, scampering, too juiced with his lottery win to bother with the two bona fide killers who were in his path.
    No doubt the lesser let him go just to clear the field so the real fighting could begin.
    Phury let the human go because he felt like he was looking into a mirror.
    The rank joy on the addict’s face was a total head nailer. The guy was clearly on the express train to one hell of a bender, and the fact that it was a free fix was only a small part of the buzz. The real boon was the lush ecstasy of super-surplus.
    Phury knew that orgasmic rush. He got it every time he locked himself in his bedroom with a big fat pouch of red smoke and a fresh pack of rolling papers.
    He . . . was jealous. He was so—
    The length of steel chain caught him on the side of the throat and wrapped itself around his neck, a metal snake with one hell of a tail recoil. As the lesser yanked, the links dug in and cut off all kinds of things: breathing, circulation, voice.
    Phury’s center of gravity shifted from his hips to his shoulders, and he fell forward, throwing out his hands to keep from face-planting it into the pavement. As he landed on all fours, he got a brief, vivid eyeful of the drug dealer, who was gurgling like a coffeepot ten feet away.
    The dealer reached out a hand, his bloody lips working slowly. Help me . . . help me. . . .
    The lesser ’s boot hit Phury’s head like it was a soccer ball, the cracking impact sending the world spinning round and round as Phury’s body did the dreidel. He ended up flush against the drug dealer, the dying man’s deadweight stopping his roll.
    Phury blinked and gasped. Up above, the glow of the city canceled out much of the galaxy’s stars, but didn’t touch the ones that were doing laps in his vision.
    There was a choking gasp next to him, and for a split second he shuffled