The Beast

by J. R. Ward

  "So it is settled," Layla announced.

  When Blay nodded, Qhuinn put his palms up. "I know when I'm beat."

  Layla winked at Blay. "He's a smart one, isn't he."

  *

  Outside the birthing room, Jane reviewed the chart Ehlena had just handed her, flipping through pages that detailed the blood slave's progress. "Good, good . . . his vitals are really improving. Let's continue to push those fluids. I want to keep him on the IV for a little longer, and then let's see if we can get a Chosen here to feed him."

  "I've already asked Phury." Rehv's shellan winced. "I honestly don't know how that's going to go, though. That male is in really bad shape. Up here."

  As Ehlena indicated her head, Jane nodded. "I talked to Mary about it. She said she's ready to speak with him as soon as he's medically more stable."

  "She's awesome."

  "Too right."

  Jane gave the folder back, trading it for Layla's. Yes, she could have easily transitioned to all-electronic medical records, but she had been trained back in the days before everything was computerized, and she'd always preferred good, old-fashioned paper.

  She had to smile as she thought of Vishous's disapproval. He was dying to get a halfway decent computer system going down here, but he respected her prerogative, even as he was frustrated by her. And they did enter summary notes into a database, something that Jane liked to spend Sunday afternoons on when everybody was quiet.

  It was a meditation exercise as much as anything else.

  "So how're our kids doing?" she murmured as she ran through the notes Ehlena had made during the latest hourly check. "Oh, you go, girl. Look at those oxygen stats. Right where we want them."

  "There's something special about that little girl. I'm telling you."

  "Absolutely agreed on that." Jane flipped another page. "And, Mom, how you doing--oh, good. Very strong vitals. Urine output is perfect. Blood counts great. I'd like to get her to start feeding as soon as she can."

  "I know the Brothers are dying to help. I had to kick them out. I swear, I thought they were going to stay down here for however long it took to get those kids off to school."

  Jane laughed and closed the folder. "I'll do a quick check on everyone while you start Luchas's PT."

  "Roger that."

  "You're the best--"

  "Hey, partner."

  Jane glanced up. Manny was striding down the corridor, his hair wet, his scrubs clean, his eyes alert. "I thought you were taking off the next six hours?"

  "Can't stay away. Might miss something. You going in there?"

  "You want to join me on the visit?"

  "Always."

  Jane was shaking her head at herself as she put her hand on Layla's door and pushed. Medical people were always the same. Just couldn't leave well enough alone--

  She stopped in the jambs.

  Across the room, the new mom was standing at the incubators, Blay on one side of her, Qhuinn on the other, the three of them staring at the babies and talking softly.

  The love was palpable.

  And, for the moment, all the medicine that was needed.

  "Something wrong?" Manny asked as Jane backed up and re-shut things.

  Jane smiled. "It's family time right now. Let's give them a minute, 'kay?"

  Manny smiled back. "High five, Doc. You were a helluva surgeon in there."

  As she clapped his palm, she nodded. "And you saved her uterus."

  "Don't you love good teamwork?"

  "Every night and every day," she said as they wandered back down the hall, taking their time for once. "Hey, you want something to eat? I can't remember the last time I ate anything."

  "I think I had a Snickers bar last Wednesday," her buddy murmured. "Or was that Monday?"

  Jane laughed and bumped him with her ass. "Liar. You had a milk shake. Two nights ago."

  "Riiiiiiiiiight. Hey, where's your man? He should sit with us."

  Jane frowned and looked back and forth down the empty hall. "You know . . . I have no idea. I thought he wandered off for a smoke--but he was supposed to be coming right back?"

  Where had Vishous gone?

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Up in the Sanctuary, Vishous followed the call of the birds past the bathing area and the Reflecting Pool, all the way to the edge of the forest. For a moment, he wondered if the intention wasn't to draw him into the boundary itself, even though it was his understanding that if you tried to go through that stretch of thick trees, the shit just spit you back out where you started.

  But then he slowed.

  And stopped.

  The birds that had been lending their voices to the air fell silent as he looked over at the one place he hadn't even considered ending up.

  The cemetery where the Chosen who had passed had been set to rest was ringed on all four sides by a boxwood hedge that was tall enough so he couldn't see over it. An archway broke up the dense, small leaves, and it was on the trellis that the birds sat, staring at him mutely, their job now done.

  Walking over, he ducked down as he entered even though there was no need to as the arch was plenty high to accommodate his head. And as he stepped inside, the birds flushed into the air, taking flight and disappearing.

  It was impossible not to think of Selena as he stared at the statues of the females, which were not in fact statues at all. They were Chosen who had likewise suffered from the Arrest, perishing, as Trez's mate had, from a disease that was as relentless as it was deadly.

  A flapping noise turned his head.

  There, on one of the boxwood hedges, waving as if it were a flag, was a block of glowing symbols in the Old Language. The missive was not actually mounted on anything; the text was free-floating, coalesced into an order that presumably would make sense to whomever read it, and yet it moved in folds upon a non-existent wind, like the words had been stitched into cloth and sent up a pole.

  With a sense of dread, he approached what he knew his mother had left behind for him.

  Reaching up, he grasped the top edge and pulled the message flat, feeling weight, though none existed, and a terminus, though there was none.

  The golden symbols fell into a series of straight lines, and he read them through once. And then again. And then a final time.

  There are seasons to all things, and my time has come to its end. I am saddened by much that has transpired between us, and between your sister and myself. Destiny proved to be more powerful than what was in my heart, but such as it shall be.

  I shall appoint a successor. The Creator is allowing me that discretion and I shall exercise it when the time comes, which is nigh. This successor shall not be you nor your sister. You must know this is not out of animus, but in recognition for what you both have chosen for your lives.

  When I exercised my due to bring the race into existence, this was not the ending I foresaw. It can be difficult, however, even for deities, to differentiate between what they will and what will be.

  In another dimension, mayhap we shall meet again.

  Tell your sister I send my love unto her.

  Know that I bestow it upon you as well.

  Good-bye

  When he let the text fall back into place, the symbols scattered into the air much as the finches had, rising up and vacating into the milky-white sky.

  Vishous turned around a couple of times, as if the act of pivoting would somehow prove or disprove this reality. Then he just stopped and became one more statue in the cemetery, his eyes fixed, but seeing nothing, his body frozen where he stood.

  He couldn't decide whether what he was feeling was relief or grief or . . . hell, he didn't know what the fuck it was. And yes, he had a sudden impulse to go get Butch and have his best friend stretch him out on a rack and whip him until the blood spilled cleaned out the mess inside of his head.

  The Bloodletter was dead, V's sire long since having been killed by his sister, the fucker passing on to Dhund if there was any justice in the world.

  Now,
his mahmen was gone.

  Neither of them had been much in the way of parents, and that had been fine. That had been his normal, such that people who had had a mahmen and a father who were functioning properly in those roles had always seemed like the weird ones.

  So it seemed utterly fucking bizarre to feel rootless now considering he'd never actually had a family.

  He thought back to Rhage's survival on that battlefield. And then considered that tiny little infant pulling through when she really shouldn't have.

  "Fuck," he exhaled.

  Just like his mother. The last thing she did before she kicked it, if you could call her disappearance by the mortal sobriquet death, was grant him his prayer--and save Qhuinn's daughter's life.

  A final fuck you, as it were.

  Or, shit, maybe that was just his nasty filter twisting everything into a bad light.

  Whatever. She was gone. . . and that was that. Except . . .

  Jesus Christ, he thought as he rubbed his face. The Scribe Virgin was gone.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  As night fell, Assail was still down in the Brotherhood's training center complex, sitting in the chair opposite Markcus, who had been asleep the entire day.

  Given the length of time Assail had been gone, and his plans for the evening, he took his phone out, his fingers flying over the screen as he texted his cousins--

  "Whate'er is that?" came a hoarse inquiry.

  Whipping his head around, he was surprised to see that Markcus was awake. "An iPhone." He held the device up. "It's . . . a cell phone."

  "I am afraid . . ." The male pushed himself up a bit higher on the pillows. "I am afraid that tells me nothing."

  For a moment, Assail tried to imagine all that stringy hair being gone, some pounds on that frame, the face filled out so it didn't look so skeletal. Markcus was going to prove to be rather . . . comely, as it were.

  Shaking himself, Assail murmured, "It's a phone? You know, you can call people? Or text them?"

  "Oh."

  "Do you know what a phone is?"

  Markcus nodded. "But they were on tables, not in pockets."

  Assail sat forward. "How long did she hold you down there?"

  The male's entire body reacted to the question, tensing up. But he did not turn away from the inquiry. "What year is it?" When Assail answered, that pale face seemed to crumble. "Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe . . ."

  "How long."

  "Thirty-two years. What . . . what month is this?"

  "October. Almost November."

  Markcus nodded. "It felt cold. When you carried me out of the house . . . it felt cold, but I was not sure whether that was me or . . ."

  "It was not you."

  Jesus, Naasha must have abducted him very close to when she'd first mated her hellren. She must have known what she was in for with the old male. But why hadn't she taken better care of Markcus? Morality issues aside, blood sources were, after all, only as good as the health of the flesh they inhabited.

  Except then Assail thought of the way Naasha had used him, and others. She had clearly found many outlets for feeding.

  Neglect had obviously occurred when the necessity decreased.

  There was a silence. And then Markcus said, "How did you know I was in there?"

  "I was exploring the house in search of . . ." Assail waved the explanation away for its lack of importance. What mattered more was . . . "We have all wondered where your kin are? Who may we call on your behalf?"

  "My blood are all back in the Old Country. I left them to come here because I wanted . . ." Markcus's voice trailed off. "I wanted an adventure. I came unto that house to apply for a workmale's position. The mistress passed by my quarters one evening, and then she summoned me unto her presence down in the cellar. She gave me some wine and . . ."

  The male's eyes seemed to cloud over, as if his memories were so dark and heavy they were capable of robbing him of consciousness.

  "How may we contact your kin?" Assail prompted.

  "I know not. I . . ." Markcus focused abruptly. "No, do not contact them. Not now. I cannot see them like this."

  As the male lifted his wrists with their tattoos, he seemed as helpless as he had been when chained in that cell. "What shall I e'er tell them? We are naught but commoners--I had to work for my passage on the ship to New York harbor. But all bloodlines have pride. And there is no . . . pride in this."

  Assail scrubbed his face so hard that his poor, fucked-up nose hummed. Which reminded him. He had to get more coke before he performed his duties at nightfall.

  "You may stay with myself and my cousins," he announced. "You will be safe there."

  Markcus shook his head as he ran his fingertips over the band on his left wrist. "Why . . . why would you do that?"

  "It is as I told you. You are in need. And I find myself in need of serving someone." Assail put both palms out. "And there is naught that is dodgy. We are but three males who cohabit one among each other."

  Naturally, he left out the coke habit, the fact that he had arguably whored out his relations, and also his past as a drug importer and dealer.

  Was he starting fresh, then, he wondered.

  Hmm. Considering the arms deal he had just made for the Brotherhood? Perhaps the term was more starting next, rather than fresh.

  "Is there work to be done at your home?" Markcus nodded to Assail's clothing. "By your wardrobe and your accent, it is clear you are a male of means. Is there work that I may perform so that I can earn my room and board? Otherwise, I cannot avail myself of your offer. I shall not do that."

  Assail shrugged. "It is but menial work."

  "No effort is menial if it is done well."

  Assail eased back in the chair and regarded the haggard scrap of flesh on the hospital bed. Even barely out of captivity--for over thirty fucking years--and already the male was showing a character of note.

  "I shall have to leave you the now," Assail heard himself say. "But I shall return prior to dawn, and when they will release you, you will come home with me. And that is what shall be."

  Markcus lowered his head. "I am e'er in your debt."

  No, Assail thought to himself. I rather sense 'tis the other way around, my good male.

  *

  Rhage and Mary walked arm in arm up the mansion's grand staircase. As they ascended, she smiled as she remembered them waltzing around that empty gym. And then she flushed as she recalled what they'd done as the dancing had slowed to a stop.

  That equipment room had never seen so much action.

  "When did she say I had to be there?" Rhage asked.

  "You've got about thirty minutes to get ready. It's the I've Bean Waitin' coffee shop down on Hemingway Avenue. I think Rhym is going by car, but you certainly don't have to."

  "I'm not ordering anything while I'm there. I don't want to have coffee breath."

  "Rhage. Seriously." She stopped him as they came up to the second floor. "You're going to do fine."

  Taking his beautiful face in her hands, she smoothed his worried eyebrows and stroked the shadow of his beard. "Just treat it like any other conversation."

  "I'm being interviewed to be Bitty's dad. How the hell is that supposed to be like any other conversation? And, God, will you tell me what to wear? Should it be a suit? I feel like it should be a suit."

  Taking his hand, she led him in the direction of their room. "How about just a regular pair of slacks and one of your black silk shirts. She'll be so distracted by how gorgeous you are, she won't remember her own name, much less whatever she was going to ask you."

  He was grumbling as they entered their suite, and his attitude didn't get much better as she shooed him toward the bath.

  "No," she said as he tried to pull her along with him. "We'll get seriously distracted. Let me go lay out your clothes."

  "You're right. Plus every time I think about where I'm going I want to throw up."

  They went their separate ways in the middle of the room, he to a cleanly
shaven jaw and freshly shampooed hair, she to the walk-in closet, where--

  The scream that emanated from the loo was enough to give her a frickin' heart attack. "Rhage! Rhage--what's wrong!"

  She blasted across the carpet and into the--only to slam against his backside.

  "Are you fucking kidding me!" he barked.

  "What, what are you . . ."

  Mary started laughing, and she got on such a roll with it, she had to sit down on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

  Someone, or someones, more like it, had Little Mermaided their bathroom: There were Little Mermaid towels hanging on all the hooks and rods, a Little Mermaid rug in front of the double sinks . . . Little Mermaid cups and toothbrushes and kids' toothpaste on the counters . . . Little Mermaid shampoo and conditioner in the shower . . . action figures lined up on the lip around the tub and down the sill of the big window that looked out over the gardens.

  But the piece de resistance was undoubtedly the wall stuff. About a hundred and fifty different stickers, posters, clings, and cut-outs from coloring books had been stuck, glued, or pinned to every square inch of vertical surface.

  Rhage wheeled around and went to march out--but he didn't have to go far at all. A gathering of his Brothers filed into their suite, the males high-fiving one another and smacking Rhage on the ass.

  "I'm going to get you back," he growled. "Every single one of you--especially you, Lassiter, you fuck stick."

  "How?" the fallen angel countered. "By flooding my room? You already tried that with the pantry and Fritz got it fixed in a night."

  "No, I'm going to hide every cocksucking remote in this house."

  The angel froze. "Okay, those are fighting words."

  "Blam!" Rhage yelled as he hit his hips. "Wassup, bitch."

  Lassiter started looking to the Brothers for help. "That's not funny. That shit is so not funny--"

  "Hey, Hollywood, can I pay you to hide those?" someone said.

  "We can still get access to them, though, right?" somebody else demanded.

  "Fuck all y'all, for real," Lassiter muttered. "I'm serious. One of these days, you are gonna respect me. . . ."

  Mary just leaned into her arms and smiled at the bunch of crazies: In a way, this was exactly what Rhage needed, a little steam-blow-off on his way to the coffee shop. Heck, on that theory, they all deserved to release some tension.

  It had been a heavy-duty couple of hours.

  *