by J. R. Ward
Chapter Fifty-Three
As Lassiter sat at the base of the grand staircase, he stared upward at the painted ceiling some three floors above him. Within the depiction of warriors astride stallions, he searched the painted clouds and found the image he was looking for, but did not want to see.
Wellsie was ever farther back in the landscape, her form even more compact as she huddled into herself in that field of gray boulders.
In truth, he was losing hope. Soon she would be so far off into the distance that they wouldn't be able to see her at all. And that was when it was over: she was done, he was done. . . Tohr was done.
He'd thought No'One was the answer. And, you know, back in the early fall, he had gotten psyched that all was resolved. The night after Tohr had finally bedded that female good and proper, she had arrived at the dining table without her hood or that awful robe on: She had been in a dress, a cornflower blue dress that was too big for her and lovely nonetheless, and her hair had been loose around her shoulders, a cascade of blond.
The pair of them had had an accord that came only after two people banged the crap out of each other for hours.
He'd repacked his clothes at that point. Hung around his room. Paced for hours, waiting to be summoned by the Maker.
When the sun had set again, he'd chalked it up to administrative delay. When the sun had risen once more, he'd started to get worried.
Then, he'd become resigned.
Now, he was in panic mode. . . .
Sitting on his ass, staring up at the figment of a dead female, he found himself wondering the same thing Tohr had so very often.
What more did the Creator want out of this?
"What are you looking for?"
As a deep voice interrupted him, he glanced across at the male in question. Tohrment had obviously come out from the hidden door underneath the staircase: He was dressed in black running shorts and a muscle shirt, and had sweat slicking his skin and dark hair.
Aside from the postworkout drips, the guy looked great. But that was what happened to 'em when they were well fed, well fucked, and unharmed.
The Brother lost some of that hale-and-hearty as their eyes met, however. Which suggested that he had the same worry just below his surface, lingering always, a chronic concern.
Tohr came over and sat down, toweling off his face. "Talk to me. "
"You getting any more dreams about her?" No reason to proper-name the "her. " Between the two of them, there was only one female who mattered.
"Last was a week ago. "
"How'd she look. " As if he didn't already know. He was frickin' staring at her right now.
"Farther away. " Tohr took the towel from around his neck and stretched it taut between his fists. "You sure that maybe she isn't just fading into the Fade. "
"She look happy to you. "
"No. "
"That's your answer. "
"I'm doing everything I can. "
Lassiter glanced over and nodded. "I know you are. I totally know you are. "
"So you're worried, too. "
No reason to answer that one.
In silence, the pair of them sat hip-to-hip, arms dangling off their knees, the metaphorical brick wall they were standing in front of blocking any horizon.
"Can I be honest with you?" the Brother said.
"Might as well be. "
"I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm missing here. " He rubbed the towel over his face again. "I don't sleep much, and I can't decide whether that's because I'm scared of what I'll see - or what I won't see. I don't know how she's holding on. "
The short answer was that she wasn't.
"I talk to her," Tohr murmured. "When Autumn is asleep, I sit up in bed and stare into the dark. I tell her. . . "
When the guy's voice cracked, Lassiter wanted to scream - and not because he thought Tohr was being a pussy. More like it hurt that badly to hear the agony in that voice.
Shit, sometime in the last year he must have developed a conscience or something.
"I tell her that I still love her, that I'll always love her, but that I've done what I can to. . . well, not fill her void, because no one can do that. But at least try to live some kind of a life. . . "
As the male continued to speak in soft, sad tones, Lassiter was struck with a sudden terror that he'd led the guy wrong in some way, that he'd. . . shit, he didn't know. Fucked this up, made a bad call, sent this poor, sorry bastard in a wrong direction.
He reviewed everything he knew about the situation, starting from the ground floor, building the logic tier by tier, reconstructing where they were.
He could find no faults, no missteps. They had both done the best they could.
In the end, it appeared that was the only solace he could take - and didn't that just suck ass. The idea he might have even inadvertently harmed this male of worth was so much worse than his version of purgatory.
He should never have agreed to this.
"Fuck," he breathed as he closed his aching eyes. They had come so far, but it was as if they were chasing a moving target. The faster they ran, the farther they traveled, the farther away the end seemed to become.
"I've just got to try harder," Tohr said. "That's the only answer. I don't know what else I can do, but I've got to go deeper somehow. "
"Yeah. "
The Brother turned to him. "You're still here, right?"
Lassiter shot him a look. "If you're talking to me, that's a yes. "
"Okay. . . that's good. " The Brother punched up to his feet. "Then we've still got some time left. "
Woo-hoo. Fantastic. Like that was going to make any difference.
Outside her private cabin, Xhex stood alone on the shores of the Hudson, her boots planted in the white snow, her breath leaving her nose in puffs that drifted off over her shoulder. The sunset's peach-and-pink glow rained down on the frozen landscape from behind her, the colors picked up by the sluggish waves in the center of the channel.
There wasn't much open water left in the river - ice was building up from the shores and closing in, threatening to strangle the surface as the cold endured through the season.
Without any command from her, her symphath senses pierced the gloaming, invisible tentacles that probed the thin, frigid air. She did not expect to get any hits, but she was so used to being receptive after these last couple of months, she found that side of her wanting to stretch and extend outward, if only for exercise.
She had not found the Band of Bastards' lair. Yet.
Right person for the job, huh. Frankly, the shit was getting embarrassing.
Then again, the reasons to handle everything carefully were too many to count: So much was riding on her getting a bead on them as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, and at least the king and the Brothers understood that.
John had likewise been endlessly supportive of her mission. Patient. Ready to discuss any angle or not bring it up at all when she was at the mansion - which had been on a regular basis as it turned out: Between seeing her mother, updating the Brotherhood and the king, or even hanging out a little, she was there two or three times a week.
Yet, when it came to John, things had never gone further than a polite meal.
Even though his eyes burned for her.
She knew what he was doing. He was keeping his word, holding back until she penetrated the B. o. B. so he could prove that he meant what he said. Except, as crass as it was. . . she wanted to be with him. And not as in separated-by-a-dinner-table "be with him. "
It was an improvement over the summer and fall for them, to be sure - and not nearly enough.
Refocusing, she continued to search the environs for no good reason until all around her, darkness descended fast, the light draining out of the sky in the way of late December - which was to say, the shit flushed out like it was on the run, pursued by the cold.
Over to her left, at the mansion on th
e peninsula, lights came on rather suddenly, as if Assail had shutters on the inside of all his glass: One moment the property was unlit; the next it was like a football stadium.
Ah, yes, the gentlemale Assail. . . not.
The guy's hold on the drug scene in Caldwell was nearly secure, with no one of any significance left other than that big-fish supplier Benloise. What she couldn't figure out was who the vampire's troops were. He couldn't be operating a business that involved by himself, and yet there was never anyone coming or going from his house other than him.
Then again, why would he want his associates in his private space?
A little later, a car eased down the lane, heading out. That Jaguar of his.
Man, bitch needed to invest in an armor-plated Range Rover. Or a Hummer like Qhuinn's. The Jag was fast, and suited the motherfucker, but come on. Little traction in all this snow was never a bad idea.
The sports car slowed to a stop as it approached her, its exhaust curling around and glowing in the red tail lights like something a magician would call up onstage.
A window went down and a male voice said, "Enjoying the view?"
The temptation was to flip him off, but she kept her middle finger sheathed as she crunched through the drifts to him. At this point, Assail was not viewed as a "suspect," per se - he had done nothing but help the Brotherhood get Wrath out of there when the assassination attempt had gone down. But still, the attack had occurred at his house, and she wondered about where Xcor was getting his financial resources: Assail had had money even before he'd decided to be a drug kingpin, and wars required cash.
Especially if you were trying to fight the king.
Focusing her symphath side on the male, she read his grid and saw a whole lot of. . . well, lust, for one thing. He wanted her, but she was willing to bet that was not specific to her.
Assail liked sex with chicks. Fine. Got it.
Beneath that testosterone surge, however, she found a hunger for power that was curious. It wasn't about taking down the king, though. It was. . .
"Reading my mind?" he drawled.
If only he knew what he was talking to. "You'd be surprised what I can find out about people. "
"So you know I want you. "
"I would suggest you don't go there. I'm mated. "
"So I've heard. But where's your man. "
"Working. "
As he smiled, the lights of the dashboard picked up his features, highlighting them and making them even more handsome. But he wasn't just a pretty boy: There was a lick of evil in those heated eyes of his.
Dangerous male. Even though he looked like he was nothing more than a coiffed member of the glymera.
"Well," he murmured, "you know what they say. Too much time apart makes the heart grow - "
"Tell me something. You see Xcor around anywhere?"
That shut him up. And lowered his lids.
"I have no idea," he said after a moment, "why you'd ask me that. "
"Oh, really. "
"Not a clue. "
"I know what happened at your house in the fall. "
There was a another pause. "I wouldn't have thought that the Brotherhood mixed business with pleasure. " When she just stared at him, he shrugged. "Well, frankly, I can't believe they're still looking for him. Matter of fact, it's a surprise that that bastard is still breathing. "
"So you've seen him lately. "
At that, his grid lit up in one specific sector - obstruction. He was hiding something from her.
She smiled coldly. "Haven't you, Assail. "
"Listen, I'm going to give you some free advice. I know you're all leather wearing and tough and a self-actualized female of the world, but you don't want to have anything to do with that guy. Have you seen what he looks like? You're mated to a pretty boy like John Matthew, you don't need - "
"I'm not looking to fuck the bastard. "
Her deliberately crass language made him blink. "Indeed. And, ah, good for you. As for myself, I haven't seen him. Not even that night he ambushed Wrath. "
Liar, she thought.
When Assail spoke next, his voice was very low. "Leave that male alone. You don't want to get in his path - he's got less mercy than I have. "
"So you think only the big boys should deal with him. "
"You got it, sweetheart. "
As he put the Jag in gear, she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. Too frickin' typical. What was it about the cock and balls that made males think they had a lock on strength?
"I'll see you around, neighbor," she drawled.
"I'm serious about Xcor. "
"Oh, I can tell you are. "
He shook his head. "Fine. It's your funeral. "
As he drove off, she thought, Wrong pronoun there, buddy. Wrong goddamn pronoun. . .
