by J. R. Ward
But he made it over toward the stricken human.
"You are not alone," Xcor drawled into the darkness.
"What! Oh, God! Who--"
"Do I sound like one of your own?" He was careful to roll the R a little longer than he usually would, just in case his Old Language accent was not perfectly clear.
More breathing. Heavy, very heavy. Accompanied by the acrid smell of true terror.
"You humans..." Xcor took a couple more steps forward, no longer bothering to muffle the fall of his boots. "The problem with you is that you have no true enemies. You fight amongst yourselves over the blocks of city streets or the lines of countries, because there is nothing external to unite you. My kind, conversely? We have an enemy that necessitates a certain cohesion."
Not enough to forestall his crown-ish ambitions, however.
At this point, the human started talking gibberish. Or mayhap that was a prayer of some sort?
Such weakness. It was deplorable--and exploitable as a moral imperative.
Xcor flicked on his flashlight.
In its beam, the gang member jerked around, his bloodstained body wiping clean a section of the countertop.
Plasma ... as good as Windex, evidently.
Wide eyes strained the confines of their sockets, and hard breathing whistled out of an open mouth, the former tough guy taken down multiple pegs as pain and fear sliced his bravado into nothing but a memory.
"You should know that there are others who walk amongst you," Xcor said in a low voice. "Like, but not the same. And we are always watching."
The man cringed away, not that there was far to go. The counter was a workspace for cutlery and sieves, not a mattress for a grown-ass man.
Any more of that and he was going to end up on the floor.
"Who ... who are you?"
"Mayhap a visual rather than a description shall suffice."
Baring his fangs, Xcor tipped up the flashlight and put his face within the illumination.
The loud scream was high-pitched, and did not last. Thanks to the overwhelming adrenal response, the man passed out cold, the stink of urine that wafted up suggesting he'd lost control of his functions.
Rather amusing, really.
Xcor moved quickly, navigating with ease over to the door, thanks to the flashlight. Assuming position against the wall, he clicked off the beam and let that scream draw its proper attention.
The Caldwell Police Department responded with admirable efficiency, a number of the officers throwing open the door, their own flashlights piercing through the dense darkness.
The instant they saw the gang member, they rushed forward, and that was Xcor's cue for a departure.
As he slipped out the door, he heard the word vampire rise up through a chaos of conversation--and thus it was with a smile that he dematerialized out of the way of the crowd.
Back in the Old Country, he and his Band of Bastards had kept the speculations and myths going by showing themselves from time to time, always to individuals, and ever in ways that fit the misconceptions that humans had of the species.
Defilers of virgins. Sources of evil that slept in coffins. Monsters of the night.
Such pish--although the latter did indeed pertain to himself.
And in truth, it felt good to do something similar here in Caldwell, rather as a dog marks its territory. Enjoyable, too, to give the irrelevance on that kitchen island something to haunt his memory during all his upcoming days in prison.
One needed to take one's amusement where one found it.
FIVE
When John Matthew had hit the mansion's magnificent staircase, the last thing on his mind had been the past.
As he'd ascended, he'd been focused on, in order of importance: getting his shellan naked before Last Meal; getting her naked in their bedroom; annnnnd getting his shellan naked and underneath him in their bedroom before Last Meal.
Whether or not he was fully clothed? Not a big concern except for the below-the-waist stuff. And if push came to shove, he could totally punt on the bedroom part--provided wherever they ended up offered even a semblance of privacy.
So, yup, on his way to the second floor, he was very much plugged into the present and the presence of Xhex--who, if everything had gone to plan, had left the Iron Mask about fifteen minutes ago and was now covering the "naked" and "bedroom" part of his preoccupation.
Fate offered a diversion, however.
As he arrived on the upper landing, the double doors to Wrath's study were open, and through them he saw a familiar tableau: the King seated behind his ornate desk; the queen in his lap; George, the golden retriever, at their feet; Saxton, Blay's former flame and Wrath's current solicitor, sitting off to the side on a sofa. As usual, the acre-size desktop was littered with paperwork, and Wrath's mood was in the shitter.
In fact, that grim expression was part and parcel of the room, just like the antique French furniture that struggled to support the Brothers during meetings and the pale blue walls that seemed better suited to the boudoir of some chick named Lisette or Louisa.
But what did he know from Extreme Home Makeover.
Pausing to offer the four of them a wave, he intended to carry on to his room, find his mate, take her in a variety of positions--and then go down freshly showered to the final meal of the day.
Instead ... just before he turned away ... he met the eyes of his half sister, Beth.
The instant the connection was made, some combination of neurons fired in his brain, and the electrical load was too much for his motherboard: Without warning, he went into a free fall, his weight listing backward as the seizure took over his muscles, rendering them at first spastic and then utterly rigid.
He blacked out before he hit the ground ...
... and when he regained consciousness, the first thing that registered was the ow-ow-ow of his head and his ass.
Blinking slowly, he discovered that at least he could see, the ceiling above coming into clear focus first before a lineup of concerned faces registered. Xhex was right by his side, his dagger hand in between her palms, her brows down as if she'd wanted to come into the midnight of his pass-out and drag him back to her.
As half-symphath, maybe she could do that. Maybe that was the reason he'd returned so quickly? Or had he lost consciousness for hours?
Doc Jane was next to her, and on his other side were Qhuinn and Blay. Wrath was down at his feet with Beth--
The moment his sister's presence registered, the electrical activity started up again, and as a second go-around with the nightie-nights threatened, all he could think was, Damn it, this hadn't happened for so long.
He'd assumed this shit was over with.
Seizures had never been a problem for him until he'd met Beth for the first time--and after that there had been other episodes, always out of the blue, never with any kind of pattern he could discern. The only good news? They hadn't ever happened during fighting and had not endangered his life--
Unbidden, his body drew upward, his torso lifting itself off the carpet sure as if there were a rope tied to his rib cage and somebody far above was hauling him up.
"John?" Xhex said. "John, lie back."
Something welled inside his chest, some kind of cresting emotion that was both out of his reach and utterly visceral. Reaching for Beth, he willed her to take his hand--and as she crouched down and did, his mouth started moving, his lips and tongue finding unfamiliar patterns over and over again ... even as no sound broke through his muteness.
"What is he trying to say?" Beth demanded. "Xhex? Blay?"
Xhex's expression became impassible. "Nothing. It's nothing."
John frowned and thought, Bullshit. And yet he didn't know what it was any more than Beth did--and he certainly couldn't seem to stop the communicating.
"John, whatever it is, it's all right." His sister squeezed his hand. "You're okay."
Looming above his shellan, Wrath's face shifted into an implacable mask--as if he'd picked up
on some vibe and didn't like it.
Suddenly, John could feel his mouth moving in a different pattern, other things getting expressed now; although damned if he had a clue what they were. Meanwhile, Beth was frowning ... so was Wrath ...
And that was it.
As his brain began to short out again, his vision closed in on Beth until all he saw was her face.
For no good reason, he felt like he hadn't seen her in a year or two. And the significance of her features, the big blue eyes, the dark lashes, the long dark hair ... resonated in his chest.
Not romantically, no.
This was something else entirely--and yet just as powerful.
Too bad he couldn't hang on to consciousness any longer to figure it out.
"We are ready."
As Assail finished his second line of cocaine, he straightened from his granite countertop and regarded his cousins: Across the kitchen of his glass house on the Hudson River, the two of them were dressed in matte black from head to foot. Even their guns and knives didn't catch the light.
Perfect for what he had planned.
Assail screwed the top of his vial shut and tucked the stash into his black leather jacket. "Let us go, then."
Leading them out the back door by the garage, he was reminded of why he'd brought them over from the Old World to Caldwell: Ever prepared and never questioning.
In that regard, they were exactly like the autoloaders they carried upon their able bodies night and noon.
"We're going south," he ordered. "Follow my signal."
The twins nodded at him, their perfectly identical faces composed and grim, their powerful bodies prepared to uncurl and dispatch whatever was needed for any situation. In truth, they were the only ones he trusted--and even that pledge, grounded in their communal blood, wasn't an absolute.
As Assail pulled a black mask over his face, they did the same--and then it was time to dematerialize. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he regretted the coke. He hadn't really needed the buzz--considering where they were going, he was amped up more than enough. Lately, however, doing the powder was akin to pulling his coat on or holstering a forty under his arm.
Rote.
Focus ... focus ... focus ...
Intent and will coalesced a heartbeat later and his physical form fragmented into a loose association of molecules. Zeroing in on his destination, he clouded toward it, sensing his cousins traveling through the night skies with him.
In the back of his mind, he recognized that this excursion was out of character. As a businessman, life for him was calculated on the basis of ROI: everything he did was predicated on a return for the investment made. Which was why he was involved in the drug trade. Hard to have better margins than selling black-market chemical products to humans.
So, no, he was not a rescuer; he was the anti-Good Samaritan. And when it came to vengeance? Any he wielded was on his own behalf, never another's.
Exceptions were going to be made in this case, though.
His destination was an estate in West Point, New York, a venerable old stone house that was set back on acres of lawn. Assail had been on the property once before--when he'd been following a certain burglar ... and watched her not only break in through a very viable security system, but traipse throughout the mansion without taking a goddamn thing.
She had, however, pivoted one of the Degas sculptures about an inch out of position.
And the consequences for her had been dire.
Things were, however, going to be reversed.
Violently.
Assuming form at the lowest corner of the vast front lawn, he masked himself in the line of trees that bordered the estate's far edges. As the cousins materialized next to him, he recalled that first trip here, picturing Sola in the snow, her white parka blending in as she cross-country skied up toward her target.
Simply extraordinary. That was the only way he could describe every single thing about the woman--
A proprietary growl rose up deep in his throat--one more thing that wasn't like him a'tall. He rarely cared about anything other than money ... certainly not about females, and never, ever about human women.
But Sola had been different since the moment he had caught her scent as she'd trespassed on his own property--and the idea that Benloise had taken her? From her home? Where her grandmother slept?
Unacceptable.
Benloise was not going to live through this choice he had made.
Assail began to stride forward, measuring the landscape with his sharp eyes. Thanks to a bright, winter moon, it might as well have been daylight as opposed to two in the morning--everything from the eaves of the house to the contours of the terraces to the outbuilding in the back clearly visible before him.
Nothing moved. Not around the exterior nor past any of the darkened windows of the house itself.
Closing in, he proceeded around to the back, reacquainting himself with the layout of terraces and floors. So old money, he thought. So established. As un-drug wholesaler as one could get.
Mayhap Benloise was less than proud of the way he made his paper.
"We penetrate here," Assail said softly, nodding to the plate-glass windows of a sitting porch.
Ghosting in through them, he re-formed in the interior, standing motionless as he listened for footsteps, a scream, a scramble, a closing door.
A glowing red light high up in a corner informed him that the security system was on and running--and the motion detectors hadn't yet been triggered by their sudden appearance. The instant he moved? All hell was going to break loose.
Which was the plan.
Assail first knocked out the security cameras. Then he triggered the alarm by reaching into his pocket and pulling free a Cuban cigar--in response, that light immediately started blinking. And whilst it discoed along, he took his time lighting his smoke, fully expecting any number of thick-necked strong-arms to come racing in.
When that did not occur, he exhaled over his shoulder and strode forward, going throughout the first floor with the cousins tight on his heels. As he went along, he ashed on the Oriental rugs and the Italian marble tiles.
A little calling card in the unlikely event they didn't meet up with anyone: Considering the retaliation the man thought appropriate for a statue's reorientation, cigar debris was going to send the bastard right over the edge.
When he found nothing in the public rooms of the house, he headed for the servant wing and discovered an empty kitchen that was modern and utterly uninspiring. God, how boring--the gray-and-chrome color scheme was like the pallor of the elderly, and the sparse furnishings suggested decor was not a priority in spaces Benloise did not frequent himself. But more to the point, and as with the reception rooms, there was no scent from Sola's presence nor that of gunpowder or fresh blood. There were also no dishes in any of the three deep-bellied sinks, and when he opened the refrigerator just because he could, he found six green Perrier bottles on the top shelf and nothing else--
A set of headlights washed across the windows, flaring in his face, casting sharp shadows among table legs and chair backs and stands of cooking utensils.
Assail puffed out a mushroom cloud of smoke and smiled. "Let us go out and welcome them home."
Except the vehicle passed by the house and zeroed in on the outbuilding--suggesting that whoever it was had not come in response to the alarm being set off.
"Sola..." he whispered as he dematerialized onto the snow-covered lawn.
Emotions riding high, he nonetheless made sure to disable the monitoring cameras on the rear exterior--and then he ripped off his mask so he could breathe better.
The non-descript sedan stopped grille-first into the garage, and two white human men got out of the front, clamping the doors shut and going around to the--
"Greetings, my friends," Assail announced as he leveled his forty at them.
Ah, look. They were such good little listeners, each going statue as they jerked in the direction of his voice.
Walking over, Assail trained his muzzle on the man on the right, knowing that the twins would judge correctly his focus and concentrate on the other one. When he'd closed the distance, he leaned in and peered through the windows of the backseat, bracing himself to see Sola in some form of compromise ...
Nothing. There was no one back there, nobody bound and gagged, knocked out, or cowering in submission against the beating that would surely come.
"Open the trunk," Assail ordered. "Only one of you--you. You do it."
As Assail followed the man around, he kept his gun right at the back of the fucker's head, his finger twitching at the trigger, ready to squeeze.
Pop!
The trunk latch released and the panel lifted soundlessly, inner lights coming on ...
To illuminate two duffel bags. That was it. Nothing but two black nylon duffel bags.
Assail puffed his cigar. "Goddamn it--where is she?"
"Where is who?" the man asked. "Who are you--"
On a surge of pure hatred, his anger leaped ahead of his mind, taking over, taking control.
Pop! number two was the sound of a bullet leaving Assail's gun and blasting right through the guy's frontal lobe. And the impact sent a spackle of blood all over those nylon carry-ons, and the car, and the driveway.
"Jesus Christ!" the other guy barked. "What the--"
Rage, undiluted by any semblance of rational thinking, made Assail roar some horrible, ugly sound--as his trigger jumped the gun again. So to speak.
Pop! number three dropped the driver, the bullet entering right between his eyebrows, the body falling backward in a narcoleptic free fall.
As loose arms and legs flopped on the snow, Ehric's dry voice drifted over. "You realize we could have questioned them."
Assail bit into his cigar, taking a long puff just so he didn't do something to his own bloodline that he'd regret. "Take the bags and hide them where can we find them on the property--"
Down at the base of the drive, a car turned off the main road and came forward at a tear. "Finally," Assail bitched. "One would expect a faster response."
Brakes were hit at the house--at least until whoever was behind the wheel saw Assail and the sedan and the cousins. Then tires grabbed at the snow pack as the gas was hit once again.
