by J. R. Ward
Chapter Seven
Shit, they were losing the darkness.
As John glanced at his watch, the time check was a waste of effort. The sting in his eyes was telling him all he needed to know about how little night they had left.
Even the promise of daylight was enough to make him blink fast.
Then again, the activity at the Xtreme Park was winding down for the evening anyway, the drugged-out stragglers getting vertical on the benches or ducking into the public bathrooms for a last fix. Unlike Caldwell's other parks, this one was open twenty-four/seven, with fluorescent lights on tall poles illuminating the expanse of concrete. Hard to tell what the city planners had been thinking with the round-the-clock business--because that was what they had here. Round- the-clock business. With all the drugs changing hands, the place was like a bar away from the bars down on Trade.
No lessers, though. Just humans dealing to humans who used in the shadows.
Still, it was promising. If Lash hadn't infiltrated the zone yet, he was going to. Even with the cops doing their idle-bys in their marked cars, there was plenty of privacy and plenty of notice. The park was laid out like a huge terrace, with sinkholes in the ground alternating with ramps and jumps. Bottom line was, the people could see the CPD coming and duck behind or into all kinds of shelter.
And, man, they were trained well. From their vantage point behind the work shed, he and his boys had seen it happen over and over again. Kind of made you wonder why the CPD didn't send unmarkeds over or infiltrate in plain clothes.
Or maybe they were doing that already. Maybe there were others who, like John, were invisible to the crowd. Well, not exactly like him and Qhuinn and Blay. There was no way even a fully trained and decorated member of the CPD could present himself as nothing--which was what John and his buddies had been doing for the last three hours. Every time someone passed, they wiped out the memory.
It was kind of odd to be in a place, but not of it. . . sensed, but not seen.
"We gonna get ghost?" Qhuinn asked.
John glanced up at the brightening sky and told himself that in approximately thirteen hours that fucking heat lamp of a sun was going back under wraps and they could take up res in their little hidden corner and wait again.
Goddamn it.
"John? Let's go. "
For a split second, he almost tore his buddy's head off, his hands coming up and getting ready to fly through all kinds of fuck-you, you're-not- my-babysitter shit.
What stopped him was the fact that just as no amount of waiting around here was going to produce Lash, yelling at Qhuinn wasn't going to get them closer to a sighting, either.
He nodded once and took a last look around. There was a single dealer type who seemed to run the show and the kid was hanging out to the very end. His main lean was against the center ramp, which was smart--it meant he could see everything in the park, from the far corners to the road where the cops came and went.
Kid looked to be about seventeen or eighteen and his clothes were loose on his frame, which was part of the skater style, and also probably a function of his using what he sold. He looked like he needed to be scrubbed with a car brush a couple of times, but he was alert and he was savvy. And he seemed to work alone. Which was interesting. To dominate a drug territory, usually the dealer in question had enforcers to back him up-- otherwise he got jumped for either his product or his cash. But this young guy. . . he was by himself the whole time.
Either he had some serious meat in the shadows, or he was about to get taken down.
John stood up from where he'd braced himself against the side of the outbuilding and nodded at his boys. Let's go.
When he took form again, pea gravel crunched under his shitkickers as his weight became real and a brisk breeze hit him square in the face. The courtyard of the Brotherhood's mansion was demarcated by the front flank of the house and the tall shoulders of the twenty-foot-high retaining wall that ran all around the property. The white marble fountain in the middle had yet to be filled and jump-started for the warmer months and the half dozen cars that were parked in a row were waiting for action as well.
The whispered sound of well-oiled gears turning brought his head up. In a coordinated descent, the steel shutters were coming down over the windows, the panels unfurling and covering the leaded glass panes like the lids of many eyes closing for sleep.
He dreaded going inside. Even though there must be upward of fifty rooms to wander through, the fact that he was going to have to stay put until sundown made the mansion feel like a shoe box.
As Qhuinn and Blay materialized on either side of him, he walked up the steps to the huge double doors and pushed his way into the vestibule.
Inside, he presented his mug for viewing in the security camera. Instantly, the lock was popped and he walked into a foyer that was right out of czarist Russia. Malachite and claret marble columns supported a three- story-high painted ceiling. Gold-leafed sconces and mirrors generated and reflected buttery light that further enriched the colors. And that staircase. . . the thing was like a carpeted landing strip that stretched up to the heavens, its golden balustrade splitting at the top to form the anchors of the second floor's open balcony.
His father had spared no expense and obviously had a flair for the dramatic. All you needed was orchestral backup and you could imagine a king floating down in robes--
Wrath appeared at the top, his huge body clothed in black leather, his long black hair falling around his tremendous shoulders. His wraparound sunglasses were in place, and although he was at the head of a vast expanse of fall-on-your-ass, he didn't look down. No reason to. His eyes were now utterly blind.
But he was not sightless. At his side, George had things covered. The Seeing Eye dog was in control of the king, the two united through the harness that went around the golden retriever's chest and haunches. They were the ultimate Mutt and Jeff, a canine Good Samaritan with beauty- contestant looks and a brutal warrior who was obviously capable of tearing your throat open on a whim. But they worked well together and Wrath was pretty much in love with his animal: The dog was treated like the royal pet he was--to hell with even Iams; George ate whatever his master did, which meant prime cuts of beef and lamb. And word was that the retriever slept in bed with Beth and Wrath--although that had yet to be independently verified, as no one was allowed in the First Family's quarters.
As Wrath started down for the foyer, he walked with a limp, the result of something he did over on the Far Side at the Scribe Virgin's. No one knew who he saw or why he sported a black eye or a split lip on a regular basis, but everyone, even John, was glad for the sessions. They kept Wrath on an even keel and away from the field.
With the king descending, and some of the other Brothers coming through the door John had just used, he had to make his escape. If those Shadows had sensed he had fresh ink, the people gathering for last meal would pick up on it in a heartbeat if they got close enough.
Fortunately, there was a wet bar in the library and John went there and helped himself to a shot of Jack Daniel's. The first of many.
While he started to make deposits into his buzz account, he braced himself against the marble slab and wished like hell he had a time machine-- although it was hard to know whether he'd choose to go forward or backward with it.
"You want any food?" Qhuinn said from the doorway.
John didn't look in the guy's direction, just shook his head and poured some more liquid relief into his squat glass.
"Okay, I'll bring you a sandwich. "
With a curse, John pivoted around and signed, I said no.
"Roast beef? Good. And I'll hitch you some carrot cake. Tray'll be left in your room. " Qhuinn turned away. "If you wait about five more minutes in here, everyone will be seated at the table, so you'll have a clear shot up the stairs. "
The guy took off, which meant short of braining him with the glass, there was no other way of expressing his I-am
-an-island opinion.
Although really, that would just be a waste of good booze--Qhuinn was so hardheaded, you could have hit his frontal lobe with a crowbar and made no impression on him whatsoever.
Fortunately, the alcohol began to take effect, its numb blanket settling on John's shoulders first before sweeping up and down his body. The shit did nothing to quiet his mind, but his bones and muscles did ease out.
After waiting the suggested five minutes, John took his drink and his bottle and hit the stairs two at a time. As he ascended, the subdued voices from the dining room followed him, but that's all there was. Lately, there hadn't been much to laugh about over meals.
When he got to his room, he opened the door and walked into a jungle. There were clothes draped on every conceivable surface--the dresser, the wing chair, the bed, the plasma-screen TV. Kind of like his closet had thrown up all over everything. Empty bottles of Jack cluttered up the two side tables by the headboard, and the dead soldiers spread out from there, clustering on the floor and nesting in the twisted sheets and duvet.
Fritz and his cleaning crew hadn't been let in for two weeks, and at the rate things were going, they were going to need a backhoe when he finally threw the doors open to them.
Undressing, he let his leathers and shirt fall where they did, but his jacket he was careful with. At least until he took his weapons out--then he dumped the thing on the corner of the bed. In the bathroom, he double- checked his two blades and then he swiftly cleaned his guns with the kit that he just left out by the second sink.
Yeah, he'd let his standards slide lower than even frat-boy levels, but his weapons were different. Utility had to be maintained.
His shower was quick, and as he worked the soap over his chest and abs, he thought back to the time when even the brush of warm water over his cock was enough to make him hard. No more. He hadn't had an erection. . . since the last time he'd been with Xhex.
He just didn't have the interest--even in his dreams, which was a new one. Hell, before his transition, when he wasn't supposed to have any awareness of his sexuality, his subconscious had kicked up all sorts of hot and heavy. And those sex-fests had been so real, so detailed, it was as if they were memory and not REM-induced fabrications.
Now? All that played on his internal screen was Blair Witch Project chase scenes where he was running in a jerky panic but didn't know what was after him. . . or whether he would ever get to safety.
When he came out of the bathroom, he found a tray with a roast beef sandwich and a big-as-your-head wedge of carrot cake on it. Nothing to drink, but Qhuinn knew that he was taking his liquid refreshment from Mr. Daniel alone.
John ate standing up in front of the bureau, naked as the day he was born, and when the food hit his stomach, it sucked the energy from him, draining everything from his head. Wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, he put the tray out in the hall and then headed for the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth only from habit.
Lights off in the bath. Lights off in the room.
Him and the Jack sitting on the bed.
As exhausted as he was, he was not looking forward to lying down. There was an inverse relationship between his energy level and the distance between his ears and the floor: Even though he was cross-eyed, the second his head hit the pillow, his thoughts were going to start spinning and he was going to end up wide awake and staring at the ceiling, counting hours and aches.
He polished off what was in his glass and propped his elbows on his knees. Within moments, his head was bobbing, his lids slamming down. When he started to list to the side, he let himself go even though he was unsure which direction he was going in, toward the pillows or the wadded- up duvet.
Pillows.
Shifting his feet up on the bed, he dragged the covers over his hips and had a moment of blissful collapse. Maybe tonight the cycle would break. Maybe this glorious sinking relief would suck him down into the black hole he was hoping for. Maybe he'd. . .
His eyes popped open and he stared into the thick darkness.
Nope. He was exhausted to the point of being jittery, not just wide awake. . . but goosed-in-the-ass alert. As he rubbed his face, he figured this contradictory state of things was the cognitive equivalent to bumblebees being able to fly: Physicists maintained it wasn't possible, and yet it happened all the time.
Rolling over onto his back, he crossed his arms over his chest and yawned so hard his jaw cracked. Tough to know whether to turn on the light. The darkness amplified the whirling in his skull, but the lamp stung his eyes until he felt like he was crying sand. Usually, he alternated between clicking on the bulb and turning it off.
From out in the hall of statues, he heard Zsadist and Bella and Nalla walk down to their room. As the couple talked about the dinner, Nalla cooed and squeaked in the way babies did when their bellies were full and their parents were right with them.
Blay came down the way next. Aside from V, he was the only other person who smoked in the house, so that was how John knew it was him. And Qhuinn was with the guy. Had to be. Otherwise Blay wouldn't have lit up outside of his own room.
It was payback for that receptionist at the tat shop and who could blame him?
There was a long silence out there. And then a final pair of boots.
Tohr was heading to bed.
It was obvious who it was by the quiet more than the sound--the footfalls were slow and relatively light for a Brother: Tohr was working on getting his body back into shape, but he hadn't been cleared for fieldwork, which made sense. He needed to put on another fifty pounds of muscle before he had any business going toe-to-toe with the enemy.
There wouldn't be anyone else coming down. Lassiter, a. k. a. Tohr's golden shadow, didn't sleep, so the angel usually stayed down in the billiard room and watched highbrow television. Like paternity tests on Maury and The People's Court with Judge Milian and Real Housewives marathons.
Silence. . . silence. . . silence. . .
When the sound of his heartbeat started to annoy him, John cursed and stretched up, turning on the light. As he settled back against the pillows, he let his arms flop down. He didn't share Lassiter's fascination with the boob tube, but anything was better than the quiet. Fishing around the empty bottles, he found the remote, and when he hit the on button, there was a pause like the thing had forgotten what it was used for--but then the picture flared.
Linda Hamilton was running down a hallway, her body bouncing with power. Down at the far end, an elevator was opening. . . revealing a short dark-haired kid and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
John hit the power button and killed the image.
Last time he'd seen that movie had been when he and Tohr had watched it together. . . back when the Brother had taken him out of his sad pitiful exisitence and shown him who he really was. . . back before all the seams in both their lives had gotten yanked apart.
At the orphanage, in the human world, John had always been aware he was different. . . and the Brother had given him the "why" that evening. The flash of fangs had explained it all.
Now, naturally, there had been a shitload of anxiety that came with finding out you weren't who or what you'd always assumed you were. But Tohr had stuck by his side, just chilling and watching TV, even though he'd been on rotation to fight and also had a pregnant shellan to look after.
Kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Coming back to reality, John pitched the remote onto the side table and it bounced around, knocking over one of the empties. As the last half inch of bourbon splashed out, he reached across and picked up a shirt to mop up the mess. Which, considering what a shambles the rest of the room was in, was like backing up a Big Mac and fries with a Diet Coke.
But whatever.
He wiped off the tabletop, lifting the bottles one by one, and then opened the little drawer to swipe across the--
Tossing his T-shirt onto the floor, he reached in and p
icked up an ancient leather-bound book.
The diary had been in his possession for about six months now, but he hadn't read it.
It was the one thing he had of his father's.
With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, he opened the front cover. The pages were made of vellum and they smelled old, but the ink was still totally legible.
John thought of those notes he'd written to Trez and iAm back at Sal's and wondered if his and his father's handwriting were at all similar. As the entries in the diary were done in the Old Language, there was no way of knowing.
Focusing his tired eyes, he started out just examining how the characters were formed, how the ink strokes whipped about to form the symbols, how there were no mistakes or cross-outs, how even though the pages were not lined, his father had nonetheless made neat, even rows. He imagined how Darius might have bent over the pages and written by candlelight, dipping a quill pen. . . .
An odd shimmer went through John, the kind that made him wonder whether he was going to have to be sick. . . but the nausea passed as an image came to him.
A huge stone house not unlike the one they were living in now. A room kitted out with beautiful things. A hurried entry made on these pages at a desk before a grand ball.
The light of candle, warm and soft.
John shook himself and kept turning the pages. Sometime along the way he started not just measuring the lines of characters, but reading them. . . .
The color of the ink changed from black to brown when his father wrote about his first night in the warrior camp. How cold it was. How scared he was. How much he missed home.
How alone he felt.
John empathized with the male to the point where it seemed as though there was no separation between the father and the son: In spite of the many, many years and an entire continent of distance, it was as though he were in his father's shoes.
Well, duh. He was in the exact same situation: a hostile reality with a lot of dark corners. . . and no parents to back him up now that Wellsie was dead and Tohr was a living, breathing ghost.
Hard to know when his eyelids went down and stayed there.
But at some point he fell asleep with what little he had of his father held reverently in his hands.
