by J. R. Ward
Chapter Sixty-three
Xhex woke up screaming.
Fortunately, John had left the bathroom light on, so she had at least half a chance at convincing her brain where her body was: in fact, she was not back in that human clinic, being worked on like a lab rat. She was here in the Brotherhood mansion with John.
Who had leaped out of bed, and pointed a gun at the door to the hall like he was prepared to blow a hole right through the frickin' thing.
Slapping a hand over her mouth, she prayed she'd shut herself up in time, before she woke the entire house. The last thing she needed was a bunch of Brothers showing up at the doorstep with a whole lot of what's- doing.
In a silent shift, John swung the forty's muzzle around to the shuttered windows, and then he swept it over to the walk- in closet. As he finally lowered his weapon, he whistled an inquiry.
"I'm. . . okay," she answered, finding her voice. "Just a bad--"
The knock that cut her off was about as subtle as a curse in a quiet room. Or the scream she'd just let rip.
As she pulled the sheets up to her collarbones, John opened the door a crack and Z's voice drifted in. "Everything all right in here?"
Nope. Not even close.
Xhex rubbed her face and tried to replug into reality. Tough assignment. Her body felt weightless and disconnected, and man, that floaty thing was so not helping her on the get-grounded front.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why her subconscious had burped up that shit about her first trip through the abduction park. Staying in the OR while John had had his lead-ectomy had obviously been like a hot, spicy meal for her brain, with the nightmare being the cranial version of acid reflux.
Christ, she had a case of the fop sweats, her upper lip beading, her palms wringing damp.
In desperation, she focused on what she could see through the partially open door to the bathroom.
Turned out the toothbrushes on the marble counter saved her. The pair were standing up in the silver cup between the two sinks, looking like a couple of kibitzers who'd tilted their heads together to swap gossip. Both were John's, she was guessing, because guests were on the whole not welcome in this house.
One was blue. The other red. Both had the green bristles in the center that turned white over time to let you know when to get new ones.
Nice. Normal. Boring. Maybe if she'd had a little more of all that she wouldn't be looking for life's exit door. Or having nightmares that turned her voice box into a bullhorn.
John bade Z good-bye and came back over to her, leaving his gun on the bedside table and slipping under the covers. His warm body was solid and smooth against hers, and she went to him with an ease that she guessed was common among lovers.
But something she'd never had with anyone before.
As he pulled his head back so she could see his face, he mouthed, What was it?
"Dream. Very bad dream. From back when. . . " She took a deep breath. "When I was in that clinic. "
He didn't press her for details. Instead, she just felt her hair getting stroked.
In the silence that followed, she didn't intend to talk about the past-- especially when the last thing she needed was more echoes of the nightmare. But somehow, words formed in her throat and she couldn't hold them back.
"I burned the facility down. " Her heart thumped as she remembered, but at least the recall of what had happened wasn't as bad as being back there in a dream. "It's weird. . . I'm not sure the humans thought they were doing anything wrong--they treated me like a prized zoo animal, giving me everything I needed to survive while they poked and prodded at me and ran test after test. . . . Well, most of the humans were good to me. There was a sadistic fuck in the group. " She shook her head. "They kept me for about a month or two and tried to give me human blood to keep me going, but they could read the clinical indicators that I was getting weaker and weaker. I got free because one of them set me loose. "
John rolled over on his back and put his hands into the shaft of light. Shit, I'm so sorry. But I'm glad you dusted the place.
In her mind, she pictured her return trip to where she'd been held--and the sooty aftermath. "Yeah, I had to burn the thing down. I'd been free for a while when I went back and did it--but I couldn't sleep for the nightmares. I lit the facility up after they'd left for the day. Although," she held a forefinger up, "there might have been one rather nasty death. But the son of a bitch deserved it. I'm an eye-for-an-eye kind of girl. "
John's hands reappeared to sign, That's pretty obvious-- and not a bad thing at all.
Provided it wasn't Lash, she thought to herself.
"Mind if I ask you something?" When he shrugged, she whispered, "The night you took me around town. . . had you been back to any of those places before?"
Not really. John shook his head. I don't like to dwell on the past. I go forward.
"How I envy you. Me, I can't seem to get free of history. "
And it wasn't just about the clinic shit or Lash's little love-nest nightmare. For some reason, the fact that she'd never fit in--not with the family she'd grown up with, or the larger vampire society, or even the symphath one--resonated through her, defining her even when she wasn't consciously thinking about it. Her lock-and-key moments had been few and far between--and tragically seemed focused on when she'd gone out on jobs as an assassin.
Except then she thought of her time with John. . . and recalibrated the depressing arithmetic slightly. Being with him, their bodies together, that fit. But it was kind of a parallel to her murdering for hire--ultimately not a healthy thing for all involved. Hell, look at what had just happened: She woke up screaming and John was the one who weaponed up and faced off. . . while she played poor widdle scared female with the sheet clutched to her widdle scared heart.
That wasn't her. Just wasn't.
And God, that she'd fallen so easily into the role of being protected. . . that frightened her even more than dreams that made her scream. If life had taught her one thing, it was that your best bet was to take care of your own biz. The last thing in the world she wanted was to chick out and rely on anyone--even somebody as honorable and worthy and kind as John.
Although. . . man, the sex was good. Seemed base and a little crude to put it like that, but it was so very true.
When they'd come up here after their little tete a tete in the tunnel, they hadn't even bothered with the lights. No time, no time--clothes off, on the bed, going hard. She'd ended up passing out, and sometime later, John must have gotten up to use the loo and left the light on. Probably to make sure she didn't feel lost if she woke up.
Because that's the kind of male he was.
There was a click and whirl and the steel shutters began to lift for the night, the darkened sky revealed, her mental gyrations mercifully cut off.
She hated ruminating. Never solved anything and only made her feel worse.
"Hot water is calling us," she said, forcing her body upright. The delicious aches in her muscles and bones made her want to sleep for days in this big bed next to John. Maybe weeks. But that wasn't their destiny, was it.
She leaned over and looked down into his shadowy face. After tracing his handsome features with her eyes, she just had to bring up her hand and caress his cheek.
I love you, she mouthed in the shadows.
"Let's go," she said roughly.
The kiss she gave him was a sort of good-bye--after all, maybe tonight they finally got Lash, and that would mean an end to moments like this.
Abruptly, John gripped her upper arms, his brows tightening, but then, as if he read her mind and knew all too well the score, he released her.
As she got up and walked away from the bed, his eyes followed her. . . she could feel it.
In the bathroom, she started the water for them and went over to get some towels out of the cupboard.
She stopped as she saw her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
Her body was the same as it had always been, but she thought of the way it felt when she and John were together. She'd gotten so used to thinking of her corporeal form as little more than a weapon, something that was useful and necessary to accomplish things. Hell, she'd fed it and cared for it the same way she looked after her guns and her knives--because that was how she maintained its utility.
In their hours together, John had taught her differently, had shown her that there was profound pleasure to be had from her flesh. Which was something not even her relationship with Murhder had managed to do.
As if he'd been summoned by her thoughts, John came up behind her, his height and shoulder width dwarfing her reflection.
Meeting his eyes, she put her hand to her breast and rubbed her own nipple, remembering how it felt to have his touch there, his tongue, his mouth. The instant she made contact, his body responded, his bonding scent flooding the bathroom, his erection punching out of his hips.
Reaching behind herself, she pulled him against her, his arousal penetrating the wedge formed by her sex and her thighs. As his hips pushed in against her ass, his warm hands circled around her and stroked down her stomach. Bringing his head to her shoulder, his fangs flashed white as he delicately dragged them over her skin to the crook of her neck.
Arching back to him, she stretched way up and ran her hands through his thick dark hair. Although he'd cut it short, it was growing in, which was nice. She preferred it long because it felt so damn good going through her fingers, so silky, so smooth.
"Come inside me," she said hoarsely.
John swept his hand up and captured the breast she'd stroked for him; then he reached between their bodies, angled himself, and eased into her sex. At the same moment, he ran his fangs across her throat to her vein.
He didn't need to feed. She knew this. So she was strangely thrilled when he struck because it meant he was doing it just because he wanted to: He wanted her in him, too.
Beneath the overhead lighting, she watched as he took her from behind, his muscles flexing, his eyes burning, his erection pushing in and pulling out, pushing in and pulling out. She watched herself, too. Her breasts were tight at the tips, her nipples rosy, not just because that was the color of them, but because he'd been working on them so much over the day's hours. Her skin was aglow all over, her cheeks blazing, her lips puffy from the kissing, her eyes low-lidded and erotic.
John broke the seal he'd formed over her vein and his pink tongue came out, licking over the punctures, sealing them up. Turning her head, she captured his mouth with her own, relishing the slick slide of their tongues as their bodies followed the same rhythm down below.
It didn't take long for the sex to grow urgent and raw, no longer sensual, but powerful. As John's hips pistoned against her, their bodies slapped and their breath roared. Her orgasm tackled her so strongly that if he hadn't had a death grip on her hip bones, she would have lost her knees and fallen from him. And just as she came, John's own shudders rolled through her, the ripples emanating outward from his erection and sweeping through her body. . . and her soul.
And then it happened.
At the pinnacle of their release, her vision flipped into red and went flat--and as ectascy eventually faded, the unsummoned appearance of her bad side was a wake-up call she'd been subconsciously waiting for.
Gradually, she became aware of the growing humidity and warmth from the shower. . . and the twinkling sound of falling water. . . and the thousand points of contact between them. . . and how all things were in shades of blood.
John reached up to her face and touched next to her red eyes.
"Yeah, I need my cilices," she said.
He brought his hands forward in front of her and signed, I have them.
"You do?"
I saved them. He frowned. But are you sure you have to--
"Yes," she bristled. "I am. "
The hard expression that tightened his face reminded her of the way he'd been when he'd sprung out of that bed as she'd screamed: Tough. Intractable. All-male. But there was nothing she could do to help him out of his current disapproval. She had to take care of herself, and whether or not he was down with what she did to keep herself in a "normal" bandwidth wasn't going to change her reality.
Man, they just weren't meant to be together, no matter how compatible they could be sometimes.
John withdrew from her core and stepped back, running his fingers down her spine as a kind of a thank-you. . . and given the dark knowledge in his eyes, probably a good-bye of his own. Turning away, he headed for the sh--
"Oh. . . my. . . God. . . "
Xhex's heart stopped as she looked at him in the mirror. Across his upper back, in a glorious spread of black ink. . . in a declaration that didn't whisper, but shouted. . . in a billboard-size font with flourishes. . .
Her name in the Old Language.
Xhex wheeled around as John froze. "When did you get that done?"
After a tense moment, his shoulder shrugged and she was captivated by the way the ink moved, stretching and then returning into place. Shaking his head, he reached in to test the warm spray, and then stepped through the glass door, put his back to the running water and grabbed the soap, frothing up the bar in his hands.
As he refused to look at her, he sent a clear message that her name in his skin was none of her business. Which was the same kind of line she'd drawn with her cilices, wasn't it.
Xhex went up to the glass door that separated them. Putting her hand up, she knocked hard.
When, she mouthed.
His eyes squeezed shut, as if he were remembering something that made his stomach hurt. And then with his lids down, he signed slowly. . . and broke her in half:
When I thought you weren't coming home.
John made quick work with the soap and the shampoo, very aware that Xhex was standing on the cold side of the glass, staring at him. He wanted to help her out with the surprise and all, but given where things stood between them, he was so not about to throw himself on the sword of all his feelings.
Or the tattoo needle, as it were.
When he'd asked her about the cilices, she'd been pretty clear about shutting him out--and that had rebooted his brain. Since he'd been injured the night before, they'd fallen back into their sex connection, and that had a way of blurring reality. But no more.
After he was finished with his wash-up, he stepped out of the shower and went past her, nabbing a towel from a brass bar and wrapping it around his hips. In the mirror, he met her eyes.
I'll go get your cilices, he signed.
"John. . . "
When she didn't say anything more, he frowned, thinking this was the pair of them in a nutshell: Standing three feet away from each other and being separated by miles.
He left and went into the bedroom, picking up a pair of jeans and pulling them on. His leather jacket had been brought in with him to the clinic the night before and he'd left it there. Somewhere.
In his bare feet, he walked past the marble statues, down the grand staircase, and around the corner to duck through the hidden door. Man. . . going back into the tunnel was a total crusher; all he could think about was Xhex and him together in the dark.
Like a complete nancy, he wished like hell they could return to those suspended moments when nothing existed except their roaring bodies. Down here, their hearts had been free to pound. . . and sing.
Fucking real life.
Sucked ass.
He was striding toward the training center's entrance when Z's voice stopped him.
"Yo, John. "
John pivoted around, his bare feet squeaking on the tunnel floor. As he raised his hand in greeting, the Brother came striding down from the mansion's door and Z was dressed for fighting, his black leathers and muscle shirt something that they would all be wearing before they headed out once again to hunt Lash. With the Brother's skull trim, a
nd the ceiling lights streaming down across that jagged scar on his face, it was no wonder people were scared shitless of him.
Especially with his stare narrowed like that and his jaw set grimly.
What's up, John signed as the Brother stopped in front of him.
When there was no immediate reply, John braced himself, thinking, Oh. . . fuck, now what.
What, he signed.
Zsadist exhaled a curse and started to pace around, his hands on his hips, his eyes locked on the floor. "I don't even know where to frickin' start. "
John frowned and eased back against the tunnel wall, ready for more bad news. Although he sure as shit couldn't imagine what it was, life had a way of getting pretty damned creative, didn't it.
Eventually, Z halted and when he looked over, his stare was not golden yellow, as it usually was when they were home. It was pitch-black. Vicious black. And the male's face had gone the color of snow.
John straightened. Jesus. . . what's wrong?
"You remember all those walks you and I used to take in the woods. Just before your transition. . . after you lost it with Lash the first time. " When John nodded, the Brother continued. "You ever ask yourself why Wrath put us together?"
John nodded slowly. Yeah. . .
"It wasn't a mistake. " The Brother's eyes were cold and dark as the cellar in a haunted house, shadows making up not just the color of the irises but what lay behind that stare. "You and I have something in common. Do you understand what I'm saying. You and I. . . we have something in common. "
At first John frowned again, not catching the drift--
Suddenly, he felt a cringing blast of cold shiver through his own body, one that reached his marrow. Z. . . ? Wait, had he heard it wrong? Was he taking this wrong?
Except then, clear as day, he remembered the two of them facing off at each other--right after the Brother had read what that psychologist had put in John's medical record.
You get to pick how you deal with it, because it's no one else's biz , Z had said . You never want to say another fucking word on the subject, you're getting no lip from me.
At that moment, John had been amazed by the Brother's unexpected understanding. As well as the fact that Z didn't seem to judge him or view him as weak.
Now he knew why.
God. . . Z?
The Brother held his palm up. "I'm not telling you this to freak you out, and fuckin' A, I'd have preferred you never know--for reasons I'm sure you get. But I'm bringing it up because of your female's scream this morning. "
John's brows pulled tight as the Brother took up pacing again.
"Look, John, I don't like people in my biz and I'm the last person who wants to talk about crap. But that scream. . . " Z faced off at John. "I've thrown too many of those out not to know what kind of hell you gotta be in to holler like that. Your girl. . . she's got some dark in her on a good day, but after Lash? I don't need no deets--but I can guess she's rattled and then some. Hell, sometimes after you're safe again--it's almost worse. "
John scrubbed his face as his temples started to pound, and then he lifted his hands. . . only to find he had nothing to sign. The sadness that crushed him took his words away, leaving him with a strange, blank numbness in his head.
All he could do was nod.
Zsadist clapped him briefly on the shoulder and then resumed his back-and-forth. "Meeting and getting with Bella, that was my lifeboat. But it wasn't the only thing I needed. See, before we were mated proper, Bella left me--she took off and just left my ass for no damn good reason. I knew I had to do something to get my head on right if I was ever going to have a shot with her. So I talked to someone about. . . everything. " Z cursed again and slashed his hand through the air. "And no, not some white coat at Havers's. Someone I trusted. Someone who was part of the family--who I knew wouldn't see me as dirty or weak or some shit. "
Who, John mouthed.
"Mary. " Z exhaled. "Rhage's Mary. We had the sessions down in the boiler room under the kitchen. Two chairs. Right next to the furnace. It helped then and I still go back to her from time to time. "
John could see the logic instantly. Mary had that kind, calm thing going on--which explained how she'd been able to tame not only the wildest Brother, but the son of a bitch's inner beast.
"That scream tonight. . . John, if you want to mate this female, you gotta help her with that. She needs to talk about her shit because if she doesn't, sure as fuck it's going to rot her from the inside out. And I spoke with Mary just now--without using any names. She's gotten her counseling degree and she said she's ready to work with someone. If you get a chance and the time is right with Xhex. . . tell her about this. Tell her to go talk to Mary. " As Z rubbed his skull trim, the nipple rings he wore stood out in sharp relief under his black muscle shirt. "And if you want a testimonial, I can tell you on the life of my daughter that your female will be in good hands. "
Thank you, John signed. Yeah, I'll totally say something to her. Jesus. . . thank you.
"No problem. "
Abruptly, John locked eyes with Zsadist.
As the two held stares, it was hard not to feel part of a unique club that no one would ever volunteer to be associated with. Membership wasn't sought or desirable or something to crow about. . . but it was real and it was powerful: Survivors of similar wrecks could see the horrors of those jagged shoals in the eyes of others. It was like recognizing like. It was two people with the same tattoo on their insides, the divide of a trauma that separated them from the rest of the planet unexpectedly bringing a pair of weary souls closer together.
Or three, as was the case here.
Zsadist's voice was husky. "I killed the bitch who did it to me. Took her head with me when I left. You get that satisfaction?"
John shook his head slowly. Wish I had.
"Not going to lie. That helped me, too. "
There was a tight, awkward silence, as if neither of them knew how to hit the reset button and get back to normal. Then Z nodded once and stuck out his fist.
John knocked those knuckles with his own, thinking, Shit, you never knew what was in someone's closet, did you.
Z's eyes glowed yellow once more as he turned away and walked back toward the door that would take him into the mansion and to his family, to his Brothers. In his back pocket, like he'd shoved it there and forgotten about it, was a pink baby's bib, the kind that had Velcro patches on the straps and a little skull and crossbones in black on the front.
Life goes on, John thought. No matter what the world did to you, you could survive.
And maybe if Xhex talked to Mary she wouldn't. . .
God, he couldn't even finish the thought because he feared defining her exit strategy.
Hustling on down into the training center, he headed for the clinic, where he found his jacket and his weapons and what Xhex needed.
As he picked up the shit, his mind was churning over things. . . things in the past, and in the present. Churning, churning, churning. . .
When he got back to the mansion, he beelined up the grand staircase and down the hall of statues. As soon as he walked into his room, he heard the shower running in the bath and had a brief, vivid image of Xhex gloriously naked and slick from the water and the soap suds--but he didn't go in and join her. He pulled the bed together and laid the cilices at the foot of it, then changed into his fighting gear and left.
He didn't go to First Meal.
He went down the hall to another bedroom. As he knocked on the door, he had the sense that what he was about to do was a long time in coming.
When Tohr opened up, the Brother was half-dressed--and obviously surprised. "What's doing?"
Can I come in? John signed.
"Yeah, sure. "
As John stepped inside, he felt an odd sense of premonition. But then when it came to Tohr, he'd always had them. . . that and a sense of deep connection.
He frow
ned while he looked at the male, thinking of the time they'd spent on that sofa downstairs, watching Godzilla movies while Xhex was out fighting in the daylight. It was funny; he was so comfortable around the guy that being with Tohr was like being alone without the solitude. . .
You've been following me, haven't you, John signed abruptly. You're the one. . . the shadow I've sensed. At the tattoo parlor and the Xtreme Park.
Tohr's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. That was me. "
Why?
"Look, for real, it wasn't that I don't think you can handle yourself--"
No, it's not that. What I don't understand is. . . if you're well enough to be out in the field, why aren't you killing them? For. . . her. Why waste time with me?
Tohr breathed out a curse. "Ah, shit, John. . . " Long pause. And then, "You can't do anything more for the dead. They're gone. It's done. But the living. . . you can take care of the living. I know what kind of hell you've been in--and still are in--and I lost my Wellsie because I wasn't there when she needed me. . . . I couldn't go through losing you for the same reason. "
As the Brother's words faded, John felt like he'd been sucker punched--and yet he wasn't shocked. Because this was the kind of male Tohr was--steadfast and true. A male of worth.
The guy laughed harshly. "Don't get me wrong. Soon as you're out from under this Lash bullshit, and that bastard is good and dead, I'm going hard-core on those motherfuckers. I will kill slayers in her memory for the rest of my natural life. But the thing is, I remember. . . . see, I've been where you were when you were thinking your female was gone. No matter how levelheaded you believe yourself to be, you're insane in the membrane--and you were blessed to get her back, but life doesn't just return to rational that quick. Plus, let's face it--you'd do anything to save her, even put your chest in front of a bullet. Which I can understand, but would like you to avoid if at all possible. "
As the Brother's words sank in, John signed automatically, She's not my female.
"Yeah, she is. And the two of you make so much sense. You have no idea what kind of sense you make together. "
John shook his head. Not sure who you're talking about there. No offense.
"Doesn't have to be easy to be right. "
In that case, we're meant for each other.
There was a long silence, during which John had the oddest sense that life was resetting itself, that the gears which had previously been slipping and missing had once more locked into place.
And here it was again, the Shitstorm Survivors' Club.
Christ, for all the crap that the people living in the mansion had been through, maybe V should design a tat they could each get on their asses. Because sure as shit, the bunch of them had won the lottery when it came to hard knocks.
Or, God, maybe this was just life. For everyone on the planet. Maybe the Survivors' Club wasn't something you "earned," but simply what you were born into when you came out of your mother's womb. Your heartbeat put you on the roster and then the rest of it was just a question of vocabulary: The nouns and verbs used to describe the events that rocked your foundation and sent you flailing were not always the same as other people's, but the random cruelties of disease and accident, and the malicious focus of evil men and nasty deeds, and the heartbreak of loss with all its stinging whips and rattling chains. . . at the core, it was all the same.
And there was no opt-out clause in the club's bylaws--unless you offed yourself.
The essential truth of life, he was coming to realize, wasn't romantic and took only two words to label: Shit. Happens.
But the thing was, you kept going. You kept your friends and your family and your mate as safe as you were able. And you kept fighting even after you were knocked down.
Goddamn it, you dragged your ass off the ground and you kept fighting.
I've been awful to you, John signed. I'm sorry.
Tohr shook his head. "Like I was any better? Don't apologize. As my best friend and your father always told me, don't look backward. Only forward. "
So that's where it came from, John thought. The belief was in his blood.
I want you with me, by my side, John signed. Tonight. Tomorrow night. For however long it takes to kill Lash. Do this with me. Find the bastard with me, with us.
The sense that the pair of them would work together seemed so right. After all, for their individual reasons, they were united in this deadly game of chess: John needed to avenge Xhex for obvious reasons. And as for Tohr. . . well, the Omega had taken his son when that lesser had killed Wellsie. Now the Brother had a chance to return the motherfucking favor.
Come with me. Do this. . . with me.
Tohr had to clear his throat. "I thought you would never ask. "
No knuckle-tap this time.
The two of them embraced, chest-to-chest. And when they pulled apart, John waited for Tohr to throw on a shirt, get his leather jacket, and grab his weapons.
Then they went downstairs side by side.
As if they had never been apart. As if it was as it always had been.
