by J. R. Ward
“I’ll jump! I’ll fucking jump!”
Tohr palmed the handle of one of his two daggers and withdrew the black blade from his chest holster. “So quit yakking and start flying.”
The slayer looked over the edge. “I’ll do it! I swear I’ll do it!”
A gust gave them a blast from a different direction, sweeping Tohr’s long leather coat out over the free fall. “Don’t matter to me. I’ll kill you up here or down there.”
The lesser peered over the edge again, hesitated, and then let ’er rip, leaping to the side and hitting all that nothing-but-air, his arms pinwheeling as if he were trying to keep his balance so he landed feetfirst.
Which at this height would probably just drive his thighbones up into his abdominal cavity. Better than swallowing his own head, however.
Tohr resheathed his dagger and prepared for his own descent, taking a deep breath. And then it was…
As he went over the edge and took that first gasp of antigravity, the irony of the bridge jump wasn’t lost. He’d spent so much time wishing for his death to come, praying for the Scribe Virgin to take his body and send him up to be with his loved ones. Suicide had never been an option; you took your own life, you couldn’t get into the Fade—and that was the only reason he hadn’t cut his wrists, sucked on the business end of a shotgun, or… jumped off a bridge.
In his descent, he let himself enjoy the idea that this was it, that the impact coming in a second and a half was going to be the end of his suffering. All he had to do was reposition his trajectory so he was in a dive, then not protect his head and let the inevitable happen: blackout, likely paralysis, death by drowning.
Except that kind of goner-for-good couldn’t be his end result. Whoever made the call on these things would have to know that, unlike the lesser, he had an out.
Calming his mind, he dematerialized himself from the free fall—one moment gravity had a death grip on him; the next he was nothing but an invisible cloud of molecules that he could will in any direction he wanted.
Next door, the slayer hit the water not with the splash! of someone going off the side of a pool, or the ker-chunk of somebody working a diving board. The fucker was like a missile hitting a target, and the explosion registered in the form of a sonic cracking as gallons of displaced Hudson River shot up into the brisk air.
Tohr, on the other hand, chose to re-form himself on top of the massive concrete support to the right of the impact site. Three… two… one…
Bingo.
A head popped up downstream of the still-bubbling entrance point. No arms moving in an attempt to regain access to oxygen. No legs kicking. No gasping.
But it wasn’t dead: You could run them over with your car, beat them until your own fist broke, rip their arms and/or legs off, do whatever the hell you wanted… and they would still be alive.
Fuckers were the ticks of the underworld. And there was no way he wasn’t getting wet.
Tohr shrugged off his trench coat, folded it carefully, and left it nestled in the juncture where the upper part of the support met its broad, aquatic base. Getting in the drink with that on his back was a drowning recipe; plus he had to protect his forties and his cell phone.
With a couple of bounding leaps, so he could get enough momentum to put him over open water, he threw himself into dive formation, his arms pointed above his head, his palms together, his body straight as an arrow. Unlike the lesser, his penetration was elegant and smooth, even though he came at the surface of the Hudson from a good twelve- to fifteen-foot drop.
Cold. Really frickin’ cold.
After all, it was late April in upstate New York—which was still a good month away from anything remotely balmy.
Exhaling through his mouth as he stroked up from the depths, he fell into a powerful freestyle. When he got to the slayer, he locked a grip onto the jacket and began pulling the undead weight to shore.
Where he would finish this. So he could go look for the next one.
As Tohr went off the side of the bridge, John Matthew’s own life flashed before his eyes—sure as if he were the one whose shitkickers had left solid ground in favor of nothing-but-net.
He was on the shore, under the exit ramp, when it happened, in the process of finishing off the slayer he’d been chasing: From out of the corner of his eye, he saw something go into a fall from the great height above the river.
It hadn’t made sense at first. Any lesser with half a brain would know that wasn’t a good escape route. Except then everything had become too clear. A figure was standing on the lip of the bridge, leather coat billowing around like a shroud.
Tohrment.
Noooooooo, John had shouted while making no sound at all.
“Motherfucker, he’s going to jump,” Qhuinn spat from behind him.
John lunged forward, for all the good that would do, and then screamed mutely as the closest thing he had to a father jumped.
Later, John would reflect that moments like this had to be what people said of death itself—as you one-plus-oned the series of events that were unfolding, and the math added up to certain destruction, your mind flipped into slide-show mode, showing you clips of life as you had always known it:
John sitting at Tohr and Wellsie’s table that first night after he’d been adopted into the vampire world… The expression on Tohr’s face as the blood results had announced that John was Darius’s son… That nightmarish moment when the Brotherhood had arrived to tell them both that Wellsie was gone…
Then came images from the second act: Lassiter bringing a shriveled shell of Tohr back from wherever he had been… Tohr and John finally losing it together over the murder… Tohr gradually working his strength up… John’s own shellan appearing in the red gown that Wellsie had mated Tohr in…
Man, destiny sucked ass. It just had to barge in and piss all over everyone’s rose garden.
And now it was taking a shit in the other flower beds.
Except then Tohr abruptly disappeared into thin air. One moment he was all fly-be-free; the next, he was gone.
Thank God, John thought.
“Thank you, baby Jesus,” Qhuinn breathed.
A moment later, on the far side of a pylon, a dark arrow sliced into the river.
Without a glance or a word between them, he and Qhuinn tore off in that direction, getting to the rocky shore just as Tohr surfaced, grabbed the slayer, and started to swim in. As John got into position to help drag the lesser onto dry land, his eyes locked on Tohr’s grim, pale face.
The male looked dead, even though he was technically alive.
I got him, John signed as he leaned in, nabbed the closest arm, and heaved the soaking-wet slayer out of the river. The thing landed in a heap and did an excellent impression of a fish, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, little clicking sounds coming from its wide-open gullet.
But whatever, Tohr was the issue, and John looked the Brother over as he emerged from the water: Leather pants were sticking like glue to thighs that were thin, muscle shirt was second-skinned to a flat chest, cropped black hair with that white stripe was standing straight up even though it was wet.
Dark blue eyes were locked on the lesser.
Or studiously ignoring John’s stare.
Probably both.
Tohr reached down and grabbed the lesser by the throat. Baring fangs that were viciously long, he growled, “Told you.”
Then he outted his black dagger and started stabbing.
John and Qhuinn had to step back. It was either that or get a paint job.
“He could just hit the damn chest,” Qhuinn muttered, “and get this over with.”
Except killing the slayer wasn’t the point. Desecration was.
That sharp black blade penetrated every square inch of flesh—except for the sternum, which was the lights-out switch. With each slashing blow, Tohr exhaled hard; with every jerk free, the Brother inhaled deep, the rhythm of respiration driving the gruesome scene.
“Now I know how they make shredded lettuc
e.”
John rubbed his face, and hoped that was the end of the commentary.
Tohr didn’t slow down. He just stopped. And in the aftermath, he listed to the side, propping himself up by throwing a hand out to the oil-soaked dirt. The slayer was… well, shredded, yeah, but he wasn’t finished.
There’d be no helping out, though. In spite of Tohr’s obvious exhaustion, John and Qhuinn knew better than to mess with the end game. They’d seen this before. The final strike had to be Tohr’s.
After a couple of moments of recovery, the Brother lurched back into position, double-handing the dagger and lifting the blade over his head.
A hoarse cry tore out of his throat as he buried the point in the chest of what was left of his prey. As bright light flashed, the tragic expression on Tohr’s face was illuminated, a comic book rendering of his twisted, horrific features, caught for a moment… and an eternity.
He always stared down into the illumination, even though the impermanent sun was too bright to look into.
After it was done, the Brother slumped sure as if his spinal column had turned to putty, his energy disappearing. Clearly, he needed to feed, but that subject, like so many others, was a no-go.
“What time is it,” he got out between breaths.
Qhuinn snagged a peek at his Suunto. “Two a.m.”
Tohr looked up from the stained ground he’d been staring at, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on the part of downtown they’d just come from.
“How about we go back to the compound.” Qhuinn took out his cell phone. “Butch isn’t far away—”
“No.” Tohr shoved himself back and sat on his ass. “Don’t call anyone. I’m fine—just need to catch my breath.”
Bull. Shit. The guy was not any closer to fine than John was at the moment. Although, granted, only one of them was dripping wet in a fifty-degree gust.
John shoved his hands into the Brother’s field of vision. We’re going home now—
Wafting over on the breeze, like an alarm breaking through a silent house, the scent of baby powder tickled into each of their noses.
The stench did what all that breathing on the ground couldn’t: It got Tohr onto his feet. Gone was the logy disorientation—hell, if you’d pointed out to him that he was still wet as a fish, he probably would have been surprised.
“There’re more,” he snarled.
As he took off, John cursed at the maniac.
“Come on,” Qhuinn said. “Let’s get our run on. This is going to be a long night.”
TWO
“Take some time off… relax… enjoy yourself.…”
As Xhex muttered to a peanut gallery of antique furniture, she walked out of the bedroom and into the bath suite. And back again. And… back once more into marble-landia.
In the bath she and John now shared, she stopped by the pond-deep Jacuzzi. Next to the brass faucets, there was a silver tray with all kinds of lotions and potions and girlie what-the-fuck. And that wasn’t the half of it. By the sinks? Another tray, this one full of perfume by Chanel: Cristalle, Coco, No. 5, Coco Mademoiselle. Then there was the fine wicker basket of hairbrushes, some with short naps, others with pointy bristles or spiky metal crap. In the cupboards? A lineup of OPI nail polish bottles in enough variations on cocksucking pink to give even Barbie a nosebleed. As well as fifteen different brands of mousse. Gel. Hair spray.
Really?
And don’t get her started on the Bobbi Brown makeup.
Who the hell did they think had moved in here? One of those Kardashian nut jobs?
And on that note… Christ, she couldn’t believe she now knew Kim, Kourtney, Khloe, Kris; the brother, Rob; stepfather, Bruce; little sisters Kendall and Kylie; as well as the various husband(s), boyfriend(s), and that kid Mason—
Meeting her own eyes in the mirror, she thought, Well, wasn’t this interesting. She’d managed to blow her brains out with E! Entertainment Television.
Certainly less messy than a sawed-off, and the results were the same.
“That shit needs to come with a warning label on it.”
As she stared at her reflection, she recognized the buzzed-off black hair, and the pale skin, and the tight, hard body. The clipped nails. The absolute lack of makeup. She even had her own clothes on, the black muscle shirt and leather pants a uniform she’d put on every night for years.
Well, except for a couple of evenings ago. Then she’d worn something else entirely.
Maybe that gown was the reason for all the fembot stuff that had shown up after the mating ceremony: Fritz and the doggen may have assumed she’d turned over a new leaf. Either that or it was all just part of the standard, newly mated shellan welcome wagon.
Turning away, she put her hands up to the base of her throat, to the big, square diamond John had bought her. Set in sturdy platinum, it was the only piece of jewelry she could ever imagine wearing: tough, solid, able to withstand a good fight and stay on her body.
In this new world of Paul Mitchell, and Bed Head, and Coco’s stinky stuff, at least John still got her. As for the rest of them? Can you say “education”? Not the first time she’d played teacher to a bunch of males who thought that just because you had breasts, you belonged in a gilded cage. Anyone tried to turn her into a glymera chickadee? She’d just saw through the gold bars, set a bomb on the base of the stand, and hang the steaming remains from a chandelier in the foyer.
Heading into the bedroom, she opened the closet and pulled out the red gown that she’d worn during that ceremony. Only dress she’d ever put on—and she had to admit she’d enjoyed the way John had taken it off with his teeth. And yeah, sure, the nights lounging around had been great—first break she’d had in forever. All they’d done was have sex, feed from each other, eat great food, and repeat with bouts of sleep.
But now John had gone back out into the field—whereas she wasn’t due to start fighting until tomorrow evening.
This was just twenty-four hours, a delay, not a dead end.
So what the hell was her problem?
Maybe all the chicky-chicky was just triggering her inner bitch for no good reason. She wasn’t cooped up, nobody was making her change herself, and that Kardashian car accident of a marathon on the boob tube was her own damn fault. As for the beauty stuff? The doggen were just trying to be nice, in the only way they knew how.
Not a lot of females like her. And not just because she was half symphath—
Frowning, she cranked her head around.
Letting the satin fall from her hands, she went for the emotional grid that was outside in the hall.
With her symphath senses, the three-dimensional structure of sadness and loss and shame was as real as any building you could drive by, look around, or walk through. Unfortunately, in this case, there was no fixing the damage to the supports, or the hole in the roof, or the fact that the electric system wasn’t operational anymore: As much as she experienced a person’s emotions as if they were a private home, there were no subcontracting workers to come in and repair what was wrong, no plumbers or electricians or painters for this shit. The homeowner had to perform their own improvements on what was broken, battered, and busted; no one else could do it for them.
As she stepped out into the hall of statues, Xhex had a tremor go through her own little house. Then again, the robed, limping figure up ahead was her mother.
God, that still felt weird to say, even if only in her head—and it didn’t really apply on so many levels, did it?
She cleared her throat. “Good evening… ah…”
It didn’t sound right to throw out mahmen or mom or mommy. No’One, the name the female went by, wasn’t comfortable, either. Then again, what could you call somebody who had been abducted by a symphath, violently forced to conceive, and then trapped by biology to bear the result of the torture?
First and last name: I and Sorry. Middle name: Am.
As No’One shifted around, the hood that was in place covered her face. “Good evening. How fare thee?�
��
The English was stiff across her mother’s lips, suggesting the female would have done better speaking in the Old Language. And the bow that she gave, which was utterly unnecessary, was lopsided, likely because of whatever injury that caused the uneven gait.
That scent she threw off was not anything by Chanel. Unless they’d recently added a Tragedy line.
“I’m well.” Try restless and bored. “Where are you going?”
“To tidy up the sitting room.”
Xhex sucked back a wince of don’t-go-there. Fritz didn’t let anyone but fellow doggen lift a finger in the mansion—and No’One, in spite of the fact that she had come here to attend to Payne, was staying in a guest room, eating at the table with the Brothers, and accepted here as the mother of a mated shellan. She was not a maid by any standard.
“Yeah, ah… how’d you like to…” Do what? Xhex wondered. What could the two of them possibly do together? Xhex was a fighter. Her mother was… a ghost with substance. Not a lot of common ground there.
“It is all right,” No’One said gently. “These are awkward—”
Thunder roared through the foyer below, sure as if clouds had formed, lightning flashed, and rain had started to piss down. As No’One recoiled, Xhex glared over her shoulder. What the hell was—
Rhage, a.k.a. Hollywood, a.k.a. the biggest and most beautiful of the Brothers, all but leaped up onto the second-floor balcony. As he landed, his blond head shot around in her direction, his teal eyes on fire.
“John Matthew called. It’s all hands on deck downtown. Get armed and meet us at the front door in ten minutes.”
“Hot damn,” Xhex hissed as she smacked her palms.
When she turned back to her mother, the female was trembling, and trying not to show it.
“It’s okay,” Xhex said. “I’m good at fighting. I’m not going to get hurt.”
Nice words. Except that wasn’t what the female was worried about, was it: Her grid was showing fear… of Xhex.
Duh. Given that she was a half-breed symphath, of course No’One would think “dangerous” before “daughter.”
