by J. R. Ward
“Thank you.” Havers looked back at Ehlena. “Now do go home and have a rest.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
She ducked out of his office and watched the race’s physician hurry off and disappear around the corner.
Rehvenge wasn’t coming back in here to see Havers. No way. One, he’d sounded too sick to, and two, he’d already proven he was a hardheaded idiot when he’d deliberately hidden that infection from the doctor.
Stupid. Male.
And she was stupid as well, considering what was banging around in her head.
Generally speaking, ethics were never a problem for her: Doing the right thing didn’t require thought or a negotiation of principles or a cost-and-benefit calculation. For example, it would be wrong to go into the clinic’s supply of penicillin and lift, oh, say, eighty five-hundred-milligram tablets.
Especially if you were giving those tablets to a patient who had not been seen by the doctor for the ailment being treated.
That would just be wrong. All the way around.
The right thing would be to call the patient and persuade him to come into the clinic and get seen by the doctor, and if he wouldn’t get his ass in gear? Then that was that.
Yup, not a lot of complications there.
Ehlena headed for the pharmacy.
She decided to leave it up to fate. And what do you know, it was cigarette-break time. The little BE RIGHT BACK clock read three forty-five.
She checked her watch. Three thirty-three.
Unlatching the counter door, she went into the pharmacy, beelined for the penicillin jugs, and shook out those eighty five-hundred-milligram tablets into the pocket of her uniform—exactly what had been prescribed for a patient with a similar issue three nights ago.
Rehvenge was not going to come back to the clinic anytime soon. So she would bring what he needed to him.
She told herself that she was helping a patient and that was the most important thing. Hell, she was probably saving his life. She also pointed out to her conscience that this was not OxyContin or Valium or morphine. As far as she was aware, no one had ever crushed up some ’cillin and snorted it for a high.
As she went into the locker room and picked up the lunch she’d brought but hadn’t eaten, she didn’t feel guilty. And as she dematerialized home, she felt no shame in going to the kitchen and putting the pills in a Ziploc bag and tucking them into her purse.
This was the course she was choosing. Stephan had been dead by the time she got to him, and the best she’d been able to do was help wrap his cold, stiff limbs in ceremonial linen. Rehvenge was alive. Alive and suffering. And whether he was the cause of it or not, she could still help him.
The outcome was moral even if the method was not.
And sometimes that was the best you could do.
TWENTY-FOUR
By the time Xhex got back to ZeroSum it was three thirty a.m., just in time to close the club. She also had a little work to do on herself, and unlike zeroing out the cash registers and sending the staff and the bouncers off into the night, she couldn’t wait on her personal biz.
Before she’d left Rehv’s Great Camp, she’d gone into a bathroom and put her cilices back on, but the fuckers weren’t working: She was buzzing. Twitchy with power. Right on the edge. For all the good they were doing, she might as well have been wearing a pair of shoelaces tied around her thighs.
Slipping in the side door to the VIP section, she scanned the crowd, well aware that she was looking for one male in particular.
And he was there.
Fucking John Matthew. A job well-done always made her hungry, and the last thing she needed was proximity to the likes of him.
As if he felt her eyes on him, his head lifted and his deep blue marbles flashed. He totally knew what she wanted. And given the way he discreetly rearranged himself in his pants, he was ready to be of service.
Xhex couldn’t stop herself from torturing them both. She sent him a mental scene, drilling the image right into his head: the two of them in a private bathroom, him up on the sink and leaning back, her with one foot planted on the counter, his sex deep in hers, the two of them panting.
While he stared across the crowded room, John’s mouth parted, and the flush on his cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the orgasm that was no doubt pounding up his shaft.
God, she wanted him.
His buddy, the redhead, snapped her out of the madness. Blaylock came back to the table with three beers hanging from their necks, and as he took a look at John’s hard, sexed-up face, he stopped short and glanced over at her in surprise.
Shit.
Xhex waved off the bouncers who were coming up to her and walked out of the VIP section so fast, she nearly bowling-pinned a waitress.
Her office was the only place that was safe, and she headed there at a dead run. Assassination was an engine that, once she turned it on, was hard to slow, and memories of the kill, of the sweet moment when she’d met Montrag’s eyes with her own and then taken his sight from him, were juicing up her symphath side. Burning off that energy, taking herself back down, required one of two things.
Sex with John Matthew was definitely one of them. The other was much less pleasurable, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she was about to take her lys out and go to work on all the humans in her way. Which wouldn’t be good for business.
A hundred years later, she closed her door on the noise and the cattlelike crush of people, but there was no relaxing in her barren haven. Hell, she couldn’t even calm herself enough to tighten her cilices. She paced around the desk, caged, ready to boil over, trying to get herself level so she could—
With a roar, the change thundered down upon her, her visual field flipping into shades of red like someone had just put a visor down over her eyes. All at once, the emotional grids of every single living thing in the club popped into her brain, walls and floors disappearing and being replaced by the vices and the desperations, the angers and the lusting wants, the cruelties and the pain that were as solid to her as the club’s structure had once been.
Her symphath side had had it with the let’s-play-nices and was ready to make hides out of that herd of simpering, strung-out humans outside.
As Xhex took off like the dance floor was on fire and she was only one with an extinguisher, John sank back down into his banquette. After what he’d seen in his head dissipated, the pinprick tingles over his skin started to fade, but his erection was having none of the oh-well-maybe-another-time.
His cock was hard in his jeans, trapped behind the button fly.
Shit, John thought. Shit. Just…shit.
“Way to cock-block, Blay,” Qhuinn muttered.
“I’m sorry,” Blay said as he slid in and passed out the beers. “I’m sorry…. Shit.”
Well, didn’t that cover things perfectly.
“You know, she’s really into you,” Blay said with a hint of admiration. “I mean, I thought we came here just so you could stare at her. But I didn’t know she was looking at you like that, too.”
John ducked his head to cover up his cheeks as they waaaaay surpassed the red of Blay’s hair.
“You know where her office is, John.” Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes stayed level as he tilted back his freshie and drank hard. “Go there. Now. At least one of us can get a little relief.”
John eased back and rubbed his thighs, thinking exactly what Qhuinn was. But did he have the balls for that? What if he approached her and she turned him down?
What if he lost his hard-on again?
As he remembered what he’d seen in his head, though, he wasn’t so worried about that. He was ready to orgasm right where he sat.
“You could go back into her office alone,” Qhuinn continued softly. “I can wait at the head of the hall and make sure no one interrupts. You’ll be safe, and it will be private.”
John thought of the one and only time he and Xhex had been in an enclosed space alone together. It
had been back in August in the men’s bathroom on the mezzanine floor, and she’d found him careening out of a stall, drunk as shit. Even as polluted as he’d been, one look at her and he’d been ready to go, desperate for her sex—and thanks to a boatload of Corona confidence, he’d had the colossal cojones to go up to her and write her a little message on a paper towel. It had been payback for what she herself had demanded of him.
Fair was fair. He wanted her to say his name when she got herself off.
Since then they’d kept apart at the club, but damn close in their beds—and he knew she’d been doing as he’d asked; he could tell by the way she looked at him. And tonight’s little telepathic exchange about what she was thinking they should be doing in one of the bathrooms was proof positive that even she followed orders once in a while.
Qhuinn put a hand on John’s arm, and when he looked over, the guy signed, Timing is everything, John.
Too true. She wanted him, and tonight it was not just in the fantasy, home-alone sense. John didn’t know what had changed for her or what the trigger was, but his cock didn’t give a shit about those kinds of details.
Outcome was all that mattered.
Literally.
Besides, for fuck’s sake, was he going to stay a virgin for the rest of his life just because of something that had been done to him a lifetime ago? Timing was everything, and he was sick and tired of sitting on his hands, denying himself what he really wanted.
John rose to his feet and nodded once at Qhuinn.
“Thank fuck,” the guy said as he slid out of the banquette. “Blay, we’ll be back.”
“Take your time. And, John, good luck, okay?”
John clapped his friend on the shoulder and jacked up his jeans before heading out of the VIP section. Qhuinn and he passed by the bouncers standing at the velvet rope and then the sweaty dancers grinding and the people making out and a crowd that was gathering for last call around the big bar. Xhex was nowhere to be found, and he wondered if she hadn’t left for the night.
No, he thought. She had to be here to close up, because Rehv hadn’t been seen around.
“Maybe she’s already in her office,” Qhuinn said.
As they went up the stairs to the mezzanine floor, he thought of the first time he’d met her. Talk about wrong foot. She’d dragged him down this hallway and interrogated him after she’d caught him tucking a gun so Qhuinn and Blay could have some tail in peace. That was how she’d learned his name and his ties to Wrath and the Brotherhood, and the way she’d manhandled him had been a total turn-on…once he’d gotten over the conviction that she was going to tear him limb from limb.
“I’ll be right here.” Qhuinn stopped at the head of the corridor. “It’s going to be fine.”
John nodded and then put one foot after the other, after the other, the hall getting darker and darker as he went along. When he got to her door, he didn’t pause to gather himself, too afraid he’d pull a pussy and bolt back to his buddy.
Yeah, and how ball-less would that look?
Besides, he wanted this. He needed this.
John lifted his knuckles to knock—and froze. Blood. He smelled…blood.
Hers.
Without thinking, he busted open the door and—
Oh. My. God, he mouthed.
Xhex’s head snapped up from what she was doing, and the sight of her burned his eyes. Her leathers were off and draped on the edge of the chair, her legs streaked with her own blood…blood that welled from the barbed metal bands that were locked around both her thighs. She had one black boot up on the desk and was in the process of…tightening them?
“Get the fuck out of here!”
Why, he mouthed, coming at her, reaching out. Oh…God, you have to stop.
With a deep growl in her throat, she pointed at him. “Don’t come near me.”
John started to sign fast and sloppy, even though she didn’t understand ASL. Why are you doing that to yourself—
“Get the fuck out of here. Now.”
Why? he shouted at her silently.
As if in answer, her eyes flashed ruby red, like there were colored flashbulbs mounted in her skull, and John went utterly cold.
There was only one thing in the Brotherhood’s world that did that.
“Go.”
John spun around and fast-tracked to the door. As he reached for the knob, he saw that it was lockable from the inside, and with a quick twist of the stainless-steel ridge, he locked her in so no one else would see her.
As he came up to Qhuinn, he didn’t stop. He just kept right on going, not caring whether his friend and personal guard was behind him.
Of all the things he could ever have learned about her, this was one he couldn’t possibly have foreseen.
Xhex was a frickin’ symphath.
TWENTY-FIVE
Across Caldwell, on a tree-lined street, Lash was sitting inside a brownstone apartment in a club chair that was slipcovered in dark velvet. Hanging beside him were the only other remnants of the stylish, wealthy humans who’d previously lived in the place: Swaths of beautiful damask drapery ran from floor to ceiling, accentuating the bay windows that bowed out over the sidewalk.
Lash loved the damn drapes. They were wine, gold, and black, and fringed with gold satin balls the size of marbles. In their lush glory, they reminded him of the way things had always been when he’d lived in that big Tudor mansion up on the hill.
He missed the elegance of that life. The staff. The meals. The cars.
He was spending so much time with the lower classes.
Shit, the human lower classes, considering the pool where lessers were drawn from.
He reached out and stroked one of the drapes, ignoring the blush of dust that bloomed in the still air as soon as he touched it. Lovely. So heavy and substantial with nothing cheap about it, not the fabric, not the dyes, not the hand-sewn hems or borders.
The feel of it made him realize he needed a good house of his own, and he thought maybe this brownstone could be it. According to Mr. D, the Lessening Society had owned this place for the last three years, the property having been purchased by a Fore-lesser who was convinced vampires were in the area. A two-car garage was tucked in the back alley, so there was privacy, and the home was as close to graceful as he was going to get anytime soon.
Grady came in with a cell phone up to his ear, on the final lap of the pacing trail he’d developed over the past two hours. As he talked, the guy’s voice echoed up to the high, ornate ceilings.
Now properly motivated by his adrenal gland, the guy had coughed up the names of seven dealers and had been calling them one after another and schmoozing his way into meetings.
Lash glanced down at the piece of paper Grady had scribbled his list on. Whether all the contacts worked out only time would tell, but one of them was definitely solid. The seventh person, whose nomenclature was circled in black at the bottom, was someone Lash knew: the Reverend.
A.k.a. Rehvenge, son of Rempoon. Owner of ZeroSum.
A.k.a. territorial fucker who had booted Lash out of the club because he’d sold a few grams here and there. Shit, Lash couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Of course Rehvenge would be on the list. Hell, he was the river that spawned all the streams, the guy the South Americans and the Chinese manufactures dealt with directly.
Didn’t this make things even more interesting.
“Okay, I’ll see you then,” Grady said into the phone. As he hung up, he looked over. “I don’t have the Reverend’s number.”
“But you know where to find him, right.” Duh. Everybody in the drug trade from pushers to users to the police knew where the guy hung out, and for that reason it was a wonder the place hadn’t been shut down long ago.
“That’s going to be a problem, though. I’m banned from ZeroSum.”
Join the club. “We’ll work around that.”
Although not by sending a lesser in to try to make a deal. They were going to need a human for that.
Unless they could lure Rehvenge out of his den, which was unlikely.
“Am I done now?” Grady asked, glancing desperately at the front door, like he was a dog who badly needed to go out for a piss.
“You said you needed to stay under the radar.” Lash smiled, flashing his fangs. “So you’re going back with my men to their place.”
Grady didn’t argue, just nodded and crossed his arms over the front of that fakakta eagle jacket of his. His acquiescence was equal parts personality, fear, and exhaustion. Clearly, it had dawned on him that he was in much deeper shit than he’d first realized. No doubt he thought the fangs were cosmetic add-ons, but someone who thought he was a vampire could be almost as deadly and dangerous as someone who really was.
The butler’s door from the kitchen opened, and Mr. D came in with two square packages wrapped in cellophane. The pair were each the size of a head, and Lash saw a whole lot of dollar signs as the lesser brought them over.
“I done found them in ’er quarter panels.”
Lash took out his switchblade and punctured a small hole in each. A quick lick of the white powder and he was smiling again. “Good quality. We’re going to cut the shit out of it. You know where to put it.”
Mr. D nodded and went back into the kitchen. When he returned, the other two slayers were with him, and Grady wasn’t the only one who looked beat. Lessers needed to recharge every twenty-four hours, and at last count, they had been going for, like, forty-eight straight. Even Lash, who could power up for days, was feeling drained.
Time to crash out.
Getting up from the chair, he drew on his coat. “I’m driving. Mr. D, you’re going sit in the back of the Mercedes and make sure Grady enjoys being chauffeured. You other two, take the POS.”
They all departed, leaving the Lexus in the garage with the plates off and the VIN stripped.
The trip over to the Hunterbred apartment complex didn’t take long, but Grady managed to fit a nap in. In the rearview mirror, the fucker was out like a light, his head lying back against the seat, his mouth open as he snored.
