by J. R. Ward
Which bordered on disrespect, really.
Lash pulled up to the apartment where Mr. D and his pair of buddies stayed, and craned around, looking back at Grady.
“Wake up, asshole.” As the guy blinked and yawned, Lash despised the weakness, and Mr. D likewise seemed unimpressed. “Rules are simple. If you try to bolt, my men will either shoot you on the spot or call the police and tell them exactly where you are. Nod your dumb-ass head if you understand what I’m saying.”
Grady nodded, although Lash had a feeling he would have done that no matter what he’d been told. Eat your own feet. Okay, sure, fine.
Lash released the locks. “Get the fuck out of my car.”
More nodding as the doors were opened and the bitter wind shot in. As he stepped free of the Mercedes, Grady huddled into his coat, that stupid fucking eagle getting its wings crowded as the human curled around himself. Mr. D, on the other hand, wasn’t as bothered by the cold—one of the benefits to already having died.
Lash reversed out of the parking lot and headed off to where he stayed in town. His place was just a shithole ranch in a development full of old people—with windows that only had drapes from, like, Target to shut out his walleyed, Depends-wearing neighbors. The only advantage was that no one in the Society knew what the address was. Although he slept at the Omega’s for safety reasons, coming back to this side left him logy for a half hour or so, and he didn’t want to be caught unawares by anyone.
Thing was, sleep was a misnomer for what he needed. He didn’t so much close his eyes and snooze away; he all but passed out, which, according to Mr. D, was what happened when you were a lesser. For some reason, with his father’s blood in them they were like cell phones that couldn’t be used when they were charging.
As he thought about going back to the ranch, he got depressed and found himself driving into the wealthiest part of Caldwell instead. The streets here were as well-known to him as the lines of his own palm, and he found the stone pillars of his old house easily.
The gates were shut tight, and he couldn’t see over the tall wall that went around the property, but he knew what was inside: the grounds and the trees and the pool and the terrace…everything perfectly kept.
Shit. He wanted to live like that again. This downmarket existence with the Lessening Society felt like a cheap suit of clothes. Not him. On any level.
He put the Mercedes in park and just sat there, staring at the drive. After murdering the vampires who’d raised him and burying them in the side yard here, he’d stripped the Tudor of everything that wasn’t nailed down, the antiques being stored at various lesser houses around and outside of town. He hadn’t been back since he’d gone to pick up this car, and he assumed that through his parents’ wills, the property had passed to whatever blooded relative of theirs was left after the raids he’d performed on the aristocracy.
He doubted the estate was still in the race’s name. After all, it had been infiltrated by lessers and was therefore permanently compromised.
Lash missed the mansion, though he couldn’t have used it as HQ. Too many memories, and more to the point, it was too close to the vampire world. His plans and his accounts and the Lessening Society’s intimate details were not the kind of shit he wanted to risk falling into Brotherhood hands.
There would be a time when he met up with those warriors again, but it would be on his terms. Since he’d been murdered by that mutant defective Qhuinn, and his true father had come for him, no one but that fucker John Matthew had seen him—and even with that mute-ass idiot it had been in only a hazy way, the kind of thing that, considering they’d all seen his dead body, someone would write off as a misperception.
Lash liked making big entrances. When he came out to the vampire world, it was going to be from a position of dominance. And the first thing he was going to do was avenge his own death.
His future plans made him miss the past a little less, and as he looked up at the leafless trees getting blown around in the stiff wind, he thought of the force of nature.
And wanted to be exactly that.
As his cell phone went off, he cocked it and put it to his ear. “What.”
Mr. D’s voice was all business. “We’ve had an infiltration, suh.”
Lash’s palms squeezed the wheel hard. “Where.”
“Here.”
“Motherfucker. What did they get?”
“Jars. All three of them. That’s why we done know it was the Brothers. Doors are solid, windows, too, so no idea how they got in. Must have happened sometime in the last two nights, because we ain’t been sleeping here since Sunday.”
“Did they get into the apartment below?”
“No, that is secure.”
At least they had one thing going for them. Still, lost jars were a problem.
“Why didn’t the security alarm go off?”
“It was not engaged.”
“Jesus Christ. You’d better fucking be there when I pull up.” Lash ended the call and wrenched the steering wheel around. As he floored the Mercedes, the sedan shot toward the gates, the front bumper raking across the iron slates.
Fucking wonderful.
When he got to the apartment, he parked right by the stairwell entrance and nearly ripped the door off the car getting out. With ice-cold gusts blowing his hair around, he took the stairs two at a time and shot into the place, ready to cap someone.
Grady was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter’s overhang, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, a whole lot of I’m-so-staying-out-of-this on his puss.
Mr. D was coming out of one of the bedrooms in the middle of a sentence. “…don’t get how they found this here—”
“Who were the fuckups?” Lash said, shutting out the howling wind. “That’s all I care about. Who was the dumb-ass who didn’t engage the alarm and compromised this address? And if someone doesn’t man up, I’m holding you”—he pointed to Mr. D—“responsible.”
“It weren’t me.” Mr. D stared hard at his men. “I weren’t back here since two day ago.”
The lesser on the left raised his arms, but typical to his breed, it wasn’t in subjugation, but because he was ready to fight. “I got my wallet and I ain’t talked to no one.”
All eyes went to the third slayer, who got annoyed. “What the fuck?” He made a show of going into his back pocket. “I got my…”
He shoved his hand in farther, like that might help. Then he did a Three Stooges, checking every pocket he had among his pants, his jacket, and his shirt. No doubt the fucker would have opened his own ass up for a look-see if he’d thought there was a chance his billfold had worked its way up into his colon.
“Where’s your wallet,” Lash asked smoothly.
Light dawned on Marblehead. “Mr. N…that fucker. We got into an argument ’cause he wanted some green from me. We fought and he must have nicked my billfold.”
Mr. D calmly walked up behind the slayer and nailed him in the side of the head with the butt of his Magnum. The force of impact sent the slayer spinning like a beer cap and slamming into the wall, a black smudge staining the linen-white paint as he slid down onto the cheap tan rug.
Grady let out a bark of surprise, like a terrier who’d gotten smacked with a newspaper.
And then the doorbell rang. Everyone looked to the sound, then at Lash.
He pointed to Grady. “You stay right where you are.” When the bell came again, he nodded at Mr. D. “Answer it.”
As the little Texan stepped over the downed slayer, he tucked his heat into his waistband at the small of his back. He opened the door only a crack.
“Domino’s,” a male voice said as a blast of wind blew in. “Oh—crap, watch it!”
It was a comedy of fucking errors, the kind of thing you’d see in a movie full of slapstick cock-ups. The stiff wind caught hold of the pizza box as the delivery guy took it out of his red insulated box-bag, and the pepperoni-and-something went flying toward Mr. D. Ever the good employee, flyboy with t
he Dom cap lunged forward to catch the thing—and ended up plowing over Mr. D and busting into the apartment.
Which Lash was willing to bet employees of Domino’s were specifically instructed never to do, and with good reason. You cracked into someone’s house, even if you were being a hero, and you could find all kinds of bad shit: Perverted porn on a TV. Fat hausfrau in her granny panties and no bra. A nasty-ass hovel with more cockroaches than people.
Or a member of the undead bleeding black blood from a head wound.
There was no way Pizza Guy wasn’t going to see what was doing across the way. And that meant he would have to be dealt with.
After having spent what was left of the night roaming around downtown Caldwell looking for a lesser to fight, John took form in the courtyard at the Brotherhood’s mansion, next to all the cars that were parked in an orderly row. Bitter wind shoved at his shoulders, a bully wanting to knock him down, but he stood tall against the onslaught.
A symphath. Xhex was a symphath.
As his mind churned over the revelation, Qhuinn and Blay materialized beside him. To their credit, neither had asked him what the hell had happened back at ZeroSum. Both, however, continued to look at him like he was a beaker in a science lab, as if they were waiting for him to change colors or froth up all over himself or something.
I need some space, he signed without meeting either of their stares.
“No problem,” Qhuinn replied.
There was a pause as John waited for them to go in the house. Qhuinn cleared his throat once. Twice.
Then in a choked voice, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you again. I—”
John shook his head and signed, It’s not related to sex. So don’t worry, k?
Qhuinn frowned. “Okay. Yeah, cool. Ah…you need us, we’re around. Come on, Blay.”
Blay followed, the two of them walking up the shallow stone steps and going into the mansion.
Standing alone, finally, John had no idea what to do or where to go, but dawn was coming soon, so short of a quick jog through the gardens, he had few outdoor options.
Although, God, he wondered whether he could even go inside. He felt contaminated by what he’d learned.
Xhex was a symphath.
Did Rehvenge know? Did anyone else?
He was well aware of what the law required him to do. He’d learned that in training: When it came to symphaths, you reported them for deportation or you were deemed an accomplice. Pretty damn clear-cut.
Except what happened then?
Yeah, no guessing at that. Xhex would be shipped off like trash to a dump—and things would not go well for her. It was clear she was a half-breed. He’d seen photographs of symphaths, and she looked nothing like those tall, thin, creepy-ass SOBs. So chances were very good she’d be killed up in the colony, because from what he knew, symphaths were like the glymera when it came to discrimination.
Save for the fact that they liked to torture what they derided. And not in the verbal sense.
What the fuck did he do…
When the cold had him shivering under his leather jacket, he went into the house and directly up the grand staircase. The doors of the study were open, and he could hear Wrath’s voice, but he didn’t stop to see the king. He kept walking, going around the corner to the hall of statues.
He wasn’t heading for his room, though.
John pulled up in front of Tohr’s door and paused to stroke his hair flat. There was only one person he wanted to talk this through with, and he prayed that for once there would be something coming back to him.
He needed help. Badly.
John knocked softly.
No answer. He knocked again.
As he waited and waited, he stared at the panels of the door and considered the last two times he’d burst into rooms uninvited. The first had been over the summer when he’d barged into Cormia’s bedroom and found her naked and curled on her side with blood on her thighs. Result? He’d pummeled the holy hell out of Phury for no reason, as the sex had been consensual.
The second had been Xhex, tonight. And look at the situation that had put him in.
John knocked harder, his knuckles banging loud enough to wake the dead.
No answer. Worse, no sounds at all. No TV, no shower, no voices.
He stepped back to see if there was a glow coming from under the door. Nope. So Lassiter wasn’t in there.
Dread made him swallow hard, as he slowly opened the door wide. His eyes went first to the bed, and when Tohr wasn’t lying there, John flat-out panicked. Racing across the Oriental rug, he shot through into the bath, fully expecting to find the Brother sprawled out in the Jacuzzi with his wrists cut.
There was no one in either room.
A strange, giddy hope flared in his chest as he went back into the hall. Looking left and right, he decided to start with Lassiter’s bedroom.
No answer, and, looking inside, he found a whole lot of neat and tidy along with the dimming scent of fresh air.
This was good. The angel had to be with Tohr.
John hot-stepped it down to Wrath’s study and, after he knocked on the jamb, he put his head in, doing a quick review of the spindly sofa and the armchairs and the mantel by the fireplace that the Brothers liked to lean against.
Wrath looked up from the desk. “Hey, son. What’s doing?”
Oh, nothing. You know. Just…excuse me.
John headed down the grand staircase at a jog, knowing that if Tohr was having his first foray back into the world, he wouldn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He’d probably start simple, just going into the kitchen for food with the angel.
Downstairs, John hit the foyer’s mosaic floor, and when he heard male voices to the right, he looked inside the billiards room. Butch was bent over the pool table about to take a shot, and Vishous was behind him, heckling. The wide-screen was showing a whole lot of ESPN, and only two squat glasses were out, one with amber liquid in it, the other with crystal-clear stuff that was not water.
Tohr wasn’t there, but he’d never been big into games. Besides, with the way Butch and V went after each other, they were not the kind of company you’d want if you were just dipping your feet in social waters again.
Turning away, John hurried through the dining room, which had been set for Last Meal, and went into the kitchen, where he found…doggen preparing three different kinds of pasta sauces and taking homemade Italian bread out of the oven and tossing salads and opening bottles of red wine to breathe and…no Tohr.
Hope decanted out of John’s chest, leaving behind a sour tightness.
He went up to Fritz, butler extraordinaire, who greeted him with a brilliant smile on his old, wrinkled face. “Hello, sire, how fare thee?”
John signed in front of his chest so no one else could see. Listen, have you seen…
Shit, he didn’t want to make a panic in the household for no reason other than that he was jumping to conclusions. The mansion was huge and Tohr could be anywhere.
…anyone? he finished.
Fritz’s fuzzy white eyebrows pulled together. “Anyone, sire? Do you refer to the ladies of the house or—”
Males, he signed. Have you seen any of the Brothers?
“Well, I have been here preparing dinner for much of the last hour, but I know that several have come home from the field. Rhage had his sandwiches as soon as he returned, Wrath is in the study, and Zsadist is with the young one in the bath. Let’s see…oh, and I believe Butch and Vishous are playing pool, as one of my staff served them drinks in the billiards room just a moment ago.”
Right, John thought. If a Brother who no one had seen out and about for, oh, say, four months had shown up, surely his name would have been at the top of the list.
Thanks, Fritz.
“Was there anyone in particular you were searching for?”
John shook his head and went back out into the foyer, this time moving with heavy feet. As he walked into the library, he didn’t expect to fi
nd anyone, and what do you know. The room was full of books and completely devoid of any Tohr.
Where could—
Maybe he wasn’t in the house at all.
John bolted from the library and skidded around the bottom of the grand staircase, the soles of his shitkickers squeaking as he turned the corner. Ripping open the hidden door beneath the steps, he took the underground tunnel away from the mansion.
Of course. Tohr would go to the training center. If he were going to wake up and start living, that would mean he was going back into the field. And that meant working out and getting his body back into shape.
As John emerged into the facility’s office, he had fully returned to hope-land, and when Tohr wasn’t at the desk, he wasn’t surprised.
That was where he had been told about Wellsie’s death.
John hauled ass out into the corridor, and the dim sound of weights clanking together was a fucking symphony to his ears, relief blooming in his chest until his hands and feet tingled.
But he had to be cool. Approaching the workout room, he shook off his smile, and opened the door wide—
Blaylock glanced over from the bench. Qhuinn’s head bobbed up and down on the StairMaster.
As John looked around, both stopped what they were doing, Blay resetting the weight bar, Qhuinn slowly sinking down to the floor.
Have you seen Tohr? John signed.
“No,” Qhuinn said while wiping his face with a towel. “Why would he be in here?”
John left in a hurry and headed into the gym, where he found nothing but caged lights and glossy pine floors and bright blue mats. The equipment room had only equipment in it. PT suite was empty. Jane’s medical clinic was the same.
He broke out in a run as he gunned back for the tunnel to the main house.
Once he got there, he went directly upstairs to the study’s open doors, and he didn’t knock on the jamb this time. He walked straight up to Wrath’s desk and signed, Tohr is gone.
As the Domino’s delivery guy fumbled to catch the pizza box, everyone else went stock-still.
