by J. R. Ward
“Do you.” That accent. What the fuck was it? Not French . . . not Hungarian . . .
Whatever. The idea Holly had been taken advantage of made him taller and stronger than he really was. “I know what you did. The night before last.”
“I’d tell you to take a chair, but as you can see, I only have one.”
“I’m not fucking around.” Gregg took a step forward. “I know what happened with her. She didn’t want you.”
“She wanted the sex.”
Motherfucking asshole. “She was asleep.”
“Was she.” The boot tip swung up and down. “Appearances, like psyches, can be deceiving.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I own this fine house. That is who I am. I’m the one who gave you permission to play with all your cameras.”
“Well, you can kiss that shit good-bye now. I’m not advertising this place.”
“Oh, I think you will. It’s in your nature.”
“You don’t know dick about me.”
“I think it’s the other way around. You don’t know . . . dick, as you call it . . . about yourself. She said your name, by the way. When she came.”
This made Gregg furious, to the point that he took another step forward.
“I would be careful there,” the voice said. “You don’t want to get hurt. And I’m considered to be insane.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“You have no cause. Consenting adults and all that.”
“She was asleep!”
That boot shifted around and planted on the ground. “Watch your tone, boy.”
Before there was time to get fired up about the insult, the man leaned forward in the chair . . . and Gregg lost his voice.
What came into the light made no sense. On a shitload of levels.
It was the portrait. From downstairs in the parlor. Only living and breathing. The only difference was that the hair was not pulled back; it was down over shoulders that were two times the size of Gregg’s and the stuff was black and red.
Oh, God . . . those eyes were the color of the sunrise, gleaming and peach-colored.
Utterly hypnotic.
And yes, partially mad.
“I suggest,” came a drawl in that odd accent, “that you back out of this attic and go down to that lovely lady of yours—”
“Are you a descendant of Rathboone’s?”
The man smiled. Right, okay . . . there was something very wrong with his front teeth. “He and I have things in common, it’s true.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Time for you to run along and finish your little project.” No more with the smiling, which was a relief of sorts. “And a word of advice in lieu of the ass-kicking I’m tempted to give you. You might take care of your woman better than you have been lately. She has honest feelings for you, which is not her fault, and which you clearly have been undeserving of—or you wouldn’t smell like guilt at this moment. You’re lucky to have the one you want by your side, so stop being a blind fool about it.”
Gregg didn’t get shocked all that often. But for the life of him, he didn’t have any idea what to say.
How did this stranger know so much?
And Christ, Gregg hated that Holly had been with someone else . . . but she had said his name?
“Wave good-bye.” Rathboone lifted his own hand and mimed a child’s gesture. “I promise to leave your woman alone, provided you quit ignoring her. Now go on, bye-bye.”
Out of a reflex that was not his own, Gregg brought up his arm and did a little flapping before his feet turned his ass around and started walking toward the door.
God, his temples hurt. God . . . damn . . . why was . . . where . . .
His mind ground to a halt, as if its gears had been glued up.
Down to the second floor. Down to his room.
As he took off his clothes and got into bed in his boxers, he put his aching head on the pillow next to Holly’s, drew her up against him, and tried to remember. . . .
He was supposed to do something. What was—
The third floor. He had to go up to the third floor. He had to find out what was up there—
Fresh pain lanced through his brain, killing not only the impulse to go anywhere, but any interest in what was above them in the attic.
Closing his eyes, he had the strangest vision of a foreign stranger with a familiar face . . . but then he passed the fuck out and nothing else mattered.
FORTY-THREE
The infiltration into the mansion next door posed no problem at all.
After regarding the activity of the manse, and finding nothing to suggest movement within the walls, Darius declared that he and Tohrment would go in . . . and in they went. Dematerializing from the ring of woods that separated the two estates, they re-formed beside the kitchen wing—whereupon they simply walked right in through a stout wooden-framed door.
Indeed, the biggest obstacle to breaching the exterior was overcoming the crushing feeling of dread.
With every step and every breath, Darius had to force himself to go forward, his instincts screaming that he was in the wrong place. And yet he refused to turn back. He was out of other practical roads on which to traverse, and though Sampsone’s daughter might well not be here, with no other leads, he had to do something or go mad.
“This house feels haunted,” Tohrment muttered as they both looked around the servants’ common room.
Darius nodded. “But recollect that any ghosts rest solely in your mind, and are not among whoever tallies under this roof. Come, we must locate any subterranean quarters. If the humans have taken her, they must needs keep her underground.”
As they made their way silently past the massive kitchen hearth and the curing meats that hung from hooks, it was so very clearly a human house. All was quiet up above and all around; in contrast to a vampire manse, where this would be an active time of preparation for Last Meal.
Alas, that this household was made up of the other race was no confirmation the female was not held herein—and could perhaps recommend that conclusion. Although vampires knew for certain of the existence of mankind, there was naught but myths of vampires abounding on the human cultural periphery—because that was how those with fangs survived with greater ease. Still, from time to time there were inevitable and bona fide contacts between those who chose to remain hidden and those with prying eyes, and these infrequent brushes with one another explained humans’ scary stories and fantastical whimsies of anything from “bean-sidhe” to “witches” to “ghosts” to “bloodsuckers.” Indeed, the human mind appeared to suffer from a crippling need to fabricate in the absence of concrete proof. Which made sense, given that race’s self-referential understanding of the world and their place in it: Anything that didn’t fit was forced into the superstructure, even if that meant creating “paranormal” elements.
And what a coup for a wealthy household to capture physical evidence of such ephemeral superstitions.
Especially lovely, defenseless evidence.
There was no telling what had been observed by this household over time. What oddities had been witnessed in their neighbors. What racial differences had been unexpectedly exposed and noted by virtue of the two estates being brothers in landscape.
Darius cursed under his breath and thought that this was why vampires should not live so close among humans. Separation was best. Congregation and separation.
He and Tohrment covered the first floor of the mansion by dematerializing from room to room, shifting as the shadows thrown in the moonlight did, passing around the carved furnishings and tapestries without sound or substance.
The biggest concern, and why they did not traverse the stone floors on foot? Sleeping dogs. Many of the manses had them for guards, and that was a complication they could well do without. Hopefully, if there were some within the household, they were curled at the feet of the master’s bed.
And would the same be true for any perso
nal guard.
However, they had fortune on their side. No dogs. No guard. At least, not that they saw, heard, or scented—and they were able to locate the passage that led underground.
Both of them produced candles and lit the wicks, the flames flickering over the hurried, careless workmanship of the rough-hewn steps, and the uneven walls—all of which seemed to indicate that the family never made this sojourn below, only the servants.
More proof this was not a vampire household. Underground quarters were among the most lavish in such homes.
Down on the lower level, the stone beneath their feet yielded to packed earth and the air grew heavy with cold dampness. As they progressed farther under the great mansion, they found storage rooms filled with caskets of wine and mead and bins of salted meats and baskets of potatoes and onions.
At the far end, Darius expected to find a second set of stairs that they could take back up out of the earth. Instead, they just came to a termination of the subterranean hall. No door. Just a wall.
He looked around to see if there were tracks on the ground or fissures in the stones indicating a hidden panel or section. There were none.
In order to be certain, he and Tohrment ran their hands over the walling surface and over the floor.
“There were many windows on the upper stories,” Tohrment murmured. “But perhaps if they kept her above, they could have drawn the drapes. Or mayhap there are windowless interior rooms?”
As the pair of them faced the dead end they’d hit, that sense of dread, of being in an incorrect place, swelled in Darius’s chest until breath was short and sweat formed under his arms and down his spine. He had a feeling Tohrment was suffering from a similar bout of anxious trepidation, for the male shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth.
Darius shook his head. “Verily, she appears to be elsewhere—”
“Very true, vampire.”
Darius and Tohrment wheeled around while unsheathing their daggers.
Looking at what had taken them by surprise, Darius thought . . . Well, that explains the dread.
The white-robed figure blocking the way out was not human and was not vampire.
It was a symphath.
FORTY-FOUR
As Xhex waited outside of the weight room, she regarded her emotions with dispassionate interest. It was, she supposed, like staring at a stranger’s face and taking note of the imperfections and the coloring and the features for no other reason than that they had presented themselves for observation.
Her urge for revenge had been eclipsed by an honest concern for John.
Surprise, surprise.
Then again, she’d never imagined seeing that kind of fury up close and personal, especially from the likes of him. It was as if he had an inner beast that had roared free from some interior cage.
Man, the bonded male was not something you fucked around with.
And she wasn’t kidding herself. That was the reason he’d reacted the way he had—and was also the cause of those dark spices she’d scented around him since she’d gotten out of Lash’s prison: Sometime during the weeks of her brutal holiday, John’s attraction and respect for her had jelled into the irrevocable.
Shit. What a mess.
As the sound of the treadmill got cut off abruptly, she was willing to bet Blaylock had pulled the cord out of the wall, and good for him if he had. She’d tried to get John to stop pulling a death-by-Nike, but when reasoning with him had gotten her absolutely nowhere, she’d taken up sentry duty out here.
No way she could watch him run himself into the ground. Listening to the punishment was bad enough.
Down the hall, the glass door to the office swung open and the Brother Tohrment appeared. Given the glow that emanated from behind him, Lassiter had come into the training center as well, but the fallen angel hung back.
“How is John?” As the Brother he walked over, his concern was in his hard face and his tired eyes, and also in his grid, which was lit up in the regret sectors.
Made sense on a lot of levels.
Xhex glanced at the weight room door. “Appears to have rethought a career change to marathoner. Either that or he just killed another treadmill.”
Tohr’s towering height forced her to tilt her head up, and it was a surprise to see what was behind his blue eyes: There was knowledge in his stare, deep knowledge that made her own emotional circuits fire with suspicion. In her experience, strangers who looked at you like that were dangerous.
“How are you?” he asked softly.
It was strange; she hadn’t had a lot of contact with the Brother, but whenever their paths had crossed, he’d always been particularly . . . well, kind. Which was why she always avoided him. She dealt much better with toughness than she did with anything tender.
Frankly he made her jumpy.
As she stayed quiet, his face tightened as if she’d disappointed him but he didn’t blame her for the shortfall. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t pry.”
Jesus, she was a bitch. “No, it’s all right. You just really don’t want me to answer that right now.”
“Fair enough.” His eyes narrowed on the weight room door and she got the distinct impression he was trapped outside of it as much as she was, shut down by the male who was suffering on the other side. “So you called up to the kitchen to get me?”
She took out the key John had used to let them into the guy’s former house. “Just wanted to give this back to you and tell you there was a problem.”
The Brother’s emotional grid went black and vacant, everything lights-out. “What kind of problem?”
“One of your sliding glass doors is broken. It’s going to need a couple of sheets of plywood to cover it up. We were able to reengage the security alarm so the motion detectors inside are on, but you’ve got a hell of a draft. I’ll be happy to fix it today.”
Assuming John either finished off the rest of the exercise machines, ran out of running shoes, or fell over in a dead heap.
“Which . . .” Tohr cleared his throat. “Which door?”
“The one in John Matthew’s room.”
The Brother frowned. “Was it broken when you got there?”
“No . . . it just spontaneously busted.”
“Glass doesn’t do that without a good reason.”
And hadn’t she given John Matthew one. “True enough.”
Tohr stared at her and she looked right back at him and the silence grew thick as mud. The thing was, though, as nice a guy and as good a soldier as the Brother was, she had nothing to share with him.
“Who do I talk to about getting some plywood,” she prompted.
“Don’t worry about it. And thanks for letting me know.”
As the Brother turned and walked back into the office, she felt like hell—which she supposed was yet another connection she had with John Matthew. Except instead of setting a land/speed record, she just wanted to take a knife and cut her inner forearms to release the pressure.
God, she was such a crybaby emo sometimes, she truly was. But those cilices of hers not only kept her symphath side in check, they helped her dim down the things she didn’t want to feel.
Which was abooooooout ninety-nine percent of emotion, thank you very much.
Ten minutes later, Blaylock ducked his head out of the door. His eyes were locked on the floor and his emotions were in an upheaval, which made sense. No one liked to see a buddy self-destruct, and having to conversate with the person who’d sent the poor bastard into a free fall wasn’t exactly a happy-happy.
“Listen, John’s gone into the locker room to take a shower. I got him to quit the Running Man impression, but he’s . . . He needs a little more time, I think.”
“Okay. I’ll keep waiting for him here in the hall.”
Blaylock nodded and then there was this awkward pause. “I’m going to go work out now.”
After the door eased shut, she picked her jacket and her weapons up and wandered down toward the locker room. The off
ice was empty, which meant Tohr had gone along his merry way, no doubt to set up some Tim the Tool Man Taylor time with a doggen.
And the resonant quiet told her there was no one in any of the classrooms, gym, or clinic.
Sliding down the wall, she let her ass bottom out on the floor and hung her arms off her knees. Letting her head fall back, she closed her eyes.
God, she was exhausted. . . .
“John’s still in there?”
Xhex snapped awake, her gun pointed right up at Blaylock’s chest. As the guy leaped back, she immediately flipped on the safety and lowered the muzzle.
“Sorry, old habits die hard.”
“Ah, yeah.” The guy motioned his white towel toward the locker room. “Is John still in there? It’s been over an hour.”
She flipped her wrist up and looked at the watch she’d snagged. “Christ.”
Xhex got to her feet and cracked the door. The sound of the shower running wasn’t much of a relief. “Is there any other way out?”
“Just through the weight room—which opens only into this hall.”
“Okay, I’m going to go talk to him,” she said, praying it was the right thing to do.
“Good. I’ll finish my workout. Call me if you need me.”
She pushed through the door, and inside, the place was standard-issue, all banks of beige metal lockers separated by wooden benches. Following the sound of falling water to the right, she passed by a bay of urinals, stalls, and sinks that seemed lonely without a bunch of sweaty, naked, towel-snapping males putting them to use.
She found John in an open area with dozens of showerheads and tile on every square inch of the floors, walls, and ceiling. He was in his T-shirt and running shorts and was sitting against the wall, his arms hanging off his knees, his head down, the water rushing over his huge shoulders and torso.
Her first thought was that she had been outside in exactly the same position.
Her second was that she was surprised he could stand being so still. His emotional grid was not the only thing lit up; that shadow behind it was likewise afire with anguish. It was as if the two parts of him were both in a kind of mourning no doubt because he’d suffered or been witness to too many cruel losses in this life . . . and perhaps another. And where all that put him emotionally terrified her. The dense black void created in him was so powerful, it warped the superstructure of his psyche . . . taking him where she had been in that fucking OR.
