by J. R. Ward
"Beth! Oh, God! Sweet Jesus!"
Her body was facedown on the floor, one arm extended in front of her toward a phone that was just out of reach. Her legs were sprawled, as if she'd been writhing in pain.
"No!" He pounded on the glass.
She moved a little, as if she'd heard him.
Butch went over to a window, whipped off his shoe, and pushed his hand deep inside the sole. He punched at the glass until it cracked and then shattered. As he reached in to free the lock, he cut himself, but he didn't care if he lost an arm getting to her. He threw his body inside and knocked over a table as he lunged forward.
"Beth! Can you hear me?"
She opened her mouth. Worked it slowly. No words came out.
He looked for blood and found none, so he gingerly rolled her onto her back. She was pale as a grave marker, clammy, barely conscious. When she opened her eyes, her pupils were totally dilated.
He extended her arms, searching for track marks. There were none, but he wasn't about to waste time stripping off her shoes and checking between her toes.
Butch flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911.
When the service picked up, he didn't wait for the greeting. "I have a probable drug overdose."
Beth's hand fluttered up, and she started to shake her head. She was trying to bat the phone away.
"Baby, be still. I'm going to take care—"
The operator's voice cut him off. "Sir? Hello?"
"Take me to Wrath," Beth moaned.
"Fuck him."
"Excuse me?" the operator said. "Sir, can you tell me what's happening?"
"Drug overdose. I think it's heroin. Her pupils are fixed and dilated. She hasn't vomited yet—"
"Wrath, I need to go to Wrath."
"—but she's going in and out of consciousness—"
And then Beth jerked up from the floor and snatched the phone out of his hand. "I'm going to die…"
"The hell you are!" he yelled.
She gripped the front of his shirt. Her body shook, sweat staining the front of her T-shirt. "I need him."
Butch stared into her eyes.
He'd been wrong. So very wrong. This wasn't an OD. It was withdrawal.
He shook his head. "Baby, no."
"Please. I need him. Going to die." Suddenly, she jack-knifed into the fetal position, like a wave of pain had snapped her in half. The cell phone skittered out of her hand, out of reach. "Butch… please."
Fuck. She looked bad. As in death's-doorstep bad.
If he took her to an ER, she might die on the way over or while waiting to be treated. And methadone was meant to ease cravings, not pull an addict out of a free fall.
Fuck.
"Help me."
"Goddamn him," Butch said. "How far away?"
"Wallace."
"Avenue?"
She nodded.
Butch couldn't allow himself to think. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her out through the courtyard.
He was so going to nail that bastard.
Wrath crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall in the drawing room. The brothers stood around, waiting for him to speak.
And Tohr was there, though from the minute he'd come through the door with Vishous, he'd refused to meet Wrath's eyes.
Fine, Wrath thought. We'll just do this in public.
"My brothers, we've got two pieces of business." He stared at Tohr's face. "I have gravely injured one of you. Accordingly, I offer Tohrment a rythe."
Tohr snapped to attention. The brothers likewise were surprised.
It was an unprecedented action, and he knew it. A rythe was essentially a free shot, and the one to whom it was offered could choose the weapon. Fist, dagger, gun, chains. It was a ritual way of assuaging honor, both for the offended and the offender. Both could be cleansed.
The shock in the room didn't come from the act itself. The brothers were quite familiar with the ritual. Given their aggressive natures, every one of them at some time or another had offended the hell out of someone else.
But Wrath, for all his sins, had never offered a rythe before. Because according to vampire law, anyone who raised an arm or weapon to him could be condemned to die.
"In front of these witnesses, hear me now," he said loudly and clearly. "I absolve you of the repercussions. Do you accept?"
Tohr's head went down. He put his hands in the pockets of his leathers and slowly shook his head. "I cannot strike you, my lord."
"And you cannot forgive me, can you?"
"I don't know."
"I can't blame you for that." But man, he wished Tohr had accepted. They needed to be healed. "I will offer again at another time."
"And I will ever decline."
"So be it." Wrath pegged Zsadist with a dark glare. "Now about your goddamned love life."
Z, who'd been standing behind his twin, sauntered forward. "If anyone nailed Darius's daughter, it was you, not me. What's the problem?"
A couple of the brothers muttered curses under their breath.
Wrath bared his fangs.
"I'm going to let that pass, Z. But only because I know how much you like to get hit, and I'm not in the mood to make you happy." He straightened, in case the brother lunged. "I want you to chill with the whores. Or at the very least, clean up after yourself."
"What are you talking about?"
"We don't need the heat."
Zsadist glanced back at Phury, who said, "The bodies. The cops found them."
"What bodies'?"
Wrath shook his head. "Christ, Z. Do you think the cops are going to let two dead women left to bleed out in alleys slide?"
Zsadist came forward, getting so close their chests touched. "I don't know dick about that. Smell me. I'm telling the truth."
Wrath breathed deep. He caught the scent of outrage, a tangy flare in his nose like someone had blasted him with citrus air freshener. But there was no anxiety, no emotional subterfuge.
Trouble was, Z not only was a black-souled cutthroat, he was an accomplished liar.
"I know you too well," Wrath said softly, "to believe any word you say."
Z started to growl, and Phury moved fast, wrapping a thick forearm around his twin's neck and hauling the brother back.
"Easy, Z," Phury said.
Zsadist grabbed onto his twin's wrist and yanked free. He glowed with hatred. "One of these days, my lord, I'm going to—"
A noise like cannonballs hitting a wall cut him off.
Someone was pounding the holy hell out of the front door.
The brothers left the drawing room and went to the foyer in a group. The sounds of weapons being drawn and cocked followed their heavy footfalls.
Wrath checked the video monitor that was mounted on the wall.
When he saw Beth in the cop's arms, he stopped breathing. He threw open the front door and grabbed for her body as the man rushed inside.
This is it, he thought. She was in the transition.
The cop was vibrating with anger as Beth's weight was transferred between them. "You goddamn son of a bitch. How can you do this to her?"
Wrath didn't bother responding. Cradling Beth in his arms, he strode quickly through the knot of brothers. He could feel their astonishment, but he wasn't about to stop and explain.
"Nobody kills the human but me," he barked. "And he does not leave this house until I come back."
Wrath sped into the drawing room. Pushed the painting aside. Ran down the stairs as fast as he could go.
Time was of the essence.
Butch watched the drug dealer disappear with Beth. Her head bounced as they rushed away, her hair a silken flag trailing behind them.
For a moment, he was utterly immobilized, caught between wanting to scream and needing to cry.
The waste. The horrible waste.
Then he heard the door shut and lock behind him. And realized he was surrounded by five of the meanest, biggest bastards he'd ever seen.
A hand lande
d on his shoulder like an anvil. "How'd you like to stay for dinner?"
Butch looked up. The guy was wearing a baseball cap and had some kind of marking—was that a tattoo, on his face?
"How'd you like to be dinner?" said another one, who looked like some kind of model.
Anger returned to Butch, thickening his muscles, strengthening his bones.
He jacked up his pants.
These boys wanna play? he thought. Fine. We'll fucking dance.
To show he wasn't afraid, he met each of them in the eye. The two who'd spoken. A relatively normal-looking one who was hanging back. Another guy with an outrageous mane of hair, the kind of stuff women would pay hundreds for at some ritzy salon.
And then the last man.
Butch stared at the scarred face. Black eyes glared back.
This fella, he thought, was the one to really watch out for.
With a deliberate shrug, he stepped free of the hold on his shoulder.
"Tell me something, boys," he drawled. "Do you wear that leather to turn each other on? I mean, is it a dick thing with you all?"
Butch got slammed so hard against the door that his back teeth rattled.
The model shoved his perfect face into Butch's. "I'd watch your mouth, if I were you."
"Why bother, when you're keeping an eye on it for me? You gonna kiss me now?"
A growl like none Butch had ever heard came out of the guy.
"Okay, okay." The one who seemed the most normal came forward. "Back off, Rhage. Hey, come on. Let's relax."
It took a minute before the model let go.
"That's right. We're cool," Mr. Normal muttered, clapping his buddy on the back before looking at Butch. "Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up."
Butch shrugged. "Blondie's dying to get his hands on me. I can't help it."
The guy launched back at Butch, and Mr. Normal rolled his eyes, letting his friend go this time.
The fist that came sailing at jaw level snapped Butch's head to one side. As the pain hit, Butch let his own rage fly. The fear for Beth, the pent-up hatred of these lowlifes, the frustration about his job, all of it came out of him. He tackled the bigger man, taking him down onto the floor.
The guy was momentarily surprised, as if he hadn't expected Butch's speed or strength, and Butch took advantage of the hesitation. He clocked Blondie in the mouth as payback and then grabbed the guy's throat.
One second later, Butch was flat on his back with the man sitting on his chest like a parked car.
The guy took Butch's face into his hand and squeezed, crunching the features together. It was nearly impossible to breathe, and Butch panted shallowly.
"Maybe I'll find your wife," the guy said, "and do her a couple of times. How's that sound?"
"Don't have one."
"Then I'm coming after your girlfriend."
Butch dragged in some air. "Got no woman."
"So if the chicks won't do you, what makes you think I'd want to?"
"Was hoping to piss you off."
Stunning electric-blue eyes narrowed.
They had to be contacts, Butch thought. No one really had peepers that color.
"Now why'd you want to do that?" Blondie asked.
"If I attacked first"—Butch hauled more breath into his lungs—"your boys wouldn't have let us fight. Would've killed me first. Before I had a chance at you."
Blondie loosened his grip a little and laughed as he stripped Butch of his wallet, keys, and cell phone.
"You know, I kind of like this big dummy," the guy drawled.
Someone cleared a throat. Rather officiously.
Blondie leaped to his feet, and Butch rolled over, gasping. When he looked up, he was convinced he was hallucinating.
Standing in the hall was a little old man dressed in livery. Holding a silver tray. "Pardon me, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes."
"Hey, are those the spinach crepes I like so much?" Blondie said, going for the tray.
"Yes, Sire."
"Hot damn."
The other men clustered around the butler, taking what he offered. Along with cocktail napkins. Like they didn't want to drop anything on the floor.
What the hell was this?
"Might I ask a favor?" the butler said.
Mr. Normal nodded with vigor. "Bring out another tray of these and we'll kill anything you want for you."
Yeah, guess the guy wasn't really normal. Just relatively so.
The butler smiled as if touched. "If you're going to bloody the human, would you be good enough to do it in the backyard?"
"No problem." Mr. Normal popped another crepe in his mouth. "Damn, Rhage, you're right. These are awesome."
* * *
Chapter Thirty-three
Wrath was getting desperate. He couldn't get Beth to come around.
And her skin was getting colder by the moment.
He shook her on the bed again. "Beth! Beth! Can you hear me?"
Her hands twitched, but he had a feeling the spasms were involuntary. He put his ear down to her mouth. Air was still coming out, but the intervals were alarmingly long. And the force of the exhale was alarmingly weak.
"Damn it!" He bared his wrist and was about to score himself with his fangs when he realized he wanted to hold her if she was able to drink.
When she was able to drink.
He stripped off his holster, pulled out a dagger, and removed his shirt. He felt around his neck until he found his jugular. Placing the point of his knife against his skin, he cut himself. Blood came out in an obliging rush.
He took his fingertip, got it wet, and brought it to her lips. When he dipped it inside her mouth, her tongue did not respond.
"Beth," he whispered. "Come back to me."
He brought more of his blood to her.
"Damn it, don't you die!" Candles flared in the room. "I love you, damn you! Goddamn you, don't you let go!"
Her skin was turning blue now; even he could see the color change.
Frantic prayers fell from his lips, ancient ones in the old language. Ones he'd assumed he'd forgotten.
She wasn't moving. She was far too still.
The Fade was upon her.
Wrath screamed in fury and grabbed her body. He shook her until her hair tangled. "Beth! I will not let you go! I will come after you before I let you . . ."
A moan came out of him, and he pulled her against him. As he rocked her cold body back and forth, his blind eyes stared at the black wall before him.
Marissa took special care as she got dressed, determined to go down to the first meal of the night looking her best. After reviewing her wardrobe, she chose a long gown made of cream-colored chiffon. She'd purchased it the season before from the Givenchy collection, but had never worn it. The bodice was tighter and a little more revealing than she usually favored, though the Empire waist ensured that the overall effect was entirely modest.
She brushed out her hair, leaving it free to fall over her shoulders. It was so long now, reaching her hips.
The sight of it brought Wrath to mind. He'd once mentioned its softness, so she'd grown it out under the assumption that the more of it there was, the more he'd like it. And the more he'd like her.
Maybe she would cut off the blond waves. Hack them free of her head.
Her anger, which had simmered down, flared again.
Abruptly, Marissa came to a decision. She was through keeping everything inside. It was time to share.
But then she pictured Wrath's towering height. His cold, hard features. That awesome presence of his. Could she really confront him?
She'd never know if she didn't try. And she wasn't about to let him waltz off into whatever future waited for him without speaking her mind.
She glanced at her Tiffany clock. If she didn't show for dinner and then help out in the clinic as she'd promised, Havers would be suspicious. Better to wait until later in the night to go to Wrath. She had sensed he was staying at Darius's. She woul
d go there.
And she would bide her time until he came home.
Some things were worth waiting for.
"Thanks for meeting me, sensei."
"Billy, how are you?" Mr. X put aside the menu he'd been idly looking at. "I was worried when I got your call. And then you didn't make it to class."
As Riddle slid into the booth, he didn't look so hot. His eyes were still black and blue, and exhaustion hung off his face like loose skin.
"Someone's after me, sensei." Billy crossed his arms over his chest. There was a pause, as if he wasn't sure how far to go with the story.
"This have something to do with your nose?"
"Maybe. I dunno."
"Well, I'm glad you came to me, son."
Another pause.
"You can trust me, Billy."
Riddle sucked in a breath, as if he were about to dive into a pool. "My dad's in D.C., as usual. So last night I had a few friends over. We were smoking some blunts—"
"You shouldn't do that. Illegal drugs are bad news."
Billy shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the platinum chain around his neck. "I know."
"Go on."
"So me and my friends were by the pool, and one wants to go hit it with his girlfriend. I tell them they can use the cabana, but when they go over, the door's locked. I go up to get the key from the house, and when I'm walking back, a guy steps in front of me, like from out of nowhere. He was fuck—er, freakin' huge. Long black hair. Dressed in leather—"
The waitress came hopping over. "What can I getcha—"
"Later," Mr. X snapped.
As she disappeared in a huff, he nodded to Billy.
Riddle grabbed Mr. X's glass of water and drank. "Anyway, he scared the hell out of me. He was looking at me like he wanted to have me for lunch. But then my friend calls out, because he's wondering where I am with the key. The man said my name and then just kind of disappeared, right as my friend came up the lawn." Billy shook his head. "Thing is, I don't know how he got over the wall. My dad put one all around the back of the grounds last year because he's been getting terrorist threats or something. It's, like, twelve feet tall. And the house was all locked up in front with the security system on."
Mr. X looked down at Billy's hands. They were gripped tightly together.
