Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  Bending in closer to the screen, Assail replayed the approach, zooming in to identify facial features, if possible—and it was not. The head was covered with a knit mask, with cutouts only for the eyes, nose, and mouth. With the parka and ski pants on as well, the man was covered in his entirety.

  Sitting back, Assail smiled to himself, his fangs tingling in territorial response.

  There were but two parties who might be interested in his business, and going by the daylight that had reigned during this recon, it was clear the curiosity was not generated by the Brotherhood: Wrath would never use humans as anything other than a last-resort food source, and no vampire could withstand that amount of sunshine without turning into a torch.

  Which left someone in the human world—and there was only a single man with the interest and the resources to try to track him and his whereabouts.

  “Enter,” he said, just before a knock sounded on his door.

  As the pair of males came in, he didn’t bother to look away from the computer screen. “How did you sleep?”

  A familiar, deep voice answered, “Like the dead.”

  “How fortunate for you. Jet lag can be a bore, or so I’ve heard. We had a visitor this morning, by the way.”

  Assail leaned to one side so his two associates could review the footage.

  It was odd to have housemates, but he was going to have to get used to their presence. When he had come to the New World, it had been a solo trip, and he had intended to keep things that way for numerous reasons. Success in his chosen field, however, had mandated that he pull in some backup—and the only people you could even partially trust were your family.

  And the pair of them offered a unique benefit.

  His two cousins were a rarity in the vampire species: a set of identical twins. When fully clothed, the only way anyone could tell them apart was by a single mole behind the earlobe; other than that, from their voices and their dark, suspicious eyes to their heavily muscled bodies, they were a mirror reflection of each other.

  “I’m going out,” Assail announced to them. “If our visitor comes again, be hospitable, will you?”

  Ehric, the older one by a matter of minutes, glanced over, his face highlighted by the glow around the bed base. Such evil in that handsome combination of features—to the point that one nearly felt pity for the interloper. “’Twill be a pleasure, I assure you.”

  “Keep him alive.”

  “But of course.”

  “That is a finer line than you two have at times appreciated.”

  “Trust me.”

  “It’s not you whom I am worried about.” Assail looked at the other one. “Do you understand me?”

  Ehric’s twin remained silent, although the male did nod once.

  That grudging reaction was precisely why Assail would have preferred to keep his new life simple. But it was impossible to be in more than one place at a time—and this violation of privacy was proof that he couldn’t do everything by himself.

  “You know how to locate me,” he said, before dismissing them from his room.

  Twenty minutes later, he left the house showered, dressed, and behind the wheel of his bulletproof Range Rover.

  Downtown Caldwell at night was beautiful at a distance, especially as he came over the inbound bridge. It was not until he penetrated the grid system of streets that the city’s sludge became evident: the alleyways with their filthy snowdrifts and their oozing Dumpsters and their discarded, half-frozen homeless humans told the true story of the municipality’s underbelly.

  His worksite, as it were.

  When he got to the Benloise Art Gallery, he parked in the back, in one of two spaces that were parallel to the building behind the facility. As he stepped free of the SUV, the cold wind swept into his camel-hair coat and he had to hold the two halves together as he crossed the pavement, approaching an industrial-size door.

  He didn’t have to knock. Ricardo Benloise had plenty of people working for him, and not all of them were of the art-dealer-associate type: A human male the size of an amusement park opened the way and stood to the side.

  “He expecting you?”

  “No, he is not.”

  Disneyland nodded. “You wanna wait in the gallery?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “You need a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  As they walked through the office area and into the exhibition space, the deference Assail was now accorded was a new thing—earned through both the huge product orders he’d been putting in as well as the spilled blood of countless humans: Thanks to him, suicides among disenfranchised males age eighteen to twenty-nine with criminal drug records had struck an all-time high in the city, making even the national news.

  Imagine that.

  As newscasters and reporters tried to make sense of the tragedies, he merely continued growing his business by any means necessary. Human minds were awfully suggestible; it required hardly any effort at all to get middlemen drug dealers to train their own guns on their temples and pull those triggers. And in the same way nature abhorred a vacuum, so too did the demands of chemical supplementation.

  Assail had the drugs. The addicts had the cash.

  The economic system more than survived the forced reorganization.

  “I’ll head up,” the man said at a hidden door. “And let him know you’re here.”

  “Do take your time.”

  Left to his own devices, Assail strolled around the high-ceilinged, open space, linking his hands and putting them at the small of his back. From time to time, he paused to look at the “art” that was hung on the walls and partitions—and was reminded why humans should be eradicated, preferably by slow and painful means.

  Used paper plates tacked to cheap particleboard and covered with handwritten quotes from TV commercials? A self-portrait done in dentifrice? And equally offensive were the aggrandizing plaques mounted next to the messes declaring this nonsense to be the new wave of American Expressionism.

  Such a commentary on the culture in so many ways.

  “He’s ready now.”

  Assail smiled to himself and turned around. “How accommodating.”

  As he entered through that sneaky door and ascended to the third level, Assail did not fault his supplier for being suspicious and wanting more information on his single largest customer. After all, in the shortest of time, the drug trade in the city had been rerouted, redefined, and captured by a complete unknown.

  One could respect the man’s position.

  But the digging was going to end here.

  At the top of the set of industrial stairs, two other big men stood in front of another door, sure and solid as load-bearing walls. As with the guard on the first floor, they opened things up fast, and nodded at him with respect.

  On the far side, Benloise was sitting at the end of a long, narrow room that had windows down one side, and only three pieces of furniture: his raised desk, which was nothing but a thick slab of teak with a modernist lamp and an ashtray on it; his chair, of some modern derivation; and a second seat across from him for a single visitor.

  The man himself was like his environment: neat, officious, and uncluttered in his thinking. In fact, he proved that however illicit the drug trade was, the management principles and interpersonal skill sets of a CEO went a long way if you wanted to make millions in it—and keep your money.

  “Assail. How are you?” The diminutive gentleman rose and put out his hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  Assail went across, shook what was extended and did not wait for an invitation to sit down.

  “What may I do for you?” Benloise said as he himself resettled on his chair.

  Assail took a Cuban cigar from out of his inside pocket. Snipping the end off, he leaned forward and put the snubbed piece right on the desk.

  As Benloise frowned like someone had defecated on his bed, Assail smiled just short of flashing his fangs. “It’s what I may do for you.
”

  “Oh.”

  “I have always been a private man, living a private life by choice.” He put away his clipper and took out his gold lighter. Popping the flame, he leaned in and puffed to get the cigar into a sustainable burn. “But above and beyond that, I am a businessman engaging in a dangerous manner of trade. Accordingly, I take any trespass of my property or intrusion upon my anonymity as a direct act of aggression.”

  Benloise smiled smoothly and eased back in his throne-like chair. “I can respect that, of course, and yet I am confounded as to why you feel the need to point this out to me.”

  “You and I have entered into a mutually beneficial relationship, and it is very much my desire to continue this association.” Assail puffed on the cigar, releasing a cloud of French-blue smoke. “Therefore, I want to pay you the respect you are due, and make clear before I take action that if I discover any person upon my premises whom I have not invited thereupon, I shall not only eradicate them, I shall find the source of inquiry”—he puffed again—“and do what I must to defend my privacy. Am I being clear enough?”

  Benloise’s brows dropped down low, his dark eyes growing shrewd.

  “Am I?” Assail murmured.

  There was, of course, only one answer. Assuming the human wanted to live much past the following weekend.

  “You know, you remind me of your predecessor,” Benloise said in his accented English. “Did you meet the Reverend?”

  “We ran in some of the same circles, yes.”

  “He was killed rather violently. About a year ago now? His club was blown up.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “Usually in the home, so I’ve heard.”

  “Something you might keep in mind.”

  As Assail met those eyes straight on, Benloise dropped his stare first. Clearing his throat, the Eastern seaboard’s biggest drug importer and wholesaler swept his palm over his glossy desk, as if he were feeling the grains that ran through the teak.

  “Our business,” Benloise said, “has a delicate ecosystem that, for all its financial robustness, must be carefully maintained. Stability is rare and highly desirable for men like you and me.”

  “Agreed. And to that end, I plan to return at the conclusion of the evening with my interim payment, as scheduled. As I always have, I come to you in good faith, and give you no reason to doubt me or my intentions.”

  Benloise offered another smooth smile. “You make it sound as if I am behind,” he moved his hand around, waving it dismissively through the air, “whatever has upset you.”

  Leaning in, Assail dipped his chin and glared. “I am not upset. Yet.”

  One of Benloise’s hands surreptiously dipped out of sight. A split second later, Assail heard the door down at the other end of the room open.

  Keeping his voice low, Assail said, “This was a courtesy to you. The next time I find anyone on my property, whether you sent them or not, I shall not be even half so polite.”

  With that, he got to his feet and ground the lit cigar out upon the desk.

  “I bid you a fond good evening,” he said, before walking away.

  FOURTEEN

  Talk about a late start.

  As Qhuinn dematerialized away from the mansion, he couldn’t believe that it was ten o’clock at night and they were just getting started. Then again, the Brotherhood had stayed holed up in Wrath’s study forever, and when he and John had finally been let in, V’s announcement that the proof against the Band of Bastards was ironclad had led to a good half hour of trash-talking Xcor and his buddies.

  Lot of creative uses of the word fuck, as well as some crackerjack suggestions for places to put inanimate objects.

  He’d never thought of doing that with a garden rake, for example. Fun. Fun.

  And Blay had missed it all.

  Reassuming his form in a woodland area south and west of the compound, Qhuinn steeled himself against making any inferences about what had detained the guy—although the fact of the matter was, the fighter had gone up to his room and hadn’t come back. And whereas most accidents happened in the home, it was a good guess that he hadn’t had a slip-and-fall.

  Unless Saxton had been playing throw rug on the marble in their bathroom.

  Feeling like he wanted to slap himself, he surveyed the snow-covered landscape while John, Rhage, and Z appeared next to him. The coordinates for the location had been found in the phones of those car thieves from the night before, the seemingly abandoned property about ten or fifteen miles past where he’d caught up with his stolen Hummer.

  “What the hell is that?”

  As someone spoke up, he glanced over his shoulder. What-the-hell was right: Looming behind them was a boxy building tall as a church steeple and as unadorned as a recycling bin.

  “Airplane hangar,” Zsadist announced as he started walking in that direction. “Has to be.”

  Qhuinn followed, bringing up the rear in case anyone decided to pull a hi-how’re-ya—

  From out of thin air, Blay made his appearance, the male suited up in leather, and as heavily armed as the rest of them. In response, Qhuinn’s feet slowed, then stopped in the snow, mostly because he didn’t want to lose his footing and look like an asshole.

  God, that was one grim motherfucker, he thought as Blay started walking forward. Was there some trouble in paradise?

  Even though there was no eye contact between them, Qhuinn felt compelled to say something. “What’s…”

  He didn’t finish the “doing” part of the sentence. Why bother? The guy stalked past him like he wasn’t there.

  “I’m great,” Qhuinn muttered as he resumed trudging through the ice pack. “Doin’ awesome, thanks for asking—oh, you having probs with Saxton? Really? How’d you like to go out and get a drink and talk about it? Yeah? Perfect. I’ll be your after-dinner mint—”

  He cut off the fantasy monologue as the breeze shifted and his nose got a whiff of sweet and nasty.

  Everyone got their weapons out and focused on the airplane hangar.

  “We’re upwind,” Rhage said quietly. “So there’s got to be a big-ass mess in there.”

  The five of them approached the facility cautiously, fanning out, searching the ambient blue glow of reflected moonlight for anything that moved.

  The hangar had two entryways, one that was bifurcated and big enough to fit a wingspan through, and the other that was supposed to be for people, and looked Barbie size in comparison. And Rhage was right: In spite of the fact that the icy winter gusts were hitting them in the back, the smell was enough to tingle the insides of the nose, and not in good way.

  Man, cold usually dimmed the stink, too.

  Communicating via hand signals, they split into two groups, with him and John taking one side of the mammoth double doors, and Rhage, Blay, and Z zeroing in on the smaller entrance.

  Rhage went for the requisite handle while everyone braced for engagement. If there was a football team’s worth of lessers in there, it made sense to send the Brother in first, because he had the kind of backup nobody else did: His beast loved slayers, and not in a relationship sense.

  Talk about your thin mints.

  Hollywood put his hand over his head. Three…two…one…

  The Brother penetrated in total silence, pushing the door open and slipping inside. Z was next—and Blay went in with them.

  Qhuinn felt a heartbeat of pure terror as the male jumped into the unknown with nothing but a pair of forties to protect him. God, the idea that Blay could die tonight, right in front of him, on this run-of-the-mill assignment, made him want to stop all this defending the race bullshit and turn the fighter into a librarian. A hand model. Hairdresser—

  The shrill whistle that came no more than sixty seconds later was a godsend. And Z’s all-clear was the signal for him and John to change positions, shuffling laterally to the now open door, and going through the—

  Okay. Wow.

  Talk about your oil slick. And holy fuckin’ A from the sten
ch.

  The three who’d gone in first had busted out their flashlights, and the beams light-sabered around the cavernous space, cutting through the darkness, illuminating what at first looked like nothing but a sheet of black ice. Except it wasn’t black and the shit wasn’t frozen. It was congealed human blood—about three hundred gallons’ worth. Mixed with a whole lot of Omega.

  The hangar was the site of a massive induction, the scale of which made that thing out at that farmhouse a while back look like nothing more than a play date.

  “Guess those boys who took your whip were heading to one hell of a party,” Rhage said.

  “Word,” Z muttered.

  As the beams of the flashlights highlighted an old, decrepit airplane in the back—and absolutely nothing else—Z shook his head.

  “Let’s search the outer area. There’s nada in here.”

  * * *

  Given that the cabin was nothing much from the exterior, just your typical hunting/fishing shack out in the woods, Mr. C was tempted to bypass the damn thing. Thoroughness had its virtues, however, and the cabin’s location, about a mile or two into the tract of land, suggested it might have been used as a headquarters at some point.

  All things considered, it would have been smarter to check out the property before he’d used that airplane hangar for the largest induction in the Lessening Society’s history. But priorities were what they were: First, he had to put himself in control; second, he had to justify the promotion; and third, he had to deal with all those new lessers.

  And that meant he needed resources. Fast.

  Following the Omega’s messy, grand ceremony, and the nauseous period that had lasted a number of hours thereafter, Mr. C had ordered the new recruits onto a school bus that he’d stolen from a used-truck dealership a week ago. Between exhaustion and the physical discomfort they were in, they had been such good little boys, filing on and sitting two by two like they were on some kind of fucked-up Noah’s Ark.