by J. R. Ward
Talk about another world. Ricardo’s office was minimalist to the extreme; Eduardo’s was something even Donald Trump, with his gold fetish, would feel suffocated by.
Any more marble and lamé in here and you’d be in a whorehouse.
As Eduardo smiled, his fake teeth were the shape and color of piano keys, and his tan was so deep and uniform, it looked like it had been colored on him with Magic Marker. As always, he was dressed in a three-piece suit—a uniform, kind of like Mr. Roarke’s from Fantasy Island, except black instead of white.
“And how are you tonight?” His eyes took a travel down her body. “You’re looking very well.”
“Ricardo said to come see you for my money.”
Instantly, Eduardo went stone-cold serious—and she was reminded of why Ricardo kept him around: Blood ties and competence together were a powerful combination.
“Yes, he told me to expect you.” Eduardo opened up a desk drawer and took out an envelope. “Here it is.”
He extended his arm across his desk, and she took what he offered, opening it immediately.
“This is half.” She looked up. “This is twenty-five hundred.”
Eduardo smiled exactly like his brother did: facially, but not in the eyes. “The assignment was not completed.”
“Your brother called it off. Not me.”
Eduardo put his palms up. “That is what you will be paid. Or you can leave the money here.”
Sola narrowed her stare.
Slowly closing the flap of the envelope, she turned the thing over in her hand, reached forward, and put it faceup on the desk. Keeping her forefinger on it, she nodded once. “As you wish.”
Turning away, she went to the door and waited for the unlock.
“Niña, don’t be like this,” Eduardo said. When she didn’t reply, the creak of his chair suggested he was getting up and coming around.
Sure enough, his cologne wafted right into her nose and his hands landed on her shoulders.
“Listen to me,” he said. “You are very important to Ricardo and me. We do not take you for granted—mucho respect, yes?”
Sola looked over her shoulder. “Let me out.”
“Niña.”
“Right now.”
“Take the money.”
“No.”
Eduardo sighed. “You do not need to be this way.”
Sola enjoyed the guilt that threaded through the man’s voice—the reaction was, in fact, precisely what she was after. Like a lot of men from their culture, Eduardo and Ricardo Benloise had been reared by a traditional mother—and that meant feeling guilt was a reflex.
More effective than yelling at them or kneeing them in the balls.
“Out,” she said. “Now.”
Eduardo sighed again, deeper and longer this time, the sound a confirmation that her manipulation had once again truly found home.
He wouldn’t give her the money she was owed, however. Over-the-top office decor and flashback to his childhood dynamic aside, he was tighter than a bank vault. That being said, she was confident that she’d effectively ruined his evening, so there was satisfaction in that…and she was going to take care of what Ricardo owed her.
He could do it aboveboard. Or, as he had chosen, he could force her hand.
That came with a surcharge, of course.
Yup, it would have been so much cheaper for him just to give her the contract price, but she was not responsible for the decisions of others.
“Ricardo will be upset,” Eduardo said. “He hates being upset. Please just accept the money—this is not right.”
The logical part of her brain suggested that she take the opportunity to point out the unfairness of being cheated out of what she was owed. But if she knew these brothers, silence…oh, the silence…
As nature abhorred a vacuum, so did the conscience of a well-raised, well-bred South American.
“Sola…”
She just crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead. Cue the Spanish: Eduardo broke into his native tongue, as if his angst had stripped him of his English skills.
He finally gave up and let her out about ten minutes later.
There would be roses on her doorstep at nine a.m. She wasn’t going to be home, however.
She had work to do.
* * *
“What do you mean, they didn’t show up?” Assail demanded in the Old Language.
As he sat back in the seat of his Range Rover, he held his cell phone tight to his ear. The red traffic light up ahead was hindering his forward progress, and it was difficult not to see it as a cosmic parallel.
His cousin was factual, as always. “The pickups did not arrive at the prescribed time.”
“How many of them?”
“Four.”
“What?” But there was no need for the male to repeat it. “And no explanations?”
“Nothing on the street from the seven others, if that’s what you mean.”
“What did you do with the extra product?”
“I brought it home with me just now.”
As green flashed overhead, Assail hit the gas. “I’m making the interim payment to Benloise, and then I’ll meet you.”
“As you wish.”
Assail turned right and headed away from the river. Two blocks up, a left had him approaching the gallery again; another left and he was going behind it.
There was a car already parked in the back, a black Audi, and he eased in behind the sedan. Reaching into the foot of the passenger seat, he took the silver metal briefcase by its black handle and got out of the SUV.
At that moment, the rear door of the gallery opened and someone emerged.
A female human, going by the scent.
She was tall and had long legs. Dark, heavy hair pulled back. Chin was up, as if she were ready to fight—or had just been in one.
But none of that was material to him. It was her parka—a camouflage white-on-cream parka.
“Good evening,” he said in a low voice as they met in the middle of the alley, he on his way in, she on her way out.
She stopped and frowned, her hand sneaking into the interior of that coat of hers. In a flash, he wondered what her breasts looked like.
“Have we met?” she said.
“We are right now.” He put his hand out and deliberately enunciated his words. “How do you do?”
She stared at his palm, and then refocused on his face. “Anyone tell you that you sound like Dracula with that accent?”
He smiled tightly so his fangs didn’t show. “There have been certain comparisons made from time to time. Are you not going to shake my hand?”
“No.” She nodded to the gallery’s back door. “You a friend of the Benloises?”
“Indeed. And you?”
“I don’t know them at all. Nice briefcase, by the way.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked over to the Audi. After the blinkers flashed, she got in, the wind catching her hair and blowing it over her shoulder as she disappeared behind the wheel.
He stepped out of her way as she pulled forward and sped off.
Assail watched her go—and found himself thinking with disdain about his business associate Benloise.
What kind of man sent a female to do that kind of business?
As the brake lights flared briefly, and then rounded the corner, Assail sincerely hoped that the line that had been drawn earlier in the night was respected. It would be a shame to have to kill her.
Not that he would hesitate for an instant if it came down to that.
TWENTY-FOUR
As Zypher lay on hard concrete, his many years as a member of the Band of Bastards meant he was well familiar with the lack of accommodations he was currently enjoying: his ass was numb from the cold as well as the absence of a mattress beneath his heavy body. Likewise, his head was cushioned only by the rucksack he had used to bring his few belongings to their new HQ in this warehouse basement. Further, the thin, rough blan
ket that covered him was not long enough, leaving his socked feet exposed to the chilly, damp air.
But he was in heaven. Absolute heaven.
Coursing through his veins was the blood of that female, and oh, the sustenance. Having gone without a proper feeding source for almost a year, he had become inured to the fatigue and the restless muscles and the aches. But that was over now.
Indeed, it was as if he were inflating with strength, his skin filling out again to its proper dimensions, his height returning once more to its feet and inches, his mind both logy in the aftermath, and sharpening moment by moment.
Now, if he had had a bed, he would have enjoyed it, of course. Soft pillows, sweet-smelling sheets, clean clothes…warm air in winter, cool air in summer…food for an empty stomach, water for a dry throat…all of these were good if one could get them.
They were not necessary, however.
A clean gun, a sharp blade, a fighter of equal skill to his left and to his right. That was what he required.
And of course, during downtime, it was good to have a female willing and on her back. Or her stomach. Or her side with one knee up to her breasts and her sex exposed and ready for him.
He wasn’t fussy like that.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was…bliss.
Not a word that he used very often—and he didn’t want to sleep through this awakening. Even as the others lay sunk in the repose of the dead, each in the same spacey recovery that he, himself, was buffered in, he remained utterly aware of his glorious internal glow.
There was only one thing that was getting on his nerves.
The pacing.
He cracked an eyelid.
Just on the edge of the candlight, Xcor was walking back and forth, his path restricted by two of the massive column supports that held up the floor above them.
Their leader was never at ease, but this restlessness was different. Going by the way he was holding his cellular device, he was waiting for a call—and that explained why he was where he was. The only place you could get a phone signal down below was standing beneath one of the two trapdoors: The panels of them were made of wood, and the steel mesh that had been tacked underneath had been the only alteration made when they had chased off the vagrant humans, sealed up the exterior floors, and moved in.
That way, vampires couldn’t materialize down below.
And shit knew humans weren’t strong enough to pry open those six-inch-thick wooden boards—
The tinkling noise that emanated from their leader’s phone was far too civilized for the environs, the false bell sounding out cheerfully sure as a wind chime tickled by a spring breeze.
Xcor stopped and looked at the phone as he let it ring once more. Twice more.
Clearly, the male did not want to appear as if he had been waiting.
When he finally answered and put the phone to his ear, his chin lifted and his body calmed. He was back in control.
“Elan,” he said smoothly. There was a pause. And then those always low brows went all the way down. “At what date and time?”
Zypher sat up.
“The king called it?” Silence. “No, not at all. Only the Council would be allowed, at any rate. We shall remain on the periphery—at your request.”
The last part was spoken with no small amount of irony, although it was doubtful that the aristocrat on the other end of the conversation picked up on that. From what little Zypher had seen and heard from Elan, son of Larex, he was less than impressed. Then again, the weak were easily manipulated, and Xcor well knew this.
“There is something you should know, Elan. An attempt was made upon Wrath’s life in the fall—and be not surprised if there is an implication against myself and my soldiers at this forthcoming meeting—what? It occured at Assail’s, actually—but any other specifics are not relevant. So, indeed, one can surmise that Wrath is calling the gathering for the purpose of exposing me and mine—recall that I have warned you of such? Just remember that you have been utterly protected. The Brothers and the king do not know of our relationship—that is, unless one of your gentlemales has reported it in some manner to them. We, however, have remained tight-lipped. Further, know also that I am not afraid of being branded a traitor or becoming a target for the Brotherhood. I realize, however, that you are of a far more cultured and refined sensibility, and not only do I respect this, I shall do all in my power to insulate you from any brutality.”
Uh-huh, right, Zypher thought with an eye roll.
“You must remember, Elan, you are protected.”
As Xcor smiled more widely, it was with a full show of fangs, as if he were on the verge of latching onto the other male’s throat and tearing out his windpipe.
Good-byes were said shortly thereafter, and then Xcor ended the call.
Zypher spoke up. “All is well?”
Their leader’s head turned on the top of his spine, and as their eyes met, Zypher felt sorry for the idiot on the phone…and for Wrath and the Brotherhood.
The light in his leader’s stare was pure evil. “Oh, aye. All is very well indeed.”
TWENTY-FIVE
As the sound of unanswered ringing came through the landline, Blay held the receiver to his ear and sat down on the edge of his bed. This was weird. His parents should have been home this time of the night. It was so close to dawn—
“Hello?” his mother said, finally.
Blay exhaled long and slow, and shifted himself back against the headboard. Folding the bottom of his robe over his legs, he cleared his throat. “Hi, it’s me.”
The happiness that suffused the voice on the other end made him feel warm in his chest. “Blay! How are you! Let me get your father so he can hop on the other extension—”
“No, wait.” He closed his eyes. “Let’s just…talk. You and me.”
“Are you okay?” He heard the sound of a chair streaking across a bare floor—and knew right where she was: at the oak table in her precious kitchen. “What’s going on. You haven’t been hurt, have you?”
Not on the inside. “I’m…okay.”
“What is it?”
Blay rubbed his face with his free hand. He and his parents had always been close—ordinarily, there was nothing that he didn’t talk to them about, and this breakup with Saxton was exactly the kind of thing he’d usually bring up: He was upset, confused, disappointed, a little depressed…all the usual emotional stuff he and his mom processed in a two-way street of phone calls.
As he stayed silent, however, he was reminded that there was, in fact, one thing he had never broached with them. One very big thing…
“Blay? You’re scaring me.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
True enough.
He supposed he hadn’t come out to them with respect to his sexual orientation because your love life was not something most people shared with their parents. And maybe there was also a part of him, however illogical it was, that worried about whether or not they would look at him differently.
Take out the maybe.
After all, the glymera’s policy on homosexuality was pretty clear: provided you were never overt about it, and you mated someone of the opposite sex like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t be expelled for your perversion.
Yeah, ’cuz getting hitched to someone you weren’t attracted to or in love with, and lying to them about sustained infidelity, was so much more honorable than the truth.
But God help you if you were a male and had a boyfriend on the up-and-up—as he had had for the last twelve months or so.
“I…ah, I broke up with someone.”
Annnnd now it was crickets on his mother’s side. “Really?” she said after a moment, like she was shocked, but trying to keep from showing it.
You think that’s a surprise, guess what’s coming next, Mom, he thought.
Because, holy shit, he was going to…
Wait, was he really going to do this now, over the phone? Shouldn’t it be
in person?
What exactly was the protocol here?
“Yes, I, ah…” He swallowed hard. “I’ve been in a relationship for most of the past year, actually.”
“Oh…my.” The hurt in her tone stung him. “I—we—your father and I never knew.”
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”
“Do we know her? Or her family?”
He closed his eyes, his chest compressing. “Ah…you know the family. Yes.”
“Well, I’m very sorry it didn’t work out. Are you okay…? How did it end?”
“It just died, to be honest.”
“Well, relationships are so very difficult. Oh, my love, my dearest heart—I can hear how sad you are. Would you like to come home and—”
“It was Saxton. Qhuinn’s cousin.”
There was a sharp inhale over the connection.
As his mother went utterly silent, Blay’s arm started shaking so badly he could barely hold the phone.
“I…I, ah…” His mother swallowed hard. “I didn’t know. That ah, you…”
He finished what she could not in his head: I didn’t know that you are one of those people.
Like gays were social lepers.
Oh, hell. He shouldn’t have said a thing. Not one fucking thing about this. Goddamn it, why did he have to blow his whole life up at the same time? Why couldn’t his first real lover break up with him…and then he’d wait a couple of years, maybe a decade, before he came out to his parents and they shut him down? But noooooo, he had to—
“Is that why you’ve never talked about who you were with?” she asked. “Because…”
“Maybe. Yes…”
There was a sniffle. And then a hitched breath.
Her disappointment coming over the connection was too much to bear, the crushing weight settling on his chest and rendering it impossible to breathe.
“How could you—”
He rushed to cut her off, because he couldn’t bear to have her sweet voice say the words. “Mahmen, I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t mean it, okay? I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just—”
“What have I or we ever done—”
“Mahmen, stop. Stop.” In the pause that followed, he thought about quoting her some Lady Gaga, and backing it up with a whole lot of it’s-not-your-fault, you’ve-done-nothing-wrong-as-a-parent stuff. “Mahmen, I just—”
