by J. R. Ward
A female. If he could find one who’d take him.
What…a lie…that would have been.
Funny, cowardice came in many forms, didn’t it. You didn’t have to be shrinking in a corner, shaking like a pussy and sniveling. Hell no. You could be a big, loud noise with a tough attitude and a face full of piercings and a snarl to show the world…and still be nothing but a cocksucking coward. After all, Saxton might wear three-piece suits and cravats and loafers, but the male knew who he was, and he wasn’t afraid of having what he wanted.
And what do you know, Blay was waking up in the guy’s bed.
Qhuinn closed the lid and put the piercings back where he’d found them. Then he glanced up into the mirror. What was he doing again? he thought as he looked at his face.
Oh, yeah. Shaving.
That was it.
* * *
About twenty minutes later, Qhuinn left his room. Walking down the hall of statues, he passed by the closed doors to Wrath’s study and kept going.
As he continued onward, it was hard to stare into the second-story sitting room, hard to stay cool as that couch came into view.
Never going to look at that piece of furniture in the same way. Hell, maybe even all sofas were ruined for him, forever.
At Layla’s door, he leaned in and put his ear to the panels. When he didn’t hear anything, he wondered exactly what he thought he’d find out that way.
He knocked quietly. When there was no answer, he was gripped at the throat by an irrational fear, and without conscious thought, he threw open the door.
Light poured into the darkness.
His first thought was that she had died; that Havers, the son of a bitch, had lied, and the miscarriage had gotten out of hand and killed her: Layla was unmoving as she lay against the pillows, her mouth slightly open, her hands clasped over her chest as if she’d been arranged by a funeral director who had respect for the dead.
Except…something was different, and it took him a minute to figure out what it was.
There was no overwhelming scent of blood. In fact, only her delicate, cinnamon fragrance marked the air, freshening it in a way that brightened the whole room up.
Was the miscarriage finally over?
“Layla?” he said, even though he’d told her that if he found her asleep, he would let her stay that way.
It was a relief to see her brows twitch as her name registered to her brain, even under the veil of sleep.
He had the sense that if he were to say it again, she would wake.
Seemed cruel to force consciousness on her. What did she have to greet her when she woke up? The pain she’d been feeling? The sense of loss?
Fuck that.
Qhuinn quietly ducked out, shut the door and just stood there. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Wrath had told him to stay home, even if John Matthew went out—he guessed it was a kind of compassionate leave from the ahstrux nohtrum thing. And he did appreciate it. There was so little he could do to help Layla—at least he could stick around in case she needed anything. Soft drink. Aspirin. Shoulder to cry on.
You did this to her.
Going by the chiming that floated out from that godforsaken sitting room, he figured he’d missed First Meal. Nine p.m. Yup, he’d slept through it, and just as well. If he’d had to sit at the table and spend forty-five minutes in the company of nearly two dozen people who were trying not to stare at him, he’d lose his fucking mind.
The sound of someone walking down below in the foyer brought his head up.
Without any particular thought or plan, he wandered over to the balustrade and looked down.
Payne, V’s ass-kicking sister, was coming out of the dining room.
He didn’t know the female all that well, but he respected the shit out of her. Impossible not to, given the way she handled herself in the field…tough, really tough. At the moment, however, Dr. Manello’s shellan looked like she’d been beaten up in a bar fight: She was walking slowly, her feet shuffling across the mosaic floor, her body stooped, her grip on her mate’s arm all that appeared to be keeping her upright.
Had she been injured in some hand to hand?
No scent of blood.
Dr. Manello said something to her that didn’t carry, but then the guy nodded in the direction of the billiards room—like he was asking her if she wanted to go in there.
They headed that way at a snail’s pace.
Given that he didn’t appreciate people staring, Qhuinn backed off from the railing and waited until the coast was clear. Then he jogged down the grand staircase.
Food. Workout. Recheck on Layla.
That was going to be his night.
Heading for the kitchen, he found himself wondering where Blay was. What he was doing. Whether he was out fighting or in for the evening and…
Given that he didn’t know where Saxton was, he stopped that line of inquiry right there.
If Qhuinn had been off rotation, and able to spend some P-time with the guy, he knew what he’d be doing.
And Saxton, his cocksucking cousin, was no fool.
FORTY-FIVE
Assail’s lack of feeding finally caught up with him about five hours after night fell. He was putting on his shirt, a pale blue button-down with French cuffs, when his hands started to shake so badly, there was no fastening the damn thing closed over his chest. And then the exhaustion hit, so overwhelming that he swayed on his feet.
Cursing under his breath, he went over to his bureau. On the polished mahogany top, his vial and spoon were waiting, and he took care of business in two quick inhales, one for each nostril.
Nasty habit—and one he fell back into only when he really needed it.
At least the blow took care of the tiredness. But he was going to have to find a female. Soon. Indeed, it was a miracle he’d lasted this long: The last time he’d taken a vein had been months ago, and the experience had been less than enthralling, a fast-and-dirty with a female of the species well versed in providing sustenance to needful males. For a price.
What a nuisance.
After arming himself and retrieving a black cashmere overcoat, he headed down the stairs and unlocked the steel sliding door. As he opened the way into the first floor, he was greeted by the sounds of guns being checked.
In the kitchen, the twins were running several forties through their paces.
“Have you made the call?” Assail asked Ehric.
“As you said.”
“And?”
“He’s going to be there and he’s coming alone. Do you need weapons?”
“Have them.” He picked up the keys to the Range Rover from a silver dish on the counter. “We’re taking my vehicle. In the event someone is injured.”
After all, only an idiot took the word of an enemy, and his SUV came with an undercarriage device that could be very helpful if there was a mass attack.
Boom.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were crossing the bridge into Caldwell, and as Assail drove along, he was reminded of why bringing the cousins here had been an inspired idea: Not only were they good backup, they were not inclined to waste breath on useless conversation.
The silence was a welcome fourth passenger in their transport.
Over on the downtown side of the Hudson, he got off at an exit that curled around and emptied out beneath the Northway. Proceeding parallel to the river, he entered the forest of thick pylons that held up the roads, the landscape bald, dark, and essentially empty.
“Park over here to the right about a hundred meters,” Ehric said from the back.
Assail pulled to the side, popped the curb, and stopped on the shoulder.
The three of them emerged into the cold, their overcoats open, guns in hand, eyes scanning. As they walked forward, Ehric’s twin brought up the rear, the three Hefty bags from the garage in one of his hands, the black plastic making a rustling noise as they all went along.
Above them, traffic growled by, the cars moving
at a steady pace, an ambulance siren wailing in a high-pitched scream, a heavy truck rumbling over the girders. As Assail inhaled deeply, the air was icy in his sinuses, any smells of dirt or dead fish killed by the cold.
“Straight ahead,” Ehric said.
They calmly and steadily crossed the asphalt and entered upon more of the hard, frozen ground. With the great concrete slabs of the road blocking out the sun, nothing grew here, but there was life—of a sort. Homeless humans in makeshift dwellings of cardboard and tarps were hunkered down against the winter, their bodies wrapped up so tight, you couldn’t tell which way they were facing.
Considering their preoccupation with staying alive, he was not worried about interference from them. Besides, no doubt they were used to being peripherals in this sort of business, and knew not to intrude.
And if they did? He would not hesitate to put them out of their misery.
The first sign that their enemy had shown was a stench on the wind. Assail was not particularly well versed in the ways of the Lessening Society and its members, but his keen nose was not able to ascertain any nuances within the bad smell. So he took that to mean that instructions had been followed and this was not a case of thousands arriving at the scene—although it was possible that the Omega’s denizens had only one bouquet.
They would soon find out.
Assail and his males stopped. And waited.
A moment later, a single lesser stepped out from behind a pylon.
Ah, interesting. This one had been a “client” before, coming with cash to accept measures of X or heroin. He’d been right on the edge of being eliminated, his volume of purchasing just under the cutoff of middleman qualification.
Which was the only reason he still breathed…and had therefore, at some point, been turned into a slayer. Come to think of it, the fellow hadn’t been around lately, so one could surmise that he’d been adjusting to his new life. Or non-life, as the case may be.
“Jesus…Christ,” the lesser said, clearly catching their scents.
“I meant it when I said I was your enemy,” Assail drawled.
“Vampires…?”
“Which puts you and me in a curious position, does it not.” Assail nodded at the twins. “My associates came here in good faith last night. They were equally surprised with what they discovered when your men arrived. Certain…aggressive behaviors…on our part were exhibited before things were sorted. My apologies.”
As Assail nodded, the three Hefty bags were tossed over.
Ehric’s voice was dry. “We are prepared to tell you where the rest of them are.”
“Pending the disposition of this transaction,” Assail added.
The lesser glanced down, but otherwise showed no reaction. Which suggested he was a professional. “You brought the product?”
“You paid for it.”
The slayer’s eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna do business with me.”
“I can assure you I’m not here for the pleasure of your company.” As Assail motioned with his hand, Ehric took out a wrapped package. “A few ground rules first. You will contact me directly. I will not accept calls from anyone else within your organization. You may delegate drop-off and pickup to whomever you wish, but you will provide me with the identity and number of the representatives you are sending. If there is any kind of ambush, or if there is any deviation from my two rules, I will cease to transact with you. Those are my only stipulations.”
The lesser looked back and forth between Assail and the cousins. “What if I want to buy more than this?”
Assail had considered this probability. He hadn’t spent the past twelve months getting middlemen to shoot themselves in the head for nothing—and he wasn’t about to cede his hard-won power to anyone. This was a unique opportunity, however. If the Lessening Society wanted to make some money on the streets, he was fine with providing them the drugs to do so. It wasn’t as if this foul-smelling son of a bitch was going to be able to get to Benloise because Assail was going to make sure that didn’t happen. More to the point, Assail had a rate-limiting issue inherent in his business model—with just the three of them, he had more product than he had sellers.
So it was time to start outsourcing. His stranglehold on the city complete, the next phase was to handpick some third parties for contract work, so to speak.
“We’re going to start slowly and see how it goes,” Assail murmured. “You need me. I’m the source. So it’s your choice how we proceed. I am certainly not…how do you say…disinclined to increase your orders. Over time.”
“How do I know you’re not working with the Brotherhood?”
“If I were, I would have them ambush you right now.” He indicated the bags at the feet of the slayer. “Further, as a gesture of good faith, and in recognition of your losses, I have credited you three thousand dollars in this delivery. One grand for each of our, shall we say, misinterpretations from last night.”
The slayer’s brows popped.
In the silence that followed, the wind blew around them all, coats sweeping out, the lesser’s jacket collar whistling.
Assail was content to wait for a reaction. There were one of two answers: Yes, in which case Ehric was going to throw over the package. No, at which time the three of them opened fire on the fucker, disabled him, and stabbed him back to the Omega.
Either was acceptable to him. But he was hoping for the former.
There was money to be made. For both sides.
* * *
Sola kept her distance from the quartet of men who had gathered under the bridge: lingering on the fringes, she used her binocs to focus on the meeting.
Mr. Mystery Man, a.k.a. the Great Roadside Houdini, was backed up by two huge bodyguards who were mirror images of each other. From all appearances, it seemed that he was running the meeting, and that was not a surprise—and she could guess at the agenda.
Sure enough, the twin on the left stepped forward and gave a package the size of a child’s lunch box to the man who was on his own.
As she waited for the deal to wind down, she knew she was taking her life into her own hands on this one—and not because she was under the bridge after dark.
Considering the run-in she’d had with the man the night before, it was highly doubtful he was going to appreciate her getting on his tail, following him out here, and playing third-party witness to his illegal activities. But she had spent most of the last twenty-four hours thinking about him—and getting pissed off. It was a free fucking country, and if she wanted to be out here on public property, she was allowed.
He wanted privacy? Then he should take care of business somewhere other than out in the goddamn open.
As her temper resurged, she gritted her teeth…and knew that this was her worst character defect at work.
For her entire life, she had been the type to do whatever she was told not to. Of course, when that involved things like, No, you can’t have a cookie before dinner, or, No, you can’t take the car out; you’re grounded, or…No, you should not go see your father in prison…the implications were very different from what was going down in front of her.
No, you may not go back to that house.
No, you may not watch me anymore.
Yeah, whatever, big shots. She was going to decide when she’d had enough, thank you very much. And at the moment? She had not had enough.
Besides, there was another angle to her tenacity: she didn’t like losing her nerve, and that was what had happened last night. As she’d pulled away from her confrontation with that man, it had been from a place of fear—and that was not going to be the way she ran her life. Ever since that tragedy, oh, so long ago, when things had changed forever, she had decided—vowed, was more like it—that she would never again be afraid of anything.
Not pain. Not death. Not the unknown.
And certainly not a man.
Sola tightened up the focus, closing in on his face. Thanks to the city’s glow, there was enough for her to see it prop
erly, and yup, it was just as she remembered. God, his hair was so damn black, almost as if he’d colored it. And his eyes—narrowed, aggressive. And his expression, so haughty and in control.
Frankly, he looked too classy to be what he was. Then again, maybe he was cut from the Benloise cloth of drug dealer.
Shortly thereafter, the two sides went their separate ways: the single man turned and walked in the direction he’d come from, a collection of barely filled trash bags slung over his shoulder; the other three recrossing the pavement, returning to the Range Rover.
Sola jogged back to her rental car, her dark bodysuit and ski mask helping her blend into the shadows. Getting behind the wheel of the Ford, she ducked down out of sight and used a mirror to monitor the one-way that ran underneath the bridge.
The road was the only exit available. Unless the man was willing to risk a pullover by the CPD for going against traffic.
Moments later, the Range Rover passed her by. After allowing it to get slightly ahead, she hit her own gas and slid into position about a block behind.
When Benloise had given her the assignment, he’d provided her with the make and model of the man’s SUV, in addition to that address out on the Hudson. Not the name, though.
All she had was that real estate trust and its single trustee.
As she tracked the threesome, she memorized the license plate. One of her friends down at the police station might be able to help with that; although, given that the house was owned by a legal entity, she surmised he’d done the same with automobile.
Whatever. There was one thing she was sure of.
Wherever he was going next, she was going to be there.
FORTY-SIX
The shout blasted through the dim bedroom, loud, sharp, unexpected.
As it reverberated in her ears, Layla didn’t immediately know who had woken her up with it. What had—
Glancing down, she knew she was sitting upright, the sheets crushed in her tight hands, her heart pounding, her rib cage pumping.
Looking around, she found that her mouth was wide open…
Closing her jaw, she knew she must have made the sound. There was no one else in the room. And the door was shut.
