by J. R. Ward
Butch curled into himself even though he wasn't cold, operating on the theory that if he could just bring his knees up high enough, the pain in his stomach would ease a little.
Yeah, right. The hot poker in his gut was not impressed by that plan.
He peeled his puffy eyelids apart, and after a lot of blinking and deep breathing, he came to the following conclusions: He was not dead. He was in a hospital. And shit that was no doubt keeping him alive was being pumped into his arm.
As he rolled over gingerly, he came to one more realization. His body had been used for a punching bag. Oh… and something nasty was in his belly, like his last meal had been rancid roast beef.
What the fuck had happened to him?
Only a vague series of snapshots came to mind: Vishous finding him in the woods. Him with a screaming instinct that the brother should leave him to die. Then some knife action and… something about that hand of V's, that glowing thing used to take out a vile piece of—
Butch lurched over onto his side and gagged just from the memory. There had been evil in his belly. Pure, undiluted malice, and the black horror had been spreading.
With shaking hands, he grabbed the hospital johnny he was wearing and yanked it up. "Oh… Jesus…"
There was a stain on the skin of his stomach, like the scorch mark of a fire that had been snuffed out. In desperation, he weeded through his sloppy brain, trying to remember how the scarring had gotten there and what it was, but he just came up with a big fat zero.
So like the detective he'd been before, he examined the scene—which in this case was his body. Lifting one of his hands, he saw that his fingernails were a mess, as if something like a file or some small nails had been hammered under a number of them. A deep breath told him his ribs were cracked. And going by his swollen eyes, he had to assume his face had partied with a lot of knuckles.
He had been tortured. Recently.
Reaching into his mind again, he panned for memories, trying to get back to the last place he'd been. ZeroSum. ZeroSum with… oh, God, that female. In the bathroom. Having hardcore, who-cares sex. Then he'd gone out and… lessers. Fighting with those lessers. Getting shot and then…
His recollections came to the end of their train track at that point. Just shot off the edge of reasoning into a pit of huh, what?
Had he squealed on the Brotherhood? Betrayed them? Had he given his nearest and dearest away?
And what the hell had been done to his belly? God, he felt like there was sludge in his veins thanks to whatever had festered there.
Letting himself go limp, he breathed through his mouth for a while. And found there was no peace to be had.
As if his brain didn't want to stop working, or maybe because it was showing off, the thing kicked up random visions from the distant past. Birthdays with his dad glaring at him and his mom tense and smoking like a chimney. Christmases where his brothers and sisters got presents and he didn't.
Hot July nights that no fan could cool off, the heat driving his father into the cold beer. The Pabst Blue Ribbon driving his father into fist-cracking wake-up calls just for Butch.
Memories he hadn't thought of for years came back, all unwanted visitors. He saw his sisters and brothers, happy, shouting, playing on bright green grass. And remembered how he'd wished he could be among them instead of hanging back, the oddball who'd never fit in.
And then—Oh, God, no… not this memory. Too late. He pictured himself as the twelve-year-old he'd been, scrawny and shaggy, standing at the curb in front of the O'Neal family row house in South Boston. It had been a clear, beautiful fall afternoon when he'd watched his sister Janie get into a red Chevy Chevette that had rainbow stripes down the side. With perfect recollection he saw her waving at him through the window in the back as the car drove off.
Now that the door to the nightmare was open, he couldn't stop the horror show. He recalled the police coming to the door that night and his mother's knees going out when they finished talking to her. He remembered the cops questioning him because he was the last person to see Janie alive. He heard his younger self telling the badges that he hadn't recognized the boys and had wanted to tell his sister not to get in.
Mostly, he saw his mother's eyes burning with a pain so great she had no tears.
Then flash forward twenty-plus years. God… when was the last time he'd spoken to or seen either of his parents? Or his brothers and sisters? Five years? Probably. Man, the family had been so relieved when he'd moved away and started missing holidays.
Yeah, around the Christmas table, everyone else had been part of the O'Neal family fabric and he'd been the stain. Eventually he'd stopped going home altogether, leaving them only phone numbers to reach him, numbers they never dialed.
So they wouldn't know if he died now, would they? Vishous no doubt knew everything about the O'Neal clan, down to their social security numbers and bank statements, but Butch had never spoken about them. Would the Brotherhood call? What would they say?
Butch looked down at himself and knew there was a good chance he wasn't walking out of this room. His body looked a lot like those he'd seen in Homicide, the kind he investigated in the woods. Well, natch. That's where he'd been found. Discarded. Used. Left for dead.
Rather like Janie.
Exactly like Janie.
Closing his eyes, he floated away on the pain in his body. And from out of the swill of agony, he had a vision of Marissa from the first night he'd met her. The image was so vivid, he could almost smell the ocean scent of her and he saw exactly what had been: the filmy yellow gown she'd had on… the way her hair had looked, down over her shoulders… the lemon-colored sitting room they'd been in together.
To him, she was the unforgettable woman, the one he'd never had and never would but who nonetheless reached into the core of him.
Man, he was so fricking tired.
He opened his eyes and took action before he really knew what he was doing. Reaching up to his inner forearm, he peeled the clear plastic tape off the skin around the IV insertion site. Sliding the needle out of his vein was easier than he'd thought it would be, but then again, the rest of him hurt so bad, messing around with that little piece of hardware was a drop in the bucket.
If he'd had the strength, he'd have gone looking for something with a little more punch to off himself. But time—time was the weapon he was going to use because that's what he had at his disposal. And going by how shitty he felt, it wasn't going to take long. He could practically hear his organs coughing up their livelihoods.
Closing his eyes, he let go of everything, only dimly aware that alarms were going off in the machinery behind the bed. A fighter by nature, the ease with which he gave up was a surprise, but then a heavy tide of exhaustion crashed over him. He knew instinctually that this was not the exhaustion of sleep but rather of death, and he was glad that it came so fast.
Drifting free of everything, he imagined that he was at the start of a long, blinding hallway at the end of which was a door. Marissa was standing in front of the portal and as she smiled at him she opened the way into a white bedroom full of light.
His soul eased as he took a deep breath and began to walk forward. He'd like to think he was going to heaven, in spite of all the bad things he'd done, so this made sense.
It wouldn't be paradise without her.
Chapter Six
Vishous stood in the clinic's parking lot and watched as Rhage and Phury pulled out in the black Mercedes. They were going to grab Butch's phone from the alley behind Screamer's, then pick up the Escalade from the ZeroSum lot and head home.
It went without saying that V wasn't going back into the field tonight. The remnants of the evil he'd handled lingered in his body, making him weak. But more than that, seeing Butch worked out and nearly dead had done some kind of inner damage. He had the sense that a part of him had become unhinged, that some inner escape hatch was hanging open and segments of him were fleeing the core.
Actually, he'd had th
is feeling for a while now, ever since his visions had left him. But this horror movie of a night made it so much worse.
Privacy. He needed to be alone. Except he couldn't stand the idea of going back to the Pit. The silence there, the empty couch where Butch always sat, the weighty knowledge that there was something missing, would be unbearable.
So he went to his undisclosed place. Taking form again thirty stories in the air, he materialized on the terrace of his penthouse at the Commodore. The wind was howling and it felt good, biting through his clothes, making him feel something other than the gaping hole in his chest.
He went to the terrace's edge. Bracing his arms against the railing, he looked over the lip of the skyscraper, down to the streets below. There were cars. People going into the lobby. Someone reaching into a cab, paying the driver. So normal. So very normal…
Meanwhile, he was up here dying.
Butch was not going to make it. The Omega had been inside him; that was the only explanation for what had been done to him. And although the evil had been taken out, its infection was beyond deadly and the harm was done.
V rubbed his face. What the hell was he going to do without that smart-ass, tough-talking, Scotch-sucking SOB? The rough bastard somehow smoothed the edges of life, probably because he was like sandpaper, a scratchy, persistent wrong-way-rub-that left everything more even.
V turned away from the three-hundred-foot drop to the pavement. Going over to a door, he took a gold key out of his pocket and pushed it into the lock. The penthouse beyond was his private space, for his private… endeavors. And the scent of the female he'd had the night before lingered in the darkness.
At his will, black candles flared. The walls and the ceilings and the floors were black and the chromatic void absorbed the light, sucking it in, eating it up. The only true piece of furniture was a king-sized bed that was likewise covered in black satin sheets. But he didn't spend a lot of time on the mattress.
The rack was what he relied on. The rack with its hard table-top and its restraints. And he also used the things hanging beside it: the leather straps, the lengths of cane, the ball gags, the collars and spikes, the whips—and always the masks. He had to have the females anonymous, had to cover their faces as he tied up their bodies. He didn't want to know them as anything more than the equipment for his deviant workouts.
Shit, he was depraved about sex and he knew it, but after trying out a lot of things, he'd finally found what worked for him. And fortunately there were females who liked what he did to them, craved it as he craved the release he got when he mastered them singly or in pairs.
Except… tonight as he looked at his equipment, his perversions made him feel dirty. Maybe because he never came here unless he was ready to use what he had, so he'd never given the place a look-see when his head was clear.
His cell phone's ring startled him. As he glanced at the number, he numbed out. Havers. "Is he dead?"
Havers's voice was all professional-doctor sensitive. Which was the tip-off that Butch was hanging by a spider's thread. "He coded, sire. He pulled the IV out and his vitals dipped. We brought him back, but I don't know how long he can keep going."
"Can you restrain him?"
"I did. But I want you to be prepared. He's just a human—"
"No, he is not."
"Oh… of course, sire, but I didn't mean it like—"
"Shit. Look, I'm coming back. I want to be with him."
"I would prefer you didn't. He gets agitated whenever anyone's in the room and that doesn't help things. Right now he's as stable as I can make him and as comfortable as possible."
"I don't want him dying alone."
There was a pause. "Sire, we all die alone. Even if you were in the room with him, he would still leave unto the Fade… alone. He needs to be kept calm so his body can decide whether it's going to revive. We're doing everything we can for him."
V put a hand over his eyes. In a small voice that he didn't recognize, he said, "I don't… I don't want to lose him. I, ah… yeah, don't know what I would do if he—" V coughed a little. "Fuck."
"I shall care for him as mine own. Give him a day to try and stabilize."
"Nightfall tomorrow, then. And you will call me if his condition gets worse."
V hung up the phone and found himself staring at one of the lit candlewicks. Over its black wax torso, the captured little head of light weaved in the currents of the room.
The flame got him thinking. The bright yellow of it was… well, it was kind of like the color of blond hair, wasn't it.
He whipped out his cell, deciding that Havers was wrong about the no-visitors thing. It just depended on who the visitor was.
As he dialed, he resented the only option he had. And knew that what he was doing probably wasn't fair. Probably would cause a helluva lot of trouble, too. But when your best friend was doing the tombstone two-step with the Reaper, you kind of didn't give a shit about a lot of things.
"Mistress?"
Marissa looked up from her brother's desk. The seating chart for the Princeps dinner was in front of her, but she couldn't concentrate. All that searching of the clinic and the house and she'd come up with nothing. Meanwhile, her senses were screaming that something was wrong.
She forced a smile for the doggen in the doorway, "Yes, Karolyn?"
The servant bowed. "A call for you. On line one."
"Thank you." The doggen inclined her head and left as Marissa picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"He's in the room down by your brother's lab."
"Vishous?" She jumped to her feet. "What—?"
"Go through the door marked housekeeping. There's a panel to the right that you push open. Make sure you put on a hazmat suit before you go in to see him—"
Butch… dear God, Butch. "What—"
"Do you hear me? Put the suit on and keep it on."
"What ha—"
"Car accident. Go. Now. He's dying."
Marissa dropped the phone and ran from Havers's study, nearly mowing down Karolyn out in the hall.
"Mistress! What's wrong?"
Marissa shot through the dining room, punched open the butler's door, and stumbled into the kitchen. As she made the corner to the back stairs, she lost one of her high heels, so she kicked off the other and kept going in her stocking feet. At the bottom of the steps, she entered the security code to the rear entrance of the clinic and burst into the ER's waiting room.
Nurses called out her name, but she ignored them as she raced for the lab's corridor. Tearing past Havers's laboratory, she found the door marked housekeeping and slammed it open.
As she panted, she looked around at… nothing. Just mops and empty buckets and smocks. But Vishous had said—
Wait. There were faint marks on the floor, a little pattern of wear that suggested a hidden door opening and closing. She shoved the smocks out of the way and found a flat panel. Clawing with her nails, she forced it open and frowned. It was some kind of dimly lit monitoring room with a high-tech setup of computers and vitals readouts. Leaning in to the blue glow of one of the screens, she saw a hospital bed. On top of it, a male was lying spread-eagled and restrained with tubes and wires coming out of him. Butch.
She barged past the yellow hazmat suits and facial masks hanging next to the door and pushed into the room, the air lock breaking with a hiss.
"Virgin in the Fade…" Her hand went to her throat.
He was definitely dying. She could sense it. But there was something else—something frightening, something that set off her survival instincts sure as if she were confronted by an attacker with a gun. Her body screamed for her to run, get out, save herself.
But her heart brought her to his bedside. "Oh… God."
The hospital johnny left his arms and his legs bare, and it seemed as if he was bruised everywhere. And his face… good Lord, he was desperately battered.
As he made a groaning noise in the back of his throat, she reached out to take his hand—oh, no, not the
re, too. His blunt fingers were swollen at the tips, the skin purple, some of the nails missing.
She wanted to touch him, but there was no place that she could. "Butch?"
His body jerked at the sound of her voice and his eyes opened. Well, one of them did.
As he focused on her, a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. "You're back. I just… saw you at the door." His voice was weak, a tinny echo of the bass it normally was. "I saw you then… lost… you. But here you are."
She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and wondered which nurse he thought she was. "Butch—"
"Where did… the yellow dress go?" His words were garbled, his mouth not moving much, as if his jaw were broken. "You were so beautiful… in that yellow dress…"
Definitely a nurse. Those suits hanging next to the door were yello—shoot. She hadn't put one on, had she? Holy hell, if his immune system was compromised, she needed to protect him.
"Butch, I'm going to go out and get a—"
"No—don't leave me… don't go…" His hands started twisting in the binds, the leather restraints creaking. "Please… dear God… don't leave me…"
"It's okay, I'll be right back."
"No… woman I love… yellow dress… don't leave me..."
Not knowing what else to do, she leaned down and softly laid her palm on his face. "I won't leave you."
He dragged his bruised cheek into her touch, his cracked lips brushing her skin as he whispered, "Promise me."
The air lock broke with a hiss and Marissa looked over her shoulder.
Havers burst into the room as if he'd been torpedoed inside. And through the yellow mask he wore, the horror in his stare was as obvious as a scream.
"Marissa!" He swayed in the protective suit he had on, his voice muffled and frantic. "Sweet Virgin in the Fade, what are you—you should have a hazmat on!"
Butch started to struggle on the bed, and she lightly stroked his forearm. "Shh… I'm right here." When he'd calmed a little, she said, "I'll put one on right now—"
