by J. R. Ward
They were just pulling out of Hayers's drive when V said, "By the way, you got a telephone call on the general line. Late last night. Guy named Mikey Rafferty."
Butch frowned. Why would one of his brothers-in-law be calling, especially that one? Of all his sisters and brothers, Joyce disliked him the most—which was really saying something, considering how the others felt. Had his father finally had the heart attack that had been waiting in the wings all these years?
"What did he say?"
"Baptizing a kid. Wanted you to know so you could show if you were into it. It's this Sunday."
Butch looked out the window. Another baby. Well, Joyce's first, but it was grandchild number… how many? Seven? No… eight.
As they drove along in silence, heading toward the city's urban hub, the lights from oncoming cars flared and faded. Houses were passed. Then stores. Then turn-of-the-century office buildings. Butch thought of all the people living and breathing in Caldwell.
"You ever want kids, V?"
"Nope. Not interested."
"I used to."
"No more?"
"Not gonna happen for me, but it doesn't matter. Plenty of O'Neals in this world now. Plenty."
Fifteen minutes later, they were downtown and parked behind ZeroSum, but he found it hard to get out of the Escalade. The familiarity of it all—the car, his roommate, his watering hole—unsettled him. Because even though it was just the same, he had changed.
Frustrated, cagey, he reached forward and got a Red Sox hat out of the glove compartment. As he put it on, he opened the door, telling himself he was being melodramatic and this was all business as usual.
The moment he stepped foot out of the SUV, he froze.
"Butch? What is it, my man?"
Well, wasn't that the million-dollar question. His body seemed to have turned into some kind of tuning fork. Energy was vibrating through him… drawing him…
He turned and started walking down Tenth Street, moving fast. He just had to find out what it was, this magnet, this homing signal.
"Butch? Where you going, cop?"
When V grabbed his arm, Butch snapped free and broke into a jog, feeling like he was on the end of a rope and something was pulling him.
He was dimly aware of V jogging next to him and talking as if he'd gotten on his cell phone. "Rhage? I got me a situation here. Tenth Street. No, it's Butch."
Butch began to run flat out, the cashmere coat flapping behind him. When Rhage's towering body materialized in his path from out of nowhere, he made a shift to get around the male.
Rhage jumped right in his way. "Butch, where you going?"
When the brother grabbed at him, Butch shoved Rhage back so hard the guy slammed against a brick building. "Don't touch me!"
Two hundred yards of hauling it later, he found what was calling him: Three lessers coming out of an alley.
Butch stopped. The slayers stopped. And there was a hideous moment of communion, one that brought tears to Butch's eyes as he recognized in them what was inside of him.
"Are you a new recruit?" one of them asked.
"'Course he is," another said. "And you missed check-in tonight, idiot."
No… no… oh, God, no…
In a synchronized movement, the three slayers looked over his shoulder at what had to be V and Rhage coming around the corner. The lessers prepared to strike, falling into combat stance, bringing up their hands.
Butch took a step toward the trio. Then another.
"Butch…" The aching voice behind him was Vishous. "God… no."
Chapter Thirteen
John shuffled his little body around and closed his eyes again. Wedged into the seat of a beat-up, ugly-ass, avocado green armchair, he smelled Tohr with every inhale he took: The decorator's nightmare had been the Brother's favorite possession and Wellsie's "seatus non grata." Exiled here to his office at the training center, Tohr had spent hours doing admin work in it while John studied.
John had used the thing as a bed since the killings.
Aggravated, he twisted himself around so his legs were draped over one arm and his head and shoulders were shoved back into the top half of the chair. He squeezed his eyes closed even harder and prayed for some rest. Trouble was, his blood was buzzing through his veins and his head was spinning with a whole lot of nothing specific, everything urgent bullshit.
God, class had ended two hours ago and he'd worked out even after the other trainees had left. Plus he hadn't slept well for a week. You'd think he'd be out like a light.
Then again, maybe he was still worked up over Lash. That SOB had been all over him about passing out in front of the whole class yesterday. Man, John hated that kid. He really did. That arrogant, rich, snarky—
"Open your eyes, boy, I know you're awake."
John went into a full-body jerk and nearly landed on the floor. As he hauled himself back up, he saw Zsadist in the doorway to the office, dressed in that uniform of skintight turtle-neck and loose sweats.
The expression on the warrior's face was as hard as his body. "Listen up, because I'm not going to say this again."
John gripped the arms of the chair. He had a feeling what this was about.
"You don't want to go to Havers's, fine. But cut the shit. You're skipping meals, you look like you haven't slept for days, and your attitude is beginning to irritate the fuck out of me."
Yeah, this wasn't like any parent/teacher conference John had ever had. And he wasn't taking the criticism well: Frustration swirled in his chest.
Z jabbed his forefinger across the room. "You stop marking Lash, we clear? Leave the fucker alone. And from now on, you come up to the house for meals."
John frowned, then reached for his pad so he'd be sure Z would understand what he wanted to say.
"Forget about a response, boy. I'm not interested." As John started to get downright pissed, Z smiled, revealing monstrous fangs. "And you know better than to get up in my grill, don't you."
John looked away, certain the Brother could break him in half without any effort at all. And resentful as hell about that fact.
"You will quit it with Lash, you feel me? Do not make me get involved with the two of you. Neither of you will like it. Nod so I know you understand."
John nodded, feeling ashamed. Angry. Exhausted.
Choking on all the aggression inside of him, he blew out a breath and rubbed his eyes. God, he'd been so calm all his life, maybe even timid. Why was everything setting him off lately?
"You're getting close to the change. That's the why of it."
John slowly lifted his head. He'd heard that right, hadn't he?
Am I? he signed.
"Yeah. That's why it is imperative that you learn how to control yourself. If you make it through the transition, you're going to come out the other side with a body capable of things that will floor you. I'm talking about raw physical strength. The brute kind. The kind that can kill. You think you got problems now? Wait'll you have to deal with handling that load. You need to learn your control now."
Zsadist turned away, but then paused and looked over his shoulder. Light fell on the scar that ran down his face and distorted his upper lip. "One last thing. Do you need someone to talk to? About… shit?"
Yeah, right, John thought. Over his dead body he was going back to Havers to see that therapist.
Which was why he refused to go get checked out. Last time he'd tangled with the race's physician, the guy had blackmailed him into a therapy session he hadn't wanted, and he had no intention of repeating the Dr. Phil hour. With everything going on recently, he wasn't getting into his past again, so the only way he was going back to that clinic now was if he was bleeding out.
"John? You want to talk to someone?" When he shook his head, Z's eyes narrowed. "Fine. But you get the message about you and Lash, right?"
John looked down and nodded.
"Good. Now drag your ass up to the house. Fritz has made you dinner and I'm going to watch you eat it. And you
will eat all of it. You need to be strong for the change."
Butch walked closer to the slayers and they weren't threatened by him at all. If anything, they were annoyed, like he wasn't doing his job.
"Behind you, dumb ass," the one in the middle said. "Your target's behind you. Two Brothers."
Butch circled around the lessers, reading their imprints instinctively. He sensed that the tallest one had been inducted within the last year or so: There was some trace of human still in him, although Butch wasn't sure how he knew this. The other two were far older in the Society and he was certain of this not just because their hair and skin had paled out.
He stopped when he was behind the three and stared through their big bodies at V and Rhage… who were looking like they'd watched a good friend die in their arms.
Butch knew exactly when the lessers were going to attack and he moved forward with them. Just as Rhage and V sank down into fighting stances, Butch grabbed the middle slayer around the neck and flipped him onto the ground.
The lesser hollered and Butch jumped on top of him, even though he knew he wasn't up to fighting. Sure enough, he was kicked off and the lesser took the driver's seat, sitting on him, choking him. The bastard was brutally strong and pissed off, nothing less than a sumo wrestler with rabies.
As Butch struggled to keep from getting his head ripped off his shoulders, he was dimly aware of a flash of light and a pop. And then another. Clearly, Rhage and V had cleaned house and Butch heard them pound it over. Thank God.
Except it was just as they arrived that the freak show started.
Butch looked deeply into the undead's eyes for the first time and something clicked into place, just locked the two of them up tight as if there were iron bars encircling their bodies. As the slayer went utterly still, Butch felt this overwhelming urge to… well, he didn't know what. But the instinct was strong enough to have him opening his lips to breathe.
And that was when the inhaling started. Before he knew what he was doing, his lungs began to fill in one long, steady draw.
"No…" the slayer whispered, trembling.
Something passed between their mouths, some cloud of blackness leaving the lesser and getting drawn into Butch—
The connection was broken with a brutal attack from above. Vishous grabbed the slayer and yanked the undead free, throwing the thing against a building headfirst. Before the bastard could recover, V fell upon it, black blade slicing down.
As the spark and sizzle faded, Butch's arms fell limp against the asphalt. Then he rolled over onto his side and curled in on himself, arms linking tight against his stomach. His gut was killing him, but more to the point, he felt nauseous as shit, a nasty echo of what he'd struggled with when he'd been at his sickest.
A pair of shitkickers came into his line of sight, but he couldn't bear to look up and see either one of the brothers. He didn't know what the hell he had done or what had happened.
All he knew was that he and the lessers were kin.
V's voice was as thin as Butch's skin. "Are you okay?" Butch squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Think it's best… that you get me out of here. And don't you dare take me home."
Vishous unlocked his penthouse and muscled Butch inside while Rhage held the door open. The three of them had taken the cargo elevator up the back of the building, which made sense. The cop was a dead load, weighing more than he looked like he did, as if the pull of gravity had singled him out for special attention.
They laid the cop flat on the bed and he eased over onto his side, bringing his knees up until they hit his chest.
There was a long stretch of silence, during which Butch seemed to pass out.
Like he was walking off anxiety, Rhage started pacing around, and shit, after that showdown, V was all up in his head, too. He lit up and inhaled hard.
Hollywood cleared his throat. "So, V… this is where you go with the females, huh." The brother went over and fingered a pair of chains bolted into the black wall. "We heard stories, of course. Guess they're all true."
"Whatever." V headed to his bar and poured a long/tall of Grey Goose. "We've got to hit those lessers' houses tonight."
Rhage nodded toward the bed. "What about him?"
Miracle of miracles, the cop lifted his head. "I'm not going anywhere right now. Trust me."
V narrowed his eyes on his roommate. Butch's face, which normally got all Irish ruddy if he exerted himself, was utterly blushless. And he smelled… faintly sweet. Like baby powder.
Jesus Christ. It was like being around those slayers had brought out something else in him—something Omega in him.
"V?" Rhage's voice was soft. Real close. "You want to stay here? Or maybe take him back to Havers?"
"I'm fine," Butch croaked.
A lie on so many levels, V thought.
He polished off his vodka and looked at Rhage. "I'm coming with you. Cop, we'll be back and I'll bring food, true?"
"No. No food. And don't come back tonight. Just lock me in so I can't get out and leave me."
Fuck. "Cop, if you hang yourself in the bathroom, I swear I will kill you all over again, ya herd me?"
Dull hazels opened up. "I want to know what was done to me more than I want to off my ass. So don't worry."
Butch squeezed his lids shut again and after a moment, Vishous and Rhage walked out to the balcony. As V locked the doors, he realized he was more worried about keeping Butch inside than protecting the guy.
"Where we going?" he asked Rhage. Even though he was usually the one with the plans.
"First wallet has an address of Four five nine Wichita Street, Apartment C-four."
"Let's hit it."
Chapter Fourteen
When Marissa opened the door to her bedroom, she felt like an intruder in her own space: A wiped-out, heartbroken, lost… stranger.
Looking around aimlessly, she thought, God, it was such a pretty white room, wasn't it? With its big canopied bed and its chaise lounge and antique dressers and side tables. Everything was so feminine, except for the art on the walls. Her collection of Albrecht Diirer woodcuts didn't match the rest of the decor, those stark lines and hard edges more fitting to a male's eyes and a male's things.
Except that the images spoke to her.
As she went over to look at one, she had a passing thought that Havers had always disapproved of them. He'd thought that Maxfield Parrish paintings of romantic, dreamy scenes were more appropriate for a female Princeps.
They never had agreed on art, had they? But he'd bought the woodcuts for her anyway because she'd loved them.
Forcing herself into action, she closed her door and went for the shower. She had little time before the regularly scheduled Princeps Council meeting tonight, and Havers always liked to arrive early.
As she stepped under the water, she thought how strange life was. When she'd been with Butch in that quarantine room, she'd forgotten all about the council and the glymera and… everything. But now, he was gone and it was all back to normal.
The return struck her as tragic.
After blowing her hair dry, she dressed in a teal Yves St. Laurent gown from the 1960s, then went to her jewelry cabinet and chose an important suite of diamonds. The stones were heavy and cold around her neck, the earrings weighty on her lobes, the bracelet a lock on her wrist. As she stared at the flashing gems, she thought that females in the aristocracy were really just display mannequins for their family's wealth, weren't they.
Especially at Princeps Council meetings.
Going downstairs, she dreaded seeing Havers, but figured it would be good to get it over with. He wasn't in his study, so she headed for the kitchen, thinking he might be having a bite to eat before they left. Just as she was pushing her way into the butler's pantry she saw Karolyn coming out of the door to the basement. The doggen was carrying a heavy load of collapsed cardboard boxes.
"Here, let me help you," Marissa said, rushing forward.
"No, thank you… mistress." The serv
ant flushed and looked away, but that was the way of the doggen. They hated accepting aid from those they served.
Marissa smiled gently. "You must be packing up the library for its new paint job. Oh! Which reminds me. I'm late right now, but we do need to talk about tomorrow evening's dinner menu."
Karolyn bowed very low. "Forgive me, but master indicated the party with the princeps leahdyre was canceled."
"When did he say this?"
"Just now, before he left for the Council."
"He's gone already?" Maybe he assumed she would want to rest. "I'd better hurry off then—Karolyn, are you all right? You don't look well."
The doggen bowed so deeply the boxes brushed the floor. "I am well, indeed, mistress. Thank you."
Marissa raced out of the house and dematerialized to the Tudor home of the current council leahdyre. As she knocked, she hoped Havers had cooled down. She could understand his anger considering what he'd walked in on, but he didn't have a thing to worry about. It wasn't like Butch was in her life or anything.
God, she felt like throwing up every time she thought about that.
She was let in by a doggen and shown to the library. As she walked into the meeting, none of the nineteen at the polished table acknowledged her presence. This was not unusual. What was different was that her brother did not lift his eyes. Nor was there even a seat saved for her on his right. Nor did he even come around and settle her in her chair.
Havers had not cooled down. Not in the slightest.
Well, no matter, she would talk to him after the meeting. Calm him. Reassure him, though it killed her, because she could have used some support from him right now.
She sat at the far end of the table, in the middle of three empty chairs. As the last male walked into the meeting, he froze as he saw that all the seats were taken save for those on either side of her. After an awkward pause, a doggen rushed in with another and the princeps squeezed in elsewhere.
