Lover Revealed tbdb-4

by J. R. Ward

  "Damn straight I'm not."

  Butch repositioned the Sox cap, and as his wrist passed by his nose, he got another whiff of himself. "Ah, V… listen, there's something weird going down with me."

  "What?"

  "I smell like men's cologne."

  "Good for you. Females dig that kind of thing."

  "Vishous, I smell like Obsession for Men, only I'm not wearing any, you feel me?"

  There was silence on the line. Then, "Human's don't bond."

  "Oh, really. You want to tell that to my central nervous system and my sweat glands? They'd appreciate the news flash, I'm sure."

  "You noticed it after you two were in that patient room together?"

  "It's been worse since then, but I thought I smelled something like it one other time."

  "When?"

  "I watched her get into a car with a male."

  "How long ago?"

  "Like three months. Palmed a Glock when I saw it happen."

  Silence. "Butch, humans do not bond like we do."

  "I know."

  More silence. Then, "Any chance you were adopted?"

  "No. And there are no fangs in the family, if that's what you're thinking. V, man, I drank some of you. Are you sure that I haven't become—"

  "Genetics is the only way. That bite/turning thing's just bullshit folklore. Look, I'll let you through the gates and we'll talk after you see her. Oh, and check it. Wrath has no problem working over lessers to find out what happened to you. But he doesn't want you involved."

  Butch's hand cranked hard on the steering wheel. "Fuck. That. I spent hours earning the right for payback, V. I bled for the right to knock those assholes around and get my own answers."

  "Wrath—"

  "Is a nice guy, but he ain't my king. So he can lay down on this."

  "He just wants to protect you."

  "Tell him I don't need the favor."

  V let off a foul-sounding line or two in the Old Language, then muttered, "Fine."

  "Thank you."

  "One last deet, cop. Marissa's a guest of the Brotherhood's. If she doesn't want to see you, we're going to haul your ass out, true?"

  "If she doesn't want to see me, I'll leave on my own. I swear."

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Marissa heard a knock on the door, she cracked her eyes open and checked the clock. Ten in the morning and she hadn't slept at all. God, she was exhausted.

  But maybe it was Fritz with a report on her things. "Yes?"

  The door opened to reveal a big dark shadow with a baseball hat.

  She sat up, keeping the covers to her bare breasts. "Butch?"

  "Hi." He removed the cap from his head, crushing it in one hand, scrubbing his hair around with the other.

  She willed a candle to light. "What are you doing here?"

  "Ah… I wanted to make sure you were okay in person. Plus your phone…" His eyebrows lifted as if he'd caught sight of the cord she'd ripped out of the wall. "Um, yeah… your phone isn't working. Mind if I come in for a minute?"

  As she took a deep breath, all she smelled was him, the scent going in her nose and blooming all over her body.

  Bastard, she thought. Irresistible bastard.

  "Marissa, I won't crowd you, I promise. And I know you're pissed off. But can we just talk?"

  "Fine," she said, shaking her head. "But don't think we're going to solve anything."

  As he stepped forward, it dawned on her that this was a bad idea. If he wanted to talk, she should meet him downstairs. After all, he was very male. And she was very naked. And they were now… yup, shut in a bedroom together.

  Good planning. Excellent work. Maybe she should jump out a window next.

  Butch leaned back against the door he'd closed. "First, are you all right here?"

  "Yes, I am." God, this was awkward. "Butch—"

  "I'm sorry I got all Humphrey Bogart, big man on you." His bruised face assumed a wince. "It's not that I don't think you can take care of yourself. I'm absolutely scared shitless of myself and I can't handle the idea of you getting hurt."

  Marissa stared at him. See, this was simply awful. This humble apology stuff was liable to get through to her if he kept it up. "Butch—"

  "Wait, please—just hear me out. Hear me out and then I'll leave." He inhaled slowly, his big chest expanding under his fine black coat. "Keeping you away from me seems like the only way to make sure you're safe. But that's about me being dangerous, not you being weak. I know you don't need to be sheltered or have some kind of caretaker."

  In the long silence that followed, she measured him. "So prove it, Butch. Tell me what really happened to you. There was no car accident, was there?"

  He rubbed his eyes. "I got jacked by some lessers." As she gasped, he said quickly, "It was no big deal. Honestly—"

  She put her hand up. "Stop. Give me all of it or none of it. I don't want half-truths. It demeans us both."

  He cursed. Did some more eye scrubbing.

  "Butch, talk or get out."

  "Okay… okay." His hazel stare lifted to her face. "As far as we can figure, I was interrogated for twelve hours."

  She gripped the sheets hard enough to numb out her fingers. "Interrogated… how?"

  "I don't remember much, but based on the damage, I'd say pretty standard stuff."

  "Standard… stuff?"

  "Electroshock, bare-knuckle punches, under-the-fingernails shit." As he stopped, she was very certain the list continued.

  A wash of bile bubbled up her throat. "Oh… God…"

  "Don't think about it. It's over. Done with."

  Sweet Virgin in the Fade, how could he say that?

  "Why—" She cleared her throat. And thought that she'd wanted the whole story so she damn well better show him she could handle it. "Why were you quarantined, then?"

  "They put something in me." He untucked his silk button-down and flashed his black abdominal scar. "V found me left for dead in the woods and took out whatever it was, but now I'm like… connected to the lessers." As she stiffened, he dropped the shirt. "Yeah, the slayers, Marissa. The ones who are trying to exterminate your kind. So believe me when I tell you, my need to know what was done to me isn't some kind of kumbaya, find-my-inner-self bullshit. Your enemies tampered with my body. They put something inside of me."

  "Are you… one of them?"

  "I don't want to be. And I don't want to hurt you or anyone else. But see, this is the problem. There's too much shit I don't know."

  "Butch, let me help you."

  He cursed. "What if—"

  "What if's don't cut it." She took a deep breath. "I won't lie. I'm scared. But I don't want to turn my back on you and you're a fool to try and make me."

  He shook his head, respect in his eyes. "You always been this courageous?"

  "No. But it appears that for you, I guess I am. Are you going to let me in?"

  "I want to. I feel like I need to." But it was quite a while before he crossed the room. "Is it okay for me to sit next to you?"

  When she nodded and moved over, he lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress dipping down from his weight, her body sliding into his. He stared at her for the longest time before reaching for her hand. God, his palm was so warm and big.

  He bent down and brushed his lips over her knuckles, then rubbed his mouth back and forth. "I want to lie down next to you. Not for sex. Not for anything like that. Just—"

  "Yes."

  As he stood up, she lifted the sheets, but he shook his head. "I stay on top."

  He took off his coat and stretched out beside her. Pulled her up close. Kissed the top of her head.

  "You seem really tired," he said in the candlelight.

  "I feel really tired."

  "So sleep and let me watch over you."

  She wedged herself even more tightly against his big body and exhaled. It was so good just to rest her head on his chest and feel his warmth and smell him up close. He stroked her back slowly, and she fell as
leep so fast she didn't realize she'd gone under until she felt the bed moving and woke up.

  "Butch?"

  "I've got to go talk with Vishous." He kissed the back of her hand. "You keep resting. I don't like how pale you are."

  She smiled a little. "No caretaking."

  "That was just a suggestion." His lips lifted on one side. "How about we meet before First Meal? I'll wait for you downstairs in the library."

  When she nodded, he leaned forward and ran his fingertip down her cheek. Then he glanced at her lips and the scent he was throwing off abruptly got stronger.

  Their eyes locked.

  It took less than a second before a craving lit off in her veins, a kind of burning, clenching need. Of their own accord, her eyes shifted from his face to his throat and her fangs began to throb as her reality shrunk to nothing but instinct: She wanted to pierce his thick vein. She wanted to feed from him. And she wanted him to have sex with her body while she did.

  Bloodlust.

  Oh, God. That's was why she was so tired. She hadn't been able to feed from Rehvenge the other night, and then there had been all the stress of Butch being so ill, followed by his taking off. Plus the thing with Havers.

  Not that the whys mattered at the moment. All she knew was the hunger.

  Her lips parted and she started to reach for him—

  Except what would happen if she drank from him?

  Well, that was easy. She'd drain him dry trying to satisfy herself because his human blood was so weak. She would kill him.

  But God, he would taste good.

  She cut off the voice of the bloodlust, and in an act of iron will, put her arms under the sheets. "I'll see you tonight."

  As Butch straightened, his eyes dulled and he put his hands over the front of his hips, like he was hiding an erection. Which naturally made the urge to grab him get even stronger.

  "You take care of yourself, Marissa," he said in a low, sad tone.

  He was at the door when she said, "Butch?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I don't think of you as weak."

  He frowned as if wondering where that came from. "Neither do I. Sleep well, beautiful. I'll see you soon."

  When she was alone, she waited for the hunger to pass and it did. Which gave her some hope. With everything that was going on right now, she would love to put feeding off for a little while. Getting so close to Rehvenge just seemed wrong.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Van drove downtown as night came rolling over Caldwell. After getting off the highway, he took a half-assed access road to the river, easing his truck along a pothole-riddled strip that ran beneath the city's big bridge. Stopping under a pylon marked f-8 in orange spray paint, he got out and looked around.

  Traffic overhead rushed by, semis bumping along with echoing thunder, cars letting off the occasional horn blast. Down here, at river level, the Hudson was almost as loud as the din from above. The day had been the first to carry a shot of spring warmth, and the water was flowing fast from the runoff of melting snow.

  The dark gray rush looked like liquid asphalt. Smelled like dirt.

  He scanned the area, instincts hackling up. Man, alone under the bridge was never a good place to be. Especially as daylight faded.

  Fuck this, he shouldn't have come. He turned back to his truck.

  Xavier stepped from the shadows. "Glad you made it, son."

  Van sucked back his surprise. Shit, the guy was like some kind of ghost. "Why couldn't we do this over the phone?" Well, didn't that sound weak. "I got things I have to fucking do."

  "I need you to help me with something."

  "I told you I wasn't interested."

  Xavier smiled a little. "Yes, you did, didn't you."

  The sound of wheels on loose gravel percolated into Van's ears and he looked to the left. The Chrysler Town & Country, that gold-toned, utterly forgettable minivan, was pulling up right next to him.

  Keeping his eyes on Xavier, Van put his hand in his pocket and slipped his finger into the trigger of his nine. If they were going to try and whack him, they were going to get a lead fight.

  "There's something in the back for you, son. Go ahead. Open her up." There was a pause. "Afraid, Van?"

  "Fuck that." He walked over, ready to pull out his heat. But when he slid back the door, all he could do was recoil. His brother, Richard, was tied up with nylon rope, strips of duct tape over his mouth and his eyes.

  "Jesus, Rich…" When he reached forward, he heard a gun get cocked and he looked up at the minivan's driver. The pale-haired bastard behind the wheel was pointing what looked like a Smith & Wesson forty right in Van's face.

  "I'd like you to rethink my invitation," Xavier said.

  Behind the wheel of Sally Forrester's Honda, Butch cursed as he took a left at a stoplight and saw a Caldwell PD patrol car parked at the Stewart's on the corner of. Framingham and Hollis. Holy hell. Driving around in a stolen car with two grand in cash did not make a guy feel relaxed.

  Good thing he had backup. V was right on his ass in the Escalade as they headed to the Barnstable Road address.

  Nine and a half minutes later, Butch found Sally's little Cape Cod. After he killed the headlights and let the Accord roll to a stop, he broke the wire connection to cut off the engine. The house was dark, so he walked right up to the front door, shoved the envelope with the cash through the mail slot, and then beat feet across the street for the Escalade. He wasn't worried about getting caught on this quiet street. If anyone asked questions, V would just do a mental Windex on them.

  He was getting into the SUV when he froze, an odd feeling rushing through him.

  For no apparent reason, his body started to ring—that was the only way he could describe it. Like there was a cell phone smack dead in the center of his chest.

  Down the street… down the street. He had to go down the street.

  Oh, God—lessers were there.

  "What is it, cop?"

  "I feel them. They're close."

  "Game on, then." Vishous slipped out from behind the wheel and they both shut their doors. As V hit the alarm, the Escalade's lights flashed once. "Go with it, cop. Let's see where this takes us."

  Butch started walking. Then fell into a jog.

  Together they ran through the shadows of the peaceful subdivision, staying out of the pools of light thrown by porches and streetlamps. They cut through someone's backyard. Dodged around an aboveground pool. Sidled past a garage.

  The neighborhood got shittier. Dogs barked in warning. A car passed by with no headlights on and rap thumping. And then an abandoned house. Followed by an empty lot. Until finally they came up to a decrepit two-story from the seventies that was surrounded by a nine-foot-high wooden fence.

  "In here," Butch said, looking around for a gate.

  "Give me your leg, cop."

  As Butch grabbed the top of the fence and cocked his knee, V tossed him over the thing like he was the morning newspaper. He landed in a crouch.

  There they were. Three lessers. Two of whom were dragging a male out of the house by his arms.

  Butch went into an instant overboil. He was radioactive angry about what had been done to him, frustrated by his fears for Marissa, trapped by his human nature—and those slayers became the focal point of his aggression.

  Except V materialized next to him and grabbed his shoulder. As Butch wheeled around to tell the brother to fuck off, Vishous hissed, "You can have at them. Just keep it quiet. We've got eyes everywhere and without Rhage around, I need to fight on all cylinders, true? So I can't pull off no mhis. I'm not going to be able to mask this one."

  Butch stared at his roommate, realizing this was the first time he'd ever been given free rein to go fight. "Why are you letting me in now?"

  "We gotta be sure whose side you're on," V said, unsheathing a dagger. "And this is how we'll know. So I'll take the two with the civilian and you hit the other one."

  Butch nodded once, then sprang forward, aware of a great r
oaring between his ears and within his body. As he gunned for the lesser that was about to move in on the house, the thing turned like he heard the approach.

  The bastard merely looked annoyed as Butch ran up on him. "About time you backups showed." The slayer pivoted away. "There are two females in here. The blonde's really fast, so I want her—"

  Butch tackled the lesser from behind and made like a vise, clamping on to the fucker's head and shoulders. It was like mounting a rodeo horse. The slayer went shit wild and spun around, grabbing at Butch's legs and arms. When that didn't work, the thing slammed the two of them back against the house hard enough to dent the aluminum siding.

  Butch stayed locked on, his forearm tight against the lesser's esophagus, his other hand on his straining wrist, pulling back. To get an even better hold, he linked his legs around the slayer's hips, crossed his ankles, and squeezed with his thighs.

  It took a while, but asphyxia and exertion eventually slowed the undead down.

  Except, holy hell, by the time the lesser's knees started to wobble, Butch knew what a pinball felt like. He'd been knocked against the house's exterior, then its front doorjamb, and now they were in the hall and he was getting banged back and forth in the narrow space. His brains were pinging around the inside of his skull and his internal organs were like scrambled eggs, but, goddamn it, he was not letting go. The longer he kept the lesser occupied, the more chance those females had to escape—

  Oh, shit, it was Tilt-A-Whirl time. The world spun and Butch hit the floor first, the lesser turtling over on top of him.

  Bad place to be. Now he was the one who couldn't breathe.

  He threw out a leg, kicked against the wall, and slid out from under, wrenching the lesser's torso. Unfortunately, the bastard pulled a twist move, too, and the two of them started rolling around and around on the nasty orange carpet. Finally, Butch's strength wore out.

  With little effort, the slayer flipped him over so they were face-to-face, then cranked Butch into a submission hold, immobilizing him.