by J. R. Ward
Lot of bunks: three sets of uppers and lowers with a single off to one side.
Clothes in big sizes. Candles for light. Matches. Reading materials.
Cell phone charging cords. One for a laptop.
And that was it.
No weapons. No electronics. Nothing that offered any true identification.
Then again, the Band of Bastards had started out as nomads, so of course their personal effects were few and very portable—and this was part of the reason they were so dangerous: They could relocate at the drop of a hat and leave no meaningful footprint behind.
This definitely was, however, their inner sanctum, the site where they were relatively vulnerable during the day—and they did protect themselves accordingly: The walls and the ceiling and the back of the door were covered with steel mesh. No getting down here, or out of here, but through that opening way above.
She went around slowly, looking for trapdoors, a tunnel entrance, anything.
They’d need an ammunition storage facility somewhere in here: Even as mobile as they liked to be, there was no way they could go out night after night buying just enough bullets to get them to the dawn.
They’d need a cache.
Refocusing on the single cot, she guessed it was Xcor’s, as their leader, and it didn’t take a genius to figure that if there was any hiding place, it would be in his area—he had just the kind of suspicious mind to not fully trust even his own soldiers.
Investigating the bed with her light, she searched for triggering mechanisms either to an alarm or a bomb or a trapdoor. Finding none, she sheathed her guns for a moment and lifted up the metal frame, moving aside. Taking out a miniature handheld metal detector, she scanned the dirt floor and…
“Hello, boys,” she murmured.
Her handy-dandy piece of equipment picked up a perfectly square outline that measured about four by two and a half feet. Kneeling down, she used one of her knives to displace the soil around the peripheral edges. Whatever it was, was buried deep—
Xhex froze as her acute hearing informed her that a car had pulled up.
It was not one of the Bastards or their cohorts, however. The emotional grid was far too uncomplicated.
A doggen, arriving with provisions?
Flashing up to the head of the stairs, she shut the door as much as she could without reengaging the lock and then went back to the buried box. Moving at triple time now, she kept one ear pinned on the footsteps creaking around on the first floor.…
On the long side of the delineated rectangle, she used her knife point to probe the packed dirt for a handle. Finding nothing, she repeated the investigation on the short—
Bingo. Brushing the earth away, she gripped a circular ring, put the penlight back between her teeth and heaved with everything she had. The lid weighed as much as a car hood, and she had to swallow her grunt—
Wow. Talk about an arsenal.
In the large box below there were handguns, shotguns, knives, ammunition, munitions cleaning supplies… all of it in a well-ordered, obviously watertight environment.
Among which was a long, black, hard-plastic rifle case.
She took the thing out and put it on the dirt floor next to her. One look at the lock and she cursed. Fingerprint activated.
Whatever. The damn thing was big enough to house one or maybe two long-noses. So it was coming with her.
With quick, sure hands, she shut the lid, kicked dirt back over it, and patted the surface so it was packed hard once more. Covering her tracks took less time than she thought, and before she knew it, she was moving the bunk into place again.
Picking up the case with her left hand, she listened. The doggen was moving around upstairs, the female’s grid as unremarkable as it had been when she had arrived: She had heard nothing, knew nothing.
Glancing around, Xhex thought it was unlikely that the maid had the key to get down here. Xcor would be too cagey for that. But still, it wasn’t safe to just hang out. Even if they gave the doggen the run only of the upstairs, one of the Bastards could get injured in the field at any time, and though she had no hesitation in fighting any one of them, or every fucking one, if the rifle was in fact in this case, she needed to get the weapon out immediately.
Time for a meet-and-greet.
As she dematerialized up to the head of the stairs, her weight on the top step released a creak from the wood.
On the far side, the doggen called out, “Sire?” There was a pause. “Wait, I shall assume the position.”
What. The. Fuck?
“I am ready.”
Xhex palmed the doorknob, opened the way, and stepped out, expecting to find some kind of Kama Sutra nightmare going on.
Instead, the older female was standing in the corner of the kitchen facing the juncture of the walls, with her eyes covered by her hands.
They didn’t want her to be able to identify them, Xhex thought. Smart. Very smart.
Timely, too, as she would have had to waste precious minutes screwing with the female’s head. Further, that “position,” as it were, was going to save the doggen’s life later, when Xcor eventually found out that his lair had been infiltrated while they were gone.
If you didn’t see anyone ever, there was no way you were protecting an intruder.
Xhex shut the door, and the lock triggered itself, reengaging. Then she dematerialized right out of there, carrying the gun case against her chest.
Good thing it wasn’t that heavy.
And God willing, Vishous was going to be off rotation for the night.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Back at the Brotherhood compound, Tohr held the basement door open and stood aside as John passed by and hit the stairs.
Descending after the other male, Tohr’s body was stiff, especially his back and shoulders. His nightly workouts as a furniture mover were finished, though. After a final three-hour push this evening, his and Wellsie’s house was officially empty, and on its way to being entered into Caldwell’s MLS system. Fritz had met with the Realtor during the day, and the price they had set was aggressive, but not crazy. If Tohr had to carry the costs of the place for another couple of months, or even through the spring, that was fine.
Meanwhile, the furniture and rugs had been moved into the mansion’s garage; the paintings and etchings and ink drawings were up in the climate-controlled part of the attic; and the jewelry box was in Tohr’s closet above the mating dress.
So it was… done.
At the bottom of the stairs, he and John set off at a resolute pace that took them through a cavernous room and by the massive boiler that not only kicked out enough heat to keep the main part of the house warm, but threatened to fry his face and body as he strode into its orbit.
Continuing onward, their footsteps were loud, the air cooling fast as they left the boiler’s range and hit the second half of the basement. This part was cut up into storage rooms, one of which would soon hold the balance of his and Wellsie’s furniture, another of which was V’s private workspace.
No, not that kind of work.
He used his penthouse for that shit.
Vishous’s forge was down here.
The sound of the Brother’s fire-breathing monster started off as a low hum; by the time they turned the final corner, the dull roar was loud enough to drown out the sound of their shitkickers. In fact, the only thing that cut through the din was the tink-tink-tink of V pounding a hammer on red-hot black metal.
As they stepped into the doorway of the cramped stone room, V was hard at work, his bare chest and shoulders gleaming in the orange light of the flames, his muscled arm rising up to strike again and again. His concentration was fierce—and it should be. The blade that strip of metal was becoming would be responsible for keeping its owner alive, as well as getting the enemy good and dead.
The Brother looked up as they appeared, and nodded. After two more strikes, he put down his hammer and cut the oxygen feed to the fire pit.
“What’s doing?”
he said as the great growl settled into a purr.
Tohr glanced over at John Matthew. The kid had been a star throughout the whole process, never faltering in the grim work of dismantling a lifetime’s worth of keepsakes, mementos, and collections.
So hard, this was. On the both of them.
After a moment, Tohr looked back at his brother… and found himself at a loss for words—except V was already nodding and getting to his feet. Removing the heavy leather gloves that went up to his elbows, he stepped free of his station.
“Yeah, I’ve got them,” the brother said. “Back at the Pit. Come on.”
Tohr nodded, because that was all he had to share with anyone. Still, as the three of them filed out and walked in sad silence back for the stairs, he clapped his hand on John’s nape and kept it there.
The contact comforted them both.
When they emerged into the kitchen, there was too much Last Meal chaos for any of the staff to really notice them—so fortunately there were no questions, no kind inquiries, no guesses about why they were all looking so serious.
Out the butler’s pantry. Hop across to the hidden door beneath the staircase. Down into the tunnel to avoid the cold of the winter.
As they hung a right and headed in the opposite direction from the training center, he couldn’t believe on some level that this was happening. His shitkickers even faltered a couple of times, like maybe they were trying to pull him away from this last piece.
He was resolved, however.
At the door that led into the Pit, V punched in the code and opened the way up, indicating that they should go first.
The place where Butch and V bunked in with their shellans was the same as always—except neater now that there were females cohabitating there: The Sports Illustrateds were in an orderly pile on the coffee table; the kitchen didn’t have empty bottles of Lag and Goose all over the counters; and there were no more gym bags or biker jackets hanging off of everything.
V’s Four Toys still took up one whole corner, however, and the massive plasma-screen TV remained the biggest thing in the place.
Some things would never change.
“She’s in my room.”
Tohr wouldn’t ordinarily follow the guy into his private space, but this was not ordinary.
V and Doc Jane’s room was small and had more books than bed in it, stacks of physics tomes and chemistry volumes crowding the rug until you could barely walk on it. The good doctor made sure the place wasn’t a total pigsty, however, with the duvet all pulled up nice and neat, and the pillows angled carefully against the headboard.
Over in the corner, Vishous opened the closet and reached up to the top shelf, straining even with his height for…
The black velvet–wrapped bundle he brought out was big enough and heavy enough to require both hands, and he grunted as he eased back and carried it over to the bed.
As he put the thing down, Tohr had to force himself to keep breathing.
There she was. His Wellsie. Everything that was left of her on earth.
Lowering onto his knees before her, he reached forward and undid the satin bow at the top. With hands that shook, he pried the velvet bag open and pushed it down, revealing a sterling silver urn that had art deco etchings on its four sides.
“Where did you get this?” he said, running a forefinger down the bright, shiny metal.
“Darius had it in a back room. I think it’s Tiffany, from the thirties. Fritz polished it up.”
The urn was not part of their tradition.
Ashes were not meant to be kept.
They were supposed to be set free.
“It’s beautiful.” He glanced up at John. The kid’s face was pale, his lips tight… and in a quick, slashing movement, he brushed under his left eye. “We’re ready to do her Fade ceremony, aren’t we, son.”
John nodded.
“When?” V asked.
“Tomorrow night, I think.” As John nodded again, Tohr said, “Yeah, tomorrow.”
“You want I talk to Fritz and set it up?” V asked.
“Thanks, but I’ll take care of it. John and I are going to do it.” Tohr refocused on the lovely urn. “He and I are going to let her go… together.”
Standing over Tohr, John was having a difficult time keeping it together. Hard to know what was getting to him more: the fact that Wellsie was actually in the room with them again, or that Tohr was kneeling before that urn as if his legs weren’t working right.
The past couple of nights had been a brutal exercise in reorientation. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known Wellsie was gone; it was just… dismantling everything in that house had made that fact so loud, there was a constant screaming in his head.
Goddamn it, she was never going to know that he’d made it through his transition, or that he was a halfway decent fighter, or that he’d gotten mated. If he ever had a child of his own, she’d never hold it in her arms, or see a first birthday, or get to witness first steps or first words.
Her absence made his own life seem less full, and he had the awful feeling that that was always going to be true.
As Tohr bent his head, John went over and put his palm on the guy’s heavy shoulder, reminding himself that however hard this was for him, what Tohr was going through was a thousand times worse. Shit, though, the Brother had been strong, making all those out and safe decisions about everything from pairs of jeans to pots and pans, working steadily in spite of the fact that he had to be raw on the inside.
If John hadn’t respected the fuck out of the Brother before, he sure as hell did now—
“Vishous?” came a female voice down the hall.
John wrenched around. Xhex was here?
Tohr cleared his throat and pulled the velvet bag back into place. “Thanks, V. For taking such good care of her.”
“V? You got a minute?” Xhex called out. “I need to— Oh, shit.”
As she stopped herself, like she’d tweaked to the vibe in the bedroom from where she was out in front, Tohr got to his feet and nodded at John with a smile too generous to comprehend. “You’d best go to your female, son.”
John hesitated, but then V stepped up and put his arms around his brother, whispering low words.
Giving the males some privacy, John went down to the living room.
Xhex was not surprised to see him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
It’s okay. His eyes went to the carrying case in her hand. What’s that?
Even though he knew… Holy shit, had she gotten the—
“That’s what we need to find out.”
In a sudden panic, he looked her over carefully, searching for signs of injury. There were none, though. She had gone in and come out in one piece.
John didn’t mean to do it, but he lunged forward and grabbed her hard, holding her against his body. As she embraced him in return, he felt the rifle case press into his back, and he was just… really fucking glad she was alive. So fucking glad—
Shit, he was tearing up.
“Shh, John, it’s okay. I’m safe. I’m all right.…”
While he shuddered, she held him with the strength and power in her body, keeping him together, blanketing him with exactly the kind of deep love that Tohr had lost.
Why some people were lucky and others were not seemed the cruelest kind of lottery.
When he finally pulled back, he mopped up his face and then signed, Will you come to Wellsie’s Fade ceremony?
There was no hesitation. “Absolutely.”
Tohr says he would like the two of us to do it together.
“Good, that’s good.”
At that moment, Vishous and Tohr came back out, and both Brothers immediately locked eyes on that case.
“You are fan-fucking-tastic,” V said with a kind of awe.
“Hold your ass-kissing—I haven’t opened it yet.” She held the thing out to the Brother. “Fingerprint lock. I need your help.”
V grinned in an evil way. �
�Far be it from me to not come to the aid of a lady. Let’s do this.”
As the pair of them took the gun case over to the kitchen counter, John pulled Tohr aside. Nodding at the velvet-covered urn, he signed, Do you need me any further tonight?
“No, son, you stay with your female—I’ve got to go out for a little bit, actually.” The guy stroked the velvet. “I’m going to put her in my room first, though.”
Yeah, okay. Cool.
Tohr hugged him hard and fast, and then went out the door into the tunnel.
From over in the kitchen, Xhex said, “How are you going to— Well, yeah, that’ll work.”
The smell of burning plastic had John twisting around. V had removed his glove and put his glowing forefinger up against the locking mechanism, acidic smoke rising from the contact in nasty curls of dark gray.
“My prints tend to do the job on just about anything,” the Brother said.
“Clearly,” Xhex murmured, her hands on her hips, her taut body bent forward. “You ever barbecue with that thing?”
“Only lessers—and they ain’t good eatin’.”
Staying back, John stared across the way and just… Well, he was just amazed at the female. Who the fuck did shit like this? Going into the B.o.B.’s secured hideout. Rifling through, looking for a rifle, natch. Coming back like she’d done nothing more incredible than order a Starbucks.
As if she sensed his eyes on her, she glanced over.
Opening himself up emotionally, so that there were no barriers at all, he revealed to her everything he was feeling—
“Got it,” V announced, retracting his glowing hand and regloving it.
Turning the gun case toward Xhex, the Brother said, “How’d you like to do the honors.”
Xhex refocused and cracked open what she had brought home, the mangled locking mechanism falling apart.
Inside, there were a pair of rifles nested in black egg-crate padding, along with long-range scopes.
“Bingo,” she breathed.
She’d done it, John thought. He was willing to bet his left nut that one of those guns was going to prove to be the rifle that shot Wrath.
She’d frickin’ done it.
From out of his gut, a massive groundswell of pride rose, warming his entire body, stretching his lips into a smile so wide his cheeks hurt. Staring at his female, and the mission-critical evidence she’d brought into the fold, he was willing to bet he threw shadows, he was beaming so much.
