by J. R. Ward
As she and Boone entered her building’s outer door, they paused by the rows of mailboxes while she got the right key out.
“I never expected the killer to be connected with the Brotherhood.” She put her key in the inside lock and turned. “I mean . . . he’s one of them, right?”
“No, he fights with them.” Boone helped her get the heavy weight open. “It’s a big difference.”
They were silent as they went down to the basement level, and she let them into her apartment.
“Wow,” he said as he closed them in. “This place is so clean.”
“I had to find something to do with myself during the day.” She took off her parka and hung it by her Pyre’s Revyval cloak, her hand lingering on those folds of black cloth. “It kept my mind off of things.”
When she looked over at him, he had taken a seat on her sofa and had one of her needlepoint pillows in his lap. His deft fingers were traveling over the orderly lines of stitching, tracing a hyacinth.
“This must have taken a long time to do,” he murmured.
“It’s another excellent distraction.” She came over and sat down with him. “Keeps my mind engaged just enough so my thoughts don’t spin out of control.”
“Maybe I should take it up.” He put the pillow aside. “I could sell them and live off the proceeds.”
“It helps me pay the bills.”
“Well, I’ve given up sleeping, so I have extra time on my hands now.”
They stared at each other. And when she leaned in his direction, she wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Things were better than they had been right after the needing, but there were so many unknowns.
Boone stopped her by putting his forefinger on her lips. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I specifically asked Doc Jane if, you know . . . if I’m not pregnant, whether the fertility lasts any longer than the symptoms. She said it doesn’t. So we don’t have to worry.” She frowned. “Unless things have changed for you.”
“You mean whether I want you?” He brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “They haven’t. I’m still not going to tell you no. Not now, not ever.”
She could have said something to him in return, communicated with words that though their situation was complex, her feelings for him were not.
Instead, she let her mouth do the talking by sucking his finger in between her lips and rolling her tongue around it.
The purr that came out of him was what she wanted to hear. And Boone’s next move was to retract his finger and replace it with his tongue as he licked his way into her. The kiss was everything she needed, and she arched against him as she wrapped her arms around his neck. When he pushed her back into the sofa, she let herself go.
Except she wanted him to know she wasn’t using him as a distraction. She did not want to think, it was true. But there were so many other reasons she needed him in this moment.
“Boone . . .”
“You don’t have to explain.” He pulled back. “I just want to be with you and I’ll take you any way I can get you.”
Helania stroked his face as she scented the dark spices that she had come to associate with him. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Ditto.”
Their mouths fused in an even deeper kiss, and they kept that up as clothes were pulled off and stripped down and thrown to the floor. When they were naked, she parted her thighs and welcomed him.
“I’ll go slow,” he said. “In case you’re still sore.”
“Okay.”
She did wince a little, but then he was filling her up, deep inside, thick and hot. Yet he didn’t move.
“Helania . . .” he whispered. “Take my vein.”
Unbidden, her eyes shot to the thick jugular that ran up the side of his throat. It had been so long since she had fed, and the stress she had been under compounded a sudden piercing hunger.
And then there was the possibility she was pregnant.
“Are you sure?” she breathed.
“Do you want me to beg?”
Her fangs dropped down out of her upper jaw in a rush, and he groaned as her lips parted to reveal the twin points. With a quick shift, he repositioned their bodies so that she was on top of his hips, in control . . . dominant.
“Take me,” he said. “Use me.”
The hiss that left her was the kind of sound she had never made before, and as she struck at his throat, Boone shouted her name, his hips punching up, his arousal pushing even farther into her. His taste in her mouth and down the back of her throat was an intoxicating thrill, and as she began to drink, he began to move his pelvis.
Swallowing the nourishment only he could give her, she was filled up in her belly and in her sex as he orgasmed, the sweet pain of her bite clearly sending him over the brink. And that was all she needed. She found her release, too, the rings of pleasure radiating out from her core joining the rush of elation that went along with the strength he was giving her.
As incredible as the sensations were, as tempted as she was to keep going with his vein, she was very careful not to take too much. The fact that he was so pure of bloodline, and had also recently taken from a sacred Chosen—something Helania had never heard of anyone doing before—meant he probably could have given her so much more. But she truly cared about and for him, and she would rather go blood hungry than ever endanger his precious, precious life.
When she had taken enough to sustain herself, she licked the puncture wounds closed and then kissed his mouth. And still their bodies moved together, orgasms compounding orgasms, the sex an expression of all the things neither of them seemed to be able to put into words.
There were so many unanswered questions. So many strings yet to be gathered. So many paths diverging before them.
They had this moment, however. And she could only pray it was not their last.
THIRTY-FIVE
Back when the Band of Bastards had moved in with the Brotherhood at the mansion, the decision had been made to open up a previously closed-off collection of bedrooms. Accessed by going out through the far wall of the second-story sitting room, the footprint of the additional suites extended over the entire kitchen/pantry/laundry wing as well as the garage.
As Butch proceeded down a very nicely appointed hall, he didn’t spare a glance at any of the oil paintings of English landscapes that hung from the paneling, nor did he check out the fresh-even-in-winter flowers on the side tables, nor did he hi-how’re-ya the occasional bust that sat on the ledges under the windows.
He was focused on Fritz. The butler was about three-quarters of the way down, standing in front of a closed door with a quizzical expression on his face.
“Sire?” he said as Butch approached. “The King indicated that he wished for me to unlock this door for you?”
“Yup.”
“The King indicated you were going to inspect the rooms? At my Lord’s direction?”
“Yup. That’s the plan.”
And thank you, Wrath.
Maybe it was the fact that Butch had been a cop in the human system for all those years. Or maybe it was because he felt like he needed to cover his ass to make sure there weren’t any problems in the household. Or maybe he was simply acknowledging his cousin’s position of authority over all matters under this roof—and within the race. But whatever the reason, he’d felt compelled to ask Wrath if it was okay to go through Syn’s shit.
And what do you know, based on Helania’s ID of the Bastard, said permission had been granted.
Butch came to a stop in front of the butler. “I want you to be my witness as I go through everything.”
“Witness?”
“To attest that I didn’t plant anything or otherwise mishandle Syn’s belongings.”
Fritz bowed low. “It is my pleasure to be of service in any way you require.”
“Good deal. Thanks. Now let’s open things up and see what we got.”
The butler inserted a copper key that was nearly the size of hi
s own hand in the lock, and there was a clunking sound as the old-fashioned tumblers disengaged. No creaking hinges. That would never happen in a household run by Fritz.
As the light from the hall streamed into the darkness, Butch frowned at what he saw—or, to be more accurate, what he did not see.
“What the fuck?” he muttered.
“This is the way he wishes it to be.”
Butch shook his head as he entered. The room was totally bare. No carpet. No bed. No bedside table or bureaus. No writing desk or side chairs or any of the antique stuff that filled out every other single square inch of the mansion, like Darius had had a binge-shopping addiction that could only be satisfied by Christie’s.
Butch looked over his shoulder. “Where did Syn put everything? The furniture, I mean.”
“He requested that I get rid of it, and so I reapportioned some of the things to other suites, and the rest went into the basement. I offered to order him something more to his taste, but he informed me that, as a soldier in the Old World, he was used to sleeping in hiding-holes and outposts with nothing more than whatever he could carry on his back. Even the most rudimentary of decor made him feel cramped.”
As Butch walked around the bare floorboards, the footfalls of his loafers echoed around the barren walls. “You’re sure that it’s looked like this since he moved in? There’s no chance that in the last forty-eight or seventy-two hours that he came back and cleaned anything out?”
As Fritz’s face fell and he paled, Butch realized what he’d done. Rushing back to the butler, he put his hands out—but then dropped them because he knew he’d only make things worse if he tried to touch the doggen.
“I’m sorry,” Butch said in a rush. “I was just mumbling, you know, talking to myself. I did not mean to insinuate that you were misremembering or that you were not aware of the makeup, layout, and contents of every single room, closet, hallway, and basement in this house.”
Fritz hesitated, as if he were worried that Butch was attempting to cheer him up rather than telling the truth.
“I swear on my Lord and Savior,” Butch said as he took out his cross. “The only reason why I spoke that out loud is because it is vital that I see everything in these rooms exactly as it was, without anyone trying to hide their tracks by throwing out something.”
“Is Syn a suspect?” Fritz asked. “For something that was stolen?”
Yes, Butch thought. A life. Or two. Maybe three.
“It’s a difficult situation.” Butch glanced around. “Well, I guess this is a dead end—no, wait, the bathroom and the closet. There has to be a closet in here.”
Walking over, he peeked into the bathroom. The marble expanse had been stripped bare as well, all of the luxuries Butch was now used to seeing gone: No bath mats. No fluffy extra towels. No robes. There was a toothbrush and a single tube of toothpaste. Crest Original.
As if the guy didn’t like fussiness anywhere near his fluoride, either.
Butch opened the drawers. Cracked the cupboards. Leaned into the toilet room.
Razor and shaving lotion were all he got.
He glanced at Fritz. “Where does he sleep?”
“I believe you will see it the now.”
“The closet?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
Walking over to a set of double doors, Butch opened them and blinked as the light came on overhead.
“Okay, this is a criminal waste,” he said as he looked at the bare hanging rods that ran around the room-sized space at shoulder level. “I could fit at least half my wardrobe in here.”
Or all of Marissa’s, Jane’s, and Vishous’s clothes—and his golf cart.
But there was what Fritz had been talking about: In the far corner, a ring of guns and knives had been set in a semicircle, the circumference of which fit a Syn-sized body.
The clothes, such as they were, were stacked in a pile at the foot of the arrangement.
Getting out his phone, Butch stood in the open doorway and took a video of the closet. Then he entered and went over to the clothes. After taking a number of mid-distance and close-up shots, he snagged a pair of nitrile gloves out of his pocket, snapped them on, and went through the layers.
He found a black knit cap. Black sunglasses.
And two pairs of leathers that smelled like they had been places.
He glanced over at Fritz, who was standing in the doorway, his old hands churning in front of him as if he were desperate to help in some way.
“How many pairs of leathers does Syn own?” Butch asked.
“Two. I have ordered more in his precise size, but they are downstairs in the packaging in which they arrived. He has not accepted them as of yet. He is waiting until something is worn through, he told me. Only then will he replace what he has.”
Butch laid out both pairs on the wall-to-wall carpeting, stretching the long legs flat. After photographing the sets separately and then together, he turned them over and did the same to the back sides. Then he repeated the process with the leather jacket before he went through its pockets.
Bullets. Switchblade. Length of chain.
Trident sugarless gum in cinnamon. Okay, so the Bastard was clearly worried about both clean breath and healthy tooth enamel.
Sitting back on his haunches, Butch cursed.
“Whatever is wrong?” Fritz asked.
He debated whether or not to press the butler on if he were certain nothing had been taken out of the closet.
Yeah, ’cuz that had gone so wicked well with the whole decor convo out there.
Refocusing on the leathers, Butch turned them back over so the fronts were showing and stared at the wear marks. The stains. The scratches. Leaning down, he breathed in through his nose, testing the scents.
Okay, right, lot of lesser blood. Some male blood that had to be Syn’s own. Dirt. Sweat. Gunpowder. Sex.
But . . . no female blood. On either set.
Which was kind of a well, shit. Leathers were not the sort of thing that you just threw in the laundry and sent around for a ride with some Tide. They were not cleaned that easily, and going by the butler’s statement, these were the only two pairs that Syn owned.
So, assuming what Fritz said was accurate, it wasn’t like Syn had killed those females, ditched whatever he was wearing on his bottom half, and then thrown on a fresh pair when he got home. Unless he was ordering them himself on the sly and having the rogue leathers shipped to some place in town.
If Butch had some bank account information, he could check and see any transactions that had gone through to that effect. But something told him that that kind of hassle was probably not a big priority for someone who lived this sparsely. Although if you were trying to cover up homicide? You’d Amazon Prime the fuck out of another pair of pants.
Wouldn’t you? he thought.
“What about muscle shirts?” Butch said. “Does he submit them for laundry regularly?”
Fritz bowed. “He does, indeed. He also has two sweatshirts that he alternates between, as well as some gym clothing.”
“I want to speak with the laundress, please.”
Fritz bowed again. “Right away, sire. Stay here. I shall bring her unto you.”
Left alone, Butch sat back on his ass and let his blue-gloved hands dangle off his knees. Staring at the leathers, he tried to find the hole in the reasoning. Some other explanation for why the only two pairs of pants the male seemed to own did not smell like death or the blood of a female.
Maybe Syn had borrowed someone else’s leathers when he’d done the killing and then dumped those. Maybe . . . Fritz had miscounted.
That last one was probably not it.
Leaning to the side, Butch looked out at the vacant bedroom. So empty. So lonely. So . . . not the private quarters of a well-adjusted guy. But the anti-hoarding didn’t mean Syn was a killer.
Helania, on the other hand, had not only been totally certain that she’d seen the Bastard with the deceased, the dark glasses and knit cap
she’d described were right here with the rest of Syn’s clothing—
“Sire? This is Lilf.” Fritz entered the closet with a uniformed female doggen. “She would be pleased to answer any of your questions.”
As Lilf bowed low, Butch noted that her pressed gray-and-white uniform matched her gray hair.
“Sire,” she said, “how may I serve you?”
“Hi, Lilf. Thanks for coming here.”
Butch got up to his feet and indicated the pile of clothes: Three muscle shirts, all pressed, and three undershirts, all pressed, and one black sweatshirt. There were also six pairs of thick black socks and a jockstrap.
“Do you wash all of his clothes? Syn’s?” he said.
“I wash everyone’s clothes, sire.”
“Good, and thank you for doing such a nice job on my own, by the way. Now, can you please tell me if, in the last five nights, you have scented vampire blood on any shirt, pant, sock, fleece—anything owned by anyone in this household? I mean, vampire blood that was not that of the owner.”
“Allow me to think.” Lilf’s eyes traveled around the barren closet. “Well, yes. The Brother Vishous had a muscle shirt with blood, not his own, on it. Just this morning. It was female in derivation.”
No doubt from when the brother had moved Mai’s body. “Good. Okay. Anyone else?”
“Balthazar and Zypher had the same blood on their shirts. I could tell by the scent.”
They had helped V, Butch thought.
There was a long period of silence. “I’m sorry, sire, I seem to be quite slow this evening.”
“Take your time, Lilf. It’s really important that you’re one hundred percent sure.”
The doggen crossed her arms over her chest, lowered her chin, and shut her eyes. As she seemed to fall into a trance-like state, Butch prayed that she would remember that—
“No one else,” she said as she lifted her lids. “Just those three. In the last five nights.”
“Out of the entire household.”
“Yes, sire.” She glanced at Fritz. “Have I done something wrong?”
Fritz patted her on the forearm. “Oh, no, dear. You’re doing just fine—as long as you’re certain.”