Blood Truth

by J. R. Ward

  “Who was?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sounded tired, but not as if he were ready to pack in the towel yet. She wasn’t sure she had much more of this endless circling in her, however. As important as it was to find the house, they were just driving around, following a series of her whims, wasting gas—and now with a storm coming?

  God, she wished she could make her brain work better.

  The Bentley slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road, and Boone leaned forward, squinting at a street marker. “Manchester Avenue? Ring any bells?”

  Helania glanced around and didn’t recognize a thing about the area they were in. “None. And these houses . . . all I recall is that it was a white house with a lot of bushes in front. Tall bushes, so you couldn’t see much. I don’t know. I think I’ve wasted our time.”

  “It’s not a waste. Let’s keep going.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the wipers were going back and forth much faster, and the snow falling in the headlights was slashing down.

  “I think we should head back,” she said. “The storm’s getting worse.”

  “Yeah. But there’s always tomorrow night.”

  Boone turned them around, and as the tires of the powerful car gripped the accumulation that was already inching up, she was glad about the four-wheel-drive thing. “Thank you for this.”

  “It was my pleasure to serve you.”

  The words he spoke were offhand, but they made her think about the doggen, that house . . . the world he had grown up in.

  “Are you sure you’re okay giving all of that up?” she asked. “The money, that mansion . . .”

  “I’ve thought a lot about it in the last twenty-four hours, and I can say, hand on heart, that I am. I was never happy there anyway. It’s like what you said, you didn’t know any different and you’re content where you are? Well, I’ve been on the other side, and I hated it a lot of the time, so I feel lighter and freer.”

  “I’m really sorry about your mahmen. You’ve had a lot of death in your life.”

  “No more than anyone else over time—”

  As a phone started to ring all around the car’s interior, she shot upright. “What the—”

  “Sorry, Bluetooth.” He frowned. “You mind if I take this?”

  “Oh, no, please do.”

  Boone accepted the call and spoke into the air. “Hello, Rochelle?”

  A disembodied voice flooded the cockpit. “Boone?”

  “Hey,” he said as he braked at a stop sign and then kept going straight ahead. “I meant to call you back last night. Things have been . . . a little hectic on my end. You okay?”

  “Are you in the car?” The voice went in and out. “The connection’s bad.”

  “Must be the storm. And yes, I am.” His brows went low. “Is everything all right?”

  Helania shifted in her seat. So . . . this was the female he’d almost mated. The one who had wanted to back out of the arrangement that he otherwise would have followed through on. The one who was supposedly in love with someone else.

  It was hard to deny that she was preternaturally interested in hearing the voice properly. But really, being territorial made no damned sense given everything Boone had told her about the female and their relationship.

  “—come see?” Rochelle was saying. “—to talk—to you.”

  “You want to come see me? Sure, but—”

  “Come to—your . . . -se?”

  “My house?”

  “Yes?” was the reedy reply. “Now?”

  Boone looked at the dash. “I’m half an hour away from there. See you in thirty minutes?”

  “—minutes?”

  “Thirty,” he said loudly. “Thirty minutes.”

  “Yes . . . thirty.”

  As the call ended, he looked over. “You mind if we go back to my place? I want to fill the car up with clothes and some of my books, anyway.”

  “Yes, sure.” She found herself putting her hand on her belly. “I’d like to meet Rochelle.”

  “You’re really going to like her. She’s a female of worth.”

  Helania forced a smile and then went back to measuring the swirling pixelation of the flakes in the bright headlights.

  Given everything that was going on, she did not have the energy or composure necessary to get through meeting Boone’s aristocratic almost-shellan. But she would do it just to prove to herself that she could stand on her own two feet.

  She was all about independence, she reminded herself.

  Time to put her money where her mouth was.

  “And listen,” Boone said, “I just want you to know. I don’t have to go to your apartment, you know, after these fourteen nights are up. I figure I’ll get some of my stuff now and keep it with me. Marquist is not going to lock me out again, not after the smackdown Wrath put on him. But you never know how things are going to go, and I might as well start the migration earlier rather than later.”

  Helania pictured him moving in with her, his male clothes in her closet, his big boots taken off just inside the door on her mat, two coffee cups in the sink after First Meal instead of only one.

  “You’re welcome to stay with me.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  As Butch got a load of Wrath stalking down the training center’s corridor, he had to admit the King was still the kind of thing that could make a grown male’s ass pucker. Especially given the pissed-off cloud of aggression that floated around him like an evil aura. Vishous was on one side of him, Tohr on the other, Xcor riding the six—and oh, shit.

  Wrath had left the golden retriever behind.

  So he was getting ready to yell a lot.

  Butch straightened from his lean against the concrete wall. “What’s doin’.”

  “Where is he?” Wrath demanded.

  “Over here.”

  Butch led the procession of doom to the patient room they’d been keeping Syn in, like the Bastard was a wild animal with a communicable disease. Knocking on the door, Vishous popped things wide open before there was an answer.

  As Wrath crashed through the bodies between him and the room, it was clear that blindness wasn’t completely dispositive when it came to his spatial orientation. But there were limits.

  “Someone point me in the Bastard’s direction,” he barked.

  Tohr stepped up and pivoted the King without saying a word. And then he backed the fuck off like he didn’t want to be knocked out by shrapnel.

  Syn, who had been vacillating between not-giving-a-shit and fucking-everyone-and-his-mother-off, straightened on the bed and for once didn’t pull the smirk routine. Not that Wrath technically would have noticed—although, given the King’s ability to scent things, he might well have picked up on any disrespect. And in his current frame of mind, he was clearly inclined to bitch-slap the stoopid right out of anybody.

  “Talk to me, Butch,” the King snapped as he glared down at the Bastard.

  Butch had been preparing for this ever since he’d pulled the trigger on getting the King down here. The case was bizarrely stalled; there weren’t many more rocks to look under when it came to the Bastard, and they couldn’t keep the guy down here forever if there wasn’t a valid reason for the lock-and-key routine.

  Syn deserved to be released or rifled in the skull. Or at least given some kind of idea as to when either of those two eventualities were going to fall on his head. It was only fair—and the kind of call only Wrath could make.

  Clearing his throat, Butch kept shit efficient: Helania’s accusation and ID. Syn’s confession. The shit about the laundry. The count of the leathers. The fact that, contrary to what he’d assumed would be the case, the locker Syn used down here in the training center not holding anything relevant to the case. The failure to ejaculate.

  The last thing that he spelled out was Balthazar’s report on the past, minus the Tiny Tim details about the family situation and the traumatic brain injury.

  Now, technically, that last part, abo
ut the other killings in the Old Country, as well as the brutal one three nights ago of a human assailant, were prejudicial. Evidence of previous crimes was never admissible in human courts. But this was the vampire world, so the rules were different and Wrath was so much more levelheaded than human juries—

  “So did you fucking do it or not,” the King snapped.

  Okay. Fine. Maybe “levelheaded” wasn’t exactly the right word.

  “You heard Butch,” Syn said.

  Wrath leaned down to the Bastard, his long hair falling off his heavy shoulder and swinging loose like a shroud. “Well, I want to hear you say it.”

  Syn shrugged. “No reason to duplicate efforts. And he did such a good job—”

  As something rushed forward, Butch caught the movement out of the corner of his eye—and had to quickly hell-no that shit. Vishous, apparently coming to the conclusion that his status as resident smart-ass was being challenged by Syn’s show of attitude, had decided to bum-rush the hospital bed.

  Butch lunged forward and caught his best friend before shit went total chaos.

  “Not helpful,” Butch hissed in V’s ear as he dragged his roomie back. “You’ve got to chill.”

  “Listen to your bestie, V,” Wrath muttered. “And stay out of this.”

  There was a long period of quiet, during which Syn refused to meet his King’s blind eyes—and Butch passed the time making sure his tight hold around V’s chest didn’t lose tension. Knowing V, the brother was in danger of trying to beat a confession out of the Bastard.

  And not only was that coercive, Butch had the sense it was what Syn wanted.

  “I’m going to be perfectly clear here,” Wrath said in a sharp voice. “We are not going to play suicide-by-cop with you. If you want off this planet on a technicality, that’s fine, but I am not going to let my males help you do it. You’re either going to have to kill yourself or wait for the Grim Reaper to serve you your walking papers. But what you are not going to do is use us and that situation down at Pyre to help you get into the Fade.”

  Syn crossed his arms over his naked chest and clenched his jaw.

  “So,” Wrath continued, “I’m going to ask you again. Did you kill those two females at Pyre?”

  The silence that followed was so dense and so long-lasting that Butch nearly screamed. Except then Syn opened his mouth.

  “Yes, I killed them. Both of them.”

  The King’s nostrils flared, and nobody in the room moved. In fact, Butch was pretty sure everything in Caldwell stopped dead.

  “Why are you lying to me,” the King said grimly.

  • • •

  Given the blizzard-like conditions, Boone made better time getting back to the house than he thought he would, although even the Bentley’s all-wheel drive struggled to get them up the hill to his former neighborhood. When they pulled into the drive, he went right to the front door so that bringing his things out would be easier.

  As he shut off the engine, he looked over at Helania. “We’ll go out again. Tomorrow night.”

  She nodded. “Yes, please.”

  They both got out of the car, and she waited for him to come around, the heavy falling snow making a picture out of her as it collected in her beautiful hair. Stepping up to her, he captured her face in his hands and stared down into her eyes. There were things he wanted to say, but he kept them to himself, mindful of the news they were waiting to hear. Whether or not she was pregnant didn’t change anything for him, and to prove that, he felt as though he had to wait until they knew one way or the other before he could tell her he loved her.

  If she wasn’t with his young, he would be disappointed, but it would be his best shot at reassuring her his feelings and commitment were real. And if she was?

  Well, as Doc Jane had said, they’d just have to cross that bridge if they got to it.

  Boone brushed his thumb over her cheek. “I want you to know that the fact you’re here makes it easier for me to be here.”

  Helania linked her hands over his forearms. “I’m really glad.”

  Dropping his head, he kissed a snowflake off her lower lip. “Come on, it’s cold.”

  Approaching the front door, a gust pushed at their backs and he had to catch her and help her up the steps. Entering the foyer, it was a relief to get out of the storm, but when the lights dimmed and then flickered, he shook his head.

  “I think it’s getting worse,” he said as he muscled the heavy door closed against the wind. “If that’s possible.”

  Helania looked down at her boots. “I’m covered in snow.”

  “This carpet can take it.” He stomped his feet to make her feel better. “Not to worry.”

  She insisted on taking her footwear off, and then she was careful with her parka. “Do you have a ladies’ room? And maybe a cup of tea—”

  “Welcome home, my Lord.” Thomat came out from the back. “Would you all care for some coffee? Hot chocolate?”

  “Oh, hot cocoa, please.” Helania smiled at the chef. “And I’ll help you get it ready.”

  As the chef recoiled, she cursed. “Oh, no. I did it again. I’m not supposed to help, am I?”

  Thomat smiled slowly at her. Then he glanced at Boone. “If my Lord would permit his gracious guest to aid us in preparing hot cocoa and perhaps a small plate of sandwiches for tea, we would be most welcoming of her participation. With my Lord’s permission.”

  Boone smiled back at the chef. Then he mouthed, You’re the best.

  “Hey.” Helania nudged him in the side. “I can read lips, remember.”

  “Yes, you can.” Boone swooped in for a quick kiss. Against her mouth, he whispered, “Do you want to translate what’s on my mind all of a sudden?”

  As she blushed, she said, “Not in mixed company, no, I don’t. But I am so ready for something warm.”

  Thomat hid a laugh, and then he bowed and indicated the way to the kitchen. “Follow me, mistress, and I believe you inquired after a water closet. I shall be pleased to show you to our formal one for the females.”

  “Wonderful. Oh, and I’ll make sure we have something for Rochelle, too.”

  “Thank you,” Boone said as a warm feeling filled him that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the furnaces in the house.

  Helania gave him a little wave, and then the chef in his formal white coat, and the female in her jeans and sweater, went off together through the elegant dining room.

  The door knocker sounded.

  Hurrying over, he opened things. “Oh, Rochelle, come in—this storm is rank.”

  Rochelle entered and stamped her high-heeled boots on the carpet as he shut the storm out again.

  “Horrible,” she said. “Just horrible—”

  As the lights dimmed once more, they both looked up to the fixture overhead. Outside, the wind howled even louder.

  “I think it’s getting worse?” she said as she unwrapped the cashmere scarf that covered her coiffed head.

  “Here, let me take your coat.”

  After he helped her out of a lemon yellow drape that was heavier than it looked, Rochelle removed her gloves and smoothed the chignon she had her blond hair in. Her cheeks were bright from the wind and the cold, her lipstick a perfect nude color, her makeup light and tasteful. The perfume she was wearing . . . Cristalle by Chanel, her signature scent.

  Her eyes were curiously frantic.

  Boone frowned as he put her coat aside and took his own off. “Come in here, sit down by the fire.”

  As he drew her into the parlor, she didn’t go toward the cheerful flames at the marble hearth. She went to the windows that faced out into the storm—and he was reminded of that night, a year ago, when he had come down to this room and found her looking out at the darkness in just the same way.

  “What’s going on,” he said soberly. “Talk to me.”

  Rochelle took a deep breath, her reflection in the glass one of almost unfathomable grief. “This is where it all started.”

  “I’m
sorry?”

  She looked over her shoulder. She was wearing winter-white slacks with a matching jacket, a citrine version of Tiffany’s Bird on a Rock on the left lapel.

  “Here in this room,” she said. “This is where you and I met for the first time alone . . . and everything changed.”

  Boone inclined his head and sat on the sofa. “It is. I was just thinking that myself.”

  “I need to be more honest with you than I’ve been.”

  “Okay.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Come over and sit, you’re looking very pale.”

  But Rochelle didn’t move toward him. She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve practiced and practiced. But now that I’m here with you . . .”

  “Rochelle. There is nothing you can tell me that will change my opinion of you. Do you understand that? Nothing.”

  Dropping her hands, she approached the sofa and perched on the very edge of a cushion. After a long silence, her voice was low.

  “When I came here and told you I couldn’t go through with the arrangement, I misled you.”

  “How so?” Not that it mattered to him. “And whatever it is, it’s all right.”

  “I told you . . . I told you I was in love with someone.”

  Boone reached out and put a hand on her thin shoulder. “It’s all right, just tell me—”

  “It wasn’t a male.”

  “So he was a human?” Boone eased back and shrugged. “I mean, you told me he was a civilian, were you just worried about telling me he—”

  “It wasn’t a ‘he.’ ”

  “I don’t underst—” Boone’s brows popped. “Oh.”

  Rochelle crossed her legs and linked her hands on her knee. “Yes . . . oh. It was a female. I was in love . . . with a female.”

  As his surprise faded, the math that followed was quick. “No wonder you kept it a secret. The fucking glymera—”

  “Does this change how you think of me?” Her eyes locked on the fire, as if she couldn’t bear to see any disapproval on his face. “You can be honest. Please.”

  Boone recoiled. “Of course it doesn’t. Did the fact that I fell in love with a civilian change your opinion of me?”