by J. R. Ward
First stop was the bathroom, something that she was allowed to use readily, but inevitably put off. There was no need to take a shower, as she had done so twelve hours ago during that half hour to be up and around.
No, this was going to be purely investigatory.
What was going on out there?
As she headed over to the door, she smoothed her hair, which seemed to be growing as fast as her scarf was: the blond waves were down past her hips now, and she supposed she should have it cut at some point. Her flannel nightgown was likewise long and loose, rather the size of a flowered tent, and her slippers made a shhht-shhht-shhht sound over the bare floor. With her back already aching, and one arm thrown out to steady herself, she felt as though she were centuries older than she actually was.
Pushing open the way out, she--
Immediately stepped back.
Such that her butt hit the closing panel.
Across the way, a pair of males were standing tall and proud, identical expressions of tension marking their faces.
And by identical, she meant exactly the same.
They were twins.
As they focused on her, both recoiled sure as if they'd seen a ghost.
"Watch yourself," came a nasty growl.
Layla whipped her head toward the warning. "Zsadist?"
The Brother with the scarred face stalked over to her, placing his body, with all its weapons, in between her and the two strangers, even though neither of the males had made an aggressive move toward her. Unsurprisingly, it was a very successful block. Zsadist's torso and shoulders were so large she could no longer see the pair--and that was clearly his plan.
"Get back in there with him," Zsadist barked. "Before I put you in that room."
There was no argument, and abruptly, the foreign scents dissipated as if they had indeed disappeared from the hall.
"They did naught unto me," she said. "Actually, I think if I'd gone, 'Boo!' they might well have run off."
Z glanced over his shoulder. "I think you should return to your room."
"But I'm allowed to stretch my legs twice a night?"
The Brother gently, but firmly, took her elbow and escorted her back through her door and over to her bed. "Not right now. I'll come tell you when it's okay. We have some unanticipated visitors, and I'm taking no chances with the likes of you."
"Who are they?"
"No one you need to worry about--and they're not staying long." Z settled her back into position. "May I bring you some food?"
Layla exhaled. "No, thank you."
"Something to drink, then?"
"I'm fine. Thank you, though."
After bowing deeply, the Brother departed, and she half expected to hear the distant sounds of him pistol-whipping those two soldiers just for looking at her. But that was the way of things. As a pregnant female, she was the most valuable thing on the planet not just to her young's sire, but to every single member of the Brotherhood.
It was like living with a dozen older, bossy, over-protective brothers.
Or Brothers, as was the case.
And ordinarily, she might have challenged even Zsadist. But she hadn't recognized those big males, and God knew she'd already gotten into plenty of trouble fraternizing with fighters she didn't know--and they had to be soldiers. They were built heavy and strong, and they had been wearing holsters.
Albeit empty ones.
So they were not enemies, she decided or they wouldn't have been allowed in the training center at all. But they weren't exactly trusted, either.
Unbidden, an image of Xcor's harsh face came to mind--and the sting of pain that went through her was so strong, the young shifted in her belly as if they felt it, too.
"Stop it," she whispered to herself.
Reaching for the T.V. remote, she turned on the big screen across the way. Fine. She would stay here until those strangers left. Then she would go and sit with Qhuinn's brother, Luchas, who was in recovery two doors away and seemed to look forward to her regular visits. Then perhaps a blather with Doc Jane at her desk, or maybe Blay and Qhuinn would be back from their shifts by then and they would walk her all the way down to the classrooms.
Whoever those soldiers were, she doubted the Brothers would let them stay longer than absolutely necessary. At least going by Zsadist's reaction.
And all the weapons of which they'd so clearly been stripped.
ELEVEN
No time. Abso-fucking-lutely no goddamn time.
As a rash of evil permeated the air, Vishous took off his lead-lined glove and lifted his glowing palm. Closing his eyes and focusing--because his life, and the lives of his two brothers, did in fact depend on it--he sent out a series of buffering impulses of his own--except the mhis he extended was just a pocket in the overall campus landscape, a small section measuring no more than the distance between two inches in front of his face and two inches behind Phury and Tohr's bodies.
Thank God the Hummer was off the property.
"No one move," V commanded as a wavy, iridescent border formed around them all, rather like a child's bubble blown from dishwashing soap.
He had no idea whether this was going to work, but shit knew it had to--the atmosphere was turning a deep shade of malevolence. Hell, even with the mhis in place, his skin prickled with a warning for him to ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!
And that was when the Omega itself appeared about a hundred and fifty yards up ahead.
Talk about your anti-climaxes. On the surface, the inky transparent figure in its Clorox-white robes looked about as intimidating as an animated chess pawn. But that was just going on a visual assessment. Internally, every cell that made up his body, each neuron that fired in his brain, all the emotions he had ever had or would ever have started to scream sure as if he were under a dire mortal attack.
Behind him, a soft muttering started, and V glanced over his shoulder. Phury had started to pray in the Old Language.
"Shhh," Vishous whispered.
Phury immediately canned the talk, but his lips kept moving, the prayer continuing on. And yeah, V thought of his mother doing her I-can't-even upstairs--and was tempted to tell the guy he was wasting his time. But whatever. No reason to rob the brother of his illusion.
Besides, if the mhis didn't work? The three of them and what they did, or did not pray to, were going to moot point it right off the planet.
The Omega slowly made a turn, surveying his "dead," and V tensed up so hard, he was in danger of falling forward like a plank. The evil's gaze did not linger on where he and his brothers were standing, however, suggesting that the mhis was working--probably at least partially because the Scribe Virgin's brother was so distracted by the devastation to his Society.
Shit, that's my uncle, V thought grimly.
And then the Omega went on a float, traveling over the trampled, black blood-soaked lawn in the same hovering way V's mother ambulated.
Rain began to fall from the sky, the cold drops hitting V's hair and nose, his shoulders, the backs of his hands. Even though the stuff tickled his skin, he made no move to wipe it off or shelter himself--and frankly, yeah, he could have done without the reminder of exactly how flimsy their optical illusion was. That rain made it through?
Hell, you could pop a newspaper over your dome and get a better umbrella result.
Fuck.
From time to time, the Omega paused and bent down to pick up an arm, a leg, a head. It threw whatever it was back on the ground, as if it were searching for something in particular. And then it stopped without warning.
A low wail sounded out over the campus, the sound weaving in and around the empty, rotting buildings without echoing.
And then the Omega extended its palms out straight.
A sucking breeze hit V in the back and pulled his hair into his face and eyes, streaking forward his jacket, too, until the leather began to flap and he had to gather the thing against his body.
All at once, the debris of the slaughter, all those slayer pi
eces and stains, liquefied into a viscous shadow that pulled into itself, becoming a tidal wave that headed for its master, its home, its core.
The Omega absorbed it all, reclaiming the part of itself that it had given to its inductees during their initiation ceremonies, recalling its essence, reabsorbing everything until the battlefield was as clean as before the attack had been waged, nothing but trampled grass and downed trees to show what the beast and the Brotherhood had done.
When it was all over, the Omega stood in the center of the school's square, turning around and around as if it were double-checking its work. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, the entity disappeared into itself, a subtle flash the only leftover of its presence--and even that was gone a heartbeat later.
"Wait," V hissed. "We wait."
He wasn't about to take for granted that the Omega was up and out of there for real. The problem was, dawn was coming . . . and yup, if the mhis couldn't protect the three of them from rain, it wasn't going to do dick about straight-on sunlight.
But they could afford to stay a little longer. Just in case.
Better to be conservative than discovered. Besides, he needed a moment so his one remaining testicle could drop back down into place again.
Fuck.
TWELVE
"I do not believe this is necessary."
Back at the Brotherhood's training center, Assail stared down his body at the dark-haired human who was closing the gash on his calf and ankle with a needle and thread. When the man made no response and did not slow in his ministrations, Assail rolled his eyes.
"I said--"
"Yeah, yeah." The guy poked his needle through skin once more and pulled until the black thread was taut. "You've made yourself perfectly clear. The only thing I'll say back is that MRSA doesn't give a fuck if you're a vampire or a human, and leaving a six-inch open wound on your leg is the definition of stupid."
"I heal rather fast."
"Not that fast, buddy. And can you stop twitching? I feel like I'm working on a goldfish in water."
Actually, he could not. His extremities had their own ideas at the moment, and as he checked the wall clock and calculated how little time there was before dawn, the trembling got worse--
The door to the room swung open and his cousins came back in.
"I thought you didn't want to watch," Assail muttered. And indeed, Ehric, the one on the left, was studiously not looking at the fix-it job.
As proficient a killer as the male was, his stomach turned squeamish at clinical matters, a contradiction that could be a source of amusement--but was not, currently.
Indeed, Assail was not in the mood for any manner of levity. He hadn't consented to be brought here to this facility of the Brotherhood's for treatment. What he had wanted to do was go back to his house upon the Hudson and scratch the itch that was quickly turning to a roar.
"When shall you be finished?" he demanded.
"I'm X-raying your shoulder next."
"There is no need."
"Where's your medical degree from?"
Assail cursed and lay back flat upon the gurney. The medical chandelier above him, with its brilliant lights and its microscope arm, was like something out of a science-fiction movie. And as he closed his eyes, it was impossible not to remember coming here with his Marisol, right after he had gotten her free from Benloise . . . the pair of them passing through the extensive gating system, heading underground, entering this stellar facility.
He tried to train his mind elsewhere, however. That thought destination was simply too painful to bear.
"I shall need to depart prior to dawn," he blurted. "And I want our weapons, phones, and other personal articles returned to us promptly."
The doctor did not reply until he had put in his last stitch and tied a tight little knot at the base of Assail's ankle. "You mind telling your boys to step out again for a minute?"
"Why?"
Ehric spoke up. "Zsadist wants us in here. And I am disinclined to argue with the Brother, as I am unarmed and desirous of retaining the blood supply to my head."
The doctor sat back on his rolling stool, and for the first time, Assail read the stitching on the human's white coat: DR. MANUEL MANELLO, CHIEF OF SURGERY. There was a crest and the name of a hospital system below the black cursive writing.
"The Brothers brought you in from the other species for this night?" Assail asked. "How is that possible?"
Dr. Manello looked down at his name. "Old coat. And old habits die hard--don't they."
As the human met Assail in the eye, Assail frowned. "Whatever do you mean."
"Do you consent for me to speak candidly in front of these two?"
"They are my blood."
"Is that a yes?"
"You humans are so odd."
"And you can cut that superior tone, asshole. I'm married to one of your kind, 'kay? And excuse me for thinking you might not want to be called out for your drug addiction in front of a peanut gallery--whether or not they're related to you."
Assail opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I know not of what you speak."
"Oh, really?" The man snapped off his bright blue gloves and put his elbows on his knees, leaning in. "You're fidgeting on my table like you have a case of the hives. You're in a cold sweat, and not because you're in any pain. Your pupils are dilated. And I'm pretty sure if I give you your coat back, the first thing you're going to do is make an excuse to go to the bathroom and use the rest of the coke that was in the vial I took out of the inside chest pocket. How'm I doing? Reading your mind correctly? Or are you going to lie like a motherfucker."
"I do not have a drug problem."
"Uh-huh. Sure you don't."
As the human got to his feet, Assail did some studious ignoring of his own--no way was he going to look over at his cousins: He could feel their twin stares on him quite well enough, thank you rather much.
At least neither of them said anything.
"Look, it's no skin off my back." Dr. Manello went over to a worktable on which a computer, some pens, and a pad rested. Bending down, he scribbled something and tore the top sheet off, folding it in half. "Here's my number. When you hit bottom, call me and we can help detox you. In the meantime, be aware that prolonged use of cocaine leads to all kinds of fun things, like panic attacks, paranoia, and even full-blown psychosis. You're already in the weight-loss category, and as I mentioned, you're twitchy as fuck. Your nose has also been running the entire time so I'm pretty sure your septum is deviated."
Assail glanced at the wastepaper basket beside him and wondered how all those Kleenexes had ended up in it. Certainly, it could not have been . . . huh. He had a wad of tissue in his hand he had been unaware of holding.
"I am not addicted."
"So take this and toss it." The human held the paper out. "Burn it. Roll the thing up and use it to snort your next fix. Like I said, I don't care."
When Assail accepted what was offered, the doctor turned away as if he'd already forgotten about the whole interaction. "So how about that X-ray? And the Brothers will tell you when you can go. Departure is not a voluntary thing, as I'm sure you get."
Assail made a show of crushing the paper and pitching it into the trash with the tissues. "Yes," he said dryly. "I am rather aware of precisely how involuntary all of this is."
*
Vishous drove the food-service truck back to the compound. Like a bat out of hell.
The thing hadn't been built for speed, and its piss-poor handling reminded him of an old airplane trying to take flight off of a dirt runway--everything vibrated, to the point where you would have sworn you were one sneeze away from total, molecular disintegration. But he kept his foot down on the accelerator--which was what you did when you had, ohhhhhhh, about twenty-five minutes of true darkness left and at least thirty-seven miles of driving to cover. And you really didn't want to abandon possible slayer evidence at the side of the road.
Still, worse came to worst, he and Tohr,
who V had insisted ride back with him, could pull over and dematerialize right to the steps of the mansion in a nanosecond: Butch had just texted to report that he'd made it to the training center safely with Xcor. So no one had to worry about Tohr acting out on some bright idea that involved blood-shed and a body bag with the Bastard's name on it.
At least not during these next ten minutes, anyway.
"You saved our lives when the Omega showed up."
Vishous glanced across the front seat. Tohrment had been silent in the shotgun position since the pair of them had driven off the campus about twenty minutes after the Omega had up and disappeared.
"And I wasn't going to kill Xcor."
"You sure about that, true?"
When Tohr didn't say anything further, V thought, Yeeeeeeah, right you weren't gonna murder the motherfucker.
"It's not like I don't get it," V muttered as a dip in the highway helped push the food-service truck's speed north of seventy miles an hour. "We all want to off him."
"I performed a tracheotomy on Wrath. While he was dying in my lap after fucking Xcor shot him."
"Well, and then there was the fact that you had Lassiter driving at the time," V said dryly. "That would have freaked me out just as much."
"I'm fucking serious, V."
"I know."
"Where are we going to put him?"
V shook his head. "Depends on how long the Bastard's passed out."
"I want to work on him, Vishous."
"We'll see, my brother. We'll see."
Or, in other words: abso-fucking-lutely not. The aggression rolling out of the brother's pores, even as Tohr tried to make it like he was joe calm-and-in-control, was as big a red flag as anyone ever got.
As they fell silent, V put his hand inside his leather jacket and took out a hand-rolled. Lighting the thing with a red Bic, he exhaled some smoke and cracked the window so he didn't gas his brother.
Urge to kill aside, Tohr had raised a good goddamn question--where the hell were they going to put their prisoner? There were plenty of interrogation rooms in the training center--the problem was, they were of the table-and-chair variety, the kind of thing that had been used, for example, to talk to Mary, John Matthew, and Bella when they'd first come to the facility.