by J. R. Ward
"He went out there. Knowing he was going to die."
"Yeah."
"Goddamn it." After Wrath dropped a couple of f-bombs, he switched gears to another happy subject. "I also heard you had a visitor. When you went back to the campus."
"The Omega." Man, he didn't like to even say that name. But like he'd enjoyed talking about Rhage's death wish? "Yeah, my mother's brother took care of clean-up. If his day job as being the source of all evil in the world doesn't work out, he has a second career as a janitor waiting for him."
"Any problems?"
"He didn't even know we were there."
"Thank fuck." Wrath glanced over even though he couldn't see. "Have you talked to your mother lately?"
"No. Nope. Not at all."
"I asked her for an audience. She hasn't acknowledged me."
"Can't help you there. Sorry."
"I'll go up there uninvited if I have to."
V stopped at the door to Assail's recovery room, but didn't open it. "What exactly are you looking for from her?"
"I want to know if she's still up there." Wrath's cruel, aristocratic face got tight. "Going up against slayers is one thing, but we're going to need a wingman with serious power to face the Omega head-on--and I'm not kidding myself. We just knocked out ninety percent of what he has on the earth. He will respond, and we're not going to like whatever it is."
"Fuck me," V muttered.
"More like 'us,' my brother."
"Yeah. That, too." V took another drag to get his shit together. "But you know, if you want me to talk to her or . . ."
"Hopefully it won't be necessary."
Annnnd that makes two of us, buddy, V thought.
Before his mommy issues made him even crankier than he usually was, he rapped on the door. "You decent in there, motherfucker?" He pushed in without waiting for permission. "How we doing, assholes?"
Well, well, well, he thought as he saw Assail sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed. Detox much?
The male was sweating like he was a chicken dinner under a heat lamp, but also shivering sure as if his lower body were in an ice bath. There were circles the color of crankcase oil under both his eyes, and his hands kept going to his face and his forearms, brushing at some kind of lint or stray piece of hair that didn't exist.
"To w-w-what do I owe this h-h-honor?"
Wrath's nostrils flared as the King tested the scent in the air. "You got a monkey on your back, huh."
"I b-b-beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
V checked out the twin cousins over in the corner and found them as straight-backed and unmoving as a pair of cannons. And just about as warm and fuzzy.
On that note, they kind of didn't annoy him.
"What m-m-m-may I do for you?" Assail asked between twitches.
"I want to thank you for working with us last night," the King drawled. "I understand your wounds are all stitched up."
"Y-y-yes--"
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Wrath glared over at V. "Will you get this cocksucker his drug of choice? I can't talk to him if he's all jonesing for his sin. It's like trying to get someone to focus through an epileptic seizure."
"Looking for this?" V held up a vial full of powder and tilted the thing back and forth, all tick-tock. "Mmm?"
It was pathetic the way the fucker's eyes latched on and bugged out. But V knew what that was like--how you needed the very burn you didn't want, how it became all you could think of, how you withered from the not having of it.
Thank God for Jane. Without her, he'd be walking that stretch of gnawing and ever-empty still.
"And he doesn't even deny how much he needs it," V murmured as he approached the bed.
Dayum, as the poor bastard reached out, it was clear that Assail's hands were shaking too badly for him to hold on to anything.
"Allow me, motherfucker."
Twisting the black top off, V turned the little brown bottle over and made a line down the inside of his own forearm.
Assail took that shit like a pile driver, snorting half up one nostril, half up the other. Then he fell back against the hospital bed like he had a broken leg and his morphine drip had finally kicked in. And yup, from a clinical standpoint, it was a sad commentary on the SOB's state that a stimulant like cocaine was bringing him down.
But that was addiction for you. No damn sense.
"Now, you want to try this again?" V muttered as he licked his arm clean and tasted bitterness. The buzz was not bad, either.
Assail rubbed his face and then let his arms fall to his sides. "What."
Wrath smiled without any warmth, revealing his massive fangs. "I want to know what your business plans are."
"Why is that your concern?" Assail's voice was reedy, like he was exhausted. "Or have you decided that a dictatorship, rather than a democracy, is more suited to your personality--"
"Watch your fucking tone," V snapped.
Wrath kept going as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Your track record is questionable at best. In spite of a more recent trend toward loyalty, you seem to always be on the outskirts of my enemies, whether it's the Band of Bastards or the Lessening Society. And last I checked, you were running a drug ring--something that cannot be done with a mere crew of two, as capable as your henchmen may be. So I find myself wanting to know where you're going to go for your middlemen now that the slayers who you've been working with are out of the black market business."
Assail drew his jet-black hair back straight from his forehead and held it in place like he was hoping that would help his brain get to work.
V braced himself for some bullshit.
Except then the male said in a curiously dead voice, "I do not know. In truth . . . I know not what I shall do."
"You speak no falsity." Wrath inclined his head as he exhaled. "And as your King, I have a suggestion for you."
"Or would that be a command," Assail muttered.
"Take it as you will." Wrath's brows disappeared under the rims of his wraparounds. "Bearing in mind that I can kill you or let you go from this place on a whim."
"There are laws against murder."
"Sometimes." The King smiled again with those fangs. "In any event, I want your help--and you're going to give it to me. One way or another."
SIXTEEN
About halfway to Safe Place, Mary decided she was going to end up with knee-replacement surgery.
As she took an exit off the Northway, she gritted her teeth and punched in the rock-hard clutch of her husband's vintage, rehabbed, brilliant purple GTO--a.k.a. his pride and joy. The light of his life after her. The single most valuable anything he owned since he'd given her his gold Presidential Rolex.
The muscle car started making a coughing noise and then it kicked out a pattern of bass explosions followed by some high-pitched squealing as she moved the gearshift forward and back in the box.
"Third? Third . . . I need, no, second? Definitely not first."
She'd learned that one the hard way when she'd come to a stop at the bottom of the mansion's hill and had nearly knocked her front teeth out on the steering wheel from the jerking and jumping.
"Oh, Ms. Volvo, I miss you so. . . ."
When she'd come out of the mansion, she'd discovered the station wagon wasn't out front in the courtyard with the Brotherhood's other vehicles. But rather than waste time trying to hunt the thing down back at the training center, she'd snagged Rhage's keys and figured, How hard could it be to take his muscle car in to town? She knew how to drive a stick shift.
It was going to be fine.
Of course, she hadn't banked on the fact that the clutch was like trying to put her foot through a brick wall every time she needed to shift. Or that the gears were so tightly calibrated that if you didn't get the gas in at exactly the right time, all those horses under the hood went buck wild.
The good news? At least fighting with the transmission gave her something other than Bitty-linked anxiety to focus on as she made her way
to Safe Place.
Plus Fritz was as good a mechanic as he was a butler.
When she finally arrived at the house, she parked in the driveway, got out, and hobbled around in the dark for a minute, kicking her left leg around until something popped and suddenly she didn't feel as if she were walking like a flamingo anymore.
With a curse, she headed around to the door into the garage, entered a code and slipped inside. As the motion-sensitive lights came on, she put her hand up to shield her eyes, but she didn't have to worry about tripping over anything. The two bays were empty but for lawn-mowing equipment and some old oil stains on the concrete slabs. There were three steps up to the door into the kitchen, and then she put a code in and waited for the dead bolts to begin their sequence of unlocking. She also turned and presented her face for recognition as well.
Moments later, she was in the mudroom, taking off her coat and hanging it up with her purse on the row of hooks above the boot bench. The new kitchen out the back was all busy-busy, stacks of pancakes being made at the stove, fruit getting cut up on the counters, bowls and plates being lined up on the longtable.
"Mary!"
"Hey, Mary!"
"Hi, Ms. Luce!"
Taking a deep breath, she returned the hellos, heading over to give a hug here and there, put her hand on a shoulder, greet a female, high-five a young. There were three staff members on duty, and she checked in with them.
"Where's Rhym?" she asked.
"She's been upstairs with Bitty," the curly-haired one said softly.
"I'll go there now."
"Is there anything I can help with?"
"I'm sure there will be." Mary shook her head. "I hate this for her."
"We all do."
Going to the front of the house, she rounded the base of the stairs and took the steps two at a time. She didn't bother stopping to see if Marissa was in. Chances were good, given the scope of the attack, that the head of Safe Place was taking a little time off to be with her hellren.
Being mated to a Brother was not for the faint of heart.
Up on the third floor, she found Rhym asleep in a padded chair that had been pulled over next to Bitty's door. As the floorboards creaked, the other social worker stirred.
"Oh, hey," the female said as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"
Rhym had always reminded Mary of herself to some degree. She was the sort of female who maybe wasn't the first person you noticed in a room, but never failed to be there when you needed someone. She was on the tall end for height, a little on the thin side. Never wore make-up. Usually pulled her hair back. No male that anyone had ever heard about.
Her life was her work here.
"It's six-thirty?" Mary stared at the closed door. "How'd we do during the day?"
Rhym just shook her head. "She wouldn't talk about anything. She just packed her clothes into her suitcase, got her doll and her old toy tiger together, and sat at the end of her bed. Eventually, I came out here because I thought she was probably staying awake because I was in there with her."
"I think I'll put my head in and see what's going on."
"Please." Rhym stretched her arms up and cracked her back. "And if it's okay with you, I'll head on home for some shut-eye myself?"
"Absolutely. I'll take over from here. And thanks for looking after her."
"Is it dark enough out for me to leave now?"
Mary glanced at the shutters that were still down for the day. "I think--" As if on command, the steel panels that protected the interior from sunlight began to go up. "Yup."
Rhym got to her feet and drew her fingers through her blond-and-brown hair. "If you need anything, if she needs anything, just call and I can come back in. She's a special little girl, and I just . . . I want to help."
"I agree. And thanks again."
As the other female started down the stairs, Mary spoke up. "One question."
"Yes?"
Mary focused on the oculus window down at the far end of the hall, trying to find the right words. "Did she . . . I mean, she didn't say anything about her mother? Or what happened at the clinic?"
Like something along the lines of My therapist made me feel as if I killed my mother?
"Nothing. The only thing she mentioned was that she was leaving as soon as she could. I didn't have the heart to tell her there was nowhere for her to go. It seemed too cruel. Too soon."
"So she talked about her uncle."
Rhym frowned. "Uncle? No, she didn't bring anything like that up. Does she have one?"
Mary looked back at the closed door. "Transference."
"Ah." The social worker cursed softly. "These are going to be long nights and days ahead for her. Long weeks and months, too. But we'll all rally around her. She'll do well if we can just get her through this part in one piece."
"Yes. So true."
With a wave, the female went down the steps, and Mary waited until the sounds of the footfalls disappeared in case Bitty was only lightly asleep.
Leaning into the door, she put her ear to the cool panels. When she heard nothing, she knocked quietly, then pushed things open.
The little pink-and-white lamp on the bureau in the corner was casting a glow in the otherwise dark room, and Bitty's diminutive form was bathed in the soft illumination. The girl was lying on her side, facing the wall, having obviously fallen asleep hard at some point. She was in the same clothes she had had on, and she had indeed packed her battered suitcase--and her mother's. The two pieces of luggage, one smaller and the color of a grass stain, the other larger and Cheeto orange, were lined up together at the base of the bed.
Her doll head and brush were on the floor in front of them, along with that stuffed toy tiger of hers.
Putting her hands on her hips, Mary lowered her head. For some reason, the impact of the room's silence, its modest and slightly threadbare curtains and bedspreads, its thin area rug and mismatched furniture, hit her like body blows.
The barrenness, the impersonality, the absence of . . . family, for lack of a better word, made her want to turn the thermostat up. As if some extra heat from the ducts in the ceiling could transform the place into a proper little girl's room.
But come on, the problems that were ahead were going to have to be solved by a lot more than just functioning HVAC systems.
Tiptoeing across to the bed Bitty's mom had slept in, it seemed fitting to take the patchwork quilt off that mattress and carry it over to the little girl. With care, Mary added the layer without disturbing the sleep that was so very needed.
Then she stood over the child.
And thought back to her own past. After her cancer had made itself known, she could remember very clearly thinking that enough was enough. Her mother had died early and horribly, with much suffering. And then she herself had been diagnosed with leukemia and had to go through a very non-fun-filled year trying to beat the disease into remission. The whole lot of it had seemed so very unfair.
As if her mother's hard time of it should have qualified Mary for a tragedy-exemption card.
Now, as she stared down at the girl, she was downright indignant.
Yes, she frickin' knew that life was difficult. She'd learned that lesson very well. But at least she had gotten a childhood marked with all the traditionally good things you wanted to be able to look back on when you were old. Yes, her father had died early, too, but she and her mother had had Christmases and birthdays, graduations from kindergarten and elementary school and high school. They'd had turkey on Thanksgiving and new clothes every year and good nights of sleep where the only worry that might have kept someone up was whether a passing grade was going to happen or, in the case of her mom, if there was going to be enough money for two weeks of summer vacation at Lake George or just one.
Bitty had had absolutely none of that.
Neither she nor Annalye had ever spoken in specifics, but it wasn't hard to extrapolate the kind of violence that they had both been subjected to. For godsake,
Bitty had had to get a steel rod implanted in her leg.
And what had it all added up to?
The little girl here alone.
If destiny had had any conscience at all, Annalye wouldn't have died.
But at least Safe Place had come into being in a nick of time. The idea that the resource wouldn't have been available to Bitty when it was needed most?
It was enough to make Mary sick to her stomach.
*
Rhage woke up in a rush, sure as if an alarm had lit off next to his head. Jacking his torso off the hospital bed, he looked around in a panic.
Except then, as quick as the anxiety hit, it disappeared, the knowledge that Mary had gone to Safe Place calming him down sure as if she'd spoken the words in his ear. And he supposed she had. For a while now, they'd been using the beast as a kind of message board if Rhage was out like a light.
It worked--and you didn't have to worry about having to find a pen.
He still missed her, though. Still worried about his own mental state. But that little girl . . .
Shifting his legs to the side, he blinked a number of times and yup, remained blind after the lid workout. Whatever. He felt otherwise strong and steady--physically that was--and as long as he took things slowly, he was going to make it into the shower just fine.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom buck-ass naked and smelling like a rose. Amazing what a little soap and shampoo could do for a guy. A good teeth brushing, too. Next stop? Food. After the beast came out and then he did his purging thing afterward, his guts felt not so much hungry as hollow--and the best thing he could do was put some low-fiber carbohydrates in there for processing.
Twelve French baguettes. Four sleeves of bagels. Seven pounds of pasta.
This type of thing.
Stepping out into the corridor, he wondered how long it was going to take to find his way to--
"Fucking finally--"
"Couldn't you have put a towel on--"
"Fritz brought you clothes--"
"You're back, motherfucker--"
All of his brothers were there, their scents and voices, their relieved laughter, their curses and jibes exactly what the doctor ordered. And as they embraced him and slapped his bare ass, he had to suck in the emotion.
He was already nakey. #plentyvulnerablethanks
God, in the midst of all the reeeeeunnnnited and it feeeeeeeeeels so gooooooood, it was impossible not to get hit with another load of shame for his selfishness and what he'd put Mary and all of his brothers through.