by J. R. Ward
Better to assume capture. Torture. And possible information exchange.
"He would not want a memorial," Zypher blurted.
"Aye," somebody agreed. "And he must have entered the Fade in quite a lather."
There was a grumble of laughter--but Zypher wondered if their leader, or any of them, would be granted access to that heavenly sanctuary. For their ill deeds, surely they would be turned away? Sent unto Dhund, the Omega's evil playground of eternity?
Either way, as they stood around, he decided that the alley seemed a proper place for this gathering of mourning, the remnants of the old car a fitting grave marker, the lack of specifics an appropriate closing to Xcor's life. After all, although Zypher had worked with the male against the lessers for centuries, he could not say that he had e'er truly known his fellow fighter.
Well . . . that was not entirely true. He had been well-versed in their leader's cruelty and calculation, both in the war camp and then later, as they had been travelers with temporary housing, and later still, when they had settled in their castle fortification in the Old Country.
And there had been that one private moment, after Xcor had stabbed Throe--and punished himself for it.
"What do we do now?" Balthazar asked.
After a moment of silence, Zypher realized they were all looking at him.
He wished they had a body. The course would be clearer, then. At the moment, even with all circumstantial evidence pointing them in a certain direction, taking control of the group felt like insubordination.
But there was naught else to do.
Zypher scrubbed his face with his gloved hand. "We must assume our base has been compromised, or soon will be. We must also destroy all cellular devices. Then we will wait a given period of time--before we shall return unto the Old Country. There is a life worth living o'er there."
The castle still stood and remained in their names.
But money. They needed money.
Shit.
"What if he attempts to reach us?" Balthazar asked. "If we do away with our phones, how will he find us?"
"If he has survived, he will locate us."
Leaning to the side, Zypher glanced between two buildings. That glow of dawn was e'er increasing, and if they waited too much longer, they were going to follow a similar fate as this vehicle. As mayhap Xcor himself.
"Let us proceed back to--" He frowned. "No. We shall not go back there."
He wouldn't put it past the Brotherhood to wage an ambush inside the farmhouse even in broad daylight--and not because those males were reckless, but rather because they were that deadly. And if slayers were who had gotten Xcor? Then such an attack was even more a possibility.
Glancing around, he focused on a nearby door. The building it opened into was abandoned, going by the boarded-up windows and the CONDEMNED sign plastered on its brick.
Zypher walked over and slammed his shoulder into the portal. As the metal panel broke free, the lock splintered into pieces, littering the floor of the darkened interior beyond.
The air that greeted him was cold, wet, and smelled like various strains of mold and decay. But the oppressive blackness that surrounded him was good news.
They had no food. Only the weapons and ammunition on their backs. And this was an iffy shelter at best.
It was just like the good old days.
Save for one rather large and noticeable absence.
As his fellow bastards filed in and found places on over-turned crates and stretches of countertops littered with plastic containers, rats scuttled out of the way, squeaking their curses.
"Upon nightfall, we shall return unto the farmhouse, pack up, and determine our course."
Zypher chose a section of floor by the door, wedging himself into a crevice between shelvings such that he was propped up with his autoloader in hand and ready to discharge.
In his long history as a soldier, there had been many days such as this, his body required to catch its sleep on the fly as he rested with one ear and one eye open. And before all that, as a student of the Bloodletter, he had feared for his life when the sun had risen and the trainees had been forced to retire unto the caved war camp until nightfall.
This was a vacation compared to what he and the others had endured.
Closing his lids, he found himself wondering how Xcor had died. And where that troubled soul of his had ended up.
Some questions were destined to remain unanswered . . . and it was strange for him to discover that he most certainly missed their leader--though he found that difficult to admit. Xcor had been as fearsome as the Bloodletter at times; yet his absence was like that of a limb or a crucial organ.
Habits died harder than mortals, however.
And this ennui, tied as it was to centuries of cruelty, was hardly a recommendation for the male's soul.
THIRTY-SIX
"Yes, of course. I will get a message to the buyers before the closing next week. Yes, the walk-through is scheduled for Thursday at eight a.m. Is that still convenient? Very good. My pleasure. Good-bye."
Jo hung up the phone, made a note in the client's file, and then checked her personal cell.
She couldn't possibly have read the text right. The damn thing was from Bill:
You played me well, but not for long. You should have tried this with someone who has no research skills.
What the . . . ? They had parted the night before on good terms, heading back to his car when her sense that they were being watched had become too overwhelming for her to ignore. The plan had been for them to meet up at lunch and head over to the school campus again.
She hit him back. What are you talking about?
Returning her phone to the drawer, she tried to look busy as real estate agents walked back and forth in front of her desk without acknowledging her. Which was a good thing. If they stopped to talk to her, it was usually because they were upset about microwave etiquette in the breakroom, had an IT issue she couldn't help them with, or were acting out their frustration with the current less-than-robust seller's market.
Meanwhile, Bryant had been out all morning, but he had been busy with his phone. He'd sent her fifteen texts, only half of which had been office related. The others had had a strange tone to them: He'd wanted to know why she'd left at seven last night. When she'd replied that he'd told her she was free to head out, he'd asked where she'd gone. When she'd told him that she'd headed straight home . . .
He'd replied, Are you sure about that?
Which had been bizarre--
A rattling sounded inside her desk and she ripped open the drawer. Accepting the call that had made the phone vibrate, she repeated, "What are you talking about?"
Bill laughed with an edge. "You didn't tell me who your parents were. Receptionist, my ass."
"I'm sorry?"
"You're Phillie and Chance Early's kid. Their only daughter--I'm sorry--heir."
She closed her eyes and sucked in a curse. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Look, if you're trying to get your little Blair Witch Project wannabe a traditional media boost, you're going to have to find someone else to be your bullshit artist, okay? I don't have time for this."
Jo switched her phone to her other ear, as if that would change the gist of the conversation. "I don't understand--"
"I asked you last night if your buddy, Dougie, had the kind of resources to stage something like all that trampled landscape. You said no--and conveniently left out the fact that you do. With your kind of money, you could CGI the crap out of that footage on YouTube, pay people to rough up the center of campus, and then, wow, hey, you hit up a CCJ reporter, hoping he's stupid enough to buy into it all and get you some local coverage. Next thing you know, the piece gets picked up by the HuffPost and BuzzFeed--and then it's Deadline announcing a movie deal about the "vampires" of Caldwell. How perfectly organic."
"That isn't at all what--"
"Don't call me again--"
"I'm adopted, okay? And I
haven't seen those two people you call my 'parents' in at least a year. I don't identify as theirs any more than they support me, and if you want me to show you proof of how small my bank account is, fine--I'm happy to show you my pathetic monthly statement. I asked you what you thought about that stuff on the Net because I'm trying to figure it out myself. Allow me to assure you, however, that none of the Brownswick footage is the result of me writing any checks to anybody. So how about you do more than a cursory job at investigating me before you leap to conclusions and jump down my throat. Thanks. Bye."
She nearly threw her phone back in the drawer, but thought better of it--because, hey, people who were worried about covering their rent really shouldn't put themselves in the position of needing to replace their cell--
As the office phone obligingly rang, she grabbed for it and was glad for the distraction.
And while she closed the loop with a buyer about the status of some fire-alarm replacements in a duplex across town, she parallel-processed the whole thing in her head. It was crazy for her to be wasting any more time or effort trying to get to the bottom of those videoes, for one thing. And secondly, she had a very strong suspicion that the reason her brain had gravitated toward this stretch of stupidity was because she was otherwise very bored in her life.
Which that was a problem to be solved not by distraction, but by pulling her socks up and figuring out what the hell she wanted to do with herself.
Yes, she had already decided the socialite existence of the people who had adopted her was a big ol' no. So wha-hey, she'd already narrowed her future down by one option--
When the inside of her desk began to rattle again, she pulled open the door and got her phone back out from the loose paper clips and the pencils she didn't use.
It was Bill. And she thought about letting the call go to voice mail, but knew that was childish. Hitting accept, she said, "I can only assume you're going to apologize right now. Or did you audit my credit score? It's actually not that bad, although remember, that doesn't have to do with net worth, just whether you're as anal as I am about paying bills on time."
The guy had the grace to clear his throat. "I'm sorry. It appears as if I may have jumped to some conclusions that were unwarranted."
Jo rolled her chair around so she was facing the office's logo on the felt wall. Taking a deep breath, she muttered, "You know, it does help, if you're trying to establish yourself as an investigative reporter par excellence, that you go a little deeper than mere surface information on someone."
"I just thought . . . well, never mind what I thought." There was a pause. "Do you still want to meet in an hour?"
Jo glanced at her watch. Just to give herself a little time. Har-har.
In or out, she told herself. Fish or cut bait.
If she went with the plan? She was liable to keep getting sucked further into a rat hole that wasn't going to get her any closer to getting off her ass and into a real job--
"Jo?"
As a deep voice said her name, she jumped and swiveled back around. Bryant was leaning on the front counter of her desk.
"Jo?" Bill asked over the phone.
As she looked up into her boss's handsome face, she got an idea of exactly why she might be searching for excuses to stay in a go-nowhere job. And really, eye candy didn't get you far, did it.
"Yes, I'll be there," she said to Bill, and then hung up. "Hey, you're back early."
"Who was that? Your boyfriend?" Bryant smiled as he narrowed his eyes. "You never told me you had one."
"That's because I don't. Did you get that listing signed? I can start on the M.L.S.--ah, why are you looking at me like that?"
Bryant's phone rang in his hand, and her office line rang on her desk, and before he could respond, she went for her receiver, popping the thing off its cradle and going into her scripted greeting.
It was two rings before he answered . . . Bryant actually waited for two rings before he accepted his call--but whatever distraction Jo offered was passed up on as he drawled a "hello," started laughing and then walked away.
Yup, it was so time to fire up the old resume.
*
"'Keep the change, you filthy animal. . . .'"
As Rhage said the line, he shifted his chin, kissed Mary's forehead, and reveled in their blissful state of total relaxation. In return, she snuggled in closer to his bare chest and yawned so hard her jaw cracked.
"Annnnnnnnnnnnd there goes the pizza guy." Rhage laughed as he put his grape Tootsie Pop in for another suck. "You know, I love the dumb statue that everyone knocks over in the front of the house."
Home Alone. In bed. With his shellan, a full belly, and the secure knowledge that his Mary had agreed to let him pick two more movies out for them.
Can you say Die Hard and Christmas Vacation?
After all, it was coming into her human holiday season, right?
And man, if this wasn't heaven all rolled up on a fluffy white cloud, he didn't know what was. His body was so chilled out he was doing some serious floating on air himself, and none of these cinematic greats he had lined up came with twelve-hanky, foreign-language-proficiency requirements.
Movie night for them could be a thing.
Mary liked valid stuff. He liked pop culture.
Ne'er the twain shall meet. But hey, you had to compromise in a mating. That was the way shit worked.
"What are we watching next?" she murmured.
"Bruce Willis and then Chevy Chase. I'll let you guess what they're starring in."
She propped her head up on his pec. "Are you picking a Christmas theme just for me?"
"Yup. You wanna give me a smooch for being so thoughtful?"
When she leaned up, he took her face between his palms and kissed her deeply. As they parted, he focused on her lips, feeling that old familiar burn roll out where it counted most for a male. "Can I just tell you how much I'm looking forward to our shower before First Meal?"
"Are you now?"
As she smiled at him nice and slow, that rekindle got stoked even more. "Mmmm . . ."
"If you were anyone else," she murmured, "I would wonder how in the world you were going to get aroused again--like, in the next month."
"Oh, I'll be ready for you. Always."
Except then something changed in her. He knew the instant it happened, although he would have been hard-pressed to describe exactly what tipped him off.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Are you thinking about Bitty?"
Before she could answer, he paused the movie with the remote, ironically right at the point Kevin put his father's aftershave on and screamed at the top of his lungs.
With Macaulay Culkin's ten-year-old self hollering at them from the flat-screen over on the far wall, Rhage brushed his Mary's hair away from her face.
"Talk to me," he said.
She flopped over onto her back. "I don't want to ruin this with more of my heavy stuff."
"Why would you ruin anything?"
"Come on, Rhage . . . I feel like we've finally got things fixed between us, but here I am . . . screwing it up again."
He frowned and turned on his side, resting his head on his palm. "Why would talking about Bitty mess anything up between us?" When she didn't answer him, he drew a circle on her bare arm. "Mary?"
As she finally looked at him again, her eyes were watery. "I need to tell you something."
"Anything." Hell, after the last--what time was it? noonish?--eight hours with her, he felt invincible where she was concerned. "I'm not worried."
"That gunshot wound of yours . . ." She sniffed, and seemed determined to buck up. "When you came back from the beast having been out, and you were lying there on the ground . . ."
She put her hands up to her face and stared at the ceiling as if she were right back there in the middle of that field. And his first instinct was to tell her to stop, put the memory away, never return to that moment.
But she wasn't a coward with her emotions. She never had been.
"I fought to keep you here." She stared over at him. "I . . . I begged Jane and Manny to do something, anything to help you."
"Of course you did. I was suffering--I mean, deal or no deal for the other side, that was no fun for me, I assure you."
"Yes." She looked away. "I didn't want you to suffer."
As his Mary fell silent, he took one of her hands and brought it to his mouth. "Why in a million years do you think your trying to save my life could be a bad thing? I mean, I'm not one of you therapist types, but I'm getting the clear vibe over here that that's what you're trying to apologize for. Which is nuts. Both on a clinical and a practical level--"
"IdidntwanttoleaveBitty."
"I'm sorry, what did you say? I didn't catch it."
Mary sat up, tucking the sheet around her naked breasts. "I could have just met you on the other side . . . but when it came down to it, yes, I freaked out, because you couldn't breathe and you were . . . the dying thing was happening . . . but I also didn't want to leave Bitty. I wanted you to stay so that I could keep helping her. And I'm so sorry, oh, God, Rhage, I'm so sorry."
Rhage blinked a couple of times. "Let me get this straight. You're apologizing to me because you didn't want to leave an orphaned girl who had just watched her mother die to deal with all that alone? Really?"
"I feel like I . . . betrayed you in some way. I mean, the pact about me meeting you on the other side is about your destiny and mine. Together. Just the two of us. But when push came to shove, I fought, but not for us. Not really. Because I knew I could see you again. I fought . . . for someone else. And that just feels really wrong."
Rhage sat up, too, stuffing the comforter around his lap. Put like that, he could kind of see her point.
And yet . . . "Mary, if it helps you in any way, I didn't want to leave my brothers behind. I was mostly concerned about you and me, and what was going to happen to us, but that wasn't the only thing on my mind. There were other people in on it for me, too." He smiled and rubbed his jaw. "Even if one of them happened to coldcock me--twice--right after I got out of bed. Anywho, I can understand what you're getting at, but the way I see it? I don't expect your whole life to revolve around me. I respect your profession, and I love you for everything you do at Safe Place. You felt, in that moment, that you had unfinished business you needed to handle. That is something I can totally respect." He frowned. "Well, as long as you intended to actually meet me over there if I didn't come back--"