by J. R. Ward
Fucking Little Mermaid, Rhage thought when he left their bedroom twenty-five minutes later.
Shutting the door, he retucked his already tucked-in shirt and pulled on the jacket Mary had picked out for him to hide his guns. As he walked down the hall, he fiddled with his hair, rolled his shoulders, tugged at his belt.
His palms were sweaty. How the hell was he going to shake the social worker's hand if he was sweating this bad? She was going to have use a napkin to dry off.
Or a set of drapes.
Coming up to Wrath's study, he saw that the doors were open and he paused, wondering if now would be a good time to tell his brother and his King what the hell they were up to. When he looked around the jamb, though, he got an eyeful of Wrath and V talking together, the King on the throne, the brother right next to him, crouching on the floor. Their heads were together, their voices low, the air so thick there might as well have been mhis around them.
What the fuck was going on, Rhage thought as he was tempted to go inside.
But then he checked his gold Rolex, the one that he'd given Mary, but which she'd insisted he wear for good luck. No time to ask, and on that note, no time to go into the whole Bitty thing, either.
Later, he decided.
Hitting the stairwell, he bottomed out on the mosaic floor and beelined for the exit.
"Good luck."
Rhage pulled up short and looked to the right. Lassiter was in the billiards room, bluing up a cue.
"What are you talking about?" Rhage demanded.
As the angel just shrugged, Rhage shook his head. "You're crazy--"
"When she asks about how the father died, don't fudge it. She already knows it was you and your brothers who killed him. It's in the file. She hates the violence, but she knows that the two of them wouldn't have survived otherwise. She wants you to have the kid. You and Mary."
As Rhage felt all the blood leave his head and end up in his shoes, he wished he had something to hold onto.
"How do . . . did Mary talk to you about this?" Even though he found that hard to believe. "Marissa?"
"And the beast. That makes her nervous. Don't try to calm her down about it--you'll dwell too much on the subject and it will rattle her. Mary will handle that. Mary will tell her all she needs to know on that issue."
"How do you know all this?"
Lassiter put the square of chalk down and shifted those oddly colored eyes over. "I'm an angel, remember? And it's going to work out. Just hang tight--you're going to have to keep the faith. For both you and Mary. But it's going to happen."
"Really?" he found himself asking.
"No lie. I might fuck with your bathroom. But never, ever about this."
Rhage's feet moved of their own volition, crossing the way to the pool table--and the next thing he knew, he was bear-hugging the blond-and-black motherfucker.
"You got this," Lassiter said as they clapped each other's backs. "But just remember. You've got to keep the faith."
Before things got too sappy, Rhage backed off and headed for the front door again. Stepping outside through the vestibule, he took a deep, bracing draw of the cold air . . . and off he went, traveling through the night in a rush of molecules, zeroing in on a very human establishment.
When he arrived at his destination, he was careful to re-form in the back of the shallow parking lot, and yes, he did a re-check on his hair and his shirt before he walked around to the I've Bean Waitin' coffee shop's front door.
Opening things up, he got hit in the nose with a whole lot of coffee aroma, and he had a momentary wobble about the whole not-ordering thing. What was he going to do with his hands while he sat there?
With a curse that he didn't smoke or bring needlepoint, he looked through the human men and women, a lot of whom glanced up at him and kept on staring . . . and then met the stare of the only other vampire in the place--no, wait, there was a pretans in the crowd he didn't recognize.
He knew who Rhym was, though. He'd seen her in plenty of pictures from Mary's work.
As he took another deep breath, it wasn't quite the cathartic experience the one on the front stoop of the mansion had been, but there was oxygen in here. Right?
God, that coffee smell was making him suffocate. Or maybe that was his adrenal glands.
Rhage tried to pin down his freak out as he began making his way one of the tables in the back.
When he stopped in front of Rhym, he wanted to pass out. Instead, he rubbed his hand on the ass of his pants as discreetly as he could, and then extended his arm.
"Hi, I'm Rhage."
The female was a little wide-eyed as she stared at him--but that was common, and no, he wasn't being arrogant. People did tend to do a little double-take when they first met him, and then yes, they usually ended up looking at him closely, as if trying to figure out whether he was for real.
"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I, ah, I'm Rhym."
As they shook, he nodded at the vacant chair. "You mind if I sit down?"
"Oh, please. I'm sorry. Wait, I already said that. Jeez."
To her credit, she didn't ogle him unnecessarily or come on to him. And the fact that she was also nervous made him feel a little better.
"Are you going to get something?" she asked.
"No. I'm fine. Would you like another . . . what is that?"
"It's a latte. And no, thank you, this is plenty." There was a pause and she opened a little notebook. "So . . . I, um . . . listen, I've got to be honest. I've never been in the presence of a Brother before."
He smiled, being careful to conceal his fangs because they were in mixed company. "I'm just like everyone else."
"Not even close," she muttered under her breath. "So, I, ah, I have some questions for you? If that's okay? I know Mary's talked to you about all this."
Rhage crossed his arms and leaned on the table. "Yes, she has. And listen, if I could just . . ."
He looked down at the wood grain under his elbows and tried to figure out what he was attempting to say. As the chatter around them and the ins and outs of the front door and the seething of the coffee machines droned on, he started to worry that he'd been quiet too long.
Rhage looked at the social worker. "Bottom line is, I'm prepared to lay down my life for that little girl. I'm ready to get up at high noon for her if she has a daymare. I'm ready to feed her and clothe her, and show her how to drive. I'm also prepared to hold her close when she gets her heart broken for the first time, and present her to her mate if she finds someone she wants. I want to help her get a good education, and follow whatever dreams she has, and be there to pick her up when she stumbles. I understand that it's not going to be all puppies and unicorns, and there's going to be conflict, and maybe even anger . . . but none of that will change my commitment. I knew my Mary was the one I was supposed to be with the moment I met her, and I knew the other night, with the same clarity, that Bitty is my kid. If you'll let me have the chance to be her father."
He sat back and held his arms out. "Now, ask me everything."
Rhym smiled a little. And then a lot. "Well, let's start at the beginning, shall we?"
Rhage smiled back. Which yeah, was what happened when you got the very clear sense that you had just hit one out of the park.
"Let's do that," he said with a sense of profound relief.
SIXTY-SIX
Jo Early could not stop staring.
Then again, she wasn't the only one in the coffee shop whose lattes were left unattended and cooling as they tried not to look at the guy. He'd come in alone, sucking up most, if not all, of the oxygen in the building, and then proceeded over to a back table to sit with a nice-looking, if unremarkable, woman.
All things considered, he should have been with a Miss America type: He was huge, just incredibly tall, but also built big, as if he were a professional athlete of the football, not basketball variety. His hair was blond, but it seemed to be actually that shade, no roots showing, no professional streak job growing out, just thick and healthy and . .
. blond.
His eyes, though, were the big thing. His eyes were totally a thing. Even from across the crowded coffee shop, they glowed with a color blue that was something you'd see in the Bahamas by the ocean, the color so iridescent, so clear, so resonantly teal that you had to wonder whether it was contacts, because how in the hell could that be found in nature?
And P.S., the clothes weren't bad at all. Nope. He was wearing all black, from a silk shirt and very well-cut and well-tailored slacks, to a jacket that had lapels like something a suit would have, but a loose body like an overcoat.
The shoes were spectacular, too.
It was as if a movie star had wandered into I've Bean Waitin', and for a moment, Jo wondered if maybe she'd seen him on the big screen . . . ?
As her cell phone went off, she was grateful for the distraction. This hyper-focus of hers kept up and she was going to see that handsome face every time she closed her eyelids. Not that that would have been any great sacrifice.
When she saw who it was, she rolled her eyes, but accepted the call anyway. "Dougie, what's up. No. No, you may not. What--no! Look, I told you, I'm leaving my job, I'm not going to be able to lend you money for a while. . . . Well, then ask one of them. No. No. Okay . . . fine, but only the Fig Newtons. I come back and you've eaten my Milanos and you and I are going to have words. And would you go out and get employed, for godsakes?"
As she hung up, a dry voice said, "I agree with you about the cookies."
Recoiling, she put her hand over her heart. "Jeez, Bill, you scared me."
"What's this about leaving Bryant's?" he said as he sat down with his latte and did that scarf unwindy thing he did. "You quit?"
"It's nothing." Well, other than the fact that her boss was a manipulator and she had allowed herself to be his pawn. "Really."
Oh, but b.t.dub, Bryant thinks we're boning, she tacked on in her head.
"Listen," Bill murmured as he leaned in and pushed those glasses up higher on his nose. "First of all, I'm sorry I'm late. And second of all, I have to ask. With parents like yours, I really can't believe . . . I mean, the money thing . . ."
She opened her mouth to brush things off, but then decided, Screw it. "After I walked out on them and their whole . . . lifestyle . . . they cut me off."
"That must have been a hard thing to do--leave your family, I mean. Well, and the money."
Jo swirled her cappuccino around. "I never really fit in with them. My dad--I'm sorry, my father, as he would insist I call him--engineered my adoption because my mother went through a phase of wanting a kid. I guess she thought babies were like purses or something? After they got me, I was raised by nannies, some of whom were good, some of whom were bad. I was then shipped off to boarding school and college--and by the time I got out, I'd just kind of had it with pretending to be who they wanted me to be when I was around them. Outside of that big house, I was my own person. In the presence of the pair of them, I was a facsimile of myself, just like they were constructed versions of themselves." She batted at the air with her hand. "It's your standard boring poor-little-rich-girl stuff."
"Standard and boring unless you're going through it."
"Be that as it may, I told them I wasn't coming back, and they said fine, and that was it. The monthly checks went poof--and honestly, it's okay. I'm smart, I'm willing to work hard, and I have an education. I'll make it on my own, just like a whole bunch of people before me have."
Bill shrugged out of his coat. "May I ask one more personal question?"
"Absolutely." As she tried her 'cino, she grimaced. Watching that blond man had drained a lot of the warmth out of things. "Anything."
"You say you were adopted--have you ever thought about looking up your birth family?"
She shook her head. "The records of everything are beyond private--or at least that's what they told me. I guess my father paid to keep it that way? And it makes sense--I heard that my mother tried to pass me off as hers in the beginning, saying that she had been hiding the pregnancy under loose clothes and then had spent the last month down in Naples or some place like that. As my hair got redder and redder, though, that lie became more difficult to support--especially as she didn't like the idea of people thinking she'd stepped out on my father."
"So you never hear from them at all?"
"No, and it's all right. At this point, hey, my ivy league education's paid for. If that's the worst thing those two do to me for the rest of my life, I came out on top of the deal."
"Well . . ." Bill cleared his throat. "So segue, here--do you want to apply for something at the paper? I know there are a couple of openings and I could put in a good word. You've shown me that you're a helluva good investigator."
For a minute, Jo just sat there like a lump, blinking. Then she shook herself. "Really? Oh . . . my God, yes. I mean, thank you. I have a resume I can e-mail you."
"Consider it done. Like, I know they're looking for an online content editor right now. The pay has to be about what you're making as a receptionist, but at least it's a stepping stone."
And better than worrying about Bryant's love life and laundry, she thought to herself.
"Thank you. I mean it." She flashed him the napkin she'd been writing on. "And on that note, I've made a list of the places I've visited. I've got a couple more to go--I want to check out that closed restaurant where Julio Martinez said he got ambushed by a vampire? And I want to go to this alley where . . . have you seen the footage of the shoot out in the alley? Where there's this guy up on a roof who kills someone while this other guy runs out into a spray of bullets? There were no fangs in the clip, but it was put up on YouTube by the same guy who posted a lot of the footage of the massacre at that farm."
Bill took out his phone like he was ready to go 'net surfing. "No, I haven't seen that yet."
"Here, let me get it up for you."
#donteversaythatagain
*
Assail waited on the periphery of Naasha's hellren's great mansion, tracking the movement of the staff and its mistress in the windows on the first and second floors. One advantage of the female being an exhibitionist was that pulled draperies were an anathema to her, and thus the stages of her dressing were on display for all to see.
At the moment, she was in her bathroom, seated in a make-up chair in front of a window that faced due west. Her maid was rolling her hair in curlers whilst she focused on something in her lap. Perhaps it was e-mail on an iPad. Or a phone.
Taking out his cell, he sent her a text . . . and watched as her head came up and she pointed across the way. The maid put down the roller she'd been about to put to use and scampered out of view. And then she was back, placing a device in her mistress's hand.
Assail's own phone went off a second later. When he read what she had texted, he looked at his cousins.
"You know what to do."
"Aye," Ehric said. "Is the Brother here--"
"Right behind you."
All three of them turned about to find Zsadist exactly where he'd said he'd be at exactly the time he'd told Assail he would arrive. Like the rest of them, the Brother had a large backpack on, and plenty of weapons with him.
"Shall we, gentlemales?" Assail murmured.
At his nod, his cousins dematerialized to the back of the mansion, to the infiltration point that had been established beforehand.
Assail put his backpack down at the base of the tree he had been taking cover behind, and then he strode into view, straightening his suit coat and tugging out his cuffs. When he hit the walkway that led to the front entrance, his loafers made a clipping sound. Zsadist, who tracked in his wake, made no sound as he stuck to the grass, staying just outside of the light thrown by the short lanterns at the edge of the flagstones.
When Assail got to the door, he tried the handle. No such luck this time; it was locked.
Using the bell, he had a smile on his face as the butler answered the summons. "Good evening, I'm afraid I am a good twenty minutes early. I do not wish to
inconvenience your mistress, however. May I tarry in her parlor?"
As the doggen bowed low, Assail checked to make sure there was no one else in the foyer. And then, as the butler straightened, Assail outed his forty.
Such that the servant looked the muzzle eye-to-eye.
"Do not move a muscle," Assail whispered. "And do not make a sound unless you are answering my questions. Do you wish to live?" Nod. "How many other staff are in the house?"
"S-s-s-seven."
"Is Throe in residence?" Nod. "Where is he?"
"H-h-he is eating upstairs in his bedroom."
Zsadist walked right into the house, and the doggen looked like he wanted to faint at the sight of that scarred face and those black eyes.
"Do not worry about him," Assail said softly. "Focus on me."
"I'm s-s-s-sorry."
"Listen to me, and listen to me well. You have seven minutes to get the staff out of the house. That is one minute per person. Do not waste a moment. Do not explain why they have to leave. Tell them to gather at the base of the driveway. Do not alert your mistress. If you tell her of my presence, I will consider you a co-conspirator in the keeping of the blood slave whom I rescued last evening, and I will kill you where you stand. Am I clear?" Nod. "Tell me what I just told you."
"Y-y-you . . . I have s-s-s-seven minutes to get the staff out. Head of the drive--"
"Base. I said the base of the driveway. I'll be able to see you, because there is a streetlight there. And what about your mistress."
A hard look came across the butler's face, one that very probably was going to save his life. "I shall say not a word to her. She and her lover killed my master."
"What is your name?"
"I am Tharem."
"Tharem, I want you to go to the King's Audience House after this. Tell them everything--what was in that basement, what she did to him, what I am doing here. Do you understand?"
"I took pictures," the butler whispered. "On my phone. I didn't know where to go with them."
"Good. Show them. But go now. Seven minutes."
The doggen bowed low. "Yes, my Lord. Right away."
The uniformed male took off at a dead run, heading for the kitchen, and before Assail was even halfway to the main stairs, three doggen dressed in chef's whites came rushing out through the dining room. One had flour all over his hands, and another had a pot with something in it. Their eyes were wide and afraid, suggesting that the butler had not stayed completely truthful to their bargain.