by J. R. Ward
His destination reached, he re-formed behind the groundskeeping shed—
“Fuck!”
Qhuinn jumped back at the same time he threw his hands out in front of his chest. The building he’d very nearly killed himself on was single-storied and super-shingled—and most certainly had never been on the property when he’d lived on it.
“Jesus,” he muttered as he looked around.
Had he gotten the wrong address? Nah, that wasn’t possible.
Wondering what the hell was wrong with him, he walked to the corner of whatever outbuilding he’d nearly embedded himself in—
Motion-activated lights flared, and he hissed at them as he willed them off with such force that the one that had pegged him right in the eyes exploded up at the roof, smoke rising, glass shattering.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He stopped the cursing as he blinked the retina-shock away—and got a look at the back of his family’s old house and yard. “What… the fuck?”
The last time he had been here, there had been formal gardens and a perfectly maintained lawn, along with a back terrace with old school black wrought iron furniture. Now? Everything but the terrace was gone. In its place? A swimming pool you could stage Olympic trials in, a pool house that could shelter a family of six, and half a dozen modern sculptures the size of SUVs.
All of which were the colors of Lassiter’s collection of zebra tights: Neon pink, acid yellow, kryptonite green.
Rubbing his eyes, he was sure his parents were rolling in their graves—and heard his mother’s voice, dripping with censure: All that money in the wrong hands.
Frankly, he was surprised that the mansion remained intact—
For one piercing moment, he saw it all as it once had been, his mahmen walking among the flowers, pointing out the varieties of white blooms to his sister, forcing Solange to memorize the proper Latin names. Behind them, Luchas and their sire would likewise be strolling at a leisurely pace, their hands clasped behind the small of their backs. They were discussing finance. They’d always discussed finance.
In the warmer months, the four of them had walked together after every First Meal, the females in front, males in back, and never the twain shall mix: Solange was never going to learn about money—it was far too above her. And Luchas would never learn about horticulture—it was far too beneath him.
Qhuinn had always watched them promenade in the moonlight from the window in his bedroom.
And yearned to be asked to join, even just once.
Before he got all maudlin, he stopped the memories—and decided it was a relief that everything on the estate was so different. It made things less complicated.
Setting himself into motion, he stalked across the lawn, his footsteps marring the pristine snow cover—and when he went by one of the sculptures, he knocked his knuckles on the pink surface. The hollow ring suggested it was metal, and he imagined some interior decorator exclaiming the virtues of its random contours and hard corners. Fuck all knew what the design was supposed to represent. Or maybe that was the point.
Closing in on the back of the mansion, he found that he’d been wrong. There had been renovations to the house, too, and they were… pretty extensive. Was that a new room out the back? And the terrace—he’d been wrong about it, as well. The old flagstone was all gone, replaced by some kind of sandstone? He couldn’t really tell because of the snow cover, but it was clear from what had melted close to the first floor’s edge that the tile was totally different.
When he was in range of one of the windows, he cupped his hands and leaned in to see inside.
“Ooooookay.”
Beetlejuice. When the Deetzes took over the Maitlands’ nice old farmhouse… and turned it into a freak show of bad modern artiste crap. No antiques. No beautiful Persian rugs. No grandfather clocks, and oil paintings, and collections of Imari porcelain. In the place of all that had been venerable and cultivated over generations? Steel and leather furniture, black stone floors, and more sculptures that looked like three-dimensional Rorschach tests.
Like that red hand over there? It was a chair, right?
He’d never thought of himself as a traditionalist before, but frankly… he wouldn’t have given a plug nickel for the lot of it. But their taste was not his problem.
On the contrary, the motion-detector pods mounted in the corners at the ceiling were. The damn things were obvious ’cuz they had little green blinking lights—and they probably had cameras, too.
On that note, there were no doubt monitoring feeds running out here as well.
These were all his fucking problems.
Because he had to get inside.
One advantage of having to wait until twelve for the humans under this roof to hit the sack was that he’d figured out his coping mechanism. Fuck the therapy and the sniveling. He was going to deal with his brother’s death through service: Luchas had broken his heart with pain and revived him with a directive. And in honoring the request that had been put to him, Qhuinn had a job, a purpose, a direction into which he was able to channel his sadness and his sense that he could have changed where things had gone if he’d only been more attentive.
So yeah, he was getting into this fucking house and he was going to grab whatever his brother had left behind under that floorboard.
Utterly resolved, he closed his eyes and dematerialized right into the center of the… was it the living room? It had been a study before. Now, the place had couches, and again, was that supposed to be a chair? He guessed you could sit on that palm—
Ah, yes. The alarm.
Instantly, a high-pitched, screaming siren lit off, and given all the absolutely-no-rug, and the walls that were bare as a museum backdrop, the sound echoed around like firecrackers had been set off at his feet.
Three… two… one…
A light flared in the front hall, and then a set of heavy footsteps came down the staircase—along with a male voice that was muttering things about having to work in the morning, and stupid alarms, and whatnot.
Qhuinn calmly pivoted toward the noise and put his hands in the pockets of his track bottoms. His leather jacket was zipped up, but he hadn’t bothered to strap any weapons on—which okay, fine, probably proved the point that he wasn’t ready to go out into the field yet. But he had other issues to deal with at the moment, fuck him very much.
As he waited patiently, the man of the house went in the opposite direction, the footsteps growing dimmer as he headed for the kitchen end of things. Which made Qhuinn wonder. Shouldn’t there be a keypad upstairs? A remote?
Somewhere, a phone started ringing. And then there were a series of beeps.
Finally, off in the distance, that male voice started clipping out syllables that were loud enough to hear clearly.
“—no, I don’t need the police. I need a technician to come out and fix the keypad in my bedroom and that goddamn motion detector downstairs. It’s gone off again—”
The voice and footsteps got louder. And louder.
And then there he was, coming back to the stairs, the master of the house, in a pair of flannel PJs bottoms and a nylon Nike shirt. He was well into his fifties, but he’d had an eyelift and dyed his hair dark, so he could pass for forty at forty feet. No gut. Fairly good shoulders. Was probably eating keto and smoking weed instead of drinking vodka tonics to save on the calories—while he pickled himself with Botox and collagen injections to preserve as much youth as he could.
Probably on his second wife with his second round of kids.
The human stopped with the walk-and-talk.
When the guy’s mouth fell open, Qhuinn raised his hand in a little wave. Seemed rude not to offer some kind of greeting.
As the man grabbed hold of the phone with both hands and took a deep breath like he was about to blab on his midnight visitor, Qhuinn wagged his finger. “Yeah, that’s a no-no.”
He reached into the human’s brain and shut down everything. Then he isolated the two-second-old memory of Mr. I Don�
��t Wanna Be Old finding an intruder in his living room—along with the current signals being sent by those peepers that Qhuinn was standing about ten feet away from him.
Next came the marching orders.
Which were kind of fun.
The man cleared his throat. And then started speaking into the phone calmly, his eyes locked on Qhuinn. “Oh, sorry. No, everything’s fine. Like I said, it’s just that malfunction again. But please, I’d like to have a technician out whenever is convenient. I’m happy to work around your schedule.”
As there was a pause, like the alarm company rep had been unprepared for the change in attitude, Qhuinn was glad he’d tacked on some polite shit as a public service. He had a feeling the guy was one of those self-made sonsabitches who was a fucking prick to people.
“Thanks,” the man said to the Jake from State Farm equivalent. “That’ll be great. And I really appreciate your help. Of course, I’d love to take your customer satisfaction survey. Just send it to my email. Thanks again. Bye.”
The human ended the call. Lowered the portable phone from his ear. And stood there like a robot waiting for instructions on whether he was cleaning the floor or about to do a load of laundry.
“Can I ask you something?” Qhuinn rolled his eyes at himself. “Stupid question. I could ask you for your bank accounts right now.”
“Do you need them? They’re on my computer upstairs.”
“Nah, I’m good. You paid me seven million for this place about a year ago.”
“I paid you? So this was your house.”
“My parents’, actually. How you likin’ the place?”
“It’s good. I like it fine. It needed updating.”
“Well, you’ve certainly left your mark on it.” Qhuinn indicated the phone, which was an old school cordless. “My question is, why you still got a landline, my guy? You don’t have the alarm wired into your cell? For like, the security feeds?”
The man’s shoulders drooped and he rolled his eyes. “My daughter threw my iPhone in the toilet tonight.”
“Bummer. How old is she?”
“Three.”
“Cool. Hey, do you know about the rice trick? You put the phone in a plastic baggie full of the stuff. It works. Or you could just buy another.”
“I’m going to get another one—”
“Ron?” a female voice called down. “Is someone there?”
As Qhuinn shook his head, “Ron” yelled back, “No. It’s just me on the phone with the alarm company. Go back to bed.”
“It’s cold,” came the petulant response. “You need to come back up here.”
Like good ol’ Ron was her electric blanket.
“Ron?” she repeated.
“Give me a minute, honey.” The tone was level, but the expression was tight, like he was gritting his molars. “I’ll be right there.”
“You know,” Qhuinn murmured, “I don’t envy your life, my guy.”
Ron took a deep breath and lowered his volume, too. “The three-year-old wants to sleep with us all the time. Susie had to get her mommy-tuck redone two weeks ago. And I think my partner is stealing from the firm.”
“Wow. When was the last time you got high?”
“Three hours ago. It’s the only way I can shut everything up.”
“So I was right.”
“About what?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Qhuinn shrugged. “Well, as much as I’ve liked talking to you here, Ronnie boy, I’ve got work to do. So you need to go upstairs and tell your wife again that everything’s fine. It’s nothing. And then you’re going into your office, and you’re going to delete the security feeds from tonight. Let’s say, from eleven forty-five to two a.m. After that? You go to sleep. Oh, and when that alarm technician shows up here, don’t be a fucking douche, ’kay? You got a lotta things going for you, there’s no reason to be rude.”
“Okay. I won’t be. Promise.”
“Attaboy, Ron.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome.”
The man nodded and turned away. As he shuffled off, he walked like a man whose lower back hurt. Or maybe it was all those miles running on those fifty-six-year-old knees.
A moment later, there were footfalls ascending the stairs, and then a door shutting. And then more footfalls overhead, walking into another part of the house.
Good ol’ Ron, following directions.
Bracing himself yet again, Qhuinn went out into the front hall, and found more of the same decor, the modern, black-and-white, strange-art theme like a rash on a body. Everywhere.
Pausing, he looked to the wall where the big-ass mirror had always hung, the one where guests could check their appearance when they arrived, or his parents could inspect their own whenever they left. Such mirrors were standard issue for glymera houses. Always right by the front entry.
No mirror anymore.
Now? It was a picture of four hubcaps. That probably cost more than a Lambo.
Unbelievable.
Qhuinn mounted the steps one at a time. Funny, when he’d thought about coming here, he’d imagined himself rushing through the rooms and the hallways, all scrambled and freaking out. Not it. Instead, he took his time, looking at the weird shit hanging along the staircase’s wall—he was pretty sure it was a school of taxidermied goldfish, except they had Barbie heads on them?
What a transformation.
And it was not hard to find a metaphor in all of it. When he’d been here with his parents, he’d assumed everything in the house, like his destiny, had been unalterable. Not true, as it turned out.
When he got to the head of the stairs, he looked to the right. Just more barren black-and-white floors, and stuff on the walls that could have been created by first-graders. Then he turned to the left. Luchas’s bedroom was all the way down at the far end. As the preferred son, he’d been given the second-best-appointed suite in the house, behind only the master and mistress’s.
God, his chest hurt, he thought as he started walking again.
When he got to his brother’s door, he glanced down at his feet to gather himself—only to have a chilling thought when he focused on the hall’s glossy tiles. Mother… fucker. That hiding space of his brother’s. When they’d redone his room, had they pulled up the floorboards, too—
He shoved the door open. And let his head fall back. “Shit.”
The whole room was black and white. Including the floor, which had been—surprise!—tiled in black marble. Whatever his brother had hidden there, under that old, loose board? Was no doubt gone.
“Whatcha doing, mister?”
At the sound of the squeaky voice, Qhuinn cranked his head around—and had to look down again. Standing in the hall, in a Frozen nightgown, was a human young of about five or six. So not the one who’d sunk the phone in the loo.
The little girl was staring up at the intruder in her house without any fear. “That’s my older brother’s room,” she said.
Qhuinn cleared his throat. “It was my older brother’s, too.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
As she tilted her head to the side, her hair, which was the color of Ron’s, moved over her tiny shoulder.
After a moment, she said with suspicion, “Are you allowed to be here, mister?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Look, you need to just go.”
As the words were spoken to him, Blay stopped in the middle of the plowed downtown street and looked over at Z.
“I’m sorry?”
They were deep in the field, walking a row of urban apartment houses, all of which were dark and pockmarked with broken windows. There had been nothing enemy-like anywhere to be seen, but that was not to be trusted. Somewhere in the winter moonlight, shadows were lurking, stalking. Taking orders from the new evil.
“You need to go to your boy.” The Brother’s yellow eyes scanned around. “That’s where your head’s at.”
“No, I’m here.”
&
nbsp; “Physically.” Z focused on him. “Mentally, you’re checked out, so you better head back home and see about him. He needs you.”
Blay made a show of looking up and down the street, doing the two-can-play thing. As he thought about how to respond, he was aware of Z just staring at him. So yeah, fronting was not going to be his best option, was it.
Clearing his throat, he said, “He’s not at home.”
“Where is he?”
“He went home.”
Z shook his head. “You just said he wasn’t there—”
“Sorry, to his old home. His parents’ old place.”
“Shit.”
“But listen, I can still function out here—”
“After the raids, you buried his parents there, didn’t you. And his sister. And you think he’s okay going back to that property?”
Blay cursed and rubbed his nose. After he sneezed from the cold, he said, “Luchas sent him there on a mission. According to Luchas’s note, he left something in his room and he wants Qhuinn to handle it.”
Putting his hands on his hips, Z closed his eyes. Then he cursed and activated the communicator on his shoulder. “Tohr, we’re taking ten. I’ll check in when we’re ready to resume.”
Blay started waving his arms. “No, really, I can just—”
There was a soft hiss. Then Tohr’s voice: “Roger that. I’m shifting V and Butch over to your quadrant.”
“Thank you.” Zsadist released the communicator and stared across levelly. “Where are we going? I know what happened at the house, but I never had the address.”
Blay linked his arms over his chest and shook his head. “He wanted to go alone. And I’d like to respect that.”
“He will be alone.”
“No offense, but if we’re on the property, that happens how?”