by J. R. Ward
Chapter Forty-one
The party at the farmhouse went on and on and more people kept coming, their cars parking on the lawn, their bodies jamming into the downstairs rooms. Most who showed were ones that Lash had seen at the Xtreme Park, but not all of them. And they kept bringing more booze. Six- packs. Bottles. Kegs.
God only knew what kinds of illegal were in their pockets.
What the fuck, he started to think. Maybe he'd been wrong and the Omega had been snowed by his perversions--
As a rolling breeze developed out of the north, Lash went perfectly still, keeping his camo in place and locking his mind down.
Shadow. . . He projected a shadow in him and through him and around him.
The Omega's arrival was preceded by an eclipse of the moon and the idiots inside didn't have a clue what was doing. . . but that little shit did. The kid stepped out of the front door, the light from inside spilling out around him.
Lash's blooded father came into form on the scruffy lawn, his white robes swirling around his body, his arrival driving the ambient air temperature down even further. As soon as he'd taken form, the Shit walked up to him and the two embraced.
There was the temptation to go off on the pair of them, to tell his father he was nothing but a fickle cocksucker and warn that little rat bitch his days and nights were numbered--
The Omega's hooded face turned in Lash's direction.
Lash stayed perfectly motionless and projected in his mind an utterly blank slate such that he was invisible inside and out. Shadow. . . shadow. . . shadow. . .
The pause lasted a lifetime, because without a doubt if the Omega sensed Lash was around, it was game-over.
After a moment, the Omega refocused on his golden boy, and just as he did, some fuck-twit tripped out the front door, his flailing arms and loose legs going haywire as he tried to keep upright. Once on the grass, the guy got close to a cabbage patch but didn't quite make it, before landing on his knees and hurling all over the foundation of the house. As people inside laughed at him and the sounds of the party rolled out into the night, the Omega swept up to the doorway.
The party just kept raging as he went into the house, no doubt because the shwasted bastards were too far gone to realize that under that white drape, evil had just come into their mix.
They weren't clueless for long, though.
A massive light bomb went off, the blast of illumination sweeping through the house and streaming out of the windows to the tree line. As the roaring illumination dimmed to a soft glow, there were no upright survivors: All those lushes had dropped to the floor on a oner, the good times over and then some.
Holy shit. If this was headed where it seemed to be going. . .
Lash sidled up to the house, being careful to leave no footprint literally or figuratively, and as he got closer, he heard an odd scraping sound.
Coming to one of the living room's windows, he looked inside.
The Shit was dragging bodies around, lining them up side by side on the floor so that their heads were all facing north and there was a foot or so between them. Jesus. . . there were so many of the stiffs that the good-little- dead-soldier routine stretched all the way out into the hall and into the dining room.
The Omega hung back as if he liked the view of his boy toy muscling the men around.
How. Precious.
It took almost a half hour to get everyone in the row, the guys from the second floor getting dragged down the stairs so that their heads bounced on each step and left a bright red trail of blood.
Made sense. Easier to pull a deadweight by the feet.
When everybody was together, the Shit got to work with a knife and it became an assembly line of inductions. Starting in the dining room, he sliced throats and wrists and ankles and chests and the Omega followed behind, bleeding black into the open ribs then hitting them with electricity before performing cardio-ectomies.
No jars for this batch. When the hearts were extracted, they were pitched into a corner.
Slaughterhouse much?
By the time it was done, there was a pond of blood in the center of the living room where the floorboards had sagged, and another at the base of the stairs in the hall. Lash couldn't get a look-see all the way to the dining room, but he was damn sure there was one there as well.
The moans of the inducted started up soon after, and the crop of misery that had been reaped was going to get louder and messier as the transition was bridged and the last of their humanity was vomited out of them.
In the midst of the chorus of agony and confusion, The Omega twirled around, stepping over the writhing masses, dancing to and fro, his white robes trailing through the congealing crap on the floor and remaining unstained.
In the corner, the Shit lit up a joint and toked away like he was taking a breather after a good job done well.
Lash stepped back from the window and then retreated toward the trees, all the while keeping his eyes on that house.
Damn it, he should have done something like this. But he hadn't had the contacts in the human world to pull it off. Unlike the Shit.
Man, this was going to change everything for the vampires. Those fuckers were going to actually face a legion of the enemy again.
Back at the Mercedes, Lash started the engine and eased out of farm- landia the long way so he didn't go anywhere near that house. Behind the wheel, with the cold air hitting his face thanks to the shot-out window glass, he was grim. Fuck females and all that bullshit, for real. His sole goal in life was to knock out the Shit. Take the Omega's little prize. Destroy the Lessening Society.
Well. . . females were mostly out of it. He felt absolutely drained because he needed to feed--whatever was happening to his outer layer, his inside was still craving blood and he had to solve this problem before he could face his daddy-o.
Or he was going to get popped.
As he drove toward downtown, he took out his phone and marveled at what he was about to do. But then, a common enemy had a way of making strange alliances.
Back at the Brotherhood compound, Blay got undressed in his bathroom and stepped under the shower. As he took the soap and frothed up some suds, he thought about the kiss in that alley.
About that male.
About. . . that kiss.
Moving his palms over his pecs, he tilted his head back and let the warm water run down his hair and his back to his ass. His body felt like it wanted to arch harder and he let it do its thing, stretching, luxuriating in the warm rush. He took his time shampooing his hair and running that slippery, soapy hand of his around.
While he thought of that kiss some more.
God, it was as if the memory of their lips together was a magnet that dragged him back to home again and again; the pull too strong to fight, the connection too enticing for him to want to avoid it.
Sweeping his palms down his torso, he wondered when he was going to see Saxton again.
When they were going to be alone again.
Moving lower with his hand, he--
"Sire?"
Blay spun around, his heel squeaking on the marble. Covering his hard, heavy cock with both hands, he ducked around the glass door. "Layla?"
The Chosen smiled at him shyly and ran her eyes down his body. "I was called forth? To serve?"
"I didn't call. " Maybe she was confused? Unless--
"Qhuinn summoned me forth. I assumed it was to this room?"
Blay briefly shut his eyes as his erection faded. And then he gave himself a boot in his Key West and canned the hot water. Reaching around, he snapped a towel free and wrapped it around his hips.
"No, Chosen," he said quietly. "Not here. His room. "
"Oh! Forgive me, sire. " She began to back out of the room, her cheeks flaming.
"It's all right--watch out!" Blay lunged forward and caught her just as she bumped into the tub and lost her balance. "You okay?"
"V
erily, I should look where I goeth. " She glanced up into his eyes, her hands coming to rest on his bare arms. "Thank you. "
Staring down at her perfectly beautiful face, it was obvious why Qhuinn was interested. She was ethereal for sure, but there was more to it-- especially as her lids lowered and her green eyes flashed.
Innocent, but erotic. That was it. She was that captivating combination of purity and raw sex which to normal males was undeniable--and Qhuinn was not even close to normal. He'd bang anything.
Wonder if the Chosen knew that? Or whether it would matter to her if she did?
With a frown, Blay set her back from him. "Layla. . . "
"Yes, sire?"
Well, hell. . . what was he going to say to her? It was damn clear she hadn't been called back to feed Qhuinn, because they'd just done that the night before--
Christ, maybe that was the point. They'd already had sex once and she was returning for more.
"Sire?"
"Nothing. You'd better go. I'm sure he's waiting. "
"Indeed. " Layla's fragrance surged, the cinnamon spice flaring in Blay's nose. "And for that I am so grateful. "
As she turned and left, Blay watched her hips sway and felt like screaming. He did not want to think of Qhuinn having sex next door--for fuck's sake, the mansion had been the one place uncontaminated by all the extracurricular grind.
Now, though, all he could see was Layla walking into Qhuinn's room and letting that white robe fall down from her shoulders, her breasts and her belly and her thighs revealed to his mismatched stare. She'd be in his bed and under his body in the blink of an eye.
And Qhuinn would do her right. That was the thing, at least when it came to sex: He was generous with his time and his talents. He'd be all over her with everything he had, his hands and his mouth--
Right. No need to go there.
Toweling off, it occured to him that maybe Layla was the perfect partner for the guy. With her training, she would not only please him on every level, she would never expect monogamy from him or resent him for his other exploits or push him for emotional connections he didn't feel. She would probably even join in the fun, because it was obvious by the way she walked that she was comfortable with her body.
She was perfect for him. Better than Blay, for sure.
Besides, Qhuinn had made it clear he was going to end up with a female. . . a traditional female with traditional values who was preferably from the aristocracy, assuming he could find one who would take him even with the defect of those mismatched peepers.
Layla totally fit that bill--nothing more old-school or highbred than a Chosen and it was clear she wanted him.
Feeling like he was cursed, Blay went into his closet and changed into nylon shorts and an Under Armour shirt. No way was he going to sit here and cozy up with a good book while whatever was going down next door went down--
Yeah. Didn't need those pictures either, even in the hypothetical.
Stepping out into the hall of statues, he rushed down past the marble figures, envying them their calm poses and their serene faces. Sure as shit the everything's-cool routine made being inanimate seem like a good deal. Whereas it meant they felt no joy, they didn't have to go through this burning pain, either.
When he got down to the foyer, he shot around the banister's curling end and ducked through the hidden doorway. In the tunnel to the training center, he struck up a jog as a warm-up and as he emerged through the back of the office closet, he didn't slow down. The weight room was the only place he could stand to be right now. Good hour or so on the StairMaster and he might not feel like peeling his own skin off with a rusty spoon.
Coming out into the corridor, he pulled up short as he saw a lone figure propped against the concrete wall.
"Xhex? What are you doing here?" Well, other than clearly staring a hole in the floor.
The female glanced over and her dark gray eyes seemed like hollow pits. "Hey. "
Blay frowned as he walked up to her. "Where's John?"
"He's in there. " She nodded at the door to the weight room.
Which would explain the dull pounding he heard. Somebody was clearly running the shit out of one of the treadmills.
"What happened?" Blay said, putting her expression and what John's Nikes were doing together--and coming up with a whole lot of oh-shit.
Xhex let her head fall against the wall that was holding her body up. "It was all I could do to get him back here. "
"Why?"
Her eyes flicked over. "Let's just say he wants after Lash. "
"Well, that's understandable. "
"Yeah. "
As the word drifted out of her mouth, he had a sense he didn't know the half of it, but it was clear that was as far as she was going to go with the commentary.
Abruptly, her storm cloud-colored stare sharpened on his face. "So you're the reason Qhuinn was in such a bad mood tonight. "
Blay recoiled, and then shook his head. "It's got nothing to do with me. Qhuinn is usually in a bad mood. "
"People going in the wrong direction will get like that. Round pegs just don't fit in square holes. "
Blay cleared his throat, thinking symphaths, even ones who were arguably not against you, were not the kind of thing you wanted to be around when you were raw and exposed. Like, say, when the male you wanted was doing right by a Chosen who had a face like an angel and a body built for sin.
God only knew what Xhex was picking up on from where his head was at.
"Well. . . I'm going for a workout. " Like his rig wasn't a dead giveaway.
"Good. Maybe you can talk to him. "
"I will. " Blay hesitated, thinking Xhex looked a little too much like he felt. "Listen, not for nothing, but you're clearly spent. Maybe you could go up to a guest room and sleep?"
She shook her head. "I'm not leaving him. And I'm out here waiting only because I was making him crazy. The sight of me. . . isn't good for his mental health at the moment. I'm hoping that's no longer true after he breaks this second treadmill. "
"Second?"
"I'm pretty damn sure the flapping and the smell of smoke about fifteen minutes ago meant he ran one of them into the ground. "
"Damn. "
"Yup. "
Bracing himself, Blay ducked into the weight room--
"Jesus. . . Christ. John. "
His voice didn't carry at all. Then again, the roar of the treadmill and John's slamming strides would have drowned out a car backfiring.
The guy's massive body was in a full-out bolt on the machine, his T- shirt and torso dripping with sweat, droplets flicking off his cranked fists and creating twin tracts of damp on either side on the floor. Both his white socks had red blushes streaking up from his heels as if he'd worn patches of skin off, and the black nylon shorts he had on his hips slapped like a wet towel.
"John?" Blay shouted, as he measured the burned-out machine next to the one the guy was on. "John!"
When yelling didn't bring that head around, Blay stalked over and waved his hands right in the guy's visual field. And then wished he hadn't. The eyes that locked on his were blazing with a hatred so vicious, Blay took a step back.
As John refocused on the air in front of his face, it was pretty damn clear that the fucker was going to keep this up until he was a yard shorter from having run his legs into stubs.
"John, how 'bout you step off!" Blay hollered. "Before you fall off?"
No response. Just the screaming whirl of the treadmill and the carpet- bombing sound of those feet.
"John! Come on, now! You're killing yourself!"
Fuck this.
Blay walked around behind the piece of equipment and yanked the cord out of the wall. The abrupt slowdown caused John to trip and fall forward, but he caught himself on the console's arms. Or maybe just collapsed onto them.
His heaving breaths tore in and out of his lax mouth as his head lolled on
his arm.
Blay pulled a weight bench over and parked it so he could look into the guy's face. "John. . . what the hell's going on?"
John let go of the console and fell back on his ass, his legs giving out from under him. After a series of sawing breaths, he drew his hand through his wet hair.
"Talk to me, John. I'll keep it just between us. I swear it on the life of my mother. "
It was quite a while before John lifted his head, and when he did, his eyes were shiny. And not from sweat or exertion.
"Talk to me and it goes nowhere," Blay whispered. "What happened? Tell me. "
When the guy eventually signed, it was messy, but Blay read the words just fine.
He hurt her, Blay. He. . . hurt her.
"Well, yeah, I know. I heard about the shape she was in when she--"
John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
In the tense silence that followed, the skin on the back of Blay's neck tightened. Oh. . . shit.
There had been more to it. Hadn't there.
"How bad," Blay growled.
Bad as it gets, John mouthed.
"Motherfucker. Bastard ass motherfucker. Cocksucking rat-bitch bastard mother fucker!"
Blay wasn't big into the swearing thing, but sometimes that was all you had to offer the ears of others: Xhex wasn't his female, but you didn't hurt the fairer sex as far as he was concerned. For any reason. . . and never, ever like that.
God, her pained expression hadn't been just worry for John. It had been about memories. Awful, hideous memories. . .
"John. . . I'm so sorry. "
Fresh drops fell from the guy's chin onto the treadmill's black band, and John wiped his eyes a couple of times before he looked over. In his face, anguish warred with the kind of fury that made your balls get tight.
Which made perfect sense. With his history, this was a crusher on so many levels.
I've got to kill him, John signed. I can't live with myself if I don't take him out.
As Blay nodded, the whys of the vengeance were obvious. Bonded male with a bad history?
Lash's death warrant had just had PAID stamped on it.
Blay curled up a fist and offered his knuckles. "Anything you need, anything you want, I'm with you. And I won't say a word. "
John waited a moment and then met fist with fist. I knew I could count on you, he mouthed.
"Always," Blay vowed. "Always. "