by J. R. Ward
"What I was going to say," Qhuinn barked, "was that you always told me you were sorry he couldn't forgive me for something I couldn't change--"
"That's right--your DNA is not your fault. What the hell does that have to do with anything between us? Are you saying you're not responsible for what comes out of your mouth?" Blay shook his head and paced around. "Or even better, that it's not your fault you cut me out of those kids' lives?"
"I just invited myself and those kids over to your parents' house tomorrow night, remember. So I'm clearly not cutting you out." Qhuinn's chin lifted. "And my point is that I don't get how someone who proselytized the importance of forgiveness is refusing to accept my apology."
Without thinking about it, Blay reached into his coat and took out the pack of Dunhills. And as he lit one up, he muttered, "Yes, I'm smoking again. No, it has nothing to do with you. And when I was talking about your father, it was about eye color, for godsakes. I wasn't asking you to step off from what you thought were your goddamn children. That was my life, Qhuinn. Those children...were my future, what was going to be left of me when I'm dead and gone. They were going to be..." As his voice cracked, he took a long drag. "They were going to carry my parents' traditions forward. They were milestones and happiness and a wholeness that even you can't give me. That's nothing compared to a genetic accident that resulted in your having one blue eye and one green one."
"Whatever, Blay," Qhuinn said darkly as he circled his face. "This defect was my whole life, and you know it. My defect in my parents' house was my whole fucking life. I was cut out of everything--"
"So fine, you know how I feel."
As their stares clashed, Qhuinn shook his head. "You're as bad as my father was, you know that? You really are."
Blay jabbed his lit cigarette at the guy. "Fuck you. For that. Seriously."
Qhuinn stared across the tense air for a moment. Then he said, "What's going on here. I mean, really, do you just want to blow us up? You want to go back to Saxton or maybe fuck someone else? You want to play it like the way I used to be? Is that why you're doing this?"
"Why I'm doing--wait, like I'm taking this stance as an exit strategy? You think maybe this is a soapbox to make an arbitrary point? You honestly believe I'm playing here?" He shook his head as disbelief made him dizzy. "And no, I don't want to be like you. You and I aren't the same and we never have been."
"Which is why we work." Abruptly, Qhuinn's voice grew reedy. "You're my home, Blay. You always have been. Even with Lyric and Rhamp in my life, I'm lost without you, and yeah, I can get pissed off in the middle of a conversation like this, but I'm still man enough to admit that I'm nothing if you're not with me." He cleared his throat. "And FYI, I'm going to fight for you, for us, so I'll ask you again. What's it going to take? Blood? Because whatever I need to do to get you back, I'm going to do it."
As Assail let out another scream, Blay closed his eyes, exhaustion coming over him like a death shroud. "Yeah, sure, fine," he muttered. "Blood. It's going to take blood. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go look after my mother."
"I'm showing up with the young tomorrow night at your parents'."
"I won't be there."
"That's your decision. And I'll respect it. But I mean what I say. No matter what it takes, I'm going to prove that I love you and I need you and I want you--and that those kids are yours."
With that, the Brother turned away and strode off down the concrete corridor, his head high, his shoulders back, his step even--
"Son?"
Blay jumped and turned around to his dad. "How is she? The X-ray done yet?"
"She's asking for you. Dr. Manello says they might have to operate."
Shit. "Of course." He put his arm around his father's shoulders. "Come on, let's figure this out together--"
"Are you and Qhuinn okay?"
"Peachy. Just peachy jim-dandy," he said as he pushed the exam room door open. "Nothing to worry about. Let's just focus on Mom, okay?"
FORTY-THREE
Throe had long heard that one could make a bomb out of common household materials. That one could quite readily produce a highly explosive unit with naught more than items found in most kitchens.
Yet, although this was true, as he proceeded down the formal stairs of his lover's hellren's mansion, he was almost disappointed at the ubiquitous nature of what he was seeking. However, with his book under his arm, and a welcomed clarity of purpose in his mind, he told himself his faith would be rewarded, his purpose served, his goal achieved.
Even if this seemed a bit anticlimactic.
And again, at least he was focused now.
Such strange business that previous confusion had been, he thought as he came down to the first floor's foyer, the crackling fire in the marble hearth offering warmth and light, the crystal chandelier overhead twinkling as if real diamonds had been strung from the ceiling. Pausing, he looked into the sitting room beyond and approved of the silk sofas and the candelabra, the textiles that hung around the long, narrow windows, the jewel-like colors that had been chosen by someone with a very good eye and a very deep pocket.
On the opposite side of the grand open space, as was tradition, the study of the house's first male gleamed of power and distinction, the wood paneling and leather-bound books, the broad desk with its leather blotter and matching chair, the stained glass windows, lending such an impression of aristocratic entrenchment that a sense of nostalgia warmed the center of his chest. There had been so many years since he had lived like this, so many hovels in between. And further, there had also been crassness and vulgarity, death and blood, sex of the most base kind.
It had not been the life he had once seen for himself, and indeed, as much as he had once felt tied to the Band of Bastards and their leader, now he believed that his time with them had been naught but a bad dream, a fated storm that had passed through his destiny on its way to wreak havoc on some other poor sod's existence.
This was where he belonged.
In fact, of all the places he had been in in the New World, this mansion suited him best. It was not the largest of his female friends', but it was appointed with the very best accoutrements, at a standard he himself would have chosen for his abode--
What he would soon choose for his abode, he corrected himself, when he o'ertook the race--
"You will not last with her."
Throe pivoted on his heel. The hellren of the house, an elderly vampire of some eight hundred years, came creeping out of the formal bathroom that was off the library, the sound of a flushing toilet announcing his presence more than his dwindling scent or thinning voice.
"I beg your pardon," Throe murmured, even though he had heard perfectly well.
"She will not last with you any longer than she has with the others. You will be back out on the streets by the New Year."
Throe smiled, particularly as he noted the cane that the male required in order to ambulate. For a moment, he entertained the notion that the thing slipped out from under the grip of that arthritic hand, and the male lurched off balance, falling to the hard marble floor.
"I think you vastly underestimate my appeal, old male." Throe shifted his hold on The Book, bringing it unto his chest. Funny, it seemed to tingle against his heart. "But that is not a topic for polite conversation, is it."
Gray hair, bushy eyebrows, tufts of whiskers growing out of ears...oh, the indignities of age, Throe thought. And the inevitable erectile and sexual dysfunction. After all, Viagra could help only so much. Even if the cock could harden thanks to pharmaceuticals, if the rest of the body was as toothsome as a rotten deer carcass, what else could a young female do other than take a more palatable lover?
"She is out, you know," the male said in his wobbly voice.
Why didn't they have the walking cane equivalent for speech, Throe wondered idly. A little speaker to project things better? Perhaps with a knob to add bass along with volume.
"She is, yes," Throe intoned with a smile. "I sent her
out to find another female so she and I could play with a toy. We've done this before--and she will come back and bring me what I want."
When the male stuttered as though shocked, Throe leaned in and dropped his words to a whisper, as if he and her hellren were in on a secret together. "I believe you will find that happening with some regularity from now on. You must realize, kind sir, that I am not like the others she has entertained in the past. I tell her what to do and she does it. Which rather differentiates you and I, as well, does it not?"
The old male recovered his composure and wagged that cane. "You'll see. She's done this before. I am the one she can't live without because I can support her. You, as a drifter, a con artist, and a fallen aristocrat, most certainly cannot."
Well, Throe mused, perhaps one has mis-guessed the phlegmatic nature of this particular mate. No matter, however.
Throe inclined his head. "Believe what you will. It never changes reality, does it. Good evening."
As he headed off toward the butler's pantry, the hellren said with some volume, "Using the servants' door, are you. Quite appropriate. You used to be a member of the glymera, but that is no longer true--and hasn't been since your blooded family removed you from their estate and their lines of ancestry. Such a pity. Unless you look at it from their point of view. Disgraces must be excised or they threaten the entirety."
Throe stopped. And slowly turned back around.
Narrowing his eyes, he felt a familiar anger curl around his gut, a viper that liked to strike out. "Be of care, old male. I shall tell you once more, but never again--I am not like the others."
"You are a gigolo. You trade your body for food and shelter like any common whore. A fine suit does not change the stink of the flesh upon which it rests."
Dimly, Throe was aware of The Book becoming hot against his sternum. And he felt a temptation to give in to his rage like never before.
But then he remembered what he had come downstairs for. And what he would do up in his bedroom when he had assembled what he required.
Now he smiled again. "You are lucky I need you."
"You better remember that. And so should she."
"We shall, I promise. Especially, while your shellan comes for me."
Throe continued on, leaving the hellren to whate'er he would do for the rest of the night--and what a party that would be. Due to his mobility problems, he spent most evenings in the rear library that led into the solarium, propped up like a statue whose base was broken.
So when it was time...he would be easy to find.
Meanwhile, one needs must go unto the pantry and gather ingredients.
Locating the dry-storage room with its multitudinous shelves and its rows of cans and boxes and jars was simple enough. Finding precisely what he needed, however, was going to take some time and concentration: As he measured the breadth of what had been purchased for the household's consumption, he was a bit overwhelmed.
But something told him not to ask any of the staff to help.
The Book, he would later think. Yes, The Book was communicating to him without words, rather as an animal with whom one had great familiarity might "speak" through a series of eye and muzzle movements, intangibles that meant little to all save the two involved.
Opening the tome upon the center butcher block, Throe smiled as its pages flipped themselves to the correct passages. And then he sought to collect what was listed.
'Twas a nasty stew, indeed.
Angostura bitters. Red wine vinegar. Ginger. Licorice, black. Arugula. Saffron. Sesame seeds.
And then he needed black candle wax. And...motor oil? From a car?
For a moment, he chafed at the effort that gathering it all was going to require, his old way of being waited on hand and foot rearing its privileged head. Except then The Book fluffed its pages, as if in disapproval.
"Aye," he told it. "Follow through I shall."
Picking up a basket from a stack by the entrance, as if this indeed were a shop of sorts, he set about taking from the shelves what was indicated.
Oh, and a copper pot. He was going to find one of those in the kitchen, he hoped.
Yes, this was quite the stew. Yet hardly the sort of thing you'd think you could make an army out of, and mayhap this would not work--
The Book flurried its pages, like a dog well miffed.
Throe smiled back at it. "Don't be so touchy. I have my faith, and my faith has me."
Odd way of putting things, but the refrain set up shop in his brain and came out of his mouth on a murmur.
"I have my faith, my faith has me, I-have-myfaith, myfaith-has-me, myfaithhasmemyfaithhasme..."
FORTY-FOUR
Zypher led the Band of Bastards back unto where they had been seeking shelter well before dawn approached. The blizzard was so bad, and had raged for so long, that not only had their travel plans to the New World been curtailed--along with so many humans'--but the city of Caldwell and its surrounding neighborhoods had likewise turned into snowy ghost towns, no cars upon the impassible roads, no pedestrians upon the impassible sidewalks.
They had tried the night before to locate Xcor, for what they had assumed would be the final time. But when they had become stuck on the East Coast, their return flight across the Atlantic delayed, they had endeavored, once again, and for what surely would be the final, final time, to find their leader.
And, as had been the case before, they had discovered naught. Whether that was because of the storm or...
Oh, who was he kidding, Zypher thought as he turned the corner on an alley that had become quite familiar. Xcor was well and verily gone, most likely unto his grave. They truly needed to give this up, especially as they were all now not just frustrated, but freezing cold. Rest was best, for on the fall of darkness on the morrow, they were going to have to begin the battle to find a different flight, or perhaps even a different path to return home.
One thing he was looking forward to? Resuming their castle accommodations.
The abandoned restaurant they had been staying in was better than some places they had had to camp out in over the centuries, but it held not a candle to their well-hearthed stone pile back in the Old Country. They had, however, made the best of what they had taken residence of, tunneling into the building next door to provide an additional escape, and monitoring the other empty businesses in the event that humans made a resurgence into the degraded neighborhood.
Aye, he would be glad to depart, even as he mourned the one they had had to leave behind.
Zypher reached the door first, and as was protocol, he stood to one side and guarded his fellow fighters as they opened things up and filed into the interior--not that there was aught to protect against.
Would that storms such as this happened with constancy, he thought, so that humans were driven into their shelters every evening.
Syn was the last through the open portal, and then Zypher checked once again the snowed-in alley and the vacated, wilted buildings across the way. Then he, too, disappeared into the interior, which was no warmer, but considerably less breezy, than the streets.
It was a relief not to have snow flying into one's eyes and muffling one's hearing.
The sound of the group of them stomping snow from their cleats and shaking off hats and gloves reminded him of a trampling herd, accompanied by birds. Not that he had actually e'er seen such a thing, but he imagined it would--
"Something smells wrong."
"Someone has been herein."
As an intruder's presence registered on all of them at once, they went on the defensive, crouching into their legs, taking out their weapons. But it was not...
"Gunpowder?" one of them said.
"A flare mayhap--"
At that moment, the door opened right behind him--
And the scent that came in with the cold stopped everything. The scent...and the size of the male who filed the doorjambs...and the aura of power that accompanied him...
The panels were closed slowly. And st
ill no one moved.
That voice, the one that Zypher had given up on ever hearing again, spoke clearly. "No greeting for your leader? Have I been gone that long?"
Zypher took a step forward in the darkness. And another.
Then with a shaking hand, he took out of his coat and turned on a battery-powered torch.
It was Xcor. A thinner, rather older looking version of Xcor, but the fighter nonetheless.
Zypher reached out and touched the heavy shoulder. Then, yes, he touched the face. "You live," he breathed.
"Aye," Xcor whispered back. "Barely. But aye."
He did not know who reached out first, whether it was him or his leader. But arms were wrapped, and chest to chest they came together, the present realigning itself with a past that had always included the male who miraculously stood before him.
"My brother, I thought this night would not come." Zypher closed his eyes. "I had lost my hope."
"And I, too," Xcor said roughly. "I as well."
When Zypher stepped back, Balthazar came up and so did the others.
One by one, embraces were exchanged, hard pounds being shared upon shoulders. If tears formed in eyes, they were not shed, but no voices were capable of any sort of speech--even Syn entered into a brief clutch, the worst of all of them affected yet and still.
Their missions to try to find Xcor alive had decayed into an unspoken resolve that perhaps if only they could discover what had happened, or perhaps locate some remains to dispose of properly, mayhap they could live in peace with that. But they had long lost the conception that this reunion could be the fate of them all, this vital return a gift they had not dared aspire to.
"Was it the Brotherhood?" Balthazar demanded. "Did they take you?"
"Aye."
Instantly, the growls that pumped through the cold, still air were a pack of wolves come to life, a promise of pain in exchange for the wrong that had been done unto one among them.
"No," Xcor said. "It is more complicated than that."
--
Xcor had been across the street in hiding, watching the entrance of the abandoned restaurant, waiting to see if any of his males came unto the vacated space prior to dawn. He had preferred to pass the night thus, as opposed to within the dingy interior, given that Qhuinn and Tohr, and possibly others, were on the hunt: He was afraid of getting trapped and slaughtered.