Lover Reborn tbdb-10

by J. R. Ward

  He closed his eyes briefly at the “into town” bit. And then had to wonder why he had never taken her anywhere. Whenever he was off rotation, he was down in the gym or reading in bed, waiting for her to be done. It had never dawned on him to do anything with her out in the world.

  That’s because you’ve been hiding her as best you can, his conscience pointed out.

  Whatever. She was always working—

  “Hey, wait a minute, why don’t you get any evenings off?” he demanded with a frown as he did the math. Shit, what the hell was that butler doing, working this female to the bone—

  “Oh, I do, but I never take them. I don’t like to simply sit around.”

  Tohr rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, “I’ll go down to the training center and get started now.”

  “When will you be finished.”

  “Probably about four in the afternoon.”

  “Okay.” As she turned away, he put a hand on her forearm. “Ah, listen, if you go into the locker room during daylight hours, always knock and announce yourself, ’kay?”

  The last thing anyone needed was her getting a gander at one of his naked brothers.

  “Oh, of course. I always do.”

  As she disappeared around the corner, he watched her go, her limping form carrying an innate dignity that he abruptly felt he hadn’t been honoring.

  “We have a date, remember?”

  Glancing to the right, he shook his head at Lassiter. “Not in the mood.”

  “Tough shit. Come on—I’ve got it all set up.”

  “Look, no offense, but I’m not good company now—”

  “When are you ever?”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Shut the fuck up and get your ass in gear.”

  As the angel grabbed hold and pulled, Tohr gave up the fight and allowed himself to be dragged up the staircase and down the hall of statues—and out the other side. They went past his room, past the boys’ rooms, past Z and Bella and Nalla’s suite. Out into the staff quarters. Over to the entrance to the movie theater.

  Tohr stopped dead. “If this is another Beaches marathon, I’m going to Bette your ass until you can’t sit down.”

  “Aw, look at you! Trying to be finny.”

  “Seriously, if you have any compassion in you at all, you’ll let me go to bed—”

  “I have peanut M&M’s up there.”

  “Not my style.”

  “Raisinets.”

  “Feh.”

  “Sam Adams.”

  Tohr narrowed his eyes. “Cold?”

  “Downright icy.”

  Tohr crossed his arms over his chest and told himself he was not pouting like a five-year-old. “I want Milk Duds.”

  “Got ’em. And popcorn.”

  With a curse, Tohr yanked open the door and ascended into the dimly lit red cave. The angel made everything seamless once they got up there: Deep-dish ass palaces engaged. Sam Adams with backups on the floor in a bucket with ice. An embarrassing caloric display with, yup, a yellow box of Milk Duds. And the damn popcorn.

  They sat down side by side, and kicked up the footrests.

  “Tell me this isn’t a fifties-era sex-ed film,” Tohr muttered.

  “Nah. Popcorn?” the angel said as he hit play and offered a bowl. “Extra butter—the good plastic kind, too. Not that bullshit real cow crap.”

  “I’m okay right now.”

  Up on the screen, some movie studio’s intro played along with a bunch of credits. And then there were two old people sitting on a couch. Talking.

  Tohr took a pull of his beer. “What the hell is this?”

  “When Harry Met Sally.”

  Tohr lowered the longneck from his mouth. “What?”

  “Shut it. After this, we’re going to watch an episode of Moonlighting. Then An Affair to Remember—the old-school one, not that stupidity with Warren Beatty. Then The Princess Bride—”

  Tohr hit the switch by his hip and straightened the chair up. “Okay. Right. Have fun with this—”

  Lassiter hit pause and clamped a hard hand on his shoulder. “Sit the fuck back. Watch and learn.”

  “What? How much I hate rom-coms? How ’bout we just stipulate that and let me go.”

  “You’re going to need this.”

  “For my second career as a pussy?”

  “Because you have to remember how to be romantic.”

  Tohr shook his head. “No. Nope. Not going to happen…”

  As he hopped on the over-my-dead-body train, Lassiter just kept shaking his head. “You gotta remember it’s possible, buddy.”

  “The hell I do—”

  “You’re stalled, Tohr. And whereas you might have time to fart around, Wellsie doesn’t have that luxury.”

  Tohr shut up. Sat back. Started to pick off the label on his beer. “I can’t do that, man. I can’t pretend to feel… that way.”

  “Kind of like you can’t have sex with No’One? Just how long do you plan on going on like you are?”

  “Until you disappear. Until Wellsie’s free and you’re gone.”

  “And how’s that working for you. You like that dream you woke up with today?”

  “Movies aren’t going to help,” he said after a moment.

  “What else are you going to do? Jack off in your room until No’One comes back from work—then jack off next to her? Oh, wait, let me guess—pace around aimlessly. Because it’s not like you’ve ever done that before.” Lassiter shoved the bowl he’d offered into Tohr’s face. “What the fuck is it going to cost you to hang here with me. Shut up and eat your half of the popcorn, asshole.”

  Tohr accepted what was in his grill only because it was either that or he ended up with Orville all over his lap.

  One hour and thirty-six minutes later, he had to clear his throat as Meg Ryan told Billy Crystal that she hated him in the middle of a New Year’s Eve party.

  “Sauce on the side,” Lassiter said as he got up. “The answer to everything.”

  A minute later, young Bruce Willis came onscreen, and Tohr sent up a prayer of thanks. “This is much better. We need more beer, though.”

  “Got it.”

  A case of lager later and they had blown through two epis of Moonlighting, including a Christmas one where the cast and crew sang along with the actors in the last scene.

  Which did not make him clear his throat again.

  Really. It didn’t.

  Then they tried to get through An Affair to Remember. At least until Lassiter took pity on them both and started to rock the fast-forward button.

  “Chicks say this is the greatest,” the angel muttered, as he hit the button again and whoever it was started speed-emoting. “Maybe this one was a mistake.”

  “Amen on that.”

  Okay, the princess movie did not suck—that shit was funny in places. And, yeah, it was… cool when the pair got together at the end. Plus he liked Columbo as the granddad. But he couldn’t really say any of it was turning him into a Casanova.

  Lassiter glanced over. “We’re not done yet.”

  “Just keep beering me.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  The angel handed him a freshie and disappeared into the control room to switch DVDs. As he came back down to where they were sitting, the screen lit up with—

  Tohr jacked forward in his seat. “What the hell!”

  As Lassiter’s big body cut through the projection onto the screen, a gigantic pair of flapping breasts covered his face and chest. “Adventures in the MILFy Way. A true classic.”

  “It’s porn!”

  “Duh—”

  “Okay, I am not sitting through this with you.”

  The angel, still standing up, shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure you know what you’re missing.”

  Moans rumbled through the surround sound as those boobs… those frickin’ boobs looked like they were slapping Lassiter in the
piehole—

  Tohr covered his eyes at the horror. “No! Not doing this!”

  Lassiter cut off the movie, the sounds disappearing. And a quick intrafinger check indicated that it was a stop, not a pause, mercifully.

  “I’m just trying to get through to you.” Lassiter sat down, cracked open a beer, and looked tired. “Man, this angel crap… it’s so fucking hard to influence anything. I’ve never had a problem with free will before, but for shit’s sake, I wish I could just I Dream of Jeannie you to where you need to be.” As Tohr winced, the angel muttered, “It’s okay, though. We’ll get you there somehow—”

  “Actually, I’m cringing at the vision of you in a pink harem costume.”

  “Hey, I have a great ass, I’ll have you know.”

  They drank beer for a while until a Sony logo started to appear at random points on the screen. “You ever been in love?” Tohr asked.

  “Once. Never again.”

  “What happened.” When the angel didn’t answer, Tohr shot a look over. “Oh, so it’s fine for you to be all up in my dark-and-dirty, but you can’t return the favor?”

  Lassiter shrugged. Opened yet another beer. “You know what I think?”

  “Not unless you tell me.”

  “I think we should try another epi of Moonlighting.”

  Tohr exhaled long and slow and had to agree. It didn’t suck watching movies with the guy, talking over the dialogue while drinking Sam Adams and eating crap food. In fact, he could not remember the last time he’d ever just… hung out.

  Of course, it must have been with Wellsie. If he’d had downtime, he’d always spent it with her.

  God, how many days had they frittered away, mindlessly checking out in front of the television, watching reruns and crappy cable movies and droning newscasts. They’d held hands, or she’d lain on his chest, or he’d played with her hair.

  Such wasted time, he thought. But when they’d been in that suck zone of minutes and hours, it had been… a simple, easy kind of bliss.

  One more thing to mourn.

  “How about something later in Willis’s career?” he said roughly.

  “Die Hard?”

  “You set it up and I’ll put another fire in the hole at the popcorn machine.”

  “Deal.”

  As they both rose and headed for the back, him to the candy and soda counter, Lassiter to the control booth, Tohr stopped the guy.

  “Thanks, man.”

  The angel gave him a knock in the shoulder, and then went about getting some yippee-ki-yay-motherfucker on deck. “Just doing my job.”

  Tohr watched the angel’s blond-and-black head duck through the narrow doorway.

  Fuck free will was right. And as for him and No’One?

  It was tough to think about what was coming next. Hell, when he’d first hooked up with her, it had taken the hide right off of him to ride through all the emotions just so he could accept her vein, give her his, and be with her to the extent he had.

  If he took this any farther?

  The next level was going to make that shit look like a walk in the park.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was twelve noon when Xcor’s cellular device went off, and the soft chiming roused him from his light sleep. With awkward jabs, he hunted and pecked around for the green send button, and after he hit it, he put the thing to his ear.

  In practice, he hated the damn things. In practical terms, they were an incredible benefit, one that made him question why he had ever been so resistant.

  “Aye,” he demanded. When a haughty voice answered him, he smiled into the dim candlelight of the basement. “Greetings, gentlemale. How fare thee this day, Elan?”

  “What… what…” The aristocrat had to marshal more breath. “Whatever have you sent me?”

  His source on the Council had a rather high voice to begin with; the care package that had obviously just been opened lifted the male’s tone into the stratosphere.

  “Proof of our work.” As he spoke, heads began to lift off of bunks, his Band of Bastards waking, listening. “I did not want you to think that we had overestimated our effectiveness—or, the Scribe Virgin preserve us, been untruthful with respect to our activities.”

  “I… I… Whatever shall I do with… this?”

  Xcor rolled his eyes. “Mayhap some of your servants could parcel it up and share it among your fellow Council members. And then I imagine your carpet will need to be cleaned.”

  Inside the three-foot-by-three-foot cardboard box he’d had delivered, Xcor had put some of the souvenirs of their kills, all manner of bits and pieces of lessers: arms, hands, that spinal column, a head, part of a leg. He had been saving them up, preparing for the right moment to both shock the Council… and prove that the job was getting done.

  The gamble was that the grotesque nature of his “gift” would backfire and they would be viewed as savages. The potential payoff was that he and his soldiers would be seen as effective.

  Elan cleared his throat. “Indeed, you have been… rather busy.”

  “I realize that it is grisly, but war is a grisly business that you should merely be the beneficiary of, not a participant in. We need to save you—” Until you are no longer useful. “—from such unpleasantness. I should like to point out, however, that that is but a small sampling of the very many we have killed.”

  “In truth?”

  The bit of awe there was gratifying. “Aye. You may be assured that we fight every night for the race, and we are highly successful.”

  “Yes, clearly, you are… and I would stipulate that I require no more ‘proof,’ as it were. I will say, however, that I was going to call you late this afternoon anyway. The final appointment with the king has been scheduled.”

  “Oh?”

  “I called the members of the Council because I have scheduled for this evening a gathering—keeping it informal, of course, so that there is no procedural requirement to include Rehvenge. Assail has indicated he cannot attend. Clearly, he must have an audience with the king—or he would come unto my home.”

  “Clearly,” Xcor drawled. Or rather, clearly not. Given Assail’s nightly pursuits, which had only intensified since the summer, he was likely busy enough. “And I thank you for the information.”

  “When the others arrive, I shall exhibit this… display,” the aristocrat said.

  “Do that. And tell them that I am ready to meet with them at any time. You just call upon me—I am your servant in this as in all things. In fact,” he paused for effect, “it shall be an honor to associate with them under your introduction—and together, you and I may ensure that they understand adequately the vulnerable state they are in under the rule of the Blind King, and the safety that you and I can provide for them.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed… yes.” The gentlemale perked up at all that verbiage—which was precisely why it had been used. “And I am very appreciative of your candor.”

  Amazing when calculation was mistaken for that.

  “And I for your support, Elan.” As Xcor hung up the phone, he glanced over his soldiers and then focused on Throe. “After sunset, we coalesce upon Assail’s property once again. Mayhap it will come to aught this time.”

  As the others growled their readiness, he mutely raised his cell phone… and inclined his head to his second in command.

  “Sire, we have arrived. The door is shutting behind our vehicle.”

  As Fritz’s voice came through the van’s intercom, the butler’s report wasn’t a news flash, even though Tohr couldn’t see anything of where they were from his vantage point in the back.

  “Thanks, man.”

  Drumming his fingers on the floor’s Duraliner, he was still buzzed from all those beers he’d had with Lassiter, and his stomach was a sour pit thanks to that marathon of plastic butter and Milk Duds.

  Then again, maybe the nausea was more about where they were.

  “Sire, you are free to extricate yourself.”

  Tohr crab-walked
to the double doors, and wondered why the hell he was doing this to himself. After he and Lassiter had finished their homage to John McClane, the angel had taken off to go crash, and Tohr had… come up with this great idea, for no apparent reason.

  Opening the way out… he stepped into his darkened garage and closed things up behind him.

  Fritz put his window down. “Sire, mayhap I shall just wait here.”

  “No, you go. I’m going to hang until sunset.”

  “Are you certain the drapes are pulled indoors.”

  “Yup. That’s protocol, and I trust my doggen.”

  “Mayhap I shall simply go through and double-check?”

  “That’s really not—”

  “Please, sire. Do not send me home to face your king and your Brothers without my knowing you are safe.”

  Hard to argue with that. “I’ll wait here.”

  The doggen hustled his old bones out from behind the wheel and headed across the way with admirable speed—probably because he was worried Tohr would change his mind.

  As the butler slipped into the house, Tohr wandered around, inspecting his old lawn equipment, his rakes, his salt for the driveway. The Stingray convertible had been relocated to the mansion’s garage… back on the night he’d brought Wellsie’s gown over for Xhex.

  He hadn’t wanted to return here to drop off the dress after it had been cleaned and pressed.

  Wasn’t sure he wanted to be here now.

  “All is secure, sire.”

  Tohr pivoted away from the empty space where the Corvette had been parked. “Thanks, man.”

  There was no waiting for the butler to leave before he went in—too much sunlight on the other side of the garage doors. So with a final wave, he pulled himself together… and walked into the back hall.

  As the door clamped shut behind him, the first thing he saw in the mudroom was their winter coats. The damn parkas were still hung up on pegs, his, Wellsie’s, and John’s.

  John’s was tiny, because he’d been just a pretrans back then.

  It was like the damn things were waiting for them all to come home again.

  “Good luck with that,” he muttered.

  Bracing himself, he kept going, entering the kitchen that had been Wellsie’s dream.