by J. R. Ward
Abalone frowned as he reviewed her notes, and then riffled through the reports. "How did you find all this out?"
"I have my sources." She grinned. "Okay, so some of it comes off of people's Facebook pages, and other stuff is from friends of mine."
"This is . . . I didn't know he'd been mated." Her father tilted the folder toward her. "Him?"
"Last year. It was a low-key thing." Paradise dropped her voice even though they were alone. "They say she was with young."
"Ah. So now he wants the mating validated."
"She's about to give birth. If I were Wrath, I'd spare the poor male the indignity of asking too many questions about the due date, and just give him the respect he wants to provide his young--"
"Trying to take your father's job?" Wrath's voice interjected.
As the Blind King himself appeared in the parlor's archway, Paradise jumped. "I didn't mean, oh, no, I--"
The King smiled. "I'm impressed with your thinking. Keep up the good work, Paradise."
With that, he and his blond dog went across to the dining room.
"I can't feel my feet," she mumbled.
Her father embraced her. "You are exceeding any expectation I had for this."
She pulled back and pushed her hair over her shoulder. "I like this. I really do."
"You're making me quite proud."
To hide her flush, she sat down behind the computer that she already felt was hers. "How're things at home? With--"
"Just fine. I am very well, although you are missed."
"I could come back."
"No, no, it's best you stay here." He tucked the folder under his arm. "Did you and Peyton enjoy yourselves last evening?"
"He left right after you did."
Abalone frowned. "I hope you didn't quarrel?"
"He's got an antiquated way of looking at things."
"He does come from a traditional family."
She picked up one of the Montblanc pens she'd found in the desk. Tapping it on her palm, she pulled her navy-blue skirt down further on her knees. "Ah . . . Father."
"Yes?"
Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled open the top side drawer and took out the application to the training center's program. "Father, would you ever let me do something like this?"
As she handed the paperwork to him and his eyes traced the wording, she hurried on. "I'm not saying I want to go into combat or anything. It's just, they're accepting females, and I--"
"Fighting? This is . . . this is to fight."
"I know. But see"--she reached up and pointed to a part in the preamble--"they're saying they can train females--"
"Paradise."
Annnnd his viewpoint was all pretty much summed up in the way he said her name: a combination of be-serious and don't-break-my-heart.
"You're not cut out for this," he said.
"Because I'm a female, right," she countered bitterly. "Which means desks and papers at the most--and only until I'm mated--"
"This is war. Do you understand what that really is?" He jogged the application. "This is death waiting to happen. It's not a Hollywood movie or a romantic fantasy."
She kicked up her chin. "I know that."
"Do you?"
"I'm not as sheltered as you think I am. The family you lost in the raids was my blood, too, Father. Friends of mine died. I know what this is about."
"No, Paradise. I will not allow it." He leaned down and put the application in the trash. "This is not for you."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off, somehow managing to close the hidden panel doors in her face, even as the panels stayed in their pockets in the walls.
*
Throe materialized about a half mile from the house Abalone went to every night.
The GPS locator Throe had put into the outer chest pocket of the male's camel-hair coat had worked like a dream. And one had to admire the wealthy neighborhood.
Not bad, not bad a'tall.
Falling into a casual stroll, he checked out the houses as he zeroed in on the signal his cell phone was directing him to. Actually, the proper term for the residences would be mansions. These places were far too large to count as mere houses: multi-storied, sprawling, set back from the road, they all had dramatic landscape lighting on their exteriors, as if the wealthy humans living inside couldn't bear to think their position would be ignored during the night hours.
As he proceeded, he had to control his frustration. He missed the fighting more than he'd thought he would. In fact, the lack of bloodshed--of any variety--was a shocking dissatisfaction. When he had started with the Band of Bastards, he'd been horrified by the aggression and gore. After several centuries, however, the warfare had become what he thought of as normal.
The stone manse that came next was an effeminate, mod-con'd version of the medieval pile of rock the Band of Bastards had all lived in back in the Old Country, and he stopped in front of the sprawling expanse. Figures moved inside, crossing windows that were framed by heavy swaths of fabric as lights inside picked up glints of gold and silver on the walls.
And abruptly, he wasn't thinking of Xcor's former lair.
He was recalling where he had come from, his true origin of privilege and wealth.
In seeking revenge for his sister, he had sold himself to the devil. Now, on the far side of that bargain, he was poor and alone and without prospects.
His only hearth was his ambition.
At least there was plenty afire in it to warm him over the coming winter months.
Throe pressed on, the cold biting through the leather coat he wore, the one that was still stained with the kills he had wrought from nights ago.
Before all had changed.
The house that was his target turned out to be on the left, on the opposite side of the street. It was grand and historic, a white Federal manse with the bone structure of a true beauty and the attended-to upkeep that only the very wealthy could bring to an old estate: No peeling paint for her. No scruffy bushes. No sagging rooflines or porches.
Unlike with the others, there was no way to see inside.
The drapes were all pulled and so heavy he could see no light through them. There were no cars in the driveway, but as he waited, taking cover behind a shrub, he caught sight of two individuals approaching the front door . . . even though they had not arrived at the property by any motorized conveyance.
Because they were vampires who had dematerialized to the place.
Ten minutes later, another visitor arrived. Fifteen minutes after that, two more.
They were discreet, and not everyone used the front door--no doubt to avoid suspicion.
Throe checked his phone, in spite of the fact that he knew he had the location correct. Yes, Abalone was in there.
Keeping to the shadows, he stayed longer, not because he had any particular plans to infiltrate, but rather, because he had yet to formulate them. His ambition, strong as it might be, was not as yet an engine in drive--he had recon to do, weaknesses to discover, strategies to define.
A car turned the corner and came down the street.
As it passed under the streetlight across the way, he saw that it was a Rolls-Royce, a dark one with a trademark pale hood.
And here he was without a motorcar.
Indeed, his lack of prospects was a problem.
How was he going to marshal any resources? he wondered. How was he to support himself whilst he built a coalition?
The answer, when it came, was so obvious, it was as if destiny had spotlit a path through darkness for him. Yes, he thought, that was the way . . .
A moment later, he returned to Abalone's most generous accommodations with a smile on his face.
FORTY-EIGHT
On his hospital bed, Luchas was in and out of consciousness, waves of pain rolling through him, battering him senseless. When he simply could not take it anymore, he fumbled around with the hand that still had fingers. Finding the call button, he pressed with his thum
b until his hearing registered a beep.
The door burst open, and Doc Jane came in. "Luchas?"
"My leg," he moaned. "Hurts . . ."
She came over, checked machines, IVs, God only knew what. "I'll get you something for the--"
"The infection . . ." he babbled, turning his head from side to side. "My leg . . ."
He'd had this plan to waste away, but instead, this felt like he'd decided to kill himself by stepping into a fire pit feetfirst--leading with his bad ankle and calf.
On a crazy surge of strength, he sat up and started pulling at the sheets. Doc Jane grasped his shoulders and tried to get him to flatten out--while at the same time, someone else entered the room. Qhuinn--it was his brother.
"Luchas, Luchas, stop--"
That was Qhuinn, coming in close, trying to capture his hands, and get him to lie back. It was not a fair fight. He was weak, so weak, and then he went on a ride, a sudden floating feeling replacing the burning sensation down below.
Glancing to the side, he saw Doc Jane retracting a syringe from the clear plastic tubing that ran into his arm.
Qhuinn's face appeared above his own, those mismatched eyes intense. "Luchas, relax. We got you."
"My leg . . ."
The drug was working magic, soothing him sure as if his body had been sunk into a warm bath. The pain was still there; he just didn't care as much about it.
"It's getting worse," he heard himself say. "The infection . . . thought I would be dead by now."
"Luchas . . ."
Something about his brother's affect registered, something about his tone of voice, and the tightness in his mouth and eyes.
"What," Luchas said. "What?"
Qhuinn looked at Doc Jane like he was hoping for a proverbial airlift out of a danger zone.
"Luchas," his brother said, "I had to save you."
Save him? But that was the whole point of all this. He wanted out. "What?"
"I told her she could take the leg. To save your life."
Luchas fell silent. Surely he must have gotten that wrong, the proper translation of what had been spoken misappropriated by the painkillers they'd just given him.
"It was the only option. We were losing you."
"What did you do to me," he said slowly. "What did you--"
"Calm down."
Luchas sat back up off the pillows, an indescribable horror draining the blood from his head. Looking down at his lower body, he found that the thin sheets revealed the contours of the thigh, knee, calf, and foot of his left leg . . . but only the thigh and knee of his right one.
With a shout, he reached for what should have been there, jerking at the flat sheets, pulling at them as if they were somehow hiding what was in fact no longer there.
"What did you do!" He turned on his brother, grabbing at his shirt, yanking, pulling with the set of fingers he had left. "What the fuck did you do!"
"You were dying--"
"Because I wanted to! How could you!"
He batted at Qhuinn, ineffectual fist flying, his ruined hand slapping.
Qhuinn did not defend himself. He just allowed the beating, such as it was, to happen--not that there was much to the attack. And Luchas didn't last long. Energy soon spent, he collapsed back against the pillow, his hollow chest pumping up and down, blood running up his IV line, vision flaring in and out of clarity.
And still the limb that wasn't there hurt.
"Get out," he said numbly. "I don't want to see you again."
Turning his face to the wall, he heard quiet conversation and then the door opened and closed softly.
"How is your pain level now?" Doc Jane asked.
"Why does it hurt . . . ?" he mumbled. "You took it away."
God, he was even more mangled now, still more of who and what he had been was gone.
"It's called phantom-limb pain. But the sensation is very real."
"Did you take . . . were you the one who cut it off?"
"I was."
"Then get out of here, too. I didn't consent to this--"
"You were dying--"
"I'm not listening. Get out."
There was a pause, and he detested the way she looked down at him, all kind, concerned, caring.
"In time, Luchas, when you feel better--"
He ripped his head around. "You denied me my death. You butchered my body without my permission. So you'll have to excuse me, but I'm completely uninterested in anything you have to say."
The doctor closed her eyes briefly. "I'll send Ehlena in with some food."
"Don't bother. You've just delayed the inevitable. I intend to finish the job myself now."
Luchas went for the IV that ran into his arm, pulling at it until the thing sprang loose, clear liquid and red blood going everywhere--
People came through every door there was, racing in with panic, grabbing at him, talking loudly. He fought against them, writhing and shoving, struggling to stay upright because of his missing calf and foot. . . .
Someone must have given him another shot, because all of a sudden his body went lax. Even though his brain was ordering all kinds of movement, nothing was responding.
As his eyes rolled around, he caught dim sight of Qhuinn standing in the doorway, his big, healthy, strong body blocking the way out.
It might as well have been the door unto the Fade the male was in the way of.
"I hate you!" Luchas screamed. "I hate you!"
*
Back at the King's audience house, Rhage was in the dining room, standing with his back to the shut doors, his arms crossed over his chest. Most of the Brotherhood was in the room, milling around with too much kinetic energy.
Wrath was sitting in his armchair, his legs crossed ankle to knee, his dog's head in his lap. "He's late. That motherfucker is late."
Rehv nodded from where he was standing in front of the fire and fanning his hands out as if they were cold. "He'll be here."
"I got people to see."
Hollywood checked his watch. "You want me to go pick him up? I can throw a lasso on him and drag him here by his dick--"
The doorbell went off with a chime, and V opened one half of the drapes at the window across the way. "Speak of the dealer."
"Let me go welcome him," Rhage muttered as he slipped out.
"He's not alone," V barked.
"Neither am I."
Closing the door, he went across to the parlor. "Paradise?" As the girl looked up from the desk, he smiled at her. "I'ma shut your room up for a sec. Do me a favor and stay in here until I come get you?"
Her wide, pretty eyes got even wider. "Is everything okay?"
"Yup. But I want you to hang here."
"Okay. Of course."
He winked at her. "Good girl. And lock it up behind me, 'kay?"
"Sure."
Shutting her in, he waited until he heard the copper lock turn on her side, and then he went to the front door. Opening things up, he gave Assail the once-over. The guy was dressed right out of Butch's closet, everything tailored and matched, fitting like the shit had been drawn on his body. Behind him, a pair of identical thugs stood side by side. The fact that they were in loose-fitting black was a well, duh.
He could just imagine the firepower that was hiding under those coats.
"Thought you were coming alone," he said.
"Your King wanted to meet my crew. Here they are, my cousins."
Rhage leaned in. "That ain't your whole crew, is it."
"I can assure you, these are the only two I use."
Rhage stepped back and nodded for them to enter the foyer. "I gotta search you."
"We're fully armed."
"No shit."
As the three filed in, Rhage pointed to a huge silver tray on the table under a gilt mirror. "Drop 'em there. And make sure it's all your metal. I find something on you, it's going to put my panties in a wad."
Clink. Clink . . . clink . . . clank, clank . . . rattle, rattle, rattle.
Rhage
didn't want to be impressed, but he had to give them some credit. Good-looking guns and a lot of sharp knives.
"You first," he said to one of the twins.
The other one stepped forward. "Do me. My brother's a little jumpy."
"Excuse me? Did I miss the memo where you were put in charge, douche bag?" He motioned for Mr. Antsy to come forward and patted him down. "There, now, you want a lollipop 'cuz that was so hard? Now you, with the list of demands, get over here."
He discharged number two, and then stepped over to Assail, who had been watching the show like a snake.
"Nice cologne," Hollywood muttered as he threw the guy's arms out and banged down a surprisingly muscled torso. "Where'd you get it, CVS?"
"Are you always this rude," Assail said in a bored tone.
"You're the second person to ask me something like that in the last forty-eight hours." He kicked the guy's fancy Italian loafers wide. "You got a problem with me, file a claim with human resources."
"How corporate of you."
Rhage straightened after he'd checked out that lower body. "FYI, Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, is our personnel contact. He prefers complaints that are made in person. Have fun with that."
Done with the three of them, he walked over to the audience room's closed doors, knowing they would follow. Opening things wide, he stood to the side and glared at the SOBs as they filed in, one by one.
"Assail," Wrath drawled. "We're meeting again."
"And this time no bullets," the drug dealer replied.
"Not yet," one of the brothers muttered.
Assail's eyes traveled over the assembled masses. "Quite a bit of protection you have here."
Wrath shrugged. "I had a choice of collecting them or Hummel figurines. It was a toss-up."
"To what do I owe the honor of a command appearance."
"Rehv? Do the deed, since you know what you're talking about."
The sin-eater stepped away from the hearth and smiled like he was about to eat something. "We have reason to believe you're participating in the drug market in Caldwell."
Assail didn't flinch. "I have never hid my business."
"Ever see this before?"
When Rehv tossed a packet into the air, Assail caught the thing and looked it over. "Heroin."
"The symbol is yours, isn't it."
"Says who."
Rhage spoke up. "We found a number of those on a slayer at a club that happens to be owned by a friend of ours."
Wrath smiled coldly as he reached down to stroke his guide dog's blond coat. "So you can see how this puts us all in an awkward sitch. You're using the enemy to disseminate product. Aren't you."