by J. R. Ward
“You got anything for me, Sam-dog?”
Mr. D glanced over. A big guy with a jackass smile and a dump-truck worth of ego had draped himself over the bar and was looking at the bartender. Under his black leather jacket, which had a terrific eagle embroidered on the back, he was dressed in jeans that were three sizes too big and construction boots. Around his neck were some diamond chains, and he had a flashy watch on.
Mr. D weren’t into the jewelry, but he did jones the guy’s class ring. It was yellow gold, unlike the rest of his stuff, and had a pale blue stone in the middle.
Mr. D would have liked to be graduated from high school.
The bartender came over. “I got some, yeah.” He nodded at the group of guys what had pissed off the son a little bit ago. “Told them who to look for.”
“Nice.” Big Guy took something out of his pocket and the two shook hands.
Cash, Mr. D thought.
Big Guy grinned and straightened his leather jacket, that class ring flashing bright blue. He approached the guys from the side, then turned as if he was showing them the back of his coat.
There was a hoot and holler and then a lot of hands went in pockets and palms were shook and there was some more with the pockets.
Not smooth. Other people were looking over, and it was pretty obvious that they wasn’t exchanging no business cards.
He weren’t going to last long in the business, Mr. D thought.
“You sure you don’t want anything?” the bartender asked Mr. D.
Mr. D glanced toward the bathroom Lash had taken the blonde into. “Nah, thanks. I’m just waitin’ on my friend.”
The bartender grinned. “Betcha he’s going to be a while. She looks like she gives a nice ride, that one.”
Upstairs in her bedroom, Cormia packed up everything . . . which wasn’t much.
Staring at the small pile of robes, prayer books, and incense burners that she’d gathered together, she realized with a curse that she’d left her rose in the office. Then again, she wouldn’t have been able to take it with her to the Sanctuary. The only things from this side that were allowed in were those of historical importance.
In the larger sense, of course.
She glanced over at her latest—her last—construction of toothpicks and peas.
She was such a hypocrite, criticizing the Primale for seeking strength in separation, when what was she doing? Leaving this world that challenged her so, with the intention of seeking a seclusion that was even deeper than the one she’d had before as a Chosen.
Tears came into her eyes—
The knock on her door was soft.
“One moment!” she called out, trying to calm herself. When she finally went over and answered the door, her eyes widened and she pulled the lapels of her robe together, hiding the bite mark on her neck. “My sister?”
The Chosen Layla was on the other side, looking as lovely as ever. “Greetings.”
“Greetings, indeed.”
They exchanged lingering deep bows, which was as close to hugging as Chosen were permitted.
“Whither thou come?” Cormia asked as they straightened. “Are you to be of blood service to the Brothers Rhage and Vishous?”
Funny, the formality of her words seemed odd to her now. She’d grown used to more informal discourse. More comfortable with it.
“Indeed, I am to see the Brother Rhage.” There was a pause. “And as well I sought to inquire after you. May I come in?”
“But of course. Please avail yourself of my quarters.”
Layla entered and brought with her an awkward silence.
Ah, so the news had made it to the Sanctuary, Cormia thought. All the Chosen knew she had been passed over as First Mate.
“What is this?” Layla asked, pointing to the latticework in the corner of the room.
“Oh, it’s just a hobby.”
“Hobby?”
“When I have time on my hands, I ...” Well, that was an admission of guilt, wasn’t it. She should have been praying if she had nothing else to do. “Anyway . . .”
Layla didn’t cast condemnation in expression or words on the revelation. And yet her presence alone was enough to make Cormia feel bad.
“So, my sister,” Cormia said with sudden impatience, “I am guessing it is known that another shall be elevated to First Mate?”
Layla went over to the toothpicks and the peas and ran a delicate finger down one of the sections. “Do you recall when you found me hidden by the Reflecting Pool? It was after I had seen John Matthew through his transition.”
Cormia nodded, remembering how the Chosen had been crying softly. “You were quite upset.”
“And you were so kind to me. I sent you away, but I was so grateful, and it is in that spirit that I . . . I have come here to return the gentleness you proffered unto me. The burdens we carry as Chosen are weighty and not always understood by others who are not one among us. I want you to know that, having felt as you do now, I am your sister in the heart at this moment.”
Cormia bowed low. “I am . . . touched.”
She was a lot of other things too. Amazed, for one thing, that they were speaking of this at all. The candor was unusual.
Layla looked back to the construction. “You do not wish to return unto the fold, do you.”
After weighing her options, Cormia decided to trust the Chosen with a truth she could barely admit to herself. “You read me well.”
“There are others of us who have sought another way. Who have come to pass their lives on this side. There is no shame.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Cormia said dryly. “Shame is like the robes we wear. Always with us, ever clothing us.”
“But if you shed the robe, you are free of the burdens and the choice is yours.”
“Are you sending me a message, Layla?”
“Nay. Verily, if you return to the fold, so shall you be welcomed back with full hearts by your sisters. The Directrix made it plain of sight that there is naught of impropriety in the change of First Mates. The Primale holds you in his highest esteem. She said so.”
Cormia started pacing. “That is the official stance, of course. But honestly . . . you must know what the others think in their quiet moments. There are but two explanations. Either I was found wanting by the Primale or I denied him. Both are unacceptable and equally egregious.”
The silence that followed told her she’d drawn the correct conclusion.
She paused by the window and looked out over the pool. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to leave her sisters, she thought. Moreover, where would she go?
As she thought of the Sanctuary, she told herself that there had been enjoyable days there. Times when she had felt a sense of purpose and been nourished by being part of a greater good. And if she became a sequestered scribe, as she intended to be, she could avoid contact with the others for whole cycles at a time.
Privacy struck her as a grand thing.
“Is it true you care naught for the Primale?” Layla asked.
No. “Yes.” Cormia shook her head. “I mean, I care for him as I should. In the same manner you do. I shall be joyous for whomever shall become the next First Mate.”
Apparently, Layla didn’t have a bullshit meter like Bella’s, because the lie floated out into the air and the Chosen didn’t question a syllable of it—she just bowed in acknowledgment.
“May I inquire after something then?” Layla asked as she straightened.
“Of course, sister.”
“Has he treated you well?”
“The Primale? Yes. He has been very solicitous.”
Layla went over to the bed and picked up one of the prayer books. “I read in his biography that he is a great warrior and that he saved his twin from a horrible fate.”
“He is a great warrior.” Cormia looked down at the rose garden. She imagined that all the Chosen had read his volumes in the Brotherhood’s special section of the library by now—and she wished she had done
the same before he’d brought her here.
“Does he speak of that?” Layla prompted.
“Of what?”
“How he rescued his twin, the Brother Zsadist, from an unlawful blood slavery? That is how the Primale lost his leg.”
Cormia’s head whipped around. “Truly? That is how it happened?”
“He has never spoken to you of it?”
“He has not, no. He is a most private individual. At least with me.”
The information was a shock, and she thought of what she had said to him, that he loved the fantasy of Bella. Was that true of herself with the Primale? She knew so little of his history, so little of what had shaped him as the male he was.
Ah, but she knew his soul, didn’t she.
And she loved him for that.
There was a knock at the door. When she called out, Fritz put his head in.
“Pardon me, but the sire is ready for you,” he said to Layla.
Layla’s hands went to her hair and then smoothed over her robe. As Fritz ducked out of the room, Cormia thought that the Chosen was taking special care with her—
Oh . . . no . . .
“You are . . . going to see him? The Primale?”
Layla bowed. “I am to see him now, yes.”
“Not Rhage.”
“I am to serve him afterward.”
Cormia stiffened as ice ran through her. But of course. What had she expected. “You’d better go then.”
Layla’s eyes narrowed, then flared wide. “My sister?”
“Go on. Better not keep the Primale waiting.” She turned away to the window, suddenly ready to scream.
“Cormia . . . ,” her sister whispered. “Cormia, you care for him. Verily, you care for him deeply.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. It is in your face and your tone. Sister mine, why ever . . . why are you stepping aside?”
As Cormia pictured the Primale with his head between her sister’s thighs, his mouth making Layla arch in pleasure, her stomach rolled. “I wish you very well in your interview. I hope that he chooses well and chooses you.”
“Why are you stepping aside?”
“I was cast aside,” she bit out. “The decision was not mine. Now, please do not keep the Primale waiting. After all, God forbid, we can’t have that.”
Layla paled. “God?”
Cormia waved her hand back and forth. “It’s just an expression they use here, not an indication of my faith. Now, please, go.”
Layla seemed to need a moment to collect herself after the spiritual slip. Then her voice became gentle. “Rest assured he will not pick me. And know that should you ever need a—”
“I won’t.” Cormia turned away and stared out the window with total fixation.
When the door finally clicked shut, she cursed. Then marched across the room and kicked the ever-living crap out of her construction. She ruined every last section, breaking every single neat little box until the order that had been was rubble on the carpet.
When there was nothing else to destroy, her tears christened the mess, as did the blood on the soles of her bare feet.
Chapter Thirty-four
Downtown at screamer’s, Lash was putting one of the private bathrooms to good use.
And not because he was taking a nice long piss.
He was buried to the balls in that blonde from the bar, nailing her from behind as she braced herself against the sink. Her black leather skirt was pushed up to her hips, her black thong shoved over, her black V-neck pulled wide and held that way by her breasts. She had a precious little pink butterfly tattooed on her hip, and a heart on a chain around her throat, and both were getting banged around to the beat of his thrusting.
It was fun, especially because, in spite of her tough slut clothes, he had a feeling she was out of her league with this kind of sex: no implants, lipstick wasn’t smudge-proof, and she’d tried to get him to wear a condom.
Right before he came, he pulled out, spun her around, and forced her onto her knees. He roared as he orgasmed in her mouth, thinking that little shit Mr. D had been right: This was exactly what he’d needed. A sense of mastery, a reconnection with what had been normal for him.
And sex was still good.
As soon as he was finished, he zipped up, not caring whether she spit or swallowed.
“What about me?” she asked, wiping her mouth.
“What about you?”
“I’m sorry?”
Lash cocked an eyebrow as he checked his hair in the mirror. Hmm . . . maybe he should grow it out again. He’d done the whole military shear after his transition, but he’d liked his ponytail. He had good hair.
God, King’s dog collar looked hot on him—
“Hello?” the girl demanded.
Annoyed, he glanced at her in the glass. “You don’t honestly expect me to care whether you get off.”
For a moment, she seemed confused, like the movie she’d rented at Blockbuster had had a different DVD inside the sleeve. “Excuse me?”
“What didn’t you understand?”
Shock made her blink like a fish. “I don’t . . . get it.”
Yeah, evidently Debbie Does Dallas was showing on her screen, not Pretty Woman.
He looked around the bathroom. “You let me take you in here and push your skirt up and fuck you. And you’re surprised I don’t care? Exactly what did you think was going to happen?”
The last of the excited, I’m-a-good-girl-doing-a-bad-thing drained from her expression. “You don’t have to be rude.”
“Why is it bitches like you are always surprised?”
“Bitches?” Self-righteous anger distorted her face, taking her from pretty into gorgon territory—and yet making her somewhat more intriguing. “You don’t know me.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re a slut who lets a guy she’s never met before come in her mouth in a bathroom. Please. I’d have more respect for a prostitute. At least they get paid in something other than spunk.”
“You are such a bastard!”
“And you are boring me.” He reached for the knob.
She grabbed his arm. “Watch it, asshole. I can make things bad for you in a heartbeat. Do you know who my father is?”
“Someone who didn’t do his job of raising you properly? ”
Her free palm hit him square in the face. “Fuck you.”
Okay, the fighting definitely made her more interesting.
As his fangs punched out into his mouth, he was ready to bite through her throat like it was a Twizzler fresh out of the bag. Except someone pounded on the door and reminded him he was in public and she was human and cleanup was always a bitch.
“You’re gonna be sorry,” she spat at him.
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned in and was surprised when she held her ground. “You can’t touch me, girlie.”
“Watch me.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
Her smile was icy, adding years to her age. “I know plenty—”
The pounding on the door started up again.
Before she teed up for another slap and he couldn’t stop himself from retaliating, Lash ducked out of the bathroom, his parting salvo a quick, “Pull your skirt down, why don’t you.”
The guy who’d been knock-knock-knockin’ on the other side took one look at him and stepped way back. “Sorry, man.”
“No problem,” Lash said, rolling his eyes. “You probably saved that bitch’s life.”
The human laughed. “Stupid whores. Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.” The bathroom next door opened and the guy turned away, flashing a righteous eagle embossed on the back of his leather jacket.
“Nice bird you got there,” Lash said.
“Thanks.”
Lash went over to the bar and nodded at Mr. D. “Time to go. I’m done.”
He took his wallet from his back pocket—and froze. The billfold wasn’t his. It was his father’s. He quickly slipped a fifty ou
t, then buried the thing back where it had been.
He and Mr. D left the crowded, noisy club and when he stepped onto Trade Street’s sidewalk, he took a long, deep breath. Alive. He felt totally alive.
On the way over to the Focus, Lash said, “Give me your phone. And the numbers of four straight-up killers.”
Mr. D handed the Nokia over and recited some digits. As Lash called the first one and gave the slayer an address in a high-rent part of town, he could practically hear the bastard’s suspicion—especially as the lesser asked who the fuck was calling him on Mr. D’s phone.
They didn’t know who he was. His men didn’t know who he was.
Lash handed the fucking phone back to Mr. D and barked for the Fore-lesser to give confirmation. Man, he shouldn’t have been surprised at the doubting thing, but that shit was so going to change. He was going to give his troops a few places to hit tonight to gain himself some cred, then the Lessening Society was going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting in the morning.
They would follow him or meet their maker. Period.
After he and Mr. D did the cell phone handoff three more times, Lash said, “Now take me to Twenty-one Fifteen Boone Lane.”
“You want me to call more men in to hit it with us?”
“For our next house, yeah. But this first one is personal. ”
His dear old cousin Qhuinn was about to eat his own ass for lunch.
After five months of being the Primale, Phury was used to not feeling comfortable. The whole goddamn thing had been one ill-fitting suit after another, a whole wardrobe of I-don’t-want-to-do-this.
And yet interviewing Layla for the position of First Mate felt especially wrong.
Viciously wrong.
As he waited for her in the library, he prayed to God she didn’t drop her robe like the others had.
“Your grace?”
He looked over his shoulder. The Chosen was standing in the open double doors of the room, her white robe falling to the floor in folds, her slender body held with regal grace.
She bowed deeply. “It is my wish for you to fare well this evening.”
“Thank you. I hope the same for you.”
As she straightened, her eyes met his. They were green. Like Cormia’s.
Shit. He needed a blunt. “Would you mind if I light up?” “Of course not. Here, let me bring you the flame.” Before he could tell her not to bother, she picked up a crystal lighter and came over to him.