by J. R. Ward
John tapped his friend on the forearm. We need to get Doc Jane to look you over.
Blay glanced down at his white shirt and seemed surprised to find blood on it. “Guess this was what my mom was going on about. It doesn’t hurt.”
Good.
Blay turned and stared out of his window even though they were impossible to see through. “My dad said I could stay. To fight.”
John whistled softly to bring the guy’s head around again. I didn’t know your dad could throw the sword like that.
“He was a soldier before he was mated to my mother. She made him stop.” Blay brushed at his shirt even though the blood had sunk into the fibers and stained them. “They had a big argument when Wrath called me and asked that I find you two. My mom worries that I’ll turn up dead. My dad wants me to be a male of worth when the race needs them. So there you go.”
What do you want?
The guy’s eyes flipped up to the partition and then scattered all around the backseat. “I want to fight.”
John eased back against the seat. Good.
After a long silence, Blay said, “John?”
John turned his head to the side slowly, feeling as exhausted as Blay looked.
What, he mouthed, because he didn’t have the strength to sign.
“Do you still want to be friends with me? Even though I’m gay.”
John frowned. Then he sat up, made a fist, and nailed his buddy in the shoulder with a full-on punch.
“Ow! What the fuck—”
Why wouldn’t I want to be friends with you? Other than the fact that you’re a fucking idiot for asking that?
Blay rubbed where he’d been hit. “Sorry. Didn’t know if it changed things or— Don’t do it again! I’ve got a cut there!”
John settled back into the seat. He was about to sign another, Stupid idiot, at the guy, when he realized he kind of wondered the same thing after what had happened in the locker room.
He looked at his friend. You’re just the same to me.
Blay took a deep breath. “I haven’t told my parents. You and Qhuinn are the only ones who know.”
Well, when you tell them or whoever, he and I will be right beside you. All the way.
The question John didn’t have the balls to ask must have been in his eyes, because Blay reached over and touched his shoulder.
“No. Not at all. I don’t believe there’s anything that could make me think less of you.”
The two of them let out identical sighs and closed their eyes at the same time. Neither said another word for the rest of the trip home.
Lash sat in the passenger seat of the Focus and had the frustrating sense that even with the hits he’d initiated on the aristocracy’s houses, the Society was not getting the picture. The lessers were taking orders from Mr. D, not him.
Hell, they didn’t even know he existed.
He glanced over at Mr. D, whose hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel. Part of him wanted to kill the guy just for spite, but his logical side knew he had to keep the bastard alive to be a mouthpiece—at least until he could prove who he was to the rest of his troops.
Troops. He loved that word.
It was second only to his.
Maybe he could cook himself up a uniform. Like a general ’s or something.
He sure as hell deserved it, given how tight his military strategy was. He was a straight-up genius—and the fact that he was using what the Brotherhood had taught him in training against them was goddamn glorious.
For the past however many centuries, the Lessening Society had been just picking away at the vampire population. With little intelligence to go on, and an uncoordinated soldier force, it was a hunt-and-peck strategy that had yielded minor successes.
He, however, was thinking big, and had the knowledge to rock his plans.
The way to eliminate vampires was to break the collective will of the society, and the first step was destabilization. The heads of four of the six founding families of the glymera had been wiped out. There were another two to go, and once they were hit, the lessers could start in on the rest of the aristocracy. With the glymera attacked and decimated, what was left of the Princeps Council would turn on Wrath as king. Competing factions would form. Power struggles would ensue. And Wrath, as a leader forced to deal with civil unrest, challenges to his authority, and an active war, would make compounding errors in judgment. Which would exacerbate the instability.
The fallout wouldn’t just be political. More looting of homes meant fewer tithes to the Brotherhood due to erosions in the tax base. Fewer aristocrats meant fewer jobs for civilians, which would cause financial distress in the lower classes and an erosion of their support for the king. The whole thing would be a vicious circle that would inevitably lead to Wrath being deposed, killed, or relegated to a castrated figurehead—and to the vampire social structure going even further into the shitter. With everything in total shambles, that was when Lash would go in and broom up what was left.
Only thing better would be a vampire plague.
His plan was working so far, with this first night having been largely successful. He’d been pissed that that fucker Qhuinn hadn’t been home when they’d raided his house, as he would have liked killing his cousin, but he’d learned something interesting. On his uncle’s desk had been renunciation papers kicking Qhuinn out of the family. Which meant that poor wittle mismatched fuckup Qhuinn was out on the loose somewhere—although evidently not at Blay’s as that home had been hit as well.
Yeah, it sucked that Qhuinn hadn’t been home. But at least they’d taken his brother alive. That was going to be fun.
There had been a number of Society losses, mostly at Blay’s house and Lash’s own, but on the whole the tide was strongly in Lash’s favor.
Momentum, however, was critical. The glymera would be running for their safe houses, and though he knew some of the areas those places were in, most of them were upstate, which meant travel time for his men. To expedite the killings, they had to hit as many addresses as possible here in town.
Maps. They needed maps.
As the thought occurred to him, Lash’s stomach let out a whine.
They needed maps and food.
“Pull into that Citgo,” he barked.
Mr. D didn’t catch the left in time, so he swung a louie and backtracked.
“I need chow,” Lash said. “And maps for—”
Across the street, the blue lights of a Caldwell Police Department squad car went off, and Lash cursed.
If the cop had tweaked to their moving violation, they were in deep shit. The Focus had guns and weapons in the trunk. Bloody clothes. Wallets, watches, and rings from dead vampires.
Great. Fucking great. The officer had evidently not been taking an emergency doughnut break, because he was gunning right for them.
“Fuck. Me.” Lash looked at Mr. D as the guy pulled over. “Tell me you have a valid driver’s license on you.”
“Sure do.” Mr. D put the car in park and rolled down the window as one of Caldie’s protect-and-serves came up to them. “Hey, Officer. I gots my driver’s license right chere.”
“I need your registration as well.” The cop leaned into the car and then grimaced as though he didn’t like the smell of them.
God, that’s right. The baby powder.
Lash eased back as Mr. D went for the glove compartment, cool as he could be. As he took out a piece of white paper the size of an index card, Lash quickly checked the registration out. Sure looked like it was official. Damn thing had the New York State crest on it, the name of Richard Delano, and an address of 1583 Tenth Street, apartment 4F.
Mr. D handed everything out the window. “I know I wasn’t supposed to do that turn back there, sir. We just wanted something to eat and I missed the parking lot.”
Lash stared at Mr. D, awed by the remarkable display of acting talent. D was just the right combo of rueful shame, earnest apology, and regular Joe as he stared up at the cop. Shit,
he looked like his puss should be on the front of a cereal box as he flapped his gums and threw the word sir around like it was amen at a church. He was everything that was wholesome. Full of vitamins and fiber. Packed with vital, good old American nutrition.
The officer looked at the documentation and handed it back. As he flashed his light inside the car, he said, “Just don’t do it—”
He frowned as he looked at Lash.
The cop’s whatever-this-is-a-waste-of-my-time attitude was gone in a split second. Tilting the radio piece on his lapel toward his mouth, he called for backup, then said, “I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the car, sir.”
“Who, me?” Lash said. Fuck, he had no ID on him. “Why?”
“Please get out of the car, sir.”
“Not unless you tell me why.”
The flashlight dipped to the dog chain around Lash’s neck. “We received a complaint about an hour ago from a female at Screamer’s concerning a white male, six-foot-six, blond crew cut, wearing a dog collar. So I need you to get out of the car.”
“What was the complaint?”
“Sexual assault.” Another cop car pulled up in front, then backed in tight to the Focus’s headlights. “Please get out of the vehicle, sir.”
That bitch back at the bar had gone to the police? She’d begged him for it! “No.”
“If you do not get out of the car, I will take you out of it.”
“Get out of the car,” Mr. D said under his breath.
The second officer walked around the Focus and popped open Lash’s door. “Get out of the car, sir.”
This was so not happening. These fucking idiot humans? He was the Omega’s son, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t follow vampire rules, much less ones that governed Homo sapiens.
“Sir?” the cop said.
“How about you fuck yourself with your Taser.”
The officer leaned down and grabbed his arm. “You are under arrest for sexual assault. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. If you cannot afford an attorney—”
“You can’t fucking be serious—”
“—one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights—”
“Let go of me—”
“—as I’ve read them to you?”
It took both officers to drag Lash out of the car, and what do you know, a crowd gathered. Shit. Even though he could easily tear these men’s arms off and feed them to both their asses, he couldn’t make a scene. Too many witnesses.
“Sir, do you understand these rights?” This was said while Lash was pirouetted around, pushed face-first into the car’s hood, and cuffed.
Lash looked through the windshield at Mr. D, whose face was no longer apple-pie innocent. The guy’s eyes were narrowed, and one could only hope he was racking his brain for a way out of this.
“Sir? Do you understand these rights?”
“Yeah,” Lash spat. “Fucking perfectly.”
The cop on the left leaned in. “By the way, we’re going to tack on a charge of resisting arrest. And that blonde? She was seventeen.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Out behind the brotherhood’s mansion, Cormia’s bruised feet traveled across the cropped grass as fast as they would carry her. She ran to lose herself, ran in hopes of capturing some point of clarity, ran because there was nowhere she wanted to go and she could no longer stay where she was.
Her breath tore in and out of her lungs and her legs burned and her arms went numb and still she ran, racing down the flank of the retaining wall toward the edge of the forest, then turning around and heading back to the gardens.
Layla and the Primale. Layla laying with the Primale. Layla naked with the Primale.
She ran faster.
He was going to choose Layla. He was awkward in his role, so he would go for the one who he’d seen around and who had served his Brothers with discretion and grace. He would go for the familiar.
He would choose Layla.
With no warning, Cormia’s legs dropped out from underneath her and she collapsed in an exhausted heap.
When she’d recovered enough to lift her head, she frowned as she panted. She’d fallen on an odd scratchy patch of the lawn, an imperfect stretch that was six feet in diameter. It was as if something had been burned there and the ground had yet to recover.
Seemed apt on a lot of levels.
Rolling over onto her back, she looked at the night sky. Her thighs burned and so did her lungs, but the real fire was in her brain. She didn’t belong on this side. She couldn’t stand the idea of going back to the Sanctuary.
She was like the summer air that stretched between the grassy green ground and the star-studded galaxy above. She was neither here nor there . . . and she was invisible.
Getting to her feet, she walked slowly back up to the mansion’s terrace. Lamps glowed in the windows of the house and as she looked around, she realized she was going to miss the palette of this world at night: The tea roses’ reds and pinks and yellows and purples were muted, as if the blooms were feeling shy. Inside the library, the deep red of the drapes was like banked fire, and the billiards room appeared to have been constructed out of emeralds, with its vivid deep green.
So lovely. It was all so lovely, this feast for the eyes.
To put off the leaving a little longer, she went to the pool.
The black water spoke to her, its shimmering surface whispering in the lilting sighs and beckoning sparkles of moonlight on gentle waves.
Dropping her robe, she plunged into the soft darkness, penetrating the weave of the pool’s surface, going deep and staying there as she stroked through the water.
When she came up at the far end, resolve entered her body on the gasping inhale of air she took. She would leave word with Fritz that she was going and ask him to tell Bella. Then she would go to the Sanctuary and seek an audience with the Directrix Amalya—wherein she would put forward a request to become a sequestered scribe.
She knew that in the course of her duties as scribe she was going to have to keep track of the Primale’s offspring, but better to deal with them in the land of letters than have to set her eyes upon legions of young with multicolored hair and lovely yellow eyes.
And there would be young. Though she had challenged him on his strength, the Primale was going to do what he needed to do. He was struggling ever harder now with his role, but his sense of duty would override his sense of self.
Bella was so very right in her assessment of him.
“Well, hello, there.”
Cormia sputtered and looked straight into a pair of gigantic, metal-toed boots. With a start, she ran her eyes up the long, rangy body of a male dressed in what they called blue jeans.
"And who are you?”he asked, settling down on his haunches, his voice smooth and warm. His eyes were arresting—deeply set and mismatched, with lashes the color of his thick black hair.
Before she could answer, John Matthew came up from behind him and whistled loudly to get his attention. As the male at the edge of the water looked over his shoulder, John shook his head and signed frantically.
“Oh . . . shit, sorry.” The dark-haired male rose to his full height and lifted his hands as if calling a stop to himself. “I didn’t know who you were.”
Another male came out of the house through the library ’s doors. This redheaded one had bloodstains on his shirt and an air of utter exhaustion about him.
They were soldiers who fought with John, she thought. Young soldiers.
“Who are you?” she asked the one with the odd, lovely eyes.
“Qhuinn. I’m with him.” His thumb jogged in John Matthew ’s direction. “The redhead’s—”
“Blaylock,” the other one cut in sharply. “I’m Blaylock.”
“I’m just going for a swim,” she said.
“So I see.” Qhuinn’s smile was friendly, no longer sexual.
Still, he was attracted to her. She could sense it. And that was whe
n she realized that with the path she was on, she would remain untouched forever. As a sequestered scribe she would never be among the ones who the Primale visited sexually.
So that gathering storm that had been called from her in such a glorious way would never be summoned and relieved again.
Ever.
As the great stretch of her years of life unfurled before her, some restless, desperate cord was struck, and the vibrations of its dissatisfaction carried her through the warm water over to the ladder. Grasping the handrails and pulling herself out, she felt the cool air on her body and knew all three of the soldiers were looking at her.
The knowledge depressed and emboldened her. This was the last time any male would see her body, and it was hard to think that she was locking down all that was female about herself forever. But she wasn’t going to be with anyone save the Primale, and she couldn’t bear to be with him as things stood with all her sisters. So this was the end.
In a few moments, she would close her robing around herself and bid good-bye to something that had never really gotten started.
So she would not apologize for her nakedness nor hide her body as she stepped free of the water’s gentle embrace.
Phury rematerialized in the gardens at the back of the Brotherhood’s mansion because he had no interest in running into anyone. With what was in his head, marching through the front door and running the risk of—
His feet stopped and his heart stopped and his breath stopped.
Cormia was rising from the pool, her resplendent female form dripping with water . . .while three newly transitioned males stood about ten feet from her with their tongues hanging down to their navels.
Oh . . . hell . . . no.
The bonded male in him came out like a beast, breaking free of the lies he’d fed himself about how he felt, roaring out of the cave of his heart, stripping him of everything that was civilized.
All he knew was that his female was standing naked and being coveted by others.
That was all that mattered.