by J. R. Ward
Her Ducati was waiting for her in the private garage slip where the Bentley was parked when Rehv didn’t need his wheels. She rolled the black bike out, mounted it as the door trundled shut, and started the bitch with a kick.
She never wore a helmet.
She always wore her leather chaps and her biker jacket.
The motorcycle roared between her legs, and she took the long way home, weaving in and out of downtown’s maze of one-ways, then opening the Ducati up on the Northway. She was going well over a hundred when she blew past a cop car parked under the pines in the median.
She never put her lights on.
Which explained why, assuming she’d tripped the guy’s radar and he wasn’t asleep behind his badge, he didn’t come after her. Hard to chase what you couldn’t see.
She had two places in Caldwell to lay her head: a basement apartment downtown for when she found herself needing privacy stat, and a secluded two-bedroom cabin on the Hudson River.
The dirt road to her waterfront property was nothing but a footpath, thanks to her having let the underbrush grow in over the past thirty years. On the far side of the tangle, the 1920s-era fishing cabin sat on a seven-acre lot, the house built solidly but without grace. The garage was detached and over to the right, and that had been a major value-add when she’d looked at the property. She was the kind of female who liked to keep a lot of firepower around, and storing the ammo outside of the house reduced the likelihood of her getting blown up in her sleep.
The bike went into the garage. She went into the house.
Walking into the kitchen, she loved the way the place smelled: old pine boards from the ceiling and walls and floors, and sweet cedar from the closets that had been built for hunting gear.
She didn’t have a security system. Didn’t believe in them.
She had herself. And that had always been enough.
After a cup of instant coffee, she went into her bedroom and stripped out of her leathers. In her black sports bra and panties, she lay down on the bare floor and braced herself.
Tough as she was, she always needed a moment.
When she was ready, she reached down to her thighs, to the barbed metal bands she had clamped into her skin and muscles. The locks on the cilices released with a pop, and she groaned as blood rushed to the wounds. With her vision flickering, she curled onto her side, breathing through her mouth.
This was the only way she could control her symphath side. Pain was her self-medication.
As her skin went slick with her blood, and her body’s nervous system recalibrated, a tingling went through her. She thought of it as her reward for being strong, for keeping it together. Sure it was chemical, nothing except garden-variety endorphins racing around in her veins, but there was magic to the spacey, racy, ringing sensation.
It was times like this when she was tempted to buy herself some furniture for this place, but the impulse was easy to resist. The wooden floor was easier to clean up.
Her breath was easing and her heart was slowing and her brain was starting to turn over again when something popped into her head that reversed the trend toward stabilization.
John Matthew.
John Matthew . . . that bastard. He was, like, twelve, for godsakes. What the hell was he thinking, trying to sex her up?
She pictured him standing underneath those lights in the mezzanine bathroom, his face that of a fighter, not a young boy, his body that of a male who could deliver, not a wall- flower with self-esteem issues.
Reaching to the side, she pulled over her leathers and took out the folded paper towel he had given her. Unfurling it, she read what he had written.
Next time say my name. You’ll come more.
She snarled and wadded up the damn thing. She had half a mind to get up and burn it.
Instead, her free hand went between her legs.
As the sun came up and light spilled into her bedroom, Xhex pictured John Matthew on his back beneath her, thrusting what she had seen in his jeans up to meet her riding surges. . . .
She couldn’t believe the fantasy. Resented the hell out of him for it. Would have cut the shit if she could have.
But she said his name.
Twice.
Chapter Fifty-six
The scribe virgin had control issues.
Which was not a bad thing when you were a goddess and had created a whole world within the world, a history within the universe’s history.
Really. It was not a bad thing.
Well, mayhap it was a good thing . . . in measure.
The Scribe Virgin floated over to the sealed sanctum in her private quarters, and at her will, the double doors eased open. Mist poured out of the room beyond, billowing like satin cloth in a wind. Her daughter was revealed by the condensation’s recession, Payne’s powerful body suspended inanimate in the air.
Payne was as her father had been: aggressive and calculating and powerful.
Dangerous.
There had been no place among the Chosen for a female such as Payne. No place in the vampire world, either. After that final act of hers had come to pass, the Scribe Virgin had isolated here the daughter who would not fit anywhere, for everyone’s safety.
Have faith in your creation.
The Primale’s words had been ringing e’er since he had spoken them. And they exposed a truth that had been buried in the deep earth of the Scribe Virgin’s inner thoughts and fears.
The lives of the males and females whom she had called forth from the biological pool by a single gift of will could not be shelved in separate sections like books in the Sanctuary ’s library. The order was appealing, true, as there was safety and security in order. Nature, however, and the natures of living things, was messy and unpredictable and not subject to binding.
Have faith in your creation.
The Scribe Virgin could see many things to come, whole legions of triumphs and tragedies, but they were mere grains of sand within a vast shore. The larger whole of fate, she could not envision: As the future of the race she had borne was tied too closely with her own destiny, the thrive or demise of her people was unknown and unknowable to her.
The only totality she had was the present, and the Primale was right. Her beloved children were not flourishing, and if things stayed as they were, soon there would be none of them left.
Change was the only hope they had for the future.
The Scribe Virgin lifted her black hood off her head and let it fall down the back of her robing. Extending her hand, she sent a warm rush of molecules scampering through the still air toward her daughter.
Payne’s ice white eyes, so like her twin brother Vishous’s, snapped open.
“Daughter,” the Scribe Virgin said.
She was not surprised at the reply.
“Fuck you.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
More than a month later, Cormia woke up in the way she was becoming accustomed to greeting the night’s fall.
Phury’s hips were pushing at hers, his body nudging a rock-hard erection against her. He was likely still asleep, and as she rolled over onto her stomach and made room for him, she smiled, knowing what his response would be. Yup, he was on her in a heartbeat, the blanket of his heavy weight warm and grounding and—
She moaned as he pushed inside.
“Mmmm,” he said into her ear. “Good evening, shellan.”
She smiled and tilted her spine so he could go even deeper. “Hellren mine, how fare thee—”
They both groaned as he surged, the powerful stroke going right into the very soul of her. As he rode her slow and sweet, nuzzling at her nape, nipping at her with his fangs, they held hands, their fingers intertwined.
They hadn’t been officially mated yet, as there had been too much to do with the Chosen, who wanted to see what this world was like. But they were together every moment, and Cormia couldn’t imagine how they had lived apart.
Well . . . there was one night a week that they were separated for a lit
tle while. Phury went to his NA meeting every Tuesday.
Quitting the red smoke was hard on him. There were a lot of times when he would get tense or his eyes would lose focus or he would struggle not to snap at something in annoyance. He’d had day sweats for the first two weeks, and though they were lessening, his skin still went through periods when it was hypersensitive.
He hadn’t had one single relapse, though. No matter how bad it got, he didn’t cave. And there had been no alcohol for him, either.
They had been having a lot of sex, however. Which was fine with her.
Phury pulled out and rolled her over on her back. As he settled into place at her core again, he kissed her with urgency, his palms going to her breasts, his fingertips brushing over her tight nipples. Arching into him, she slipped her hands between them, took his arousal, and stroked it just as he liked it, from base to tip, base to tip.
Over on the bureau, his cell phone went off with a beep, and they ignored it as she smiled widely and guided him back inside. When they were one again, the firestorm took off and took over them, their rhythm becoming urgent. Holding on to her love’s surging shoulders and mirroring his thrusts, she was carried away by him, with him.
After the rush had passed and faded, she opened her eyes and was greeted by the warm yellow stare that made her glow from the inside out.
“I love waking up,” he said, kissing her on the mouth.
“Me, too—”
The stairwell fire alarm went off, its shrill cry the kind of thing that made you want to be deaf.
Phury laughed and rolled to the side, tucking her into his chest. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two—”
“Soooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyy!” Layla called out from the foot of the stairs.
“What was it this time, Chosen?” he hollered back.
“Scrambled eggs,” she yelled up.
Phury shook his head and said softly to Cormia, “See, I’d have figured it was the toast.”
“Can’t be that. She broke the toaster yesterday.”
“She did?”
Cormia nodded. “Tried to put a piece of pizza in it. The cheese.”
“Everywhere?”
“Everywhere.”
Phury spoke up. “That’s okay, Layla. You can always clean the pan and try again.”
“I don’t think the pan’s going to work anymore,” came the reply.
Phury’s voice dropped. “I’m so not going to ask.”
“Aren’t they metal?”
“Should be.”
“I’d better go help.” Cormia shifted upright and called out, “I’m coming down, my sister! Two secs.”
Phury tugged her back to him for a kiss, then let her go. She had a quick shower, as in lightning quick, and came out wearing loose blue jeans and one of Phury’s Gucci shirts.
Maybe it came from years of wearing robes, but she didn’t like tight clothes. Which was fine with her hellren, because he liked her in his.
“That color looks perfect on you,” he drawled as he watched her plait her hair.
“You like the lavender?” She did a little twirl for him and his stare flashed brilliant yellow.
“Oh, yeah. I like. Come here, Chosen.”
She put her hands on her hips as the piano started playing down below. Scales. Which meant Selena was up. “I have to go downstairs before Layla burns the house down.”
Phury smiled that smile he sported when he was picturing her very, very naked. “Come here, Chosen.”
“How about I go and come back with food?”
Phury had the audacity to throw the tangled sheet away and put his hand on his hard, heavy sex. “Only you have what I’m hungry for.”
A vacuum cleaner joined the chorus of noise coming from downstairs, so it was clear who else was up and about. Amalya and Pheonia drew straws every day to see who got to use the Dyson. Didn’t matter whether the carpets in Rehvenge’s great camp needed it or not—they always got vacuumed.
“Two secs,” she said, knowing that if she got within range of his hands, they were going to be all over each other again. “Then I’ll come back and you can feed my mouth, how about that.”
Phury’s massive body trembled, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “Oh, yeah. That’s . . . Oh, yeah, that’s a very good plan.”
His phone let out a reminder beep, and he reached over to the bedside table with a groan. “Okay, go on now, before I don’t let you out of here for another hour. Or four.”
She laughed and turned for the door.
“Dear . . . God.”
Cormia turned around. “What is it?”
Phury sat up slowly, his hands holding the phone as if it were worth more than the four hundred dollars he’d paid for it the week before.
“Phury?”
He held it out to her screen-first.
The text was from Zsadist: Baby girl, two hours ago. Nalla. Hope you’re good. Z.
She bit her lip and then gently put her hand on his shoulder. “You should go back to the house. You should see him. See them.”
Phury swallowed hard. “Yeah. I don’t know. Not going back there . . . I think it’s maybe a good thing. Wrath and I can do what we need to over the phone and . . . Yeah. Better not to.”
“Are you going to return the text?”
“I am.” He covered his hips with the sheet and just stared at the phone.
After a moment, she said, “Would you like me to do it for you?”
He nodded. “Please. Make it from both of us, ’kay?”
She kissed the top of his head and then texted, Blessings upon you and your shellan and your young. We are with you in spirit, love, Phury and Cormia.
The following evening, Phury was tempted not to go to the NA meeting. Very tempted.
He wasn’t sure what made him go. Didn’t know how he did it.
All he wanted was to light up so he didn’t have to feel the pain. But how messed up was it that he was hurting? The fact that his twin’s young had come into the world healthy, that Z was now a father, that Bella had lived through it, that the young was all right . . . you would figure he’d be thrilled and relieved. It was what he and everyone else had been praying for.
No doubt he was the only one who was fucked in the head over it all. The rest of the Brothers would be busy toasting Z and his new daughter and pampering Bella. The celebrations would be going on for weeks, and Fritz would be ecstatic with all the special meals and ceremonies.
Phury could just see it. The grand entrance of the mansion would be draped in bolts of brilliant green, the color of Z’s bloodline, and purple, the color of Bella’s. Wreaths of flowers would be hung on every single door in the house, even the closets and cabinets, to symbolize that Nalla had come through to this side. The fireplaces would stay lit for days with sweet logs, those slow-burning, treated pieces of wood whose flames would burn red for the new blood of the darling one.
At the start of the twenty-fourth hour following her birth, every person in the house would bring unto the proud parents a tremendous ribbon bow woven of their family colors. The bows would be tied on the spindles of Nalla’s crib, as pledges to oversee her through her life. By the end of the hour, the place where she laid her precious head would be covered with a cascade of satin bows, their long ends reaching the floor in a river of love.
Nalla would be gifted with priceless jewelry and draped in velvet and held in gentle arms. She would be cherished for the miracle she was, and ever would her birth be rejoiced in the hearts of those who had waited with hope and fear to greet her.
Yeah . . . Phury didn’t know what got him to the community center. And he didn’t know what helped him through that door and into that basement. And he didn’t know what made him stay.
He did know that when he returned to Rehvenge’s house, he couldn’t go inside.
Instead he sat on the back terrace, in a woven wicker chair, under the stars. There was nothing on his mind. And absolutely everything.
&n
bsp; Cormia came out at some point and put her hand on his shoulder, as she always did when she sensed he was deep in his head. He kissed her palm, and then she kissed his mouth and went back inside, likely to get back to work on the plans for Rehv’s new club.
The night was quiet and downright cold. Every once in a while the wind would come and brush through the treetops, the autumnal leaves rustling together with a cooing sound like they enjoyed the attention.
Behind him in the house, he could hear the future. The Chosen were stretching their arms out into this world, learning things about themselves and this side. He was so proud of them, and he supposed he was the Primale of old tradition in that he would kill to protect his females and would do anything for any of them.
But it was a fatherly love. His mated love was for Cormia and her alone.
Phury rubbed the center of his chest and let the hours pass as they would, at their own speed, while the wind gusted as it did, at its own strength. The moon drifted up to its apex in the sky and began its descent. Someone put opera on inside the house. Someone changed it to hip-hop, thank God. Someone started a shower. Someone vacuumed. Again.
Life. In all its mundane majesty.
And you couldn’t take advantage of it if you were sitting on your ass in the shadows . . .whether that was in actuality, or metaphorically because you were trapped in an addict’s darkness.
Phury reached down and touched the calf of his prosthesis. He’d made it this far with only part of a leg. Living through the rest of his life without his twin and without his brothers . . . he would do that, too. He had much to be grateful for, and that would make up for a lot.
He wouldn’t always feel this empty.
Someone in the house went back to the opera.
Oh, shit. Puccini this time.
“Che Gelida Manina.”
Of all the choices they had, why pick the one solo guaranteed to make him feel worse? God, he hadn’t listened to La Bohème since . . . well, forever, it seemed. And the sound of what he had loved so much squeezed his ribs so tightly, he couldn’t breathe.