by J. R. Ward
“Father, your juice is ready.” She put the mug down on the small table, right on top of a circle of tape that delineated where it needed to be placed.
The six cupboards across the way were as orderly and relatively empty as the fridge, and out of one she grabbed a box of Wheaties, and from another she got a bowl. After pouring herself some flakes she grabbed the milk carton, and as soon as she was finished using it, she put the thing right back where it went: next to two more of its kind, the Hood labels facing out.
She glanced at her watch and switched into the Old Language. “Father? I must take my leave.”
The sun had set, and that meant her shift, which started fifteen minutes after dark, was about to kick off.
She glanced at the window over the kitchen sink, although it wasn’t as if she could measure how dark it was. The panes were covered with sheets of overlapping aluminum foil that were duct-taped to the molding.
Even if she and her father hadn’t been vampires and unable to handle daylight, those Reynolds Wrap blinds would have had to be in place over each window in the house: They were lids on the rest of the world, sealing it out, containing it so that this crappy little rented house was protected and insulated…from threats only her father could sense.
When she was finished with the Breakfast of Champions, she washed and dried her bowl with paper towels, because sponges and dishcloths weren’t allowed, and put it and the spoon she’d used back where they belonged.
“Father mine?”
She propped her hip against the chipped Formica counter and waited, trying not to look too closely at the faded wallpaper or the linoleum floor with its worn tracks.
The house was barely more than a dingy shed, but it was all she could afford. Between her father’s doctor visits and his meds and his visiting nurse there just wasn’t much left over from her salary, and she’d long ago used up what little was left of the family money, silver, antiques, and jewelry.
They were barely staying afloat.
And yet, as her father appeared in the cellar’s doorway, she had to smile. His fine gray hair radiated out of his head, a halo of fluff making him look like Beethoven, and his overly observant, slightly frantic eyes also gave him the look of a mad genius. Still, he seemed better than he had in a long while. For one thing, he had his fraying satin robe and silk pajamas on right—everything facing forward, with the top and bottom matching and the sash done up. He was clean, too, freshly bathed and smelling like bay rum aftershave.
It was such a contradiction: He needed his environment spotless and precisely ordered, but his personal hygiene and what he wore were not an issue at all. Although perhaps it made sense. Caught up in his tangled thoughts, he got too distracted by his delusions to be self-aware.
The meds were helping, though, and it showed as he met her eye and actually saw her.
“Daughter mine,” he said in the Old Language, “how fare thee this night?”
She responded as he preferred, in the mother tongue. “Well, my father. And you?”
He bowed with the grace of the aristocrat he was by blood and had been by station. “As always I am charmed by your greeting. Ah, yes, the doggen has put out my juice. How good of her.”
Her father sat with a swish of his robes, and he picked up the ceramic mug as if it were fine English china. “Whither thou goest?”
“To work. I am going to work.”
Her father frowned as he sipped. “You are well aware I do not approve of your industry outside of the home. A lady of your breeding should not be tendering her hours as such.”
“I know, father mine. But it makes me happy.”
His face softened. “Well, that is different. Alas, I do not understand the younger generation. Your mother managed the household and the servants and the gardens, and that was plenty to engage her nightly impulses.”
Ehlena looked down, thinking that her mother would weep to see where they had ended up. “I know.”
“You shall do as you will, though, and I shall love you e’ermore.”
She smiled at the words she’d heard all of her life. And on that note…“Father?”
He lowered the mug. “Yes?”
“I shall be a bit late in getting home this evening.”
“Indeed? Why for?”
“I am going to have coffee with a male—”
“What is that?”
The change in his tone brought her head up, and she looked around to see what—Oh, no…
“Nothing, Father, verily, it is nothing.” She quickly went over to the spoon she’d used to crush the pills and picked it up, rushing for the sink like she had a burn that needed cold water stat.
Her father’s voice quavered. “What…what was it doing? I—”
Ehlena quickly dried the spoon and slipped it in the drawer. “See? All gone. See?” She pointed to where it had been. “The counter is clean. There’s nothing there.”
“It was there…I saw it. Metal objects are not to be left…It’s not safe to…Who left it…Who left it out…Who left the spoon—”
“The maid did.”
“The maid! Again! She must be fired. I have told her—nothing metal is left out nothing metal is left out nothing metal is left out-they-are-watching-andtheywillpunishthosewhodisobeytheyarecloserthanweknowand—”
In the beginning, when her father’s attacks had first occurred, Ehlena had reached out to him as he got agitated, thinking a pat on the shoulder or a comforting hand in his own would help. Now she knew better. The less sensory input into his brain, the faster the rolling hysteria slowed: On the advice of his nurse, Ehlena pointed out the reality to him once and then didn’t move or speak.
It was hard, though, to watch him suffer and be unable to do anything to help. Especially when it was her fault.
Her father’s head shook back and forth, the agitation frothing his hair up into a fright wig of crazy frizz, while in his wobbling grip, CranRas jumped out of the mug, splashing on his veined hand and the sleeve of the robe and the pitted Formica tabletop. From his trembling lips, the staccato beats of syllables increased, his internal record getting played at an ever-higher speed, the flush of madness riding up the column of his throat and flaring in his cheeks.
Ehlena prayed this wasn’t going to be a bad one. The attacks, when they came, varied in intensity and duration, and the drugs helped shrink both metrics. But sometimes the illness bested the chemical management.
As her father’s words became too crowded to comprehend and he dropped the mug on the floor, all Ehlena could do was wait and pray to the Scribe Virgin that this would pass soon. Forcing her feet to stay glued to the crappy linoleum, she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her rib cage.
If she had just remembered to put the spoon away. If she had just—
When her father’s chair scraped back and crashed to the floor, she knew she was going to be late for work. Again.
Humans really were cattle, Xhex thought as she looked over all the heads and shoulders packed in tight around ZeroSum’s general-population bar.
It was like some farmer had just grained up a trough and the milking stock was jockeying for muzzle space.
Not that the bovine characteristics of Homo sapiens were a bad thing. The herd mentality was easier to manage from a security point of view, and in a way, like cows, one could feed off of them: That crush around those bottles was all about wallet purge, with the tide flowing only one way—into the coffers.
Liquor sales were good. But the drugs and sex had even higher profit margins.
Xhex walked by the bar’s outer rim slowly, dousing the hot speculation of heterosexual men and homosexual women with hard looks. Man, she didn’t get it. Never had. For a female who wore nothing but muscle shirts and leathers and had hair cut short as a infantryman’s, she caught attention as much as the half-dressed prostitutes up in VIP area did.
Then again, rough sex was in fashion these days, and volunteers for autoerotic asphyxiation and ass-crack whippi
ngs and three ways with handcuffs were like the rats in Caldwell’s sewer system: everywhere and out at night. Which resulted in over a third of the club’s profits every month.
Thank you very much.
Unlike the working girls, however, she never took money for sex. Didn’t really do the sex thing at all. Except for Butch O’Neal, that cop. Well, that cop and…
Xhex came up to the VIP section’s velvet rope and took a glance inside the exclusive part of the club.
Shit. He was here.
Just what she needed tonight.
Her libido’s favorite eye candy was sitting in the far back at the Brotherhood’s table, his two buddies flanking him and thus buffering him from the three girls who were also crowded into the banquette. Damn, he was big in that booth, all decked out in an Affliction T-shirt and a black leather jacket that was built half biker, half flak.
There were weapons under it. Guns. Knives.
How things had changed. The first time he’d made an appearance, he’d been the size of a bar stool, packing barely enough muscle to bench-press a swizzle stick. But that was not the case anymore.
As she nodded to her bouncer and went up the three graduated steps, John Matthew lifted his stare from his Corona. Even through the dimness, his deep blue eyes glowed when he saw her, flashing like a set of sapphires.
Man, she could pick ’em. The son of a bitch was just out of his transition. The king was his whard. He lived with the Brotherhood. And he was a damned mute.
Christ. And she’d thought Murhder had been a bad idea? You’d have figured she’d learned her lesson over two decades ago with that Brother. But nooooooooooooo…
Thing was, as she looked at the kid, all she could picture was him spread out naked on a bed, thick cock in his hand, palm going up and down…until her name left his lips on a soundless groan and he came all over his tight six-pack.
The tragedy was that what she saw wasn’t a fantasy. Those fist pneumatics actually happened. Often. And how did she know? Because, like an asshole, she’d read his mind and caught the Memorex, good-as-live version.
Sick to shit of herself, Xhex went deeper into the VIP section and stayed away from him, checking in with the floor manager of the working girls. Marie-Terese was a brunette with great legs and an expensive look. One of the big earners, she was a strict professional and therefore exactly the kind of HBIC you wanted: She never fell into catty crap, always showed up for her shifts on time, and never brought whatever was wrong in her personal life to work. She was a fine woman in a horrible job, making money hand over fist for a damn good reason.
“How we doing?” Xhex asked. “You need anything from me and my boys?”
Marie-Terese glanced around at the other working women, her high cheekbones catching the dim light, making her look not just sexually alluring, but downright beautiful. “We’re good for now. Two in the back at the moment. It’s been business as usual, except for the fact that our girl is not here.”
Xhex snapped her brows down. “Chrissy again?”
Marie-Terese inclined her head of long, black, and lovely. “Something needs to be done about that gentleman caller of hers.”
“Something was, but it didn’t go far enough. And if he’s a gentleman, I’m Estée fucking Lauder.” Xhex fisted both hands. “That son of a bitch—”
“Boss?”
Xhex looked over her shoulder. Past the mountain of bouncer who was trying to get her attention, she caught another full-on of John Matthew. Who was still staring at her.
“Boss?”
Xhex refocused. “What.”
“There’s a cop here to see you.”
She didn’t move her eyes from her bouncer. “Marie-Terese, tell the girls to relax for ten.”
“I’m on it.”
The head bitch in charge moved fast while seeming to just saunter in her stillies, going to each of the girls and tapping them on the left shoulder, then knocking once on each of the private bathroom doors down the dark hall to the right.
As the place emptied of prostitutes, Xhex said, “Who and why.”
“Homicide detective.” The bouncer handed over a card. “José de la Cruz, he said his name was.”
Xhex took the thing and knew exactly why the guy was here. And Chrissy was not. “Park him in my office. I’ll be there in two.”
“Roger that.”
Xhex brought her wristwatch up to her lips. “Trez? iAm? We’ve got heat in the house. Tell the bookies to chill and Rally to stop the scales.”
When confirmation came through her earpiece, she did a quick double check that all the girls were off the floor; then she headed back to the open part of the club.
As she left the VIP section, she could feel John Matthew’s eyes on her and tried not to think about what she had done two dawns ago when she got home…and what she was likely going to do when she was by herself at the end of tonight as well.
Fucking John Matthew. Ever since she’d barged into his brain and saw what he’d been doing to himself whenever he thought about her…she’d been doing likewise.
Fucking. John Matthew.
Like she needed this shit?
Now, as she went through the human herd, she was rough, not caring when she hard-elbowed a couple of dancers. She almost hoped one complained so she could toss them out on their ass.
Her office was up on the mezzanine floor in the back, as far away as you could get from where the sex-for-hire happened and from where the beat-downs and the deals rolled out in Rehvenge’s private space. As head of security, she was the primary interface with the police, and there was no reason to bring the blue unis closer to the action than they had to be.
Scrubbing the minds of humans was a handy tool, but it had its complications.
Her door was open and she sized up the detective from behind. He wasn’t too tall, but he had a thick build she approved of. His sports coat was Men’s Wearhouse, his shoes were Florsheim. Watch peeking out of his cuff was Seiko.
As he turned to look at her, his dark brown eyes were Sherlock-smart. He might not be making a lot of paper, but he was no dummy.
“Detective,” she said, shutting the door and going past him to take a seat behind her desk.
Her office was all but naked. No pictures. No plants. Not even a phone or a computer. The records in the three locked fireproof filing cabinets pertained only to the legitimate side of the business, and the wastepaper basket was a shredder.
Which meant Detective de la Cruz had learned absolutely nothing about anything during the 120 seconds he’d spent alone in the room.
De la Cruz took his badge out and flashed it. “I’m here about one of your employees.”
Xhex pretended to lean across and look at the shield, but she didn’t need the ID. Her symphath side told her all she had to know: The detective’s emotions were the correct mix of suspicion, concern, resolve, and pissed off. He took his job seriously, and he was here on business.
“Which employee?” she asked.
“Chrissy Andrews.”
Xhex eased sat back in her chair. “When was she killed?”
“How do you know she’s dead?”
“Don’t play games, Detective. Why else would someone from Homicide be asking about her?”
“Sorry, I’m in interrogation mode.” He slipped his shield back into his inside breast pocket and sat in the hard-backed chair across from her. “Tenant below her apartment woke up to a bloodstain on his ceiling and the guy called the police. No one in the apartment building will admit to knowing Ms. Andrews, and she has no next of kin that we can locate. While we were going through her place, though, we found tax returns listing this club as her employer. Bottom line, we need someone to identify the body and—”
Xhex stood up, the word motherfucker banging around her skull. “I’ll do it. Let me get my men organized so I can leave.”
De la Cruz blinked, like he was surprised she was so quick. “You…ah, you want a ride down to the morgue?”
�
��St. Francis?”
“Yup.”
“I know the way. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”
De la Cruz got to his feet slowly, his eyes sharp on her face, as if he were searching for signs of trepidation. “I guess it’s a date.”
“Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not going to faint at the sight of a dead body.”
He looked her up and down. “You know…somehow that doesn’t concern me.”
FOUR
As Rehvenge drove into the Caldwell city limits, he wished like hell he were going directly to ZeroSum. He knew better, though. He was in trouble.
Since leaving Montrag’s Connecticut safe house, he’d pulled his Bentley over to the side of the road and shot himself up with dopamine twice. His miracle drug, however, was failing him again. If he’d had more of the shit in the car, he’d have fired up another syringe, but he was out.
The irony of a drug dealer having to go to his dealer at a dead run was not lost, and it was a damn shame there wasn’t more of a demand for the neurotransmitter on the black market. As it stood now, Rehv’s only supply was through legitimate means, but he was going to have to fix that. If he was smart enough to funnel X, coke, weed, meth, OxyC, and heroin through his two clubs, surely he could figure out how the hell to get his own vials of dopamine.
“Ah, come on, move your ass. It’s just a goddamned exit ramp. You’ve seen one before.”
He’d made good time on the highway, but now that he was in town, traffic slowed his progress, and not just because of congestion. With his lack of depth perception, judging bumper distances was tricky, so he had to go far more carefully than he liked.
And then there was this fidiot in his twelve-hundred-year-old beater and his overactive braking habits.
“No…no…by all that is holy don’t change lanes. You can’t even see out your rearview mirror as it is—”
Rehv punched on the brakes because Mr. Timid was actually thinking he belonged over in the fast lane and seemed to think the way to get into it was to come to a dead stop.
Usually, Rehv loved to drive. He even preferred it to dematerializing because it was the only time when he was medicated that he felt like he was himself: fast, nimble, powerful. He drove a Bentley not just because it was chic and he could afford one, but for the six hundred horses under the hood. Being numb and relying on a cane for balance made him feel like an old, crippled male a lot of the time, and it was good to be…normal.