by J. R. Ward
The princess always tried to get into his skull, and he didn’t want her to know anything about those he cared for or about.
When a bitter gust nearly slammed the door on his head, Rehv drew his sable loosely around himself, got out, and locked the Bentley. As he walked to the trailhead, the ground beneath his Cole Haans was frozen, the dirt crunching under his soles, hard and resistant.
Technically the park was now closed for the season, a chain hanging across the widemouthed path that took you past the map of the mountain and the cabins that were for rent. The weather, rather than the Adirondack Park Service, was more likely to keep people away, though. After stepping over the links, he bypassed the sign-in sheet that hung on a clipboard even though no one was supposed to be using the trails. He never left his name.
Yeah, ’cuz human rangers really needed to know what was doing between two symphaths in one of those cabins. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
One good thing about December was that the forest was less claustrophobic in the winter months, its oaks and maples nothing but skinny trunks and branches that let in plenty of the starry night. All around them, the evergreens were having a ball, their fluffy boughs an arboreal fuck you to their now-naked brethren, payback for all the showy fall foliage the other trees had just sported.
Penetrating the tree line, he followed the main trail as it gradually narrowed. Smaller trails broke off on the left and the right, marked with rough wooden signs with names like Hobnob’s Walk, Lightning Strike, Summit Long, and Summit Short. He kept on going straight, his breath leaving his lips in puffs, the sound of his loafers on the frozen ground seeming very loud. Overhead, the moon was brilliant, a knife-edged crescent that, with his symphath urges firmly not in check, was the color of his blackmailer’s ruby eyes.
Trez made an appearance in the form of an icy breeze rolling down the trail.
“Hey, my man,” Rehv said quietly.
Trez’s voice floated into his head as the guy’s Shadow form condensed into a shimmering wave. MAKE IT QUICK WITH HER. SOONER WE GET YOU WHAT YOU NEED AFTERWARD THE BETTER.
“It is what it is.”
SOONER. BETTER.
“We’ll see.”
Trez cursed him and dissolved back into a cold gust of wind, shooting forward out of sight.
Truth was, as much as Rehv hated coming here, sometimes he didn’t want to leave. He liked hurting the princess, and she was a good opponent. Smart, fast, cruel. She was the only outlet for his bad side, and, like a runner starved for a workout, he needed the exercise.
Plus, maybe it was like his arm: The festering felt good.
Rehv took the sixth left, walking on a footpath that was wide enough for only one, and soon enough, the cabin came into view. In the bright moonlight, its logs were a color of something like rosé wine.
As he got to the door, he reached forward with his left hand, and as he gripped the wooden toggle, he thought of Ehlena and how she had cared enough to call him about his arm.
For a brief, lapsing moment, the sound of her voice in his ear came back to him.
I don’t understand why you’re not taking care of yourself.
The door whipped out of his hold, opening so fast it slammed against the wall.
The princess stood in the center of the cabin, her brilliant red robes and the rubies at her throat and her bloodred eyes all the color of hatred. With her stark hair twisted up off her neck, and her pale skin, and the live albino scorpions she wore as earrings, she was an exquisite horror, a Kabuki doll constructed by an evil hand. And she was evil, her darkness coming at him in waves, emanating from the center of her chest even as nothing about her moved and her moonlike face remained unmarred by a frown.
Her voice, likewise, was slick as a blade. “No beach scene tonight in your mind. No, no beach this night.”
Rehv covered Ehlena up quickly by picturing a glorious Bahaman stereotype, all sun and sea and sand. It was one he’d seen on TV years ago, a “getaway special,” as the announcer had said, with people in swimsuits strolling hand in hand. Given its vividness, the image was the perfect jockstrap over his gray matter’s ’nads.
“Who is she?”
“Who is who?” he said as he stepped inside.
The cabin was warm, thanks to her, a little trick of molecular agitation of the air that was enhanced by her being pissed off. The heat she generated was not cheery like that from a fire however—more like the kind of hot flash you got along with a case of the shits.
“Who is the female in your mind.”
“Just a model from an ad on TV, my dearest bitch,” he said as smoothly as she did. Without turning his back on her, he shut the door quietly. “Jealous?”
“To be jealous, I would have to be threatened. And that would be absurd.” The princess smiled. “But I think you need to tell me who she is.”
“That all you want to do? Talk?” Rehv deliberately let his coat fall open and cupped his hard cock and heavy sac. “Usually you want me for more than conversation.”
“True enough. Your highest and best use is for what humans call…a dildo, is it not? A toy for a female with which to pleasure herself.”
“Female is not necessarily the word I would use to describe you.”
“Indeed. Beloved will do nicely.”
She lifted a hideous hand to her chignon, her bony, triple-jointed fingers skipping over the careful construction, her wrist thinner than a handle on a wire whisk. Her body was no different: All symphaths were built like chess players, not quarterbacks, which followed their preference to battle with the mind, not the body. In their robing, they were neither male nor female, but rather a distilled version of both sexes, and this was why the princess wanted him as she did. She liked his body, his muscle, his obvious and brutal maleness, and she usually wanted to be physically restrained during sex—something she sure as shit wasn’t getting at home. As far as he understood it, the symphath version of the act was no more than some mental posturing followed by two rubs and a gasp on the male’s part. Plus he was willing to bet their uncle was hung like a hamster, and had balls the size of pencil erasers.
Not that he’d ever checked—but come on, the guy was not exactly a paragon of testosterone.
The princess moved around the cabin as if she were showing off her grace, but there was a purpose as she went from window to window and looked out.
Damn it to hell, always with the windows.
“Where is your watchdog tonight?” she said.
“I always come alone.”
“You lie to your love.”
“Why ever would I want anyone to see this?”
“Because I am beautiful.” She stopped in front of the panes closest to the door. “He is over to the right, by the pine.”
Rehv didn’t need to lean to one side and look out to know she was right. Of course she could sense Trez; she just couldn’t be exactly sure where or what he was.
Still, he said, “There is nothing but trees.”
“Untrue.”
“Afraid of shadows, Princess?”
As she looked over her shoulder, the albino scorpion hanging from her earlobe made eye contact with him as well. “Fear is not the issue. Disloyalty is. I do not abide by disloyalty.”
“Unless you’re practicing it, of course.”
“Oh, I am quite faithful to you, my love. Except for our father’s brother, as you know.” She turned and lifted her shoulders to her full height. “My mate is the only one apart from you. And I come here alone.”
“Your virtues abound, although as I’ve said, please take more into your bed. Take a hundred other males.”
“None would compare to you.”
Rehv wanted to throw up every time she paid him a false compliment, and she knew it. Which naturally was why she insisted on saying shit like that.
“Tell me,” he said to change the subject, “since you brought up our uncle, how does the motherfucker fare?”
“He still believes you dead. So my half of o
ur relationship remains honored.”
Rehv put his hand in the pocket of his sable coat and took out the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cut rubies. He tossed the happy little packy onto the floor at the hem of her robe and removed his fur. His suit jacket and his loafers were next. Then it was his silk socks and his slacks and his shirt. No boxers to take off. Why bother.
Rehvenge stood before her fully erect, feet planted, breath easing in and out of his heavy chest. “And I’m ready to complete our transaction.”
Her ruby eyes went down his body and stopped at his sex, her mouth parting, her split tongue running over her lower lip. The scorpions in her ears twirled their clawed limbs in anticipation, like they were responding to her sexual flush.
She pointed to the velvet bag. “Pick this up and give it to me properly.”
“No.”
“Pick it up.”
“You like to bend over in front of me. Why should I rob you of your favorite hobby.”
The princess tucked her hands into the long sleeves of her robe and came to him in the smooth manner of symphaths, all but floating over the wooden floor. As she approached, he held his ground, because he would be dead and decayed before he took a step back for the likes of her.
They stared at each other, and in the deep, vicious silence, he felt a terrible communion with her. They were like of like, and though he hated it, there was a relief in being his true self.
“Pick it—”
“No.”
Her crossed arms unfurled and one of her six-fingered hands came tearing through the air at his face, the slap hard and sharp as her ruby eyes. Rehv refused to let his head kick back on impact while the cracking sound reverberated loud as a plate breaking.
“I want your tithe handed to me properly. And I want to know who she is. I have sensed your interest in this one before—when you are away from me.”
Rehv kept that beach ad pinned to his frontal lobe and knew she was bluffing. “I don’t bow down to you or anybody else, bitch. So if you want that bag, you’re going to have to touch your toes. And as for what you think you know, you’re wrong. There is no one for me.”
She slapped him again, the sting flickering down his spinal cord and pulsing into the head of his cock. “You bow down to me every time you come here with your pathetic payment and your hungry sex. You need this, you need me.”
He pushed his face closer to hers. “Don’t flatter yourself, Princess. You are a chore, not a choice.”
“Wrong. You live to hate me.”
The princess took his cock in her hand, her graveyard fingers wrapping around him tightly. As he felt her grip and her stroking, he was revolted…and yet his erection wept at the attention even as he couldn’t bear it: although he didn’t find her attractive at all, his symphath side was fully engaged in the battle of wills, and that was the erotic thing.
The princess leaned into him, her forefinger rubbing over the barb at the base of his arousal. “Whoever that female is in your head, she can’t compete with what we have.”
Rehv put his hands up to the sides of his blackmailer’s neck and pressed in with his thumbs until she gasped. “I could snap your head off your spine.”
“You won’t.” She moved her red, glossy lips over his throat, the crushed-pepper lipstick she wore burning him. “Because we couldn’t do this if I were dead.”
“Don’t underestimate the appeal of necrophilia. Especially where you’re concerned.” He grabbed onto the back of her chignon and yanked hard. “Shall we get down to business?”
“After you pick up—”
“Not going to happen. I don’t bow.” With his free hand, he ripped the front of her robe open, exposing the fine mesh weave of the bodysuit she always wore. Spinning her around, he forced her face-first into the door, fishing up through the folds of red satin as she gasped. The weave she wore over herself was soaked in scorpion venom, and as he worked toward her core, the poison soaked in through his skin. Hopefully, he could fuck her for a while with her robes still on—
The princess dematerialized out of his grip and re-formed right at the window Trez could see through. In a shifting rush, her robes left her, removed by her will, her flesh revealed. She was built like the snake she was, sinewy, and altogether too thin, her shimmering bodysuit giving the impression of scales as the moonlight reflected off its interlocking threads.
Her feet were planted on either side of the bag of rubies.
“You’re going to worship me,” she said, her hand going in between her thighs and stroking her slit. “With your mouth.”
Rehv came over and got down on his knees. Looking up at her, he said with a smile, “And you will be the one who picks up that bag.”
EIGHTEEN
Ehlena stood just outside the clinic’s morgue, arms banded around her chest, heart in her throat, prayers leaving her lips. In spite of her uniform, she was not waiting in any kind of professional capacity, and the STAFF ONLY sign that was at eye level barred her as much as it would have anyone in regular clothes. As the minutes passed slow as centuries, she stared at the letters as if she’d forgotten how to read. The word staff was on one half of the doors, the only on the other. Big red block print. Underneath the English was a translation in the Old Language.
Alix had just gone through them, with Havers at his side.
Please…not Stephan. Please let the John Doe not be Stephan.
The wail that filtered through the STAFF ONLY doors had her shutting her eyes hard enough to make her head spin.
She hadn’t been stood up after all.
Ten minutes later, Alix came out, his face white, the stretch underneath both eyes red from his having wiped away many tears. Havers was right behind him, the physician looking equally heartbroken.
Ehlena stepped forward and took Alix into her arms. “I am so sorry.”
“How…how can I tell his parents…They didn’t want me to come down here…. Oh, God…”
Ehlena held the male’s shuddering body until Alix straightened and dragged both hands across his face. “He was looking forward to going out with you.”
“And I with him.”
Havers put his hand on Alix’s shoulder. “Do you want to take him with you?”
The male looked back at the doors, his mouth flattening into a slash. “We’re going to want to get started on the…death ritual…but…”
“Would you like me to wrap him?” Havers said softly.
Alix closed his eyes and nodded. “We can’t let his mother see his face. It would kill her. And I would do it except…”
“We’ll take excellent care of him,” Ehlena said. “You can trust us to take care of him with respect and reverence.”
“I don’t think I could….” Alix looked over. “Is it bad of me?”
“No.” She held both his hands. “And I promise you, we’ll do it with love.”
“But I should assist—”
“You can trust us.” As the male blinked quickly, Ehlena gently led him away from the morgue doors. “I want you to go wait in one of the family rooms.”
Ehlena walked Stephan’s cousin down the corridor to the hallway that had patient rooms running off it. As another nurse passed by, Ehlena asked that he be taken to a private waiting room, and then she returned to the morgue.
Before she entered, she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Pushing inside, she smelled herbs and saw Havers standing by a body covered by a white sheet. Ehlena’s stride faltered.
“My heart is heavy,” the physician said. “So heavy. I didn’t want that poor boy to see his blooded family like this, but he insisted after he identified the clothes. He had to see.”
“Because he had to be sure.” It was what she would have needed in the same situation.
Havers lifted the sheet, folding it back to the chest, and Ehlena clapped a palm over her mouth to keep her gasp in.
Stephan’s beaten, mottled face was nearly unrecognizable.
She swallowed
once. And again. And a third time.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he’d been alive twenty-four hours ago. Alive and downtown and looking forward to seeing her. Then a wrong choice to go one way and not another and he ended up here, lying on a cold, stainless-steel bed, about to be prepared for his death ritual.
“I’ll get the wraps,” Ehlena said roughly as Havers took the sheet completely off the body.
The morgue was small, with only eight refrigerated units and two examination tables, but it was well stocked with equipment and supplies. The ceremonial wraps were kept in the closet by the desk, and as she opened the door, a fresh waft of herbs drifted out. The linen strips were three inches wide and came in rolls that were the size of two of Ehlena’s fists. Soaked in a combination of rosemary, lavender, and sea salt, they let out a pleasant enough smell that nonetheless made her recoil every time she caught a whiff of it.
Death. It was the smell of death.
She took out ten rolls and stacked them in her arms, then returned to where Stephan’s body was fully exposed, only a cloth over his loins.
After a moment, Havers came out of a changing room in the back wearing a black robe tied with a black sash. Around his neck, suspended on a long, heavy silver chain, was a sharp-edged, ornate cutting tool that was so old, the filigree work on the handset had blackened nooks within its curvilinear design.
Ehlena bowed her head as Havers said the requisite prayers to the Scribe Virgin for Stephan’s peaceful rest within the tender embrace of the Fade. When the doctor was ready, she handed him the first of the scented rolls and they started with Stephan’s right hand, as was proper. With every gentleness and care, she held the cold, gray limb aloft as Havers wrapped the flesh tightly, doubling up the linen strip upon itself. When they worked their way up to his shoulder, they moved to the right leg; then it was left hand, left arm, left leg next.
As the loincloth was lifted, Ehlena turned away, as was required because she was female. In the event of a female body, she would not have had to, although a male assistant would have done so out of respect. After the hips were wrapped, the torso was bound up to the chest and the shoulders covered.