by I. T. Lucas
There was a jacuzzi tub big enough for two, a shower the size of a small room, and a long vanity with two sinks. Everything was white, save for Turner's navy blue robe that was hanging on a hook, and a stack of folded navy blue towels by the tub.
Bridget kicked off her high-heeled shoes. "I feel like taking a bath."
Turner leaned against the vanity and crossed his arms over his chest. "Be my guest."
She rolled her eyes. "With you in it. Take off your clothes."
"Oh." He pushed away from the vanity, shrugged off his jacket, and folded up his sleeves before turning on the faucets.
Heat surged through her at the sight of his muscular forearms. Some women focused on hands, but Bridget had a weakness for forearms, and Turner's were beautifully shaped.
"Should I get in first?" he asked.
"Why not?" She shimmied out of her skirt. "Unless I beat you to it."
"Game on." Turner started on his shirt buttons.
He was so literal sometimes.
Thanks to his superior intelligence, the guy managed to hide his otherness most of the time. But the more she'd gotten to know him, and the more he'd gotten comfortable with her, the more he'd let slip through.
It didn't bother her.
So what if he wasn't Don Juan?
So what if she needed to remember to be clear about what she wanted and not expect him to guess?
No one was perfect, and Turner was superior in so many ways that Bridget had no problem overlooking his few shortcomings.
She could work with that.
Chapter 51: Losham
"Your luggage is ready, sir." Rami bowed his head.
"Thank you, Rami."
Losham's bad mood had everyone walking on eggshells around him, their fear manifesting in their adherence to every last bit of protocol in an effort to escape his wrath.
The only other time Losham had felt such impotent rage, such a profound sense of failure, was when he'd learned of Sharim's death.
The difference was that this time it was Losham's head on the line.
As soon as the defections or abductions had started, he should've arranged for an unfortunate demise for his remaining men, so that no one could inform Navuh of his failure.
But perhaps the summons had nothing to do with the missing men. His father's secretary hadn't said anything to that effect when he'd called, only that Navuh needed Losham back at his side.
Which presented him with a dilemma.
If news about the missing men had not reached Navuh yet, Losham could eliminate the risk by getting rid of the remaining men. But if Navuh already knew, getting rid of the men would make things worse for Losham.
With a sigh, he poured himself the last of the superb whiskey he'd ordered and tossed it back down his throat.
What was the worst that could happen, though?
A scolding?
Some ridicule?
Losham was too valuable to execute for such a small failure.
But it meant going back to being Navuh's humble adviser. Losham's days of freedom were gone for good. Navuh would never let him leave his side again.
He wondered who Navuh would put in charge of the clubs. They were bringing in hefty profits, so on that front they were a success, but they were not an effective trap for Annani's immortals. After the one male they had caught who had no clue where the headquarters were, none showed up at the clubs.
Navuh was probably going to have humans run them with only one immortal to supervise the operation, and it wasn't going to be Losham.
If Navuh still valued his opinion, Losham was going to recommend they ceased pursuing the clan immortals. After thousands of years in hiding, Annani's people were too good at it.
It was a waste of time and resources.
In the end, the Brotherhood of the devout order of Mortdh would prevail, and humanity would bow to their will, despite the clan's desperate efforts to prevent it.
Annani and her people were wrong to think that their superior technology would be enough to propel humanity forward. They didn't take into account the human herd mentality and the power of religion. And he wasn't referring to the obvious ones that were about worshipping the humans' God in one way or another.
Ideology was a religion too, in the sense that it wasn't based on reason and its disciples defended it with the same fervor as religious fanatics.
Nothing was new under the sun.
Ideology, same as religion, provided its followers with a sense of superiority. Each group and subgroup, and each subgroup of the subgroup, thought it was better than everyone else, smarter, more deserving, and had the right to dictate to others what they should and shouldn't think.
Even in the West, freedom of speech was becoming a joke. Unless you toed the line, you were not allowed to express your opinion in public. Speaking to oneself in the shower didn't qualify as freedom of expression.
It was elitism, and humans, as well as immortals, were suckers for it.
Those who were smart enough to realize that were also smart enough to exploit it. Manipulating the human masses was ridiculously easy, even without the help of mind control.
Losham let out a long breath. He had nothing to worry about. Navuh needed him to orchestrate humanity’s self-destruction, and annihilating the clan was not a priority.
Except, pride was a powerful and irrational motivator, and Navuh suffered an abundance of that affliction.
Losham himself had fallen into its trap, dreaming about basking in the glory of being the one to bring about the clan's downfall.
Would Navuh listen to reason? Or would he keep sending forces in the hopes of capturing the clan's elusive leadership?
"Sir, the car is here," Rami said.
"Very well. It's time to go home."
"Yes, sir."
Chapter 52: Turner
"Would you like to observe how the transition is induced?" Bridget asked. "It's a rare opportunity. Roni is only the third adult male to go through it."
Turner arched his brows. "Was Spivak the first?"
"He was the second. The first one was a nineteen-year-old kid who breezed through it. The younger and healthier the body, the easier the transition. We almost lost Andrew."
"I'm glad you didn't."
"Really? You guys didn't seem overly friendly toward each other."
Turner waved a hand. "It's male posturing, nothing more. Spivak is a prick who never tried to hide his antipathy to me. But he was a good soldier, and I appreciated his dedicated service to his country."
She put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you a patriot, Victor?"
He frowned. What kind of a question was that? "Of course, I am."
She smiled. "To be a patriot, you need to feel pride in your country, and loyalty toward it. I think your impassive façade is just that, and that you're a mushy softie on the inside."
He chuckled. "I don't think so. If I am, it must be hidden so deep inside that even I am not aware of it."
"Exactly." She rubbed his abs. "I'm going to find that hidden cache."
"Good luck."
What was it with women and trying to change everything about their men? If they didn't like what they had, they should move on.
"So do you want to see Roni get bitten or not?"
"Are you sure Kian is okay with me witnessing it? I was under the impression that he wants me exposed to as little as possible."
She threaded her arm through his. "It's fine. He is a control freak, and he wants to be on top of everything, but he hates it when people bother him with inconsequential stuff. In my opinion, your attendance at Roni's induction falls under the definition of inconsequential."
He waved a hand. "Lead the way."
They took the elevator down to one of the basement levels, not the one Bridget's clinic was on, and headed down the corridor to a large gym.
Talk about luxury.
Turner had never seen a gym so well equipped, and he'd been to several that charged a bundle for membership.
; Nothing but the best for the immortals.
In the center, standing on top of a big rectangle of sparring mats, was a scrawny young man.
The kid looked terrified. Not that Turner could blame him. His opponent was Kian himself.
"What's going on? Shouldn't the kid be matched with someone his size? Kian will snap him like a twig."
Bridget wrapped her arm around his waist. "He won't. In fact, Kian is Roni's best chance of transition. His venom is the most potent."
Turner crossed his arms over his chest. "I doubt Kian will be able to summon enough aggression to get his glands going."
Bridget had explained in detail how the transition was induced. Unless Kian got into a fighting mode, nothing would happen. His fangs wouldn't elongate, and his venom glands would not produce venom. Not unless provided with proper provocation. Except, Kian wasn't the type who preyed on the weak. He was a protector.
"That's what I'm afraid of. Anandur was the first to try, and he couldn't do it. Andrew had to step in. Next was Onegus, who had no qualms about fighting Roni, especially since the kid was in better shape before pneumonia weakened him. The third was Brundar, who had no problem getting aggressive with no provocation, which was good since Roni was even more emaciated than he is now. It didn't work either. I'm hoping the reason for the failures was the illness and not Roni's genetics."
"Are you sure he is a Dormant?"
"We have reason to believe he is. But after three failed attempts, I'm no longer sure. He is young. It should have gone smoothly."
Turner looked at the people assembled around the perimeter of the mats and wondered who were they going to cheer for. The kid or Kian.
He knew Anandur and Brundar, Kian's bodyguards, but not the others. "Who are these people?" He pointed.
"The woman with the long brown hair is Sylvia, Roni's girlfriend. The guy with the glasses is William, he works with Roni in the computer lab. And the three young guys and the other girl are Roni's friends. Andrew was supposed to come, but the baby was fussy and wanted her daddy."
Daddy. It was strange to think of Spivak as a family man, one who stayed home because his daughter needed her daddy.
It was disgustingly sweet.
The role of husband and father was not meant for men like him and Andrew. There was too much blood on their hands even if the killings had been done for their country.
Kian clapped his hands to get everyone's attention and waited until the chatter stopped. "We've already held a ceremony for Roni, so there is no need to repeat it, but I am going to make it official that I am his new mentor."
He turned to Roni. "Ronald, do you accept me as your initiator? As your mentor and protector, to honor me with your friendship, your respect, and your loyalty from now on?"
"I do."
Kian looked at the small crowd. "Any objections?"
No one said anything.
"Okay, kid. Show me what you got."
Roni put his hands on his hips and stared at Kian. "There isn't much to say to a little bitch like you, who always has better things to do…"
As the kid kept spewing one vile verse after the other, his friends laughed and clapped.
"What the hell is he doing?" Turner whispered in Bridget's ear.
She snorted. "That's just brilliant. Kian detests slam poetry. Roni is trying to rile him up with his big mouth rather than his nonexistent fighting powers."
The funny thing was that it was working.
As Kian's eyes started glowing, Roni stammered, confusing his lines, and as the immortal advanced on him, Roni backed away.
"Keep going!" His girlfriend jumped up and down to get his attention.
The three young immortal males pulled out their phones and added their voices to Roni's, reading from an email or a text he must've sent them with the so-called poem, helping him along.
The look of love in the young woman's eyes was touching, as was the support of his friends.
It felt as if everyone in that gym was family, including Kian who was playing the role of the aggressor but who was actually doing the kid a huge favor.
Turning his back to Kian, Roni kept slamming until the immortal's arm wrapped around his chest and his hand closed on the back of the kid's head, tilting it to elongate the neck in preparation for the bite.
As everyone present trained worried eyes on Roni, the gym fell silent. In the quiet, Kian's hiss sounded loud and ominous before he struck, but it was obvious he was handling the kid with care.
Something shifted in Turner's cold heart.
The man who'd wanted nothing out of life other than to play a game of wits against worthy opponents and win, suddenly wanted more.
He wanted to belong. He wanted a family. He wanted people to care for him. He wanted immortality—endless time to enjoy all of that.
The onslaught of emotions was as foreign to him as it was painful, and keeping up the impassive mask became impossible.
"I'll wait for you outside." He pivoted on his heel and strode toward the gym's exit.
Out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and let his head drop. He must’ve been coming down with something, or maybe the cancer was spreading, because Turner couldn't remember ever getting so distraught over so little.
How could it be that a show of friendship and kindness affected him on a deeper level than all the pain and suffering he’d witnessed?
Turner had always known there was something wrong with him, that he wasn’t like other people.
Apparently, it was much worse than he’d suspected.
Chapter 53: Bridget
Watching Turner walk out the gym, Bridget frowned. Something must have spooked him. But what?
It certainly wasn't the little show of aggression, or the sight of Kian's elongated fangs. A man like Turner must've seen things way worse than this tame display.
Perhaps it was the slam poetry. Bridget chuckled quietly. It was so bad that at some point she'd felt like punching the kid herself.
Roni had outdone himself. Had he copied the vile stuff, or had he written it himself? Or maybe he had some help from his friends? She would have to ask him later.
If he had written it, the kid needed therapy.
As Roni's eyes rolled back in his head, Kian lowered him gently to the mat and sat beside him. Sylvia joined him, lifting Roni's head and cradling it in her lap.
Bridget could leave now. All that remained was to wait until the kid shook off the effects of the venom. If they needed her, they could call her.
Out in the corridor, she found Turner leaning against the wall, his hands braced on his thighs, his head between his outstretched arms.
"Are you nauseous?"
He shook his head.
"What's going on? Talk to me." She put her hand on his shoulder.
"I just needed to get out of there. How is the kid doing?"
"Unconscious. But that's normal. He is going to shake it off in a few moments."
"Don't you need to be there for him?"
"They know how to get me. Come on, let's go upstairs."
As he pushed away from the wall, she noticed his color wasn't good. His skin looked pasty.
"On second thought, maybe we should go to my clinic. Do you feel feverish? Do you have a headache?"
He shook his head after each question.
"Any physical discomfort?"
"No."
Okay…
If it weren't Turner, she would have suspected an emotional meltdown. Victor Turner was not capable of that, and certainly not over a friendly match between people who cared for each other.
Silent and brooding, he followed her to the elevator and then to her apartment.
"Vodka?" Bridget asked.
"What do you have?"
"I got a bottle of Grey Goose just for you."
"Thank you."
She poured him a shot, mixed herself a cocktail of Goose and ginger ale, tucked the bottle of vodka under her arms and took everything to the liv
ing room.
"Come sit with me and tell me what's wrong."
Back straight, shoulders squared, Victor did a good impersonation of a broomstick as he walked over and sat beside her.
Maybe she could get him to loosen up with several shots of vodka. "Another?" She lifted the bottle as he threw the shot down his throat.
With a grimace, he held up his glass. "Please."
Bridget waited until he was done with the second one as well. "Did you get some upsetting news?" She hadn't seen him look at his phone, but then her attention had been focused elsewhere. Out of all the scenarios she'd run through her head, this was the only one that made sense.
Elbows on knees, cradling the empty glass in his hands, Turner shook his head again.
Fates, having him open up was like pulling teeth with tweezers. "You can't just sit there, looking miserable as if your world is collapsing around you, and not say anything. Come on, Victor. It's not going to kill you to share your burden with someone. Besides, I'm a doctor, I'm used to people dumping their crap on me. It's part of my job."
She was being crass, but compassion and sweet talk weren't going to help Turner pull the stick out of his ass.
When he lifted his head and looked at her, she was startled by the storm raging in his gray eyes. Who was that, and what had he done with Turner?
"I want what Roni has."
What the hell was that supposed to mean? For Turner's sake, he had better not be talking about wanting Sylvia.
"Like what? Acne?"
That got a smile out of him. "I can do without that. In eighth grade, I had the worst case of acne. It was so bad that I didn't want to go to school."
"What did you do?"
"I convinced my grandparents that the school couldn't teach me anything and I would learn more on my own."
"Did they agree?"
He chuckled. "At that point, they did whatever I asked of them. They were scared of me. We signed up for homeschooling, and I completed my studies on my own in half the time. I graduated high school at sixteen."
"Impressive."
He shrugged. "Not really. I had nothing else to do, so I studied."
Little by little he was showing her glimpses of himself, of his life, and all of it was just plain sad—a lonely kid who'd grown up into a lonely man.