by J. R. Ward
Butch O'Neal had been a human for a good thirty and a half years, give or take. Now the former homicide detective was not just a vampire, but Wrath's own kin: One of the few survivors of a "jump-started" transition, his body hadn't just gotten taller, but had filled out like he was shooting up steroids and pumping iron like Ahnold in the good ol' days. Compact as a bulldog, mean as a snake in a fight, loyal as any good Red Sox fan had to be, he was the brother Vishous had never had.
And the bastard knew too much.
"Thanks for the ride, Q--what? Yeah, I'll text." He leaned back into the SUV a little farther. Laughed. "Too right."
The cop shut the door, banged his gloved fist on the quarter panel, and stepped aside as Qhuinn's second armor-plated SUV rumbled forward. The first one had been car-napped in front of a CVS--when the brother had left the keys in the ignition. Talk about your engraved invitation for a drive-off.
V lifted a hand as the vehicle went by. And then he started the countdown in his head. Three...two...one--
"So." Butch jacked up his leathers even though they were already cupping his sac like a jockstrap. "How's you."
"Let's go patrol."
"Where you been?"
"Out." Why in the fuck couldn't he have lived in a cave all these years. By himself. "I'm done with this conversation, true."
As V started stalking down the center of the street, he looked up at the windows of the grubby walk-ups on both sides. Every single one of them had the drapes drawn, and most were darkened. Those at ground level had iron bars locked on, and none, absolutely none, of them would be opened in the event of a scream, or a gunshot, or a holler.
In this neighborhood, nobody asked questions, made eye contact, or got involved in business that wasn't their own.
Which made him think about the only thing the Lessening Society had in its favor. Those soulless bastards who were remote-controlled by the Omega didn't want human involvement in the war any more than the vampires did. So the field of engagement, by mutual, if unacknowledged, agreement, was always here in the land of--
"You usually text if you're gonna be out," Butch said from behind him. "And we were supposed to play pool last night."
When V didn't respond, the cop whistled under his breath. "So Manny's right."
Vishous stopped and swung around. "About what."
The cop shrugged, those hazel eyes annoyingly steady. "You and Jane okay?"
"Perfect. Why."
"You know, you have an interesting way of posing a question without actually using a question mark."
"That's because I'm trying not to encourage a response."
"So you guys did have a fight."
Vishous crossed his arms over his chest. Because it was either he locked that shit down or he was liable to throw a punch--and the cop technically hadn't done anything wrong.
"What did Manny say?"
"That Doc Jane has been in a release-the-Kraken mood since the night before last. And she's sleeping in a patient room."
"She's fine. I'm fine. We're fine."
"Isn't that a nursery rhyme? Or is it from an ad for an antidepressant? I get the two confused." When V just stared at the guy, Butch shrugged. "All I'm saying is, if you need--"
The flash of movement was an in-and-out the corner of the eye thing, an almost-missed, was-it-real-or-Memorex stutter in the pattern of shadows at the opening of an alley. But Butch saw it, too, the cop shutting up and turning in that direction.
They both put their hands into their open leather jackets, where their arsenals were, and took cover behind the shell of a car that had no windows, no doors, no trunk and no hood.
It was like holding a coat hanger up to play hide-and-seek. But beggars. Choosers. And all that bullshit.
Except...there was no scent of a lesser in the air. Nothing human, either. Then again, the wind was coming from behind them so no help on that one. And yet...no, there really was a presence in that alley's black hole of no-see.
Off in the distance, a stream of obscenities was answered by a volley of yelling, but the highly intellectual and rational exchange was a good block away and who gave a crap if humans wanted to fuck each other up. It was one of their few core competencies.
"I saw something," Butch muttered. "I swear."
Vishous looked the street up and down, and then refocused on that dark area. "I'm going in there."
"I'm calling for backup--"
"Don't bother."
Walking out from behind the wreck, he did nothing to shield himself. If whoever was in there wanted a piece of something? Then he'd be more than happy to give them a fucking slice.
The cursing that followed him was in a Boston accent--and all those "friggin"s and "idiot"s were spoken too close for V's comfort. Glancing behind himself, he shook his head at the cop and pointed for the guy to get back--
A knife came slashing at V's face, and he ducked and spun to avoid the blade. With a quick jerk, he grabbed the weapon and got control of it, pitching the thing out of range. And that was when he saw...a shadow.
But not one thrown by a figure. One that was freestanding, free moving...and aggressive as fuck--
The strike on his upper arm was like a punch from a fist full of bee stingers, at once focused and diffused, ringing throughout his body in the shiver-pain of a thousand poisoned needle sticks.
Instantly compromised, V tripped over his feet as he fell away from an attacker he could not comprehend--but before he hit the ground, Butch caught him and dragged him back.
V's only thought was to get back on his feet. Fight whatever the fuck it was. Take control of the situation.
No go, maestro.
His body was epileptic-uncoordinated, his joints failing to work right, his limbs floppy except for where they were randomly rigid. And his brain was no better, his thoughts scattered and full of hiccups.
As his hearing came and went, he was aware of a gun sticking out in front of him. It was the cop's weapon; Butch had somehow managed to get him back to the car-sieve while outing his forty at the darkness--
That gun started going off, the autoloader doing its thing with a flash of light at the tip of the muzzle every time a bullet discharged. Pop! Squeeeeeeeee.
Pop! Pop! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
V frowned in the midst of his delirium. What was that sound? What the hell--
As the stinging sensations began to fade, Vishous became able to properly focus, and what he saw, he couldn't explain.
It definitely appeared as if a shadow, as generic as any that fell at his feet, had declared itself free of a source object and was floating forward with another dagger. Extensions of the whole would snap out at Butch, sometimes with the weapon, sometimes without it, the stabs and punches brutal and accurate. But at least the bullets drove the entity back.
And with each slug that hit, the shadow made that high-pitched squeal, as if a child's balloon were being pinched at its aperture with air coming out of the mostly closed neck.
Vishous ordered his hands to find the pair of guns in his hip holsters, and although it was like trying to command someone in a language they didn't speak, eventually, his appendages complied. And just in time. As Butch's clip ran out, the shadowy form rushed at them, and V lifted his weapons into shooting position. Discharging both weapons at nearly point-blank range, he emptied everything he had into the fucking thing.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bangbangbangbangbang--
SqueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE--
No more kid's balloon. Now that sound was like tires skidding on asphalt, the treble ringing at such a high pitch that V stopped hearing the noise and was conscious only of a stinging pair of headaches at the sites of his eardrums. And then a sonic boom! was released--
Everything went quiet except for his and Butch's ragged breaths.
"What the fuck was that?" the cop said.
* * *
--
Deep in the alleyway from which he'd ordered his shadow soldier to attack, Throe, fo
rsaken son of Throe, fell back against something, he knew not what. The piercing pain at the center of his chest was what he imagined a heart attack felt like, pressure compounding at his sternum such that he had to look down at himself. But no, there was no wounding, no source of blood on his fine camel-hair coat.
He thought perhaps one of the bullets from the Brothers' guns had impacted him? With trembling hands, he tore wide the lapels and then had to fumble with his suit jacket and tie, getting them out of the way. Naught marred his fine button-down shirt, however, the silk as pristine as it had been when he had dressed at sunset.
Forcing his lungs to expand with cold air, he wondered what had injured him and lamented the poor showing in the fight. He had come to this unexalted part of town with one of his growing army of fighters, his obedient shadow by his side, tethered to him without leash or lead, bobbing along in servitude. He had been in search of what he had eventually found: members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood or the Band of Bastards.
Indeed, as the former's interests had always conflicted with his own, given his quest for the throne, and the latter were now his enemy even though he had been with them for centuries; there were many enemies to choose from.
As he had waited with his pet, he had taken comfort in the presence beside him, one born from his blood and shadow as directed by a ritual his Book had provided him. This was to have been the big test as up until now, the tasks he had ordered the handful he'd brought into being had been of far lesser challenge.
The murder of his dead lover's ancient and decrepit hellren, for example, had hardly been a difficulty.
No, his primary goal in making this army was not the eradication of the Lessening Society, which had plagued the species for millennia. Rather, he wanted the heads of the Brotherhood and the Bastards on stakes and Wrath the Blind King's body to be set afire before the wide-eyed citizens of the race, who would then be motivated to gather behind a true leader.
Himself.
Throe massaged his chest. He had been so sure of his success, but now he wondered. Mere bullets had driven his entity back from its target until it had been destroyed--
He looked down with a frown. The strange pain had come unto him exactly when the shadow had been blown apart. Was it possible...
As he tried to breathe long and slow, he found the agony was unfading, and knew he had to depart with alacrity. The Brothers were casting off whatever injury the shadow had caused them and reemerging from behind the picked-clean remnants of a car.
They were focusing on the alley where he stood.
Did they know he was here?
Stumbling into a retreat, Throe bid his legs to make good time, but the ringing discomfort in his sternum and a lack of oxygen hindered him. As he proceeded through the filthy snow and slush, he tried to will himself to dematerialize to safety, but his sensory input was too high and the spike of adrenaline that came with being too exposed made things worse.
Faster. He tried to go faster.
At least they would never know it had been him. Yes, his ambitions had been well-expressed, but who could guess he was receiving help from such an unknown, unknowable source?
His Book was not the Omega. Or at least it had not revealed itself as such.
Indeed, it was a beautiful mystery to him--
Frowning, he slowed. Why had he never wondered what the Book's origins were...Book's...origins...were...
Like an engine stuttering to a halt without gas, his thoughts stopped, no further cognition occurring.
Abruptly, Throe looked over his shoulder and cursed at the fact that he had allowed his enemy to close some of the distance: The Brothers were breaching the mouth of the alley, and though the one known as Vishous, the taller and goatee'd of the two, seemed to be limping, neither of them appeared to be overly compromised.
If they caught up with him, they were going to kill him.
TEN
As Ehric sat at the counter in the kitchen of Assail's glass house, his mood had scrummed down into vile territory. He had been so sure that his cousin's woman would respond favorably to an entreaty on his behalf.
But instead, he found himself here on this stool, continuing to stare out at the lit drive, watching all of the absolutely-no-cars coming up to the back of the mansion.
"Would you care for aught?"
He shifted his focus away from that which had proven so persistently disappointing. Markcus, the freed blood slave, was standing by the sink, his thin body strung with tension, his youthful face and ancient, haunted eyes cast in shades of worry and concern.
In reply, Ehric wanted to bite the male's head off. But not only was that unfair, it was cruel. Markcus was not like the others in the household, to war bred and trained. On the contrary, he was but an orphan in this world, and as he had only recently been freed by Assail, the male required the sort of kindness and patience that debauched mercenaries were typically unfamiliar with.
Ehric passed his eyes over the black slave band that had been tattooed around the male's throat.
"No, Markcus," he said roughly. "I am well in hand, thank you--"
The cell phone next to him went off with a vibration that sent the unit on a wander across the granite. When he saw who it was, he cursed, but answered.
"Healer," he intoned.
Doc Jane, as she was known, hesitated. "Ehric, how are you?"
"I am well, thank you." He had never understood the wasted time of pleasantries. But he did not wish to offend the female who had tried so hard and for so long with his cousin. "And you?"
"I'm good." There was a pause. "Listen, I wanted to follow up on our meeting of the night before last about Assail. I left you a message yesterday?"
"I did not receive it." And by that, he meant that he had not listened to what she had recorded. "Forgive me."
"That's all right. I, ah, I don't want to pressure you in any way, but I would just like to clarify where you and Evale are with respect to your cousin? I'm afraid I wasn't clear on whether or not you had made a decision."
Unable to stay still, Ehric got up and walked out into the open seating area that faced the river, the vast space populated with furniture that his cousin had purchased with the home. As no lights were on, the sofas and chairs, tables and lamps, were nothing but shapes and shadows in a palette of blacks and grays, the decor doing nothing to improve his utter lack of optimism.
Verily, Assail's condition had been weighing on him for weeks now, and he did not relish being the decider of the male's fate. Yet he could not bear the suffering.
"Hello?" the healer prompted. "Have I lost you?"
Stopping up at the great glass expanse, he stared out at the snow-covered lawn that terminated at the shore of the Hudson River. Across the sluggish waterway, the city of Caldwell's dense urban core was an uneven pattern of vertical lights that were static and horizontal ones that moved.
"No," he muttered. "You have not lost me."
"Would you prefer to take no action at this time? There is no rush."
"Other than the hell he is in." Ehric paused and reminded himself that males did not express weakness--except then his mouth moved anyway. "I hate the prison he is in. He is the last who would wish to be immobile, trapped in a body he cannot control. You say he has no brain waves...but what of his soul?"
The healer sighed with regret. "No, you're right. He has been suffering, and his quality of life is...poor to say the least."
"I thought perhaps I had come up with a solution. Alas, I fear that is not true."
"What kind of solution?"
"It matters not." As he fell silent, he waited for another idea to come unto him. "We are at the end of things, aren't we."
"You have as much time as you and your brother need."
"If I were in that condition, I wouldnae favor indecision."
"He doesn't appear to be in pain."
"Do you know that or just assume that?" When she didn't immediately answer, he nodded even though she couldn
't see him. "So you are not sure."
"His scans lead us to believe that--"
"It is time. Enough with this. Evale and I will leave now and come unto you. We will do what must needs be done, and be there when he..." As his voice cracked, he cleared his throat. "We will not desert him in his last moments."
"I can appreciate how hard this is for you," the healer said grimly, "and I'm glad--well, not that any of you are in this situation, but that you clearly appreciate its gravity as you do. I have been struggling myself with his case."
Indeed, the sorrow in her voice was something that comforted him--as it suggested he and his brother were not alone in their grief.
The female continued. "While you arrange to come in, I'll get everything ready--"
"Wait." He closed his eyes. "What does...what happens at the end?"
"We are going to give him morphine to ensure he feels no discomfort. And then I am going to stop his heart from beating."
"He won't feel anything?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"In this, I am absolutely sure."
As Ehric reopened his lids, he saw that his twin had entered the room behind him. In the glass, Evale's reflection was still as a mountain, the light from the kitchen turning his body into a looming shadow.
"We shall leave the now," Ehric told the healer. "And meet transport as soon as they can get to us."
* * *
--
Vishous penetrated the alley's throat with his guns up and his instincts on high alert. His body, unfortunately, was logy and uncoordinated, as though his blood had turned into rubber cement and his bones were struggling to hold his weight. But goddamn it, he was going to find out if there were any more of those shadows.
"You ever seen anything like that before?" Butch asked in a low voice.
"Nope."
"Heard about something like--"
"Nope."
"Read about--"
"What do you think," V snapped.
The cop cursed. "You know what, I'm going to dub in a 'yes' at this point because I am totally freaked out by the idea you have no clue what that was."
Breathing in through his nose, V caught a lingering scent in the air, and he stopped. Frowned. Turned to the right.
"What is it?" Butch demanded.