The Thief

by J. R. Ward

  Vishous rubbed his tattooed temple like he had a headache. "The volume of records that have been kept are staggering. Going back centuries."

  "But they're the whole history of the race, right? And they have to be organized in some way."

  "By date. Not topic. Even if all the Chosen helped me, I wouldn't be able to go through it all in any reasonable amount of time--and besides, if it's recent? No one records anymore."

  "Well, there's no fixing that. But if the Chosen recorded the history, they'd remember something as big a deal as a threat like this, right? Maybe you could ask them. They're all up at Rehv's Great Camp. You could talk to them and they could at least narrow your search."

  "Yeah, that's true. I could do that."

  "So let's go--" She shook her head. "I mean, you. You should go."

  Those eyes of his bored into her own. "I could use some help on this. If you've got some time to spare."

  Jane looked down at the gauze in her hand. There was a red stain in the center of the sterile white pad.

  Manny wasn't going to allow her anywhere near the clinic. And she was just going to go stay at one of the Brotherhood's properties, cooped up like a prisoner, cursing her life and her professional partners and everyone else in the process.

  Or...she could help V with his job.

  She thought of all the secret meetings he went to, all those closed doors, those rooms she wasn't welcome in, that information he never shared.

  "It's fine," he muttered. "I know you're busy--"

  "You sure you want me to know anything about this?"

  As she spoke, there was bitterness in her voice--and she had to admit she had been hurt for quite a while now. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge this, of course, because, come on--she had her own life, and it wasn't like she could share patient details with even him. But she had felt left out of so much of how he spent his hours, how he purposed his life, how he committed himself. He and the Brotherhood were so close, they were essentially one entity, between their working relationships and their off-rotation, inside-joke, male macho stuff.

  Which she didn't mind at all--as long as she felt like she and V had a connection.

  "I have no problem with you knowing anything," he said.

  "You sure about that?"

  "What's that supposed to mean--"

  She put her hand up. "I don't want to fight."

  He took a deep breath, that star scar on his chest expanding out of shape and resettling. "I don't, either. And I do mean that. Hell, you'll probably be the one who makes sense of it all. You're one of the smartest people I've ever known."

  Jane looked away and tried to hide the little bit of sunshine that had bloomed, unexpected and unfamiliar, on her face.

  She wasn't going to tell him this...but that compliment meant more to her than any throwaway line about her being pretty or attractive would have.

  Coming from someone like him? It was the highest form of praise she could get.

  "Okay." Her voice was rough so she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. "I'll go with you."

  * * *

  --

  Even though there was a lot of night to spare, Throe settled into his bed, reclining back against pillows soft as clouds.

  In retiring to his private quarters, he was following--after too long a hiatus--the traditions of his class. Back before he had been conscripted into the Band of Bastards and forced to learn to fight or die, a mansion such as this one that he had taken over, and servants such as the ones he had created, and moments like this, where one reclined when feeling not well, were part of the normal course of life.

  In truth, he was already recovered from the previous night's strange chest pain. So this was out of an abundance of caution and a love of luxury.

  There was also quality time to be had with his female.

  Extending a hand, he put his palm on the cover of the ancient tome that had proven to be the means to his ends.

  "My love," he murmured as he closed his eyes.

  The Book warmed under his touch, communicating with him as it did, filling him out in ways he'd been previously unaware of being deflated, restoring his energy after the pain and depletion he'd experienced back in that alley.

  Yes, he thought, as he fully returned unto himself, strong once more. He needed more time with his love and then all would be well--even if a loss of one of his soldiers had compromised him, it would be only temporary. He would make more.

  As Throe lay in quiet in a bedroom properly appointed for a member of the glymera, his thoughts embarked on an idyll through the recent past, as if he were going on a museum tour and the docents were stopping him from time to time before certain paintings.

  He recalled going into that psychic's in a bad part of town and being called unto the Book surely as if the thing were saying his name. He had been in search of dark magic, it was true--although he wouldn't have stated such at the moment. All he had been presently aware of, as he had mounted those steps to the second floor of that walk-up and found himself transported to another dimension without his body changing positions, was that he had ambitions unto the throne that were struggling to find success.

  Without the muscle of Xcor and the Band of Bastards, and with the aristocracy completely castrated with the dismantling of the Council, he had seen no way forward.

  "But then I met you," he murmured.

  The Book had shown him how to create the shadows, the incantation requiring but a small sacrifice of his blood and some minor pain. It had been so easy, with the only fault being that each spell was a one-at-a-time.

  If only there were Amazon Prime for the damn things.

  As it stood, he had five--well, now four--shadow entities under his command. In order to defeat the Brotherhood, he would need so many more. A proper army.

  The idea of doing that spell over and over and over again filled him with restless frustration. But what choice did he have? And they were a weapon that needed better defenses. If they could be eliminated with only bullets?

  Under his palm, the Book grew cold as an ice cube, as if it were in disagreement--and he turned his head upon the pillow toward the tome.

  "How can you disagree? My soldier was felled readily--ouch!" He jerked his hand off the cover and frowned. "Really? Must you."

  In the back of his mind, as he sent a glare at an inanimate object, he was aware that this was all off. Everything about what he was doing felt...as if he were subject to the will of another. These events, these choices, this...path...was only his own on the surface--

  The Book threw its cover open; its pages, no longer dusty due to use, began to flip with growing speed. And then it settled on a folio.

  Leaning to the side, he looked at the ink on the page. As usual, it was nonsensical to him, but he had been through this before. He had to wait until it translated itself for his eyes, for his language...

  He smiled, a warm glow in his chest. "I have my faith," he murmured. "And my faith has me..."

  Across the page, the same sentence, written in the characters of the Old Language, was in all manner of sizes, the wording fitting in and around itself, forming a beautiful pattern.

  "Let us not fight, my love," he whispered as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to the page. "I have my faith, and my faith has me." He caressed the page, feeling a velvet softness that was like the skin of a female. "I have my faith, and my faith has me. Ihavemyfaithandmyfaithhasme..."

  An erection sprang forth at his hips and he ducked a hand beneath the sheets. Pushing his palm under the waistband of his silk pajamas, he gripped himself and felt a stab of lust go through him. A pumping action, strong and sure, was all he needed to find bliss as he said the words on the page over and over again--

  A knock at the door lifted his head. It would be his tea. Earl Grey on a silver tray with sugar cubes and a lemon slice on the side.

  The shadow he had sent to get it would wait out there until the earth ceased to exist, subject to T
hroe's will and not its own, for though it moved, it had not a brain of its own.

  The opposite of his Book.

  "My love," he said as he extended his tongue and licked up the page's ink.

  The taste was like the glorious, aroused sex of a female, and as he began to ejaculate, all was right in his world...

  And he even had good help finally. Which was so hard to find.

  TWENTY

  Rehvenge's Great Camp, on the shores of Lake George, was typical of the summer houses built in the Adirondacks in the 1870s. Cedar-shingled, multi-porched, and so close to the water you could spit a watermelon seed or toss your empty G-n-T's ice into the lake with ease, the estate was a gracious nod to earlier times. Especially in winter. With the steep, snow-covered mountains framing its acreage, and threads of smoke rising from its five brick chimneys, it was the kind of place you wanted to curl up in with a good book and not come out until spring.

  As Jane crunched through the snow to the rear door, she had her hands in her pockets and her head down. It was so cold her ears burned at the tips and her cheeks tightened up, but she didn't want to solve the "problem" by fading out.

  It felt good to be in the elements and not distracted by an emergency, and she stopped and looked up. Overhead, the sky was full of stars that shone so clearly, they were like pinpricks in a theater curtain, and the high, almost-full moon provided illumination that the winter landscape turned shades of blue.

  "This is so beautiful," she murmured.

  "I agree."

  As she glanced at V, he wasn't looking at the heavens. He was staring at her.

  And even though his expression was remote, his eyes were anything but.

  With her heart starting to beat hard, she turned away from him. "We better get inside."

  The door into the kitchen opened before they stepped up onto the back porch, the Chosen Cormia putting her head out. "Just in time! Scones are fresh out of the oven."

  The blond-haired female was wearing an Irish knit sweater that was so big, it ended below her knees, and her smile was as beautiful as a sunrise, warm and welcoming. Phury's mate was that rare combination of kindness without the cloy, a genuinely caring person who was a perfect match to Z's twin brother--and without her, Phury would never have beaten his addiction demons.

  Oh, for the love of a good woman. Wasn't that how the saying went?

  Great. Now her chest ached again as that treacherous part of her, that sniveling, girl-not-a-woman, weak-ass whiner portion of her character, wondered why she had not been enough for Vishous.

  Except that was some rank bullshit right there.

  "Thanks," she said to the Chosen as she went in. "I am hungry."

  Liar, liar, she thought as she made a show of checking out the baking sheet resting on the top of the gas stove.

  After living with the Brotherhood for as long as she had, she had grown used to huge, professional kitchens. This was a much more personal-sized setup, with a reasonable six-burner Viking, and a regular refrigerator, and a potbellied stove that was throwing off BTUs like a priest handing out benedictions at Easter. And the rest of the space had been renovated with an eye toward keeping things as authentic to the period of the house as possible, the hutch in the corner an antique, the exposed beams painted garnet and gray, the old floorboards varnished, but not stained, to show their age.

  "So what brings you up here?" Cormia asked as she went over and started transferring the scones into a basket with a fork and fingertips. "Your text didn't say much, Vishous--not that you ever need a reason. You're always welcome."

  As V started to explain the attack, Jane took a seat at the butcher-block island and watched the happy drain out of the Chosen.

  "I'll get everyone down here," the female said when he'd finished.

  After throwing a dishtowel over the basket to keep the scones warm, Cormia left, her footfalls growing dim and then transitioning to overhead as she hit the second floor.

  Left alone, Jane found herself trying to remember the last time she and Vishous had been together in the same room--when they had both been properly awake.

  It had been back during Xcor's abduction, she decided. When she had gone to the Tomb to do an assessment on the Bastard and Vishous had been on guard duty. They had talked about how neither one of them wanted kids. Which had been a relief at the time.

  Now? That accord just seemed like more distance, more separateness.

  When Vishous cleared his throat, she looked up at him--and as if he had been waiting for her attention, he said, "I owe you an apology. For the way I spoke to you at the penthouse the other night. I was obnoxious and defensive."

  She focused on the basket. The dishtowel on top was red, the one lining the inside was blue, and the combination made her think of the Fourth of July.

  "It's okay," she said eventually. "We were both pretty upset."

  "I am really sorry that that happened. The whole thing."

  "You know what hurts?" she blurted. "The fact that you carved out time and made arrangements and thought about...someone else. It makes me feel like I'm not here. I'm not significant to you. I mean, yes, there's the whole cheating thing. But over and above the mechanics of the sex, what kills me is that you prioritized somebody--when all I want is to be seen by you. Really, truly...seen."

  There was a rustle and a creak...and when she looked up again, he was right beside her, looming in his black leather jacket and broad shoulders, his weapons mostly hidden, his face full of sharp angles as he stood beneath the old-fashioned wrought-iron light fixture.

  "I didn't want anyone else," he said. "I don't want anyone else. Just you."

  As her throat got tight, she whispered, "Then why did you do it?"

  "I will never forgive myself." He reached out and touched her cheek; not with his gloved hand, though. With the one that was warm and bare. "And you're right. It was not about you--until I decided I couldn't go through with it. Then it was all about you."

  Their eyes met and held as there was more walking up above, many footsteps crossing the floorboards as Cormia gathered the Chosen.

  "I'm sorry," he said in a voice that cracked. "More than you will ever know. I love you, Jane. It's always been you...I did a horrible, stupid, unforgivable thing. And as for the sex, I swear on my soul that I didn't touch her. As soon as she came, I sent her away. I couldn't do that shit. I could not."

  She searched his face, his cruelly beautiful, tattooed face.

  "You hurt me." Her voice was so rough, it didn't sound like her own.

  "I know."

  "Don't do it again."

  "I won't." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You have my word."

  As he straightened, something dawned on her--and she let out an awkward laugh. Then a giggle. "Oh, my God."

  "What?"

  "I can't believe I just quoted Pretty Woman to you." She put her hands to her face and laughed more. "I was Julia Roberts, right there."

  He smiled, his goatee widening. "I've never seen the movie--wait, no. Lassiter was watching it once. It's where that red-haired chick goes shopping or something?"

  "That's the one. Anyway, I didn't think I would ever walk in those shoes."

  V got serious quick. "I'm sorry I was the one who put you in them."

  "I'm not going to say it's okay." She took a deep breath. "Because it's not."

  "I know. And I agree."

  As female voices grew louder, Cormia walked into the kitchen and pointed over her shoulder. "We've gathered in the living room by the big hearth because it's warmest there?"

  "Good call," V said as he stepped back and let Jane get to her feet. "Let's do this."

  * * *

  --

  Nothing.

  None of the Chosen had heard of anything such as that shadow entity, either as they had functioned as scribes or as part of any conversation about the race.

  After meeting with the sacred females, V stepped out of Rehv's old and wonderful h
ouse and held the door wide for Jane to follow him.

  "I'm not surprised," he said.

  "I thought for sure they'd know something."

  The two of them walked forward through the snow, their breaths leaving in puffs, their boots crunching through the icy top layer to the soft stuff underneath.

  Shit, he thought. There was no reason to check social damn media. If the Scribe Virgin's females didn't know about it, the Joe Schmoes on the planet wouldn't...

  Then again, Phury had released the Chosen of their lockdown up in the Sanctuary quite a while ago. So there had been a lag between when the seeing bowls had been in regular use, and when tall, dark, and see-through had showed up in that alley.

  "I guess we go back," V said as he slowed to a stop.

  Fuck. He didn't want to leave, because Jane was going to pull out if they returned to Caldwell--

  "What about Amalya?" she asked.

  As he turned to her, he got caught up in the way the moonlight fell over her features and made her blond hair glow. Goddamn, he wanted to kiss her. Wanted to do even more to her.

  "Sorry, what?" he murmured.

  "She's up in the Sanctuary, still, as the Directrix. Maybe she knows something?"

  "Will you go with me?"

  "Ah, yeah. Sure. I think I can get up there. I haven't tried."

  "I can help you." When she nodded, he stepped in close. "I'm going to have to put my arms around you."

  As she stiffened, he gave her time to change her mind. But then she nodded--so he moved in even tighter and extended his reach, his leather jacket creaking in the cold.

  "Close your eyes," he told her.

  V didn't wait to see if she followed instruction. It wasn't necessary, anyway. He wasn't even sure why he said it; hell, maybe he was hoping she'd forget it was him. Or more likely...he didn't want her to see how vulnerable he was feeling.

  In a slow series of movements, he wrapped his arms around her and stepped in against her.

  She fit the same. She felt different. Holding her, it was as if it was the first time all over again, that moment when you had another body against your own and all your senses were in tune to the way their shoulders hit the insides of your biceps and how their head fit under your chin and what their shampoo smelled like.

  Vishous had told her to shut her eyes, but he was the one closing his lids.

  "Hold on to me," he said hoarsely. "Here we go..."