The Thief

by J. R. Ward

  Hell, he didn't know why he was bothering at all. The idea some innocent had been killed by the Omega was not a newsflash, and he certainly wasn't scared of the Brotherhood retaliating against him if he chose not to honor his word. That fear, after all, would have required some interest in staying alive, and he had none--

  As the door opened again, he didn't bother to look up. "More advice? Or another demand."

  "Neither," Marisol said.

  Assail whipped his head up. "Marisol..."

  She frowned at that, and he guessed she didn't want her name rolling off his lips ever again. But instead of setting that boundary, she cleared her throat.

  "I need to go to your house at some point. I want to get my things and the car. There's no hurry, though. At least not until my grandmother is released."

  She was so beautiful as she stood there in her casual clothes of winter, the black fleece bringing out that blond hair she'd given herself, her blue jeans loose and comfortable, her shoes practical for the season.

  To him, she might as well have been in a ball gown and draped in jewels--

  Abruptly, her weight went back and forth, and she crossed her arms around herself as if the way he were looking at her made her uncomfortable.

  "As you wish," he said, lowering his eyes. "Whenever you want to go, just let me know--and if you don't feel comfortable with me coming along, then you may of course go with whomever you wish."

  "Except during the day," she said bitterly. "Isn't that right."

  After a moment, he replied, "That is correct."

  * * *

  --

  You know, Sola thought, it would be so much easier to be angry if the guy didn't look so hollowed out and defeated.

  Across the break room, Assail sat in a chair that, under different circumstances, she would have said was far beneath his standards: For all the time she had known him, he had had the air of a wealthy man. No, it was more than just wealthy. It was rich-for-all-of-his-life, the arrogance and intelligence he had worn along with his handmade clothes the kind of thing that she suspected came only when generation after generation of a family had had tremendous assets.

  The kind of thing, for example, that Ricardo Benloise had tried to approximate, but had never quite gotten right.

  "I should go," she muttered.

  Yet for some reason, she just stood there. As opposed to retreating out into the corridor and...well, just standing out there.

  She and Jane had talked for only a little bit longer after she had laid down the law about leaving--and then, whether it was that tea or just exhaustion, Sola had leaned back and crashed for a good hour and a half. When she'd woken up, Jane had been texting on her phone and looking worried--and the woman had seemed relieved to be able to come back to the clinic and return to work. Or maybe it was something else.

  Who knew, and Sola most certainly hadn't asked. She already had too much banging around in her brain.

  "Is there anything else you require?" Assail said without lifting his head.

  Yeah, actually, can we go back to when you were just a recovering cocaine addict who had given up a life of crime and the two of us were going to off-into-the-horizon together to live happily ever after with my grandmother?

  "I can't decide whether I wish you had told me sooner or not at all," she heard herself say.

  "I can answer that." He moved his head back and forth as if his neck were sore. "Not at all would have been better."

  "So you like being a liar."

  "When it comes to you"--his moonlight-colored eyes looked up at her--"I do not. Which was how you and I have come unto this estrangement. No, I say that rather because you looking at me as if I am a dangerous stranger is a far, far worse reality than even my deepest stretch of paranoia."

  "Don't guilt-trip me."

  " 'Tis a statement of fact. And besides, there is no guilting you about anything. I know you far too well for that--"

  "You don't know me at all."

  "Indeed? That is an incorrect statement. I believe the correct one is that you wish I didn't know you."

  His eyes shifted away and yet did not seem to light on any concrete object.

  "I want to throw things at you," she blurted. "I want to curse you and punch you, and if I had a gun, I would shoot you."

  "I can get you a weapon, and there is a gun range down here."

  "Do not mock me."

  "I am not. Trust me, death is preferable to this state I am currently in."

  As he rubbed his palms together, she couldn't tell whether he was trying to warm that which was cold or was regarding with glee the prospect of a grave.

  "Do you have any idea how hard this is?" she said abruptly, tears forming in her eyes. "To be here, once again."

  Assail looked up in alarm, and she spoke before he could ask anything. "My father..." She brushed her cheeks impatiently. "My father was everything to me when I was young. He was my hero, he was my protector, he was...my world. He worked outside of the home my grandmother and I lived in, and I didn't see him very often--but when he came to stay with us from time to time and brought us money for food and blankets and clothes, I idolized him."

  Well, shit, she thought as her eyes refused to get with the program and dry the fuck up.

  "I was twelve years old when I found out what he was doing--what his work was, what he was. He was a thief. He stole things from people and for people--and worse that than, he was a druggie. The shit he gave us? He didn't buy any of it. I found out later it was always handouts he got from shelters or churches. He never took care of us--he just wanted it to seem like that was the case."

  Her tears were coming so hard now, she stopped bothering to try to mop them up. "When he got arrested and was put in jail the first time, he sent word to my grandmother in the village we stayed in. He had a stash of money he kept in the walls of our shitty house, and she got it out and gave it to me. She told me to take it to the jail and bribe the officials to let him out."

  Sola sniffled hard and then marched off to a napkin dispenser, snapping a bunch free and cleaning herself up.

  When she felt like she could continue, she turned back around. "I was twelve years old, walking twenty-five miles on my own with more money than I had ever seen in my life. My grandmother regularly went hungry to make sure I had food--and yet there was all that cash in the fucking walls of that fucking house! And it was for him!" She blew her nose again. "I made the trip. I gave the money over. My father got out--and as we were leaving the jail, I remember him stopping and staring at me."

  Sola closed her eyes. "I can still see us, clear as day, standing there together, in the hot sun. I was thinking he was going to break down in front of me and apologize for being what he was. And stupid me, I was ready to forgive him. I was ready to tell him, Papa, I love you. I don't care what you are. You are my papa."

  The scene played out in her mind. And all she could do was shake her head. "You know what he said?"

  "Tell me," came Assail's rough reply.

  "He said he could use me if I wanted to earn some money. You know, to take care of my grandmother." Sola popped open her lids, got another napkin or two, and pressed them into her eyes so hard, her sockets hurt. "Like that wasn't his job. Like that woman who had stood by him all her life was my problem if I wanted her to be. And if I didn't man up, and she starved or got ill as she aged? Then that was an oh-well."

  "I am so sorry," Assail said softly. "I am...so sorry."

  Eventually, she let her arms fall to her sides and pivoted to face him. "I decided to become the very best thief I could be. 'Cuz that's what twelve-year-olds who are scared and alone and need someone, anyone, to help them in the world do. I learned how to steal and break and enter. How to lie and cajole. How to evade the authorities and get jobs done. It was a hell of an education--and I guess I should be grateful that he never tried to sell me as a prostitute--"

  The growl that percolated up out of Assail's chest was such a sound of warn
ing, it pulled her out of her emotions for a moment.

  "Forgive me," he said as he lowered his head once more. "I cannot help but be protective. It is my nature."

  She stared across at him for the longest time. "And that's why I want to hurt you. You were...another everything to me. You were my world, up and walking around on two feet. But it was a lie. It was all...a lie. So here I am again, reeling from a truth that is too ugly to understand or accept. The only difference is that I'm not twelve, and I'm done with trying to contort myself into someone else's reality. I refuse to do that ever again."

  "I understand." Assail nodded his head. "I accept all responsibility, and I will not implore you for a forgiveness you should never have to give."

  As a profound silence ushered out all sound in the room, she wished he would fight with her. Argue with her. Give her something to rail against.

  This stoic sadness of his was so much harder to handle.

  Because it suggested, as much as she wanted to feel to the contrary...that this man--no, vampire--might actually truly, deeply...

  ...love her.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The following morning, Vitoria was sitting across from Detective de la Cruz down at Caldwell police headquarters when her burner phone went off in her purse.

  "Would you like to answer that?" he asked her.

  "Oh, no, Detective. This is all so much more important. It's probably just gallery business."

  He nodded and put a folder on the table between them. "So you understand that you are not a suspect in any of this. You are not even a person of interest."

  "That is correct. That is what you've told me."

  The man pointed up to the corner of the shallow, utterly unadorned room. "And this is all being videotaped."

  She made a show of looking up to the camera and then nodded. "Yes, that's what you told me was going to happen."

  "And you have declined to have a lawyer present."

  "Why would I need one? My car was stolen. I am a victim."

  Detective de la Cruz opened the folder, which turned out to only have a pad of white lined paper in it. "So I'd like to go over a couple of things again, if you don't mind."

  As he paused to collect his thoughts--or perhaps to pretend he was--she glanced around the room. It was in dismal shape, the egg-carton soundproofing worn away where the back of his chair hit the wall, the brown carpet pitted and stained, the ceiling tiles yellowed with age. Even the wood top of the table was fake, the grain pattern repeating over and over across its surface.

  It was vaguely insulting to think that people who worked in this environment were armed with laws that could send her to jail. If she were going to be threatened like that, it would have been more apt for the police to be housed in a military installation with bulletproof windows, tactical vests, and flamethrowers.

  But no, these folks were more like data processors in a company that was about to go under.

  "Have you found my car?" she prompted.

  "The Bentley was your brother's, wasn't it?" He looked up. "Correct?"

  In her head, she cursed the man in Spanish. And then said calmly, "Yes, of course. It was Ricardo's. Forgive me."

  "I totally understand." The detective smiled. "So last evening, around what time did you come out and discover that the Bentley was gone?"

  "It was right when I called you. Nine o'clock, perhaps? Ten?"

  "And you stated the key was in the vehicle."

  "I'm afraid I'm a little forgetful. Women drivers. You know."

  "Actually, my wife is a better driver than I am. So is my daughter. But that's neither here nor there." He lifted up the pad. "So we did locate the vehicle. Unfortunately, it was involved in a hit-and-run down on Twentieth Street. A police cruiser found it and towed it in."

  He took out two color photos, both of which provided different angles of the beautiful car smashed grille-first into a concrete median that went around some sort of road repair work.

  "Oh...dear," she murmured.

  "At this time, we have no suspects in the theft."

  "No?"

  "But we're concerned the vehicle might have been used in the commission of a crime."

  Vitoria made a point of lifting her eyebrows in alarm. "What kind of crime?"

  "Do you recall mentioning a man by the name of Michael Streeter?"

  She nodded. "Of course. You and I spoke of him. He was the security guard I met after I arrived here in Caldwell."

  "He was found dead at dawn."

  At this point, Vitoria slowed everything down and made sure she chose her response and words well. The detective, she noted, was giving away no details in an attempt to trip her up.

  "Where? What happened to him?" She leaned in. "Do you think he might have taken my brother's car?"

  "Why would he do that?"

  Vitoria shrugged. "I don't know. He just seemed...well, as I told you, he made me very uncomfortable and I wasn't the only one. Margot Fortescue also found him worrisome."

  "Well, the car is being carefully dusted for prints. The CSI team is going over it with a fine-tooth comb."

  "CSI. Like the old TV show."

  "Exactly." The detective sat back. "I imagine we'll find lots of prints of yours."

  "Yes, you will." She fanned her hands out. "I drove it for an entire day. Perhaps two."

  "I don't blame you. It's a work of art on wheels--or was." There was a long pause. "Do you have any reason to think somebody would want Streeter dead?"

  "I am not familiar with him at all. So I can't really say."

  "We spoke to his girlfriend. She told us that he dabbled in drug dealing."

  "Well, there you go."

  "Mmm." The detective sat forward. "You know, I've been either a policeman or a homicide detective for a lot of years. I mean, we're talking decades. And I've developed a sense about things."

  "I imagine you would."

  "I guess I just think it's a little curious."

  "What is?"

  He shrugged and pulled the lapels of his sport coat in closer. The jacket was dark gray this time and didn't really go well with his coloring, in her opinion. "Well, your two brothers disappear. And you show up in Caldwell. And suddenly, I've got bodies in different places. Two deaths in the same gallery in how many days? With the only real change that I can see being your arrival."

  Vitoria put her hands up to her heart. "I am a woman, Detective de la Cruz. Where I come from, we are not capable of any such things--how can you insinuate I could possibly kill anyone? Much less a security guard who was so much bigger than I am."

  "He was shot multiple times at point-blank range. Execution style. Guns are a great equalizer for height and weight discrepancies." He made a steeple out of his fingertips. "And here in the States, women are equals--or at least I treat them as such. So it means they can drive well, and they can stand up for themselves, and they live their own lives. They can also decide to take over a drug ring for themselves, kill off family members, and make people who ask too many questions or get in their way wake up dead. How about that."

  Which card to play, she thought. There were a couple of choices.

  After a moment, she lifted her chin. "Detective, I have been nothing but accommodating. Your officers are at the West Point house now, as we speak, getting security footage--"

  "Well, see, there's a rub on that one. You did let them in, it's true, and we thank you for that. But it turns out the cameras were off, and have been for quite some time. So if you're using that as an example of accommodation, it would go further if there was anything for us to use."

  She already knew all this, of course. It was the first thing she had checked when she had gotten back there last night.

  "When were they turned off?" she asked.

  "We're looking into that."

  "I'm sure you'll let me know what you find."

  "You can bet your life on it."

  Vitoria drew her long hair back and clasped her hands prim
ly in front of herself. "Is there anything else for me?"

  "Not right now, no. But something tells me there will be more. And I'm never wrong about these things."

  "There's a first time for everything, Detective." She got to her feet. "I also want you to know that I realize you are just doing your job here. I shouldn't take things personally and I won't. You don't have any suspects for either of those deaths, no solid ones, at any rate--or you wouldn't be throwing baseless accusations at me. My conscience is clear. I do not need a lawyer. And you may feel free to call me back down here anytime you like."

  "So you think you're leaving, huh."

  "Are you making me a suspect? Or...how did you say it, a person of interest?" When there was a pause, she smiled at him. "Then I'm free to go, aren't I."

  "Do you mind if we fingerprint you before you take off on us?"

  It took everything in her not to narrow her eyes and glare at him. "Of course not, Detective. Provided you give me something to wash my hands off with afterward."

  FIFTY-SIX

  Vishous had a plan and not a lot of time. As he sent himself up to the Scribe Virgin's private quarters, he was fully armed, and sporting two empty two-liter plastic bottles of what had been Mountain Dew.

  Evidently, there had been a Saved by the Bell marathon on during the day and Lassiter had had to keep himself awake for it.

  As V penetrated the marble walls, he went right over to the fountain. Yes, he could have used a pair of sterling-silver water pitchers from the dining room. Or crystal flower vases from the second-story sitting area. Or gold urns from the foyer.

  But hey, he had rinsed these bitches out in the billiards room before he'd made the trip, and what he needed were containers that held water. There was no reason to turn this into a ceremonial thing.

  Getting on his knees, he unscrewed one of the green lids and pushed the open bottle under the surface of the water. The fill-up went well, air bubbles coughing out as the level rose inside the Dew. When things were done, he outed it, capped, and put the thing aside.

  Repeat.

  The plan was to take this water back to the Brotherhood mansion and get an assembly line going down in the cellar, in the room where he made his daggers. The Chosen who were willing to eyedropper hollow-tipped bullets for him so he could seal them with lead caps would undoubtedly be more physically comfortable up here, but he didn't like the idea of the war invading this sacred space--