by J. R. Ward
“Being a soldier does not pay for this.” His father motioned around the study in such an expansive fashion, it was clear he was referring to the entire estate. And maybe half of Caldwell itself. “And somehow, I don’t believe you would fare well without this standard of living. You are not that hardy.”
Peyton looked off to the side, to a portrait of a male in nineteenth-century court dress. It was his father, of course. All of the portraits were of his father, each stage of Peythone’s life displayed as if he were challenging anyone to argue with his station.
“Why do you think so little of me,” Peyton murmured.
“Why? Because I have lived through feast and famine. Wars both human and vampire. I moved across the great ocean and established our base here before any of the other families did. I am the head of this great bloodline and have conducted myself with honor throughout the centuries, remaining faithful to your mahmen, and giving her you as a gift of my loins. I hold three doctorates from human schools and am a certified expert in the Old Laws. I am also a virtuoso violinist and speak twelve languages. Tell me, what have you done? Have I in some way missed your vast accomplishments, having noted only your ability to consume vast quantities of alcohol and whatever else you do in that room I provide you with under my roof? Hmm?”
Peyton let all that stand and considered getting up and walking out. Instead, he said softly, “May I ask you something?”
His father offered his palms to the lofty, vaulted ceiling. “But of course. I welcome any inquiries.”
“Why did you want me to participate in the training center program.”
“It was about time you brought some honor to this family. As opposed to burden.”
“No…” Peyton shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it.”
“Do they teach you to read minds there, then?”
Peyton got to his feet. “I think you made me go because you thought I was going to fail—and you were looking forward to adding that to the list of things you could lord over me.”
His father did an excellent impression of offense. But the light in his eyes…oh, there was a nasty little light in there, and that was the truth, wasn’t it.
“Of course not. Don’t be dramatic.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Peyton said as he turned away.
With every step he took toward the door, he felt worse: In his mind, he saw Paradise’s expression as he had told her he loved her. Then he enjoyed that close-up of Novo lying there like she was enduring him. And the capper was that face of his sire’s, the deep-seated dislike he had never understood simmering just below the fine patrician bone structure, which looked exactly like Peyton’s own.
When he got to the door, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll meet the female. Just tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.”
His father positively recoiled in surprise, but Peythone recovered soon enough. “Very well, then. I shall have it all arranged. And I trust you shall comport yourself with appropriate dignity—by my standards, not yours.”
“Sure. Fine.” He let himself out. “Whatever.”
As he re-shut the doors behind himself, he was surprised at what he had agreed to. But then he figured…why not try his father’s way. He didn’t like the guy, didn’t respect him, but shit was not going so well with Peyton in the Captain Kirk chair. All he’d managed to accomplish in the past five years was liver damage, THC cravings, and unrequited love.
Maybe another way would work better.
Things certainly couldn’t get worse.
“My Lord,” the butler started with condescension.
“Shut up.” He glared over at the doggen as he strode for the door. “I’m armed and I now know how to shoot—and you cannot outrun a bullet, I promise you.”
As his father’s servant started to sputter like an old car engine, Peyton let himself out and kept right on going.
Please let me find a fight tonight, he thought. If only so I don’t come back at dawn still wanting to kill someone.
As Novo materialized on the rooftop of a walk-up on Sixteenth and Trade, she had a gun on her right hip, one at the small of her back, two daggers on the front of her chest, and a length of chain inside her leather jacket. Her feet were locked in a set of shitkickers, and her leathers were tight across her thighs and calves. A set of tinted goggles were strapped on her face and their purpose was twofold: keep the cold wind out of her eyes to prevent tearing, and also dim the headlights and streetlights, which could blind as they flashed across white snow or jumped into your line of sight as you engaged.
As a gust came prowling across the urban landscape of walk-up apartment buildings and grungy little shops, her legs registered the chill, but that wouldn’t last. Soon as she got moving, she wasn’t going to feel a thing—and on that note, where the fuck was everyone else? Allowing her instincts to roam, she prayed for movement, the scent of baby powder…hell, even a human with a dumb idea—although all that was premature. She wasn’t permitted to engage with anything until the Brothers and the other trainees arrived.
When a hand tapped her on the shoulder, she wheeled around—and outed one of her knives—
“John Matthew.” She lowered the weapon. “Jesus. I didn’t hear you.”
The male moved his hands in the positions of American Sign Language, and she frowned as she deciphered the words. Good thing he was cutting a rookie some slack and going slowly, letter by letter.
“I know. I need to check my six. You’re right.”
She bowed to him, something she rarely did. But John Matthew was not just an expert in all kinds of fighting; he was also one of the few males she had ever trusted right from the onset. There was just a quality about him, a quiet calmness where he looked you right in the eye and yet didn’t threaten you. To her, this equated to safety, something she was not used to.
He started to sign again, and she nodded. “Yes, I’d like to be paired with you tonight—wait…can you do that again? Oh…yeah, right, got it. Yes, I have extra clips, four of them.” She patted the front of the jacket. “Here and here.” She nodded again. “And a chain. What? Well, I think of it as the only kind of bracelet a female like me will ever wear.”
John Matthew smiled, flashing his fangs. And as he put out his fist, she pounded it.
One by one, the others materialized at the position, Axe, Boone, Paradise, and Craeg showing up first, followed by Phury and Zsadist, and then Vishous, Rhage, and Payne.
“Where’s the golden boy?” the Brother Vishous demanded as he lit a hand-rolled cigarette. “Peyton not gracing us with his damn presence tonight?”
To make it look like she didn’t care one way or the other, Novo re-ran the same check of weapons and supplies she had just done for John Matthew—
The blast of heat that went through her body told her down to the split second when Peyton appeared from out of thin air.
But it was just awkwardness, she told herself. Just garden-variety awkwardness, based on hostility and resentment with maybe the smallest dash of embarrassed thrown in—because, hello, she had allowed herself to be vulnerable last night.
Even if Peyton didn’t know it, she sure as shit did.
In retrospect, she shouldn’t have used him like that. Not because it had hurt him. Hell, he didn’t really give a shit; she knew that from the way he behaved with those bimbos at the clubs. No, it had been bad for her, ultimately.
Yeah, even twenty-four hours later, her body still wanted what it had been denied.
But whatever. No reason to think about it anymore—and what do you know, going out in the field and trying not to get killed while she attacked the enemy? Exactly the kind of imperative she needed to wipe everything else out of her mind.
Even Sophy and Oskar, too.
There was a brief review of positions and a reminder of engagement protocol and then an opportunity for questions, which none of the trainees took—everybody was clear on what was expected because it had been drilled into their heads in the classroom.
Hopefully, tonight they would take down a few lessers.
There were not many slayers left now, and she could tell the Brotherhood was getting focused on finally ending the war: There was a twitchiness to the warriors, a prickly awareness that seemed to be growing ever more intense—and that, coupled with some overheard conversations about the Omega, led her to believe that things were coming to a head.
What would the world be like without the Lessening Society? It was almost inconceivable…and it did make her wonder about what the trainees’ role would be if there was no more fighting. Sure, you had to worry about humans, but that was a coexistence issue, not a head-to-head battle for survival.
Assuming those rats without tails never learned about the race.
If they did? That was game-on in a bad way for sure.
“Let’s do this,” the Brother Phury announced.
In pairs, they dematerialized to their quadrants, and as soon as she and John Matthew resumed corporeal form, they started off at a steady march in the road. Thanks to the storm, the sidewalks were impassable, nothing but deep footprints frozen into the snowpack like fossils in old stone.
Even though she and John Matthew had been assigned a grid ten or fifteen blocks to the west, the neighborhood was the same, all older walk-ups, the four- and five-story buildings narrow and housing some eight to ten rent-frozen units under their roofs. Cars were parallel parked with barely inches to spare, and as a result of the massive snowfall from the storm, the bumper-to-bumper line of vehicles was like one contiguous snowbank, only the brief flashes of the door handles and hints of body paint showing on the sides. Plowing had utterly impacted them all; it would be days of sunshine or hours of shoveling before the owners could move them.
As Novo swept her eyes around, she took note of the streetlamps. Most of them were dark, sometimes because a bulb was out…others because the glass headers had been knocked or shot off. What light there was came from the occasional glow from a window, either because the drapes were flimsy enough to let illumination pass or because the shade that had been pulled down had so many holes, it was basically an indoor shutter.
No humans were out, anywhere.
And as she measured the trampled trail that led into one of the walk-ups’ front entrances, she tried to imagine what it was like for the people to be moving around in the daylight. Strange, that Caldwell had this other half, this alter ego of activity that none of them ever saw firsthand. Reflections of it filtered through in the form of news, and these tracks in the snow, and these buried cars, and the vague evidence of holed-up, closed-up, currently-going-nowhere apartment dwellers. But during their nightly sweeps they didn’t get a true flavor of it, because the law abiders tended to head for cover and stay there after ten p.m.—
She and John Matthew both stopped at the same time.
Up ahead three blocks, a pair of figures rounded the corner. One was a little ahead of the second, and they were big enough so that they had to be males. Whoever it was, they were likewise walking in the road—and they also stopped as soon as they saw they were not alone.
Novo reached to her hip and palmed her gun, but she left her arm down with the nine at her thigh. In her peripheral vision, she noted that John Matthew did the same.
The wind was coming from behind them, and that was a disadvantage: If those were lessers, they would recognize the scents, but she and JM had no idea whether they were facing off with human thugs or slayers.
Either way, the rush of adrenaline and surge of inner power that went through her made her feel blissfully alive, her mind swept sparkly clean, her emotions flatlining like schoolchildren admonished by a teacher.
Her fighting instincts took over, her body becoming a tuning fork for information that could improve her attack.
Goddamn it, she wished the wind would change direction—
The pair of humans or slayers or whatever they were turned and walked back in the direction they had come from, re-rounding the corner.
As John Matthew elbowed her, she nodded at him.
And the hunt was on.
—
As Saxton concluded his presentation to the King, he fell silent and waited with patience for the response.
The Audience Room, which had been the mansion’s formal dining room, was empty but for the two of them, the setup of armchairs by the fire vacant, and so, too, the lineup of extra seats that could be brought into a circle as needed. Off to the side, the desk that Saxton used was ready for the night, his orderly row of folders, a legal pad, and several of his pens everything he needed.
Wrath paced around the empty space, the footfalls of his shitkickers muffled by an Oriental rug that was big enough to carpet a Target parking lot. George, his seeing-eye dog, was off halter, but still on the clock, the golden retriever following at his master’s heels, his big, boxy head and ruffled, triangle ears cocked and at an angle as if he were wondering if he needed to intervene in the event the course changed.
“Can’t we just kill the developers who are harassing that old female,” Wrath muttered as he stopped under a crystal chandelier that could have doubled as a galaxy. “I mean, it would be so much more fucking efficient.”
Yes, Saxton thought. He’d assumed this would be the first response, and in fact, the King was completely capable of calling a Brother and sending them over with a loaded gun rightthisminute even though it was murder. Then again, Wrath didn’t particularly care for humans even though his Queen had their blood in her. And actually, the first couple of times this kind of expedient solution to a Homo sapiens problem had been suggested by the King, Saxton had waffled on whether it was a joke. Then he’d been dumbfounded to have to talk the male out of it.
Now, this was old hat.
“There is merit to that, certainly.” Saxton bowed in spite of the fact that Wrath couldn’t see him. “But perhaps my Lord would consider, at least initially, a more measured approach. Something with more diplomacy, and fewer bullets.”
“You are such a buzzkill.” But Wrath smiled. “My mahmen and father would have approved of you. They were peacekeepers, too.”
“In this instance, it is not for peace, but rather a lack of complication from human law enforcement that would be the goal.”
“Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I thought perhaps I would go out and talk to the female to make sure her documents are in order with regard to ownership in the human world. And then thereafter, I would intercede on her behalf with the humans and try to get them to desist with the harassment. With it being wintertime, I can do both prior to the audiences starting here as there is plenty of darkness.”
“I don’t want you out there alone.”
“We have no indication these humans are truly dangerous. And besides, I have lived quite readily without—”
“I’m sorry, what? Are you talking? I’m hearing this noise in the background.” When Saxton fell quiet, Wrath nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were going to argue with me. You and Abalone are the only outsiders I trust with what I’m doing here. So no, I’m not rolling the dice with your life. Aside from the fact that I can actually stand to be around you ten hours a night, every night—which is a fucking miracle—there is the pesky detail that you know what the fuck you’re doing.”
Saxton bowed again. “You are most complimentary. I respectfully disagree with you about the hazard I may face, however, and—”
“You’re going to do as I say.” Wrath clapped his hands. “Great. I love it when we agree like this.”
Saxton blinked. And then cleared his throat. “Yes, my Lord. Of course.” He paused to choose his words with care. “I would just like to note, however, that the Brotherhood and the trainees are best used for guarding you here and being out in the field downtown. And if they’re not on rotation, they are taking a much needed break for recovery. In terms of resource allocation, guarding me is of very low priority.”
There was a brief silence. “I know who will do it. An
d we’re finished with this, you and I.”
As the King stared down from that great height of his, those black brows low behind the wraparounds, his incredible size dwarfing even the grand room, Saxton knew that, indeed, the discourse ended here. For all the collaborative work they did with the civilians, it was best never to forget that the male was a cold-blooded killer, well-versed first in the art and horror of war before he ever sat upon the throne.
“As you wish, my Lord.”
As Ruhn walked up the Audience House’s cleared front pathway, he burrowed into his old wool peacoat. He hadn’t bothered with gloves when he’d left the Brotherhood’s mansion, and inside the pockets, his hands were sweaty in the clenched fists he made.
Stopping at the top of the steps that led to the entrance, he couldn’t help but remember the first time he had arrived at the gracious antique house.
He had come in search of his niece, Bitty, after he’d heard about a Facebook posting about his sister, who had passed. Back then, he had stood before these great doors with little hope, but much desperation, his long quest for news concerning his blooded relations presenting him with a new turn in what had otherwise been a barren, sad journey.
To what ultimate end, he had not known. In fact, however, it had proved to be one blessing after another, the sum total nothing short of a miraculous run of good fortune, fellowship, and generosity.
But perhaps that was all over now, and he had been expecting such a reversal. Sooner or later, the natural order of balance had to be brought to bear, and that meant that all of this must inevitably shift back, somehow.
An official summons to the Audience House by the King? What else could it be other than bad news?
And actually, he suspected he knew what this was about—
The door opened wide and the Brother Qhuinn stood to one side. “Wassup. You need something?”
Ruhn bowed low. “Forgive me. I have been summoned. Is this about the shoveling?”
“What?”
“The snow?”
As the two of them stared at each other—like both were hoping a translator would step in and clear up the confusion—Saxton, the King’s lawyer, emerged from the Audience Hall along with a civilian male and female. The attorney was speaking in his usual calm and aristocratic manner.