by J. R. Ward
“Is that the only contact you’ve had?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying to me.”
Assail stopped at a traffic light. “There is naught you may say or do to pull me into this, dear leahdyre.”
With menace in abundance, the male on the other end growled, “Don’t count on that, Assail.”
With that, Rehvenge hung up.
Cursing, Assail tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. Then he made two fists and banged them on the steering wheel.
If there was one thing he could not abide, it was being sucked into the vortex of other people’s arguments. He didn’t give a pence who sat on the throne, or who was in charge of the glymera. He just wanted to be left alone to make his money off the backs of rats without tails.
Was that so fucking hard to understand?
When the light turned green, he stomped on the accelerator, even though he had no real destination in mind. He just drove in a random direction…and about fifteen minutes later, he found himself going over the river on one of the bridges.
Ah, so his Range Rover had decided to take him home.
As he emerged onto the opposite shore, his phone let off a chiming sound, and he nearly ignored it. But the twins had gone out to move Benloise’s newest shipment, and he wanted to know if those petty dealers had shown up for their quotas after all.
It was not a phone call or a text.
That black Audi was on the move again.
Assail stomped on the brake, cut in front of semi that blew its horn like the f-word, and plowed up and over the snow-covered median.
He positively flew back over the inbound bridge.
From his vantage point at a rather distant periphery, Xcor required his binoculars to properly sight his Chosen.
The car that she had been traveling in, that vast black sedan, had continued onward after the bridge, going about five or six miles before getting off on a rural road that took it north. After another number of miles, and with little warning, it had turned onto a dirt lane that was choked on either side with hardy all-season undergrowth. Finally, it came to rest before a low-slung concrete building that was lacking not just pretense of any kind, but windows and, seemingly, a door.
He tightened up the focus as two males got out from the front. He recognized one instantly—the hair was a dead giveaway: Phury, son of Ahgony—who, according to the gossip, had been made Primale of the Chosen.
Xcor’s black heart began beating hard.
Especially as he recognized the second figure: It was the fighter with the mismatched eyes whom he had battled at Assail’s as the king was spirited away.
Both males took out guns and surveyed the landscape.
As Xcor was downwind, and there appeared to be no one else around, he figured there was a reasonable expectation, barring the revelation of his position by his Chosen, that the pair would proceed with whatever they had planned for his female.
In fact, it appeared as if she were being delivered unto a prison.
Over. His. Dead. Body.
She was an innocent in this war, one used for nefarious purposes through no fault of her own—but clearly she was going to be executed or locked within a cell here for the rest of her time upon the earth.
Or not.
He palmed one of his guns.
It was a good night to take care of this business. Indeed, now was his chance to have her as his own, to save her from whatever punishment had been doled out on account of her having unwittingly aided and abetted the enemy. And mayhap the circumstances around her unjust condemnation would make her favorably predisposed toward her enemy and savior.
His eyes closed briefly as he imagined her in and among his bedding.
When Xcor once again lifted his lids, Phury was opening the rear door of the sedan and reaching inside. When the Brother straightened, the Chosen was drawn out of the vehicle…and taken by both elbows, the fighters holding on to her on each side as she was led toward the building.
When Xcor prepared to close in. After so long, a lifetime, he finally had her once more in the vicinity of his person, and he was not going to waste the chance destiny was providing him, not now—not when her life so obviously hung in the balance. And he would prevail in this—the threat to her strengthened his body to unimaginable power, his mind sharpened such that it both raced with attack possibilities and remained utterly calm.
Indeed, there were merely those two males guarding her—and with them, a female who not only appeared weaponless, but did not regard her vicinity as if she were trained for or inclined to conflict.
He was more than mighty enough to take his female’s captors.
Just as he prepared to lunge forth, his Chosen’s scent reached him on the stiff, cold breeze, that tantalizing perfume unique to her causing him to weave in his combat boots—
Immediately, he recognized a change in it.
Blood.
She was bleeding. And there was something else….
Without conscious thought, his body moved itself in close, his form reestablishing corporeal weight and heft at a distance of a mere ten feet, behind an outbuilding set off from the main facility.
She was not a prisoner, he realized, being led to a cell or execution.
His Chosen was having difficulty walking. And those warriors were supporting her with care; even with their weapons out and their eyes searching for signs of an attack, they were as gentle with her as they would have been with the most fragile of blooms.
She had not been ill treated. She was marked not with bruises and welts. And as the trio progressed, she looked up at one male and then the other and spoke as if trying to reassure them—for in truth, it was not aggression tightening the brows of those warriors.
In fact, it was the same terror he felt upon smelling her blood.
Xcor’s heart pounded even harder behind his breast, his mind trying to make sense of it all.
And then he remembered something from his own past.
After his birth mahmen had shunned him, he had been dropped at an orphanage in the Old Country and left for whatever fate befell him. Therein, he had stayed among the rare unwanted, most of whom possessed physical deformities such as his own, for nearly a decade—long enough to form permanent memories of what transpired at the sad, lonely place.
Long enough for him to piece together what it meant when a lone female appeared at the gates, was let in, and then screamed for hours, sometimes days…before giving birth to, in most cases, a dead young. Or miscarrying one.
The scent of the blood back then had been very specific. And the scent upon the cold wind of this night was the same.
Pregnancy was what he had in his nose now.
For the first time in his life, he heard himself utter in absolute agony, “Dearest Virgin in the Fade…”
THIRTY-FOUR
The idea that members of the s’Hisbe were in the Caldwell zip code made Trez want to pack up everything he owned, grab his brother, and RV it out of town.
As he drove from the warehouse to the Iron Mask, his head was so fucked-up, he had to consciously think of the turns to take, and the stop signs to brake at, and where he was supposed to park once he got to the club. And then after he turned the X5’s engine off, he just sat behind the wheel and stared at the brick wall of his building…for like, a year.
Helluva metaphor, all the going-nowhere in front of him.
It wasn’t like he didn’t know how much he was letting his people down. The issue? He didn’t give a shit. He was not going back to the old ways. The life he led now was his own, and he refused to let the promise he’d been born into cage him as an adult.
Not going to happen.
Ever since Rehvenge had done his good deed for the century and saved his and his brother’s asses, things had turned around for Trez. He and iAm had been ordered to align themselves with the symphath outside of the Territory in order to work off the debt, and that “forcible” repayment had been his ticket to ride,
the way out he’d been searching for. And although he did regret sucking iAm into the drama, the end result was that his brother had had to come with him, and that was just another part of the perfect solution he was now living. Leaving the s’Hisbe and coming into the outside world had been a revelation, his first, delicious taste of freedom: There was no protocol. No rules. No one breathing down his neck.
The irony? It was supposed to have been a slap on the back of the hand for daring to go beyond the Territory and tangling with UnKnowables. A punishment intended to bring him back in line.
Hah.
And since then, in the recesses of his mind, he’d kinda been hoping the extent of his dealings with the UKs over the past decade or so would have contaminated him in the eyes of the s’Hisbe, making him ineligible for the “honor” he’d been given at his birth. Soiling him into a permanent freedom, as it were.
Problem was, if they’d sent AnsLai, the high priest, clearly that goal hadn’t been accomplished. Unless the visit had been to disavow him?
He’d have heard from iAm on that, though. Wouldn’t he?
Trez checked his phone. No VMs. No texts. He was in the doghouse with his brother again—unless iAm had decided to fuck all the bullshit and gone home to the tribe.
Damn it—
The sharp knock on his window didn’t just bring his head around. It brought his gun out.
Trez frowned. Standing outside his car was a human male the size of a house. The guy had a beer belly, but his thick shoulders suggested he did regular physical labor, and that heavy, rigid jawline revealed both his Cro-Magnon ancestry as well as the kind of arrogance most common to big, dumb animals.
With great, bull-like puffs of breath pouring from his flared nostrils, he leaned in and pounded on the window. With a fist as big as a football, natch.
Well, obviously he wanted some attention, and what do you know. Trez was more than willing to give it to him.
Without warning, he threw open the door, catching the guy right in the nuts. As the human staggered backward and grabbed for his crotch, Trez rose to his full height and tucked his gun into the small of his back, out of sight, but within easy reach.
When Mr. Aggressive had recovered enough to look up, waaaaay up, he seemed to lose his enthusiasm for a moment. Then again, Trez had easily a foot and a half, and seventy-five, maybe a hundred pounds on the guy. In spite of that Dunlop he was sporting.
“Are you looking for me,” Trez said. Read: Are you sure you want to do this, big guy?
“Yeah. I is.”
Okay, so both grammar and risk assessment were a problem for him. Probably had the same issue with single-digit adding and subtracting.
“Am,” Trez said.
“What?” Pronounced whut.
“I believe it is, ‘Yeah, I am.’ Not ‘is.’”
“You can kiss my ass. How ’bout that.” The guy came closer. “And stay away from her.”
“Her?” That narrowed it down to what, a hundred thousand people?
“My girl. She don’t want you, she don’t need you, and she ain’t gonna have you no more.”
“Who exactly are we talking about? I’m going to need a name.” And maybe even that wouldn’t help.
In lieu of an answer, the guy took a swing. It was likely meant to be a sucker punch, but the windup was so slow and laborious, the goddamn thing could have come with subtitles.
Trez caught that fist with his hand, palming it like a basketball. And then with a quick twist he had the piece of beef turned around and held in place—proof positive that pressure points worked, and the wrist was one of ’em.
Trez spoke into the man’s ear, just so the ground rules were clearly received. “You do that again, and I’m going to break every bone in your hand. At once.” He punctuated that with a jerk that left the guy whimpering. “And then I’m going to work on your arm. Followed by your neck—which you will not walk away from. Now, what the fuck are you talking about.”
“She were here last night.”
“Lot of women were. Can you be more specific—”
“He means me.”
Trez looked over. Oh…fucking wonderful.
It was the chick who’d gone apeshit, his happy little stalker.
“I tole you I got this!” her BF shouted.
Yeah, uh-huh, the guy really looked in control of things. So apparently both of them were into delusion—and maybe that explained the relationship: He thought she was a supermodel, and she assumed he had a brain.
“Is this yours?” Trez asked the woman. “Because if it is, would you take it home with you, before you need a bucket loader to clean up the mess?”
“I tole you not to come here,” the woman said. “What you doing here?”
Annnnd more evidence of why these two were a match made in heaven.
“How about I let the pair of you sort this out?” Trez suggested.
“I’m in love with him!”
For a split second, the response didn’t compute. But then, trashy accent aside, the shit sank in: The floozy was talking about him.
As Trez gave the woman the hairy eyeball, he realized this particular casual fuck had gone into the weeds in a big way.
“You are not!”
Well, at least the boyfriend used the verb correctly this time.
“Yes, I am!”
And that was when everything FUBARed. The bull launched himself at the woman, breaking his own wrist to get free. Then the two of them went nose-to-nose, screaming obscenities, their bodies arching in.
Clearly, they’d had practice at this.
Trez looked around. There was no one in the parking lot, and nobody walking by on the sidewalk, but he didn’t need a domestic dispute rolling out in the back of his club. Inevitably, someone would see it and do a 911—or worse, that hundred-pound chippie was going to push her big, dumb boyfriend just one inch too far, and get good and trampled.
If he only had a bucket of water or, like, a garden hose to get them to disengage.
“Listen, you guys need to take this—”
“I love you!” the woman said, turning on Trez and grabbing the front of her bustier. “Don’t you get it? I love you!”
Given the sheen of sweat on her skin—in spite of the fact that it was thirty degrees—it was pretty clear she was on something. Coke or meth, if he had to guess. X was generally not associated with this kind of aggression.
Great. Another bene.
Trez shook his head. “Baby girl, you don’t know me.”
“I do!”
“No, you don’t—”
“Don’t you fucking talk to her!”
The guy went for Trez, but the female got in the way, putting herself in front of a speeding train.
Fuck, now it was time to get involved: No violence against women around him. Ever—even if it was collateral.
Trez moved so fast, it was close to turning back time. He shifted his “protector” out of the line of fire, and threw out a shot that caught the charging animal right in the jaw.
Made little or no impression. Like hitting a cow with a wad of paper.
Trez got a fist in the eye, a light show exploding in half of his vision, but it was a lucky hit more than anything coordinated. His payback, however, was all that and so much more: with quick coordination, he unleashed knuckles in rapid succesion, working that gut, turning the guy’s cirrhotic liver into a living, breathing punching bag—until the BF was doubled over, and listing heavily to port.
Trez finished things off by kicking that moaning deadweight onto the ground.
Whereupon he outted his gun and shoved the muzzle right in tight to the guy’s carotid.
“You have one shot at walking away from this,” Trez said calmly. “And here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to get up and you’re not going to look at her or talk to her. You’re going to go out around to the front of the club and get the fuck into a cab and go the fuck home.”
Unlike Trez, the man didn’t have a w
ell-developed and maintained cardio system—he was breathing like a freight train. And yet, given the way his bloodshot, watery eyes were staring upward in alarm, he’d managed to focus in spite of the hypoxia, and had gotten the goddamn message.
“If you aggress on her in any way, if she’s got so much as a split end thanks to you, if any of her property is compromised by anyone?” Trez leaned in close. “I’m going to come at you from behind. You won’t know I’m there, and you won’t live through what I’m going to do to you. I promise you this.”
Yup, Shadows had special ways of disposing of their enemies, and though he preferred low-fat meat like chicken or fish, he was willing to make exceptions.
The thing was, in both his personal and his professional lives, he’d seen how domestic violence escalated. In a lot of cases, something big had to intervene in order to break the cycle—and what do you know? He fit that bill.
“Nod if you understand the terms.” When the nod came, he jabbed the weapon even harder into that fleshy neck. “Now look into my eyes and know I speak the truth.”
As Trez stared down, he inserted a thought directly into that cerebral cortex, implanting it as surely as if it were a microchip he’d installed in and among the curling lobes. Its trigger would be any kind of bright idea about the woman; its effect would be the absolute conviction that the man’s own death would be inevitable and quick if he followed through.
Best kind of cognitive behavioral therapy there was.
One hundred percent success rate.
Trez jumped off and gave the fatty a chance to be a good little boy. And yup, the SOB dragged himself off the pavement, and then shook like a dog with his legs planted far apart and his loose shirt flapping around.
When he left, it was with a limp.
And that was when the sniffling registered.
Trez turned around. The woman was shivering in the cold, her look-at-me clothes offering no barrier to the December night, her skin pale, her high apparently drained—as if his putting a forty to her boyfriend’s throat had been a sobering influence.
Her mascara was running down her face as she watched Prince Chow Hound’s departure.