by J. R. Ward
His eyes checked out the inside of the Mercedes. Everything was fine: the grain of the black leather, the burled walnut trim, the partition that had been raised into place all exactly as they should appear. So it wasn’t his optical nerves going bad.
Shifting his eyes back to the great outdoors, he knew the distortion wasn’t because a fog had rolled in. Not some weird-ass sleet thing, either. No, this shit was not the weather—it was something else entirely…as if dread had crystallized in the very particles of the air, and was causing the landscape to morph out of shape.
Niiiiiiiiiice protective cover, he thought.
And here he’d assumed he and his brother were the only ones with tricks up their sleeves.
“We’re close,” he said.
“What is this stuff?” iAm murmured as he too looked out his window.
“I don’t know. But we need to get some of it.”
Abruptly, the car went into an ascent, which, given the speed of Old Man Lead Foot, resembled the launch of a roller coaster. They didn’t crest and free-fall at the top, though: From out of nowhere, a massive stone mansion materialized, making such a quick appearance, Trez grabbed for the hand rest and braced himself.
But their chauffeur knew exactly where they were, and how much distance was required to bring the Benz to a halt. With the expertise of a Hollywood stunt driver, the butler wrenched the wheel and nailed the brakes, bringing them to a park between a GTO Trez had an immediate hard-on for…and a Hummer that looked like an abstract sculpture rather than anything that was drivable.
“Maybe he made his mistakes on that one,” Trez said dryly.
As the locks were released, he and iAm got out at the same time.
Man. Get a loada the house, Trez thought as he tilted back his head and looked up, up, way up. In comparison to the giant pile of rock, he felt about the size of a thumb.
Like, a two-year-old’s thumb.
Looming high into the cold night, with gargoyles that watched from eaves, and a pair of sinister-looking, four-story wings that extended off on either side, the place appeared to be exactly like what you’d expect the king of the vampires to live in: spooky, creepy, threatening.
It was all that Halloween shit, except this was for real. The people in there did bite, and not just when they were asked to.
“Cool,” Trez said, feeling instantly at home.
“Sires, why do you not proceed inside,” the butler said cheerfully. “And I shall endeavor to get your bags.”
“Nah,” Trez countered as he headed over to the trunk. “We got a lot of shit—er, crap.”
It was kind of hard to curse in front of a guy in tails.
iAm nodded. “We’ll take care of this for you.”
The butler looked back and forth between them, smile still firmly in place. “Please do go in for the festivities, sires. We shall handle these mundane things.”
“Oh, no, we can—”
“Yeah, I mean, it won’t take—”
Fritz looked confused, and then slightly panicked. “But please, sires, you must join the others. I shall take care of this. This is my position within the household.”
The distress seemed so out of place, but it wasn’t as if it could be argued with without causing more upset: Clearly, the guy was going to throw a clot if they took their own luggage through that front door.
When in Rome…Trez thought. “Okay, yeah, thanks.”
“Yes, thank you very much.”
That endearing, wide-open grin immediately returned. “Very well, sires! Very well indeed.”
As the butler indicated the way to the door, as if the purpose of that grand, cathedral-like entrance was a mystery, Trez shrugged and headed up the steps.
“Do you think he’ll let us wipe our own asses?” he said under his breath.
“Only if he doesn’t see us go to the loo.”
Trez barked out a laugh and looked over. “Was that a joke, iAm? Huh? I think it was.”
After elbowing his brother, and getting a growl in response, he reached out and grabbed the heavy portal’s handle. He was a little surprised to find that it wasn’t locked, but then again, with that…whatever it was…all around, why would you need the likes of anything Schlage-ish? No squeak when he opened the way in, and that wasn’t a surprise. The place was landscaped to within an inch of its life, everything fully shoveled, thoroughly salted, absolutely ordered.
Then again, with that butler in charge? One dust bunny was probably a national emergency.
Stepping out of the cold, he found himself in a small anteroom with a mosaic floor and a tall ceiling, facing a check-in station that included a camera lens. He knew what that was for—and he shoved his mug right into its field of vision.
Instantly, the inner door, which could have lapped a bank vault when it came to heft, was opened wide.
“Hello!” a female said. “You’re here.”
Trez barely even noticed Ehlena as he took note of what was behind her. “Hey…how are you…”
He didn’t hear her response.
Oh…wow. Oh…what beautiful color.
Trez was unaware of walking forward, but he did…into the most incredible architectural wonder he had ever seen. Great columns of malachite and marble rose to a ceiling higher than the heavens. Crystal chandeliers and golden sconces twinkled. A bloodred staircase as big as a city park rose up from a mosaic floor that seemed to depict…an apple tree in full bloom.
As dour as the exterior was, the interior was absolutely resplendent.
“It rivals the palace,” iAm said with wonder. “Oh, Ehlena, hey, girl.”
Trez was dimly aware of his brother hugging Rehvenge’s shellan. And there were other people milling around, females, mostly, but he recognized Blay and a blond male, along with John Matthew, and, of course, Rehv, who was coming across the floor with the help of his cane.
“The party’s not for you two, but you can pretend it is.”
iAm and Rehv embraced, but again Trez wasn’t paying any attention to them.
Matter of fact, the rainbow-colored oh-my-God had completely disappeared, too.
Standing in the archway of what appeared to be a formal dining room, the Chosen that he’d seen up at Rehv’s Great Camp was talking to someone else who was also in a white robe.
Trez’s vision went tunnel and then some, his eyes latching onto her, and staying put.
Look at me, he willed. Look at me.
At that moment, as if she felt the command, the Chosen glanced over.
Trez instantly hardened, his body swelling with the need to go over to the female, pick her up, and carry her to somewhere private.
Where he could mark her.
iAm’s voice was exactly, precisely, what he did not need to hear in his ear: “Still not for you, brother.”
Fuck that for a laugh, Trez thought as his Chosen refocused on the female she had been talking with.
He was going to have her, even if it killed him.
And if it came down to that? Well, his life wasn’t really a party right now, was it.
* * *
When Qhuinn came back around, he was lying on top of the altar. The skull was right next to his head, as if the first Brother was looking after him as he recouped from the drinking. Blinking his eyes clear, he realized he was staring at a wall of names: Every square inch of the vast marble slab he’d stood against had been etched with names in the Old Language.
Well, except for where the twin pegs were.
As he sat up and swung his legs free, his back cracked loudly and his head swam. Rubbing his face, he jumped off and walked forward…until he could touch the carvings.
“You’re down at the far end,” Zsadist said from behind him.
Qhuinn wheeled around. The Brotherhood was once again standing down below, each of them smiling like a motherfucker.
Butch’s Bostonian accent rang out: “It’s a rush to see your name up there. You gotta check it out.”
Qhuinn turned back around. Sure enough
, after heading down to the right, he found the cop’s name…and then his own.
His legs went loose and he lowered himself, going down on his knees before the precise lineup of symbols. Then he looked across the wall, the distinct names disappearing into nothing but a single, cohesive pattern across the marble. Just like the Brotherhood. No individuals in it; the group was the thing.
And he was part of it.
Goddamn it…he was there.
Qhuinn got ready for a transformative experience—like something along the lines of a great ringing bell of “You Belong” getting struck in his chest, or maybe a light-headed joy thing…or shit, a big-ass load of “You th’ Man” singing in his brain.
Didn’t happen. He was glad, yeah. He was proud, fuck, yeah. He was ready to get out there and fight like a mack bastard.
But as he got to his feet, he realized that in spite of that newfound wholeness, part of him remained separate and checked out. Then again, it had been a helluva couple of days—as if Fate had put his life in the pulse blender, and was busy making salsa out of his ass.
Maybe it was more because he’d never been good at the emotion thing? And nothing was going to change that.
At least he wasn’t running, though.
Going down to the Brothers, he got so many slaps on the back and chest bumps, he knew what a lineman felt like after practice.
And then it dawned on him…he was going home to Blay.
Holy Mary Mother of God, to borrow a saying from the cop, he was so ready to lock eyes on that guy. Maybe sneak off and tell him what it was like, even though he probably wasn’t supposed to do that. Maybe go up to his room after the party was over and…um, yeah…for a while.
Okay, now he was pumped.
Rhage threw his black robe at him. “So, welcome to the insane asylum, you sorry son of a bitch. You’re stuck with us for life.”
Qhuinn frowned and thought of John. “What about my ahstrux nohtrum position?”
“Gone,” V said as he robed up as well. “You’re a free man.”
“So John knew?”
“Not that you were getting this kind of promotion, no. But he was told that you couldn’t be his private soldier anymore.” As Qhuinn touched the tattoo under his eyes, V nodded. “Yeah, we’re going to change that—it’s an honorable-discharge thing, though, not a death or firing.”
Oh, cool. Better than a pink slip in the center of the chest and a shallow grave.
As they filed out, Qhuinn spared one last look at the cave. It was so weird; yeah, he was history happening, but this also felt like the culmination of all those nights fighting with the Brothers, an internal logic making this extraordinary event seem…inevitable.
Retracing the trip they’d taken in, Qhuinn soon found himself in a hallway that was lined with shelves from floor to superhigh ceiling.
“Jesus…Christ,” he breathed as he took in all the lesser jars.
Everyone stopped.
“The jars?” Wrath asked.
“Yeah,” Tohr said with a chuckle. “Our boy looks impressed.”
“Should be,” Rhage muttered as he jacked the belt on his robe. “We are awesome.”
Multiple groans at that point. Rolled eyes.
“At least he didn’t pull out the ‘totes amazeballs,’” somebody muttered.
“That’s Lassiter,” came an answer.
“Man, that son of a bitch has got to stop watching Nickel-fucking-odeon.”
“Among other things.”
“Focus, people,” Rhage cut in. “Can we just have a moment here?”
Growls of approval replaced the bitching, the throaty sound rising up and threading through the mementos of their dead enemies.
“Just think,” Tohr said as he put an arm around Qhuinn’s shoulders, “now you get to put your own in here.”
“Good deal,” Qhuinn murmured as he checked out all the different kinds of containers. “Good deal.”
They exited through gates that were both old, and the kind of thing a blowtorch would have needed a couple of hours to get through. Then there was another obstruction that was pushed aside, one that sure as hell looked like a cave wall—and what do you know, they walked out of a shallow nook in the earth, and were back at the Escalade. It took a while to drive back through the forest, and the second the mansion’s lights came into view, he started to get excited, his body jerking forward in his seat, his hand searching for the door latch.
The SUV had barely slowed down when he was popping shit free and leaping out. Laughter erupted from the Brotherhood as they took a more reasonable exit from things, following in his wake as he jumped up the steps. At the grand front entrance, he yanked the door open and shot into the vestibule, throwing his face into the security camera.
Behind him, he heard the voices of the Brothers—
His brothers, now, though. Weren’t they.
His brothers were yukking it up as they joined him, and the interior door was opened by Fritz.
Qhuinn nearly knocked the butler over as he jumped inside. Lot of smiling faces, the shellans of the house, the queen, doggen everywhere…iAm, Trez, and Rehv with Ehlena…
He looked for red hair, searching the dining room, then going back across to the billiards room. Where was—
Qhuinn stopped.
On the far side of the pool table, on the couch that faced the TV that was mounted over the fireplace, Blay and Saxton were sitting side by side. Their faces were turned to each other, a pair of gin and tonics in their hands, the two of them looking like they were in a deep discussion.
Abruptly, Blay started to laugh, his head tilting back….
At that moment, he looked over at Qhuinn.
Instantly, his expression tightened up.
“Congratulations!”
The sound of Layla’s voice scrambled him, and he turned to her blindly, his mind reeling even though it shouldn’t have: he’d known all along that Saxton was returning after his vacation.
“I’m so happy for you!” As Layla hugged him, he put his arms around her automatically.
“Thanks.” He pulled back and rubbed his hair. “So, ah, how are you feeling?”
“Nauseous and terrific!”
Qhuinn sagged in his own skin, trying to find joy in the pregnancy. “I’m so glad. I’m really…glad.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Sola banged into the stove as she brought the man into her house. And then as part of her course correction, she knocked into the chair her grandmother had been in—but at least she was able to cover that one up by pulling the thing out and sitting down.
“You haven’t told me your name, either,” she murmured, even though proper nouns were the last thing on her mind.
The man joined her across the little table. Between his expensive clothes and the sheer size of him, he made everything look flimsy, from the stretch of laminate that seperated them, to the seats, to the kitchen.
The whole house.
He extended his hand across the table top. In that deep, heavenly accented voice, he said, “I am Assail.”
“Assail?” She cautiously extended her own palm, prepared to meet him in the middle. “Odd name—”
The instant contact was made, a lightning bolt licked up her arm and landed in her heart, speeding it up, making her flush.
“Do you not like it?” he whispered knowingly, as if he were fully aware of her reaction.
Except he was talking about his name, wasn’t he? Yes, that was it. “It’s…unexpected.”
“Give me yours.” He issued the command without letting go. “Please.”
As he waited, as he held her hand, as they breathed together, she realized that sometimes there were things even more intimate than sex.
“Marisol. But people call me Sola.”
He purred. Purred. “I shall call you Marisol.”
And didn’t that fit. God, in that accent…he turned what she had been called all her life into a poem.
Sola pulled her hand out of h
is and put it in her lap. But her eyes stayed right on him: His expression was one of arrogance, and she got the impression that that was an unconscious default, not anything to do with her. His hair seemed impossibly thick, and undoubtedly styled with product—nothing merely human could keep that perfect wave off his forehead like that. And his cologne? Forget about it. Whatever the hell it was, she was nearly getting high off the incredible scent.
Between those good looks, that body, and all his brains? She was willing to bet the house on the fact that his life was one big world-is-my-oyster sport.
“So tell me about this visitor of yours,” he said.
As he waited, his chin lowered, and he stared at her from under his lids.
So not a surprise he had killed someone.
She shrugged. “I have no idea. My grandmother just said the man had dark hair and deep-set eyes….” She frowned, noticing that his irises were as always that moonlight color—the kind of thing that just didn’t seem possible in nature. Contacts? she wondered. “She—ah, she didn’t mention a name, but he must have been polite—if he hadn’t been, I would have heard about it and then some. Oh—and he spoke to her in Spanish.”
“Is there anyone who would be looking for you?”
Sola shook her head. “I don’t talk about this house—ever. Most people don’t even know my real name. That’s why I thought it was you—who else…I mean, nobody else has ever come here but you.”
“There is no one in your past?”
Exhaling, she glanced around the kitchen; then scooped the napkins out of the caddy and rearranged them. “I don’t know….”
With the life she led? It could be any number of people.
“Do you have a security alarm here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You should assume he is dangerous until proven otherwise.”
“I agree.” As the man—Assail, that was, reached into his coat, she shook her head. “No cigars. I told you—”
He made an exaggerated show of extracting a gold pen and holding it up. Then he took one of the napkins she’d just fiddled with and wrote down a seven-digit phone number.
“You will call me if he comes again.” He slid the flat square across the table, but kept his forefinger right by the numerals. “And I shall take care of it.”