by J. R. Ward
Had she died somehow?
She didn't recall dying--wouldn't you know that you had? But what else could explain this incendiary agony?
Walking . . . she was still walking. Or maybe the world was moving under her feet and she was standing motionless? It was hard to tell. She was seeing double, the trees thickening up on either side of the electrified fence, the trail she was following bifurcating off into the distance so she kept feeling like she had to choose a left or a right--except when she looked down there was only one path again.
Fire . . . the Fade.
No! she thought in a scramble. God, her father! Oh, this was terrible--Abalone was going to be all alone now, no one in that huge Tudor mansion, both of his females gone. . . .
Paradise stopped.
The path ahead was no longer clear.
As she focused on the tall, solid barrier before her, her double vision coalesced into what was a more accurate representation of reality . . . and she saw that it was a lineup of males.
There were . . . a dozen, maybe more.
And they were all dressed in black with hoods over their faces and guns on their bodies.
The Brotherhood was welcoming her unto the Fade?
This made no sense.
As she weaved on her feet, she realized they were coming to her now, walking in a thick group of impossibly huge bodies.
Run! an inner voice commanded. Run! This is another test!
Except there was no energy to do that. No energy even to sustain that panic longer than one single burst of action-oriented thought.
Weaving in thin air, on fire inside and out, she thought, Fuck it. She'd violated the time limit, failed the module, flaked out of whatever part of the training this was--and it was gameover for her. There was no reboot, no motivation available to her, either internally or externally. If they shot her, carved her up into bite-sized pieces, pushed her down to mow her over? She had no fight left to offer them.
So this was her end, huh. Man, her father was going to be so pissed when they killed her.
On a coordinated halt, as if they were functioning out of one brain, the Brotherhood halted in front of her and lifted their hands. Bracing herself for something else that hurt, she--
They started to clap.
One by one, they brought their broad palms together, clapping while they stared at her. And as the round of applause continued, they took their masks off, revealing themselves to her.
"What?" she mumbled. "I don't understand."
Or rather, that was what she'd meant to say. She had no voice left, nothing to carry forth the words her mind wanted her to utter.
Butch, the one with the Boston accent, came forward. "Congratulations," he said grimly. "You are the Primus."
Paradise had no idea what that meant. And there was no chance to ask him for a repeat.
Like someone unplugging a computer . . . everything went dark on her between one heartbeat and the next.
Chapter Twelve
As Butch waited outside of Doc Jane's exam room, he put his ass against the concrete wall of the training center's hallway and let his head drop forward on his spine. From time to time, he rubbed his eyes.
Which didn't help much.
It didn't help at all, actually: With every blink of his lids, he saw Paradise weaving down the middle of that track they'd made through the forest for the trainees, looking as if she had been through a war, her hair all matted, dirt on her face, clothes a mess, blood on her hands. And when she finally focused on the Brothers, her stare had been hollow as an empty skull, her body a jangly mess of floppy, loose limbs, her spirit broken.
Goddamn it, he couldn't help picturing her from the night before, when she'd been wrapping things up for her father at Wrath's audience house. Neat as a pin, then. Awake, alert, happy, although nervous that her application was going to be revoked by her father, the Brotherhood, the King.
Fucking hell, maybe they should have locked her out.
But that wouldn't have been fair.
The good news, he supposed, was that the program that he and Vishous had devised had worked. Their goal had been to crush the class from sixty applicants to under ten students.
They had seven to work with.
Everyone who had made it out to that track was in.
He couldn't say he felt tight about it, though. Maybe if the last one standing had been one of those strapping males. Like that kid Craeg who was a natural-born leader, the kind of guy who was perfect for the life of a soldier--if he'd lasted them all out, Butch was pretty sure he wouldn't be having an attack of conscience right now.
It wasn't that he didn't believe females could handle shit. He just--
The door to the clinic opened and V emerged. As the brother immediately lit up a hand-rolled, Butch wondered if he wasn't also struggling with what they'd done. Not that the hard-ass would ever admit it.
"Well, that was fun," the brother said grimly. "Can we do it again tomorrow night?"
"Is she all right?"
"Fine." V exhaled as he put his lighter away. "Dehydrated. Feet are torn up. Chafed in places. She's being rolled into the bunk room by Ehlena right now."
"She's still out cold?" Fuck, this was bad. This was very bad.
"More like in and out. We don't want a slip-and-fall situation, true?"
"Yeah."
There was a pause. "What's wrong with you? Look, I told you, she's gonna be fine."
Butch just shook his head. No doubt, given V's S-and-M background, he was used to females--and males--looking wrung-out, and yet walking away from seshes just fine. As a former homicide detective, however, Butch took things in a different direction: He saw victims.
He relived crime scenes where females' bodies were mangled like cars that had been crashed--and no, they did not walk away, they were not "fine."
For fuck's sake, he remembered what his own sister had looked like as she'd stared out the back window of her murderers' car, never to be seen alive again.
So, yeah, the associations were not the same.
"You want a drink?" V asked him.
Read: You look like roadkill, true?
Butch took out his phone. He'd texted Marissa as soon as they'd carried Paradise back inside, but no, no response. Busy night for his mate, apparently.
"You mind if I duck out?" he asked his roommate.
"You going to church again?"
Man, the son of a bitch knew him too well.
"I still have two hours before dawn." He clapped his best friend on the shoulder. "See you at Last Meal."
He was halfway to the office, where the entrance to the tunnel was, when V called out, "You didn't do anything wrong tonight."
Butch nodded. Then looked over his shoulder. "Doesn't mean I'm happy about introducing a bunch of children into the war."
"We either make the intros, or the war will find them on its own terms."
"Yeah, this shit might be necessary--might even be for their own good. Doesn't sit well with me, though."
As he kept going, he could feel those diamond eyes watching him, and he was glad he was walking away from the guy instead of toward him. Vishous was too good at reading him, and he wanted to keep all the unstable he had going on to himself.
And yes, that was why he was going to church. It was what good, God-fearing Catholic boys did when they were suffering from mind fucks like this.
*
Paradise came awake on a jerk, not so much surfacing back to consciousness as catapulting into awareness, her hands slapping out at whatever she was lying on, her torso jacking up, her eyes popping wide.
She was ready for anything. . . .
Except for the clean, well-lit room that was full of bunk beds and completely empty of anyone but her.
"What . . . the . . . ?"
As she went to look around, her neck cracked, and that opened the floodgates to all kinds of unpleasantness: Her feet were throbbing, her hips were killing her, her thighs were on fire, one calf was
seized up, and her stomach was aching like she'd been punched in the gut.
Shifting her legs to the floor, she discovered she was in a hospital johnny and a soft robe.
"Don't worry, both the doctor and the nurse are females."
She snapped around to the doorway. "Peyton?"
Her friend was half in and half out of the jamb, his wrecked clothes gone, a loose, belted robe in their place. He'd clearly had a shower and some food and drink--he was close to normal, his good looks, his sardonic smile, his lidded eyes revived.
"Or call me Santa Claus." Her friend came forward and held out a mug. "I brought you a present, after all."
"Wait, wait . . . where are we? What are--"
"Here, drink this." Peyton sat down on the bunk next to her. "And before you ask, nothing's in it except for two sugars and two creams. I remember how you like it."
"What time is it?" She took the coffee, just to be pleasant. "Oh, my God--my father--"
"I called him myself. We're all here at the Brotherhood's training center. The seven of us made it into the program--especially you. Congratulations, Parry. You did it."
She frowned and took a sip--then moaned. "Oh, my f-- this is the best thing I've ever tasted in my life."
He got back up and went over to a side table. "Last Meal, m'lady."
As he brought her over a tray of covered dishes, she had to force herself not to pound the coffee. "Where are the others?"
"In a cafeteria, break room thingy right outside this place. Most of them are sleeping. I had the nurse put you in here for obvious reasons."
"Obvious . . ." Oh, right. "Thank you."
"Yeah, no chaperones. But I've been checking on you every fifteen minutes."
After everything she had been through during the nighttime hours, her virtue seemed like the last thing she needed to worry about. But you didn't shake your entire upbringing justlikethat.
"Eat," he said. "Everything gets better after you eat."
He put the tray next to her on the bunk and began popping the lids off. One look at the slices of roast beef and the baked potato and she was ravenous.
But before she tucked in, she had to ask, "All seven of us? From the . . . you know, we walked together? All of us?"
"Axe, Boone, Novo, Anslam, and Craeg."
She ducked her eyes at the last name. "So that's our class?"
"Yeah."
Picking up the fork and knife, she groaned as she twisted toward her plate and her ribs let out a WHAT ARE YOU DOING. "Crap, I can't move without--"
"Advil. I'll have them bring you some more." Peyton headed to the door and stopped. "I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"Thinking that you couldn't do this." He glanced back at her. "You were right to call my shit out on the bus. You proved me wrong. I'm sorry."
Paradise exhaled. "Thank you. That means a lot."
He nodded. "Come out when you're ready. We're just shooting the shit."
"Hey, Peyton?" she said before he reached for the handle.
"Hmm?"
"Do me a favor?"
"Name it."
"Don't tell them about . . . you know, about who I am. I don't want to be treated any differently. I just want to be like everyone else."
"Anslam knows. But I can talk to him and give him a gag order."
"Thank you."
Peyton looked at the floor for a moment. "Anything for you."
After he left, Paradise ate as much as she could--which turned out to be everything on the tray, including the fresh roll and the peas. She finished the coffee and drank both of the bottled waters that came with everything. Then she limped over to the bathroom in the corner.
The shower she took was so hot, she was surprised she didn't melt the paint off the walls, but oh, how her body loosened under the penetrating spray. The blisters on her feet stung, and so did various random places, like her right elbow and her left knee that were scraped and the tops of both her shoulders for some reason. She didn't care. It was heaven.
Hanging her head, she let the rush of water run down the back of her neck.
She was glad that Peyton had called her father. It was almost dawn, and she didn't want the male worrying, but she wasn't ready to talk about what had happened. She needed time--to think, to reassess, to process.
There was shampoo. She used it without checking the label. Same with the conditioner. And the soap.
By the time she got out, she felt closer to herself--but that changed when she looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
Leaning in close, she regarded her features as if they were someone else's--and they did look unfamiliar. Her face seemed so much leaner, and even with no makeup on, her big eyes seemed to take over everything as a child's would.
"Who am I?" she whispered to the reflection.
Chapter Thirteen
St. Patrick's Cathedral in Caldwell was a grand old lady, rising up from the pavement as a testament to both God's mercy and man's ability to glue blocks of stones together. As Butch pulled up in his new Lexus and parallel-parked, he thought it was pretty damn funny that of all the human traits to have survived his transition into a vampire, the one that had stuck the most was his faith.
He was a better Catholic now than he had been when he'd been a Homo sapiens.
Tugging his Boston Red Sox cap down low, he went in through the front portal that was bigger than the house he'd grown up in, in Southie.
The cathedral was always open, a Starbucks of spirituality, ready to serve up what was needed when souls were lost and fumbling.
Monsignor, I'd like a venti of forgiveness tonight, thanks so much. And a scone that will magically tell me what the fuck is wrong with my wife.
The security guard sitting in an armchair in the vestibule looked up from his Sports Illustrated and nodded at him. The guy was used to him coming in before dawn.
"Evenin'," the guard said.
"You good?"
"Yup. You?"
"Yup."
Always the same conversation, and the six-word exchange was now part of the ritual.
Crossing over the thick red carpet, Butch breathed in deep and caught a contact calm from the familiar smell of incense, beeswax candles, lemon floor polish, and real flowers. And as he pushed through the carved double doors to the majestic sanctuary, he didn't like keeping his hat on, but he had to stay on the DL.
His mother would have had a fit, though--assuming her dementia lifted long enough for her to track anything.
The fact that she had lost her mind had made leaving the human world so much easier--and from time to time, he and Marissa went to see her, materializing into her room at the nursing home up in Massachusetts and visiting with her because they knew that no memories of them would stay--
Butch stopped and inhaled deep, his blood surging, his skin tingling. Pivoting in a jerk, he frowned as he saw a lone figure seated in the rear pews.
"Marissa?"
Even though his voice didn't carry far, his mate looked up, his presence registering to her.
Rushing over the stone pavers, he went sideways and shuffled down the row she was in, trying not to trip over the needlepoint prayer stools.
"What are you doing here?" he said as he caught the scent of her tears.
Her eyes were watering as he came up to her, and she tried to smile, but didn't get far with that. "I'm fine, really, I'm . . ."
He sat down next to her--collapsed, was more like it--and took her cool hands. She still had her Burberry wool coat on, and her hair was tangled at the ends, as if she had been out in the wind.
Butch shook his head, his heart going trip-time on him. "Marissa, you gotta talk to me. You're scaring the ever-loving shit out of your man."
"I'm sorry."
She didn't say anything else, but she leaned into him, allowing his body to support her weight--and that was an explanation in and of itself: Whatever it was, he wasn't at fault.
Butch closed his eyes and held he
r, rubbing her back. "What's going on."
The story came out in fits and starts: a young female . . . lawn of Safe Place . . . brutalized . . . Havers operated . . . died anyway . . . no name, no information, no family.
God, he hated that his precious shellan had to be exposed to all that ugliness. Oh, and P.S., fuck her brother for real.
"And now I don't know what to do for her." Marissa let out a shuddering breath. "I just . . . I feel like I didn't do enough when she was alive to save her and now she's gone . . . and I know she was a stranger, but that doesn't matter."
Butch stayed quiet because he wanted to give his mate every chance to keep going--and as he waited, he thought, Shit, he knew that feeling of untethered accountability. Back when he'd been working homicide for the CPD, he'd felt the same way about every victim in his case load. Amazing how strangers could become a sort of kin.
"It's just so unfair to her. The whole thing." Marissa turned away to her purse, took out a Kleenex, and blew her nose. "And I didn't want to say anything to you because I know you're really busy--"
"Wrong," he cut in. "There is nothing more important than you."
"Still . . ."
He tilted her face toward him. "Nothing."
As she teared up again, he brushed her cheeks clear. "How can you doubt that?"
"I don't know. I'm not thinking right." She pressed the tissue wad to her nose. "And I came here because this is where you always go."
Okay, that warmed the crap out of his heart. "Has it helped?"
She smiled a little. "Well, it brought us together, didn't it."
Arranging her into his side, he put his arm around her and stared up the rows of glowing wood to the magnificent altar with its golden cross and its twenty-foot-tall statue of Jesus on the crucifix. Thanks to external security lights, stained glass glowed in the great arched windows that stretched up to the Gothic flying buttresses high above. And the chapels that honored saints flickered with votive candles lit by midnight visitors, the marble statues representing the Virgin Mary, and John the Baptist, and the archangels Gabriel and Michael offering grace to whomever needed it.
He didn't want his mate to suffer, but he was so damned relieved she was turning to him. As a bonded male, his first instinct was always to protect his shellan, and that withdrawal thing of hers, even though it had lasted for only a day, had been a kind of amputation.
"AndIdidn'twanttotellyoubecauseofyoursister."
"What?" he murmured, kissing the top of her head.