by J. R. Ward
Peyton took out his phone and checked the time. "Forty-five minutes since we left. So yeah, probably."
The doggen who was driving announced over the loudspeaker that their destination had, in fact, been reached, and one by one, they all stood up, filed out, got off.
The night was cold, very cold--and for some reason, she thought that if the color light blue had a scent, it would be what was in her nose as she breathed in the bracing, dry air.
Turning to the others as the bus left, she found that everybody was just standing around in the open farm field as if no one quite knew what to do.
Anslam was the first to say good-bye, although only to Peyton, and then he took off. Axe didn't speak to anyone before dematerializing.
"Until tomorrow then," Peyton murmured as he looked at Novo and Boone.
Before he ghosted out, he came over. "You're going to be hearing from me in about two hours. I really hope you answer that phone."
"I will."
"Good."
With a brief smile, just like that, he was gone.
Paradise said something to the others; she didn't know what--and they said something to her; which she didn't quite track.
And then she shouldered her satchel and was gone, gone, gone, spiriting away in a jumble of molecules that somehow fit her mental and emotional state far better than being in her corporeal form.
As she came back into her body on the lawn of her father's mansion, she stayed where she was and stared up at the magnificent facade of the Tudor's great sprawl. Lights glowed from indoors, the buttery illumination passing through the diamond-paned windows, creating the illusion of a fireplace's warmth. From time to time, through parted silk drapes, she saw a doggen walk past, carrying a silver tray, a feather duster, a bouquet of flowers.
The wind was fierce here, and the longer she stood on the browned, frosty grass, the more it got through her jacket, her clothes, her skin.
She and her father had lived on the estate for a very long time, and there wasn't a room that she didn't have a memory in--even the hidden ones.
Yet tonight the manse seemed as the objects in her satchel were: someone else's.
Amazing . . . how a journey that started and ended in your hometown, and didn't actually require you to leave your own zip code, could distance you so completely from your life.
When she began to shiver, she forced herself to walk forward. It was about two a.m.--and though it made her feel guilty, she was so glad her father would still be working down at the audience house. She just didn't have the energy to tell him all about her "studies."
More to the point, she hadn't really processed anything for herself yet--so it was just too early to explain the experience to anyone else.
Coming up to the front entrance, she reached out for the doorbell--and had to stop herself.
Really, she thought. You're going to ring the bell on your own house?
And yet she felt like a stranger as she put her forefinger on the print reader and sprang the lock.
Stepping into the warmth, she closed the heavy door behind her and took a couple of deep breaths. There was no sense of calm as she looked around at the familiar oil paintings and the Orientals. Instead, she felt a creeping unease--
"Mistress! You return!" As the butler, Fedricah, rushed over to her, he was all smiles--and he bowed so deeply his forehead nearly Swiffered the floor. "What may I get you? Would you care for a meal--no, a bath. I shall have Vuchie run you a--"
"Please, no." She put both hands out as his face fell so fast, so far, he was liable to start talking out of his bow tie. "The Brotherhood fed us very well--and honestly, I need to retire to bed." Words, she needed the right combination of words here. "Will you please tell my father it was a wonderful learning experience . . . tell him I'm okay--I'm very well, in fact, and I made it into the program. We're doing classwork. It's all very safe."
And the last two things technically weren't a lie. Rhage had said they would be in the classroom tomorrow evening, and no one had gotten seriously hurt.
"Oh, of course, mistress! He will be so pleased! I do not believe he slept during the day--but please ring if you require aught. We are always at your service."
"I will, I promise. Thank you."
She escaped up the stairs quickly, some irrational fear of her father getting home early driving her to her room. When she closed herself in, she looked at the canopied bed and the needlepoint rugs and the antiques . . .
...and really wished she were crashing in an anonymous, clean hotel room.
Walking over to her bed, she sat down on the super-soft mattress and put her satchel down by her feet. Then she laid her palms on her knees and stared at the wall.
Craeg wasn't the only thing she thought about. But there was a whole lot of him in her brain.
Shoot. Now that she was up here hiding, she felt trapped--
As her phone went off in her bag, she cringed. Undoubtedly Fedricah had called her father the moment she'd come up here, and the question was whether it would be worse for him to go to voice mail . . . or for her to try to force an everything-is-normal across the connection.
Later was not much better, she decided: If she didn't talk to him now, he was liable to come knocking on her door as soon as he got home. And then she'd have to do it face-to-face.
Fishing her iPhone out, she frowned as she saw the picture of a five-pointed weed leaf on her screen. "Peyton?"
"Hey. I couldn't wait two hours. I've got a serious case of the heebs."
Even though he couldn't see her, she nodded. "I know. Me, too."
When there was a pause, she waited for the customary sound of a bong being drawn on. Instead, there was only silence.
After a moment, he said, "I feel like I've been gone for a decade."
"Same for me."
"I don't want to even smoke up. How fucked in the head is that?"
She pushed herself back until she was leaning on her pillows. "Maybe that's a good thing."
"Just one more part of the weirdness, you know?" There was some rustling, as if he were doing the same thing. "Okay, so what the fuck is up with that Axe guy. I mean did you see him when he was fighting with . . ."
As her friend launched into all kinds of commentary, Paradise closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.
Funny, this was just like after the raids. The two of them talking in the night, tethered by two phones, an invisible connection open between them that was nonetheless tangible.
He was her only friend, she realized.
And she was very grateful they'd come out the other side of their argument--and also that first night of training.
Suddenly things didn't seem so foreign anymore.
*
"Damn, I'm good," Marissa said as she sat back and looked at the stack of five-by-seven card stock in front of her.
It had taken her hours, but she had managed to computer-generate one hundred color invitations to the Twelfth Month Festival Ball. Yes, it would have been so much better if the damn things were engraved, but they were out of time: There were only about fourteen days before the event on its mandatory first full moon of December, so nobody was in a position to get fussy over cutting corners.
Next stop was addressing the envelopes, and Mary and Bella had offered to help with that at the mansion. After that, Marissa was going to talk to Fritz about whipping up the food, and ask around for some of the traditional Old Country musicians to cover that hole.
Oh, and may the Scribe Virgin bless Abalone forevermore: The male had agreed to let them use the ballroom at his estate. It was a much better option than that other venue at the rich-old-male/gold-digger-female combination's place: That pair had hosted the secret Council meeting to plot against Wrath, so there was no way any of the Brothers were going back there unless it was with a bunch of flamethrowers--and by extension, she didn't think Butch would have been all about her spending time under that particular roof.
So, invitations. Venue. Food. E
ntertainment.
She was on it, but she wasn't fooling herself. She knew why she'd been asked to chair the event, and it wasn't her competence: The people pushing for this were having trouble drawing the glymera out after all the drama around Wrath's democratic election. As there was nothing that the aristocrats loved more than a scandal, what could be more fun than watching her in action at the party?
Her presence was going to up the acceptance rate through the roof.
And it was funny. In a sick way, she found herself looking forward to holding her head up high in that bunch of sharks--and at least Butch wouldn't have to deal with the bullcrap. He was going to be out working and teaching. Besides, he'd have no patience for that party kind of thing.
She would travel this stretch backward into her history alone.
Checking her watch, she noted that it was three o'clock. Usually she waited until four a.m. to go home, but if she and the females could get these invitations addressed before everyone retired, then Fritz could take them to the human mail system and they would be received the day after.
With quick efficiency, she packed the invites and envelopes into the LV Neverfull that Butch had gotten her a while ago, and shut down her computer.
Her sense of satisfaction was short lived.
After checking in with her staff and excusing herself for the evening, she left the Wellsie wing and spirited back to the mansion. As she waited for the vestibule's inner door to be opened for her, she went right back to worrying about the female.
Still nothing on that "key." And no e-mails to the general accounts at Safe Place or the audience house about a missing female. Nothing on the closed social media groups. No phone calls or texts, either.
But her family had to be missing her, right?
Fritz, the beloved butler, opened the door with a wide smile. "Mistress, how fare thee?"
Fucked-up, thank you. "I am very well, how are you?" She shook her head as he went to take her bag. "I've got this, thanks. Have you seen--"
"We're ready! And Mary's on her way!"
Marissa looked over at the archway into the billiards room. Bella, Beth, and Autumn were standing together, glasses of white wine and plumed pens in their hands.
"We're prepared to scribe up," Bella said. "And then we've asked for Last Meal on special service, because we're doing movie day upstairs in the theater."
"Magic Mike XXL just came out on DVD," Beth chimed in. "We have a moral obligation to support the arts, even if they're just the human ones."
"I haven't seen the first one," Autumn murmured. "They tell me his pelvis is double-jointed. Is that true?"
Beth came forward and took the Neverfull. "Come on, you look like you need a girls' night. Payne and Xhex are joining us. So are Cormia, Layla, Doc Jane, and Ehlena. We're getting all of us together--it's about time."
For a split second, Marissa felt guilty about easing into the friendship that was being offered. It seemed . . . too frivolous when she thought about all she wasn't able to do for that unknown female.
Bella leaned in. "We've told the males that they can't come in. Mostly because if they see that Channing guy up on the big screen--"
Beth finished, "--we're going to need to do a remodel after they're done with things."
"Back to the double-jointed business," Autumn kicked in. "I mean, how does he walk?"
"Very well, my friend." As Bella answered Tohr's mate, she put an arm around Marissa's shoulders. "Very, very well."
As Marissa let herself get drawn into the billiards room--where ink pots had been set up on one of the coffee tables and there was already a glass set out for her--she began to blink fast. Part of the emotion was the fact that that female who had died wasn't ever going to have anything like this again--if she'd been lucky enough to find good people surrounding her while she'd been alive.
The other half was a gratitude so great, her chest could barely contain the emotion.
"Ladies," she said, putting her arm around Bella's waist. "Let's do the addressing quickly--so we can get to the undressing."
Chapter Twenty-one
"I'm sorry . . . they're doing what?"
As Butch spoke, he looked at the males-only group sitting around the mansion's dining room table. Not one of his brothers or any of the soldiers was laughing or talking loudly. The bunch of sad sack losers was just sitting in front of half-eaten plates and untouched rocks glasses of vodka, bourbon and whiskey like a roll call of bassett hounds who'd lost their anti-depressants.
Not what he'd expected to find as he came late to Last Meal.
When Marissa had texted him and told him she was working with the females on something, it had seemed like a good idea to take care of some trainee stuff.
He hadn't banked on this funeral thing just cuz the ladies were doing a project.
"Hello?" he demanded. "You guys lost your hearing along with your sac or something?"
Wrath inhaled like he was about to break the news of a death in the family. "They're having a movie night."
Butch rolled his eyes and went over to his chair. Yeah, it was a little weird to sit down without his Marissa by his side, but for crissakes, it was nothing to go Prozac over. Besides, he was glad his woman had friends in the house--
"They're watching Magic Mike," someone said.
"Is that a children's show?" He sat back as Fritz put a heaping plate of lamb in front of him. "Thanks, man--oh, thanks, yeah, I'd love a drink. I'll take a Lagavulin on the rocks--"
Butch stopped talking as he realized the entire table of males was looking at him. "What?"
"You haven't heard about Magic Mike?" Rhage demanded.
"No." He leaned back again as his drink was delivered. "Thanks. Is it like Barney?"
"It's about strippers," Hollywood countered.
Butch frowned and lowered the glass from his lips. "I'm sorry?"
V came in from the pantry with a thick pouch of tobacco, a pack of rolling papers, and a scowl like somebody had stripped his favorite sex toy of its batteries.
"Naked," Vishous muttered as he sat where Marissa should have been. "Buck-ass naked. And they're humans. Christ, it's like being shown up by a pack of dogs."
"In thongs," someone else bitched. "Dogs in thongs."
Butch followed through on taking a drink this time, swallowing the burn, welcoming the heat in his gut. Okay, fine, it was a bit of a surprise to find that he kept going until the glass was empty, but hey, he had a lot to think about. On one level, the fact that his shellan was watching a movie with her buddies, even if it did involve some nakey, really wasn't a big deal.
On another level, he wanted to find the electrical box and cut the power to that part of the mansion.
Then torch the DVD. And the screen.
And take his mate to bed just to show her all the tricks he had over some actor in a--oh, God, a thong?
"It's fine," he heard himself say as he motioned to a doggen for a refill. "I mean, first of all, they love us--and second, it's not like it's an X rated--"
"They show a cock pump," Lassiter said with a wide smile, like he was helping. "And in action. You know, it's on a cock and it's pumping--"
Vishous unsheathed a dagger from somewhere and pointed the thing at the fallen angel's head. "You keep talking like that and I'ma trim your hair. With my eyes closed."
Lassiter laughed. "Yeah, whatever, big boy. I thought you had more mojo than to get worked up over something like this. You really that insecure?"
"You want insecure," V said. "I'll make you--"
"Okay, okay," Butch cut in. "Leave it, V. It's fine, it's great--they're just enjoying themselves. What's wrong with that? It's not like they're sleeping with the guy."
"You sure about that?" Lassiter smiled. "You don't think they're fantasizing about--"
The collective growl that rose up from the Brotherhood was so loud, it managed to agitate the crystals in the enormous chandelier hanging over the table. And the fallen angel was an idiot, but he wasn't stupid.
Moving slowly, like there were multiple guns pointed at him, he put his hands up in submission. "Sorry. Whatever. I'll stop before all this lame-ass uncomfortability you bunch of morons are sporting kills me."
"Wise choice," Butch said dryly. "Not that I wouldn't mind hitting you right now. Although that's not specific to this sitch."
Lassiter went back to eating, shoving food into his face.
The Brothers weren't so quick to do a reset on things, those narrowed eyes and bared fangs still trained on the angel with the big mouth.
"Come on, boys, it's fine." He cut a piece of lamb off and put it in his mouth. "Mmm. Delish."
In reality, the stuff tasted like cardboard, but he made a show of the yummies. He couldn't keep it up, though.
Two minutes later, he was shoving a full plate away and nursing his second whiskey. "Really. They should have a little independence. They don't need to be locked at our hips, and listen, life here revolves around us. It's about time they do something just for them. Really. This is great."
Next to him, V lit up a fat hand-rolled. "Is it. You like the idea of Marissa looking at some other male's junk?"
"It's not an X-rated--" As his voice squeaked, he cleared his throat. "I mean, it couldn't be. . . . no, it's not--"
"I already checked," Rhage muttered. "They have the DVDs--they're probably watching the extended, uncut versions."
"So the strippers aren't circumcised?" Lassiter put his palms up again before the growling got even worse. "Jesus, you guys are so damn touchy."
Butch shook his head and decided the angel was on his own. "So, yeah, I mean, a little gyrating--a pec pump or two. It's nothing to get worked up over. Fritz, can I have a refill over here again?"
The butler hustled over to pick up the empty glass. "Would any of you care for dessert? We have homemade ice cream and Petit Gateau."
Butch glanced at Hollywood. "What do you say there, my man?"
When Rhage just swished his ginger ale around in his glass, Butch cursed and said to Fritz, "This one here will have some even if no one else does."
"Bring me the dessert," Rhage spoke up.
Fritz bowed with Butch's glass in his hand. "But of course, sire. I shall fix you a plate directly--"
"No. I want the whole dessert. All of the cake and all of the ice cream."
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was how Hollywood ended up with a morose audience of however many playing witness to his consuming fifteen small chocolate cakes and two gallons of vanilla ice cream.