by J. R. Ward
"Because it's you."
"Bingo." Man, V simply couldn't talk about this shit. He, who spoke sixteen languages, just had no words for the mind-bending fear he had over the future: Butch's. His own. The whole race's. His visions of what was coming had always pissed him off, but they were a strange comfort, too. Even if he didn't like what was around the bend, at least he'd never been surprised.
Rhage's hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped. "Last Meal, Vishous. You show or I'm picking you up like mail, dig?"
"Yeah. Fine. Now get the fuck out of here."
As soon as Rhage left, V went back to the laptop and sat down. Except instead of returning to IT land, he called Butch's new phone.
The cop's voice was all gravel. "Hey, V."
"Hey." V held his phone between his ear and his shoulder and poured himself some vodka. As the juice hit the glass, there was the sound of shuffling over the line, like Butch was rolling over in bed or maybe taking his jacket off.
They were silent for a long time, nothing but an open cellular connection.
And then V had to ask, "Did you want to be with them? You feel like you should be with the lessers!"
"I don't know." Deep inhale. Long, slow exhale. "I won't front. I recognized those bastards. Felt them. But when I was looking into the eyes of that slayer, I did want to destroy him."
V lifted his glass. As he swallowed, the vodka burned down his throat in the nicest possible way. "How you feeling?"
"Not so hot. Queased out. Like I lost some ground." More silence. "Is this what you dreamed of? Back in the beginning, when you said I was supposed to come with the Brotherhood… did you dream of me and the Omega?"
"No, I saw something else."
Although with everything that was going down, he couldn't see a path to what had been shown to him, couldn't see it on a lot of levels: The vision had been of him naked and Butch wrapped around him, the two of them high up in the sky, entwined in the midst of a cold wind.
Jesus Christ, he was deranged. Deranged and perverted. "Look, I'll come at sundown and hit you with a little hand action."
"Good. That always helps." Butch cleared his throat. "But V, I can't sit here and just wait this out. I want to go on the offensive. What say we pick up a few lessers and work them over, get them to do some talking for a change."
"Hard-core, cop."
"You get a look at what they did to me? You think I'm worried about the frickin' Geneva Convention?"
"Lemme talk to Wrath first."
"Do it soon."
"Today."
"Good deal." There was another long silence. "So… you got some tube in this place?"
"Flat screen's up on the wall to the left of the bed. Remote's… I don't know where it is. I don't usually… yeah, TV's not on my mind when I'm there."
"V, man, what is this setup?"
"Pretty self-explanatory, don't you think?"
There was a little chuckle. "I guess this was what Phury was talking about, huh?"
"When he said what?"
"That you were into some kinky shit."
V had a sudden vision of Butch on top of Marissa, the male's body surging while she gripped his ass with her beautiful hands.
Then he saw Butch's head lift up and heard in his mind the hoarse, erotic moan that broke free of his roommate's lips.
Despising himself, Vishous hammered a shot of vodka and quickly poured another. "My sex life is private, Butch. So are my… unconventional interests."
"I hear ya. No one's biz but yours. One question, though."
"What."
"When the females tie you down, do they paint your toe-nails and shit? Or just do your makeup?" As V laughed in a loud crack, the cop said, "Wait… they tickle your pits with a feather, right?"
"Smart-ass."
"Hey, I'm just curious." Butch's own laughter faded. "Do you hurt them, though? I mean…"
More with the vodka. "It's all about consent. And I don't cross the line."
"Good. Little freaky for my Catholic ass, granted… 'cept, hey, it's whatever gets you off."
V swirled the Goose around in his glass. "So, cop, mind if I ask you something?"
"Fair's fair."
"Do you love her?"
After a while, Butch muttered, "Yeah. Fuck me, but yeah."
As the laptop's screen saver came on, V put his fingertip on the mouse square and interrupted the metastasizing pipes. "What's that feel like?"
There was a grunt as if Butch were rearranging himself and was stiff as a board. "Hell, right at this moment."
V played with the arrow on the screen, making it whip around the desktop. "You know… I like her with you. The two of you make sense to me."
"Except for the fact that I'm a blue-collar human who could be part lesser, I'd say I agree with you."
"You're not turning into a—"
"I took some of that slayer in me tonight. When I inhaled. I think that's why I smelled like one afterward. Not because we'd been fighting, but because some of the evil was—is—in me again."
V cursed, hoping like hell that wasn't the case. "We're going to figure this out, cop. I'm not going to leave you in the dark."
They hung up a little later and V stared at the laptop while swirling the arrow around. He kept up the forefinger workout until he became thoroughly unimpressed with the time he was wasting.
As he stretched his arms over his head, he realized that the cursor had landed on recycle bin. Recycle… Recycle … to reprocess in order to use again.
What was it with Butch and the inhale thing? Now that V thought about it, when he'd pulled that lesser off the cop, he'd been aware he was breaking some kind of connection between them.
Restless, he took his Goose and glass and went over to the couches. As he sat down and swallowed some more, he looked at the pint of Lag that was on the coffee table.
V leaned forward and grabbed the Scotch. Unscrewing it, he lifted it to his lips and took a slug. Then he brought the Lag to the lip of his glass of vodka and poured. With low-lidded eyes, he watched the swirling combination, seeing the two blend, the vodka and the Scotch both diluted of their pure essence and yet stronger together.
V brought the combo to his lips, tilted his head back, and swallowed the whole damn thing. Then he eased back into the couch.
He was tired… way fucking tired… ti—
Sleep came to him so fast it was like getting slammed in the head. But the shut-eye didn't last long. The Dream, as he was coming to think of it, woke him up minutes later with its characteristic violence: He came to on a scream with a splitting feeling in his chest, as if someone were using a rib-spreader on him. As his heart skipped, then pounded, sweat broke out all over him.
Ripping his shirt open, he looked down at his body.
Everything was where it should be, no gaping wound to be seen. Except the feelings remained, the horrible pressure of being shot, the crushing doom that death had come upon him.
He breathed raggedly. And figured that was it for shut-eye.
He left the vodka behind and lurched over to his desk, determined to get good and intimate with that laptop.
When the Princeps Council broke up, Marissa was totally drained. Which made sense, as dawn was close. There had been a lot of discussion about the sehclusion motion, none of the talk negative, all of it centered around the lesser threat. Clearly, when the vote was taken, not only would it pass, hut if Wrath didn't issue a proclamation, the Council was going to look at it as evidence that the king lacked commitment to the race.
Which was something Wrath's detractors were dying to have come to the forefront. Three hundred years of him passing on the throne had left a bitter taste in the mouths of some of the aristocracy, and they were after him.
Desperate to leave, Marissa waited and waited by the library's door, but Havers kept talking to the others. Eventually, she went outside and dematerialized back home, figuring she'd camp out in his bedroom if she had to in order to talk with him.
As she ca
me in the front door of their mansion, she didn't call for Karolyn as she usually did, but went straight upstairs to her bedroom. Pushing the door open, she—
"Oh… my God." Her room was… a ghost town.
Her walk-in closet was open and empty, not even a single hanger remaining. Her bed was stripped, her pillows gone, along with her sheets and blankets. All of the pictures were down. And cardboard boxes were stacked up against the far wall next to every piece of Louis Vuitton luggage she owned.
"What…" Her voice dried out as she went into the bathroom. The cabinets of which were all barren.
As she stumbled from the bath, Havers was standing by the bed.
"What is this?" She swept her arm around.
"You need to leave this house."
At first all she could do was blink at him. "But I live here!"
He took out his wallet, removed a thick wad of bills, and spread them on the bureau. "Take this. And go."
"All because of Butch?" she demanded. "And how's this going to work with that sehclusion proposal you put to the council? Ghardians have to be around their—"
"I didn't propose the motion. And as for that human…" He shook his head. "Your life is your own. And seeing you with a naked human male who had just engaged in a sexual act—" Havers's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Go now. Live as you wish. But I will not sit back and watch you destroy yourself."
"Havers, this is ridiculous—"
"I can't protect you from yourself."
"Havers, Butch is not—"
"I threatened the king's life to ahvenge your honor!" The sound of his voice ricocheted around the walls. "And then to find you with a human male! I–I can't have you near me anymore. I don't trust this anger you bring out in me. It triggers acts of such violence. It—" He shuddered and turned away. "I have told the doggen they are to deposit you wherever you wish to go, but after that, they will return to this household. You will have to find your own."
Her body went completely numb. "I am still a member of the Princeps Council. You will have to see me there."
"No, because I am not required to render you mine eyes. And you assume you will stay on the council, which is doubtful. Wrath will have no cause to deny the sehclusion motion. You will be without a mate and I will not function as your ghardian, so you will have no one to grant permission for your presence to be out in the open. Not even your bloodline can override the law."
Marissa's jaw unhinged. Holy heaven… she would be a total social outcast. A veritable… no one. "How can you do this to me?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "I am tired of myself. Tired of fighting the urge to defend you from choices you make—"
"Choices! Living as a female in the aristocracy I have no choices!"
"Untrue. You could have been a proper mate to Wrath."
"He didn't want me! You knew that, you saw it with your own two eyes! That's why you wanted to have him killed!"
"But now when I think on it, I wonder… why did he feel nothing for you? Perhaps you didn't work hard enough to engage his interest."
Marissa felt a raw fury. And the emotion grew hotter as her brother said, "And as for choices, you could have stayed out of that human's hospital room. You chose to go in there. And you chose to… you could have… not layed with him."
"Is that what this is about? For God's sake, I'm still a virgin."
"Now you lie."
The three words snapped her out of her emotions. As the heat drained away, clarity came, and for the first time, she tally saw her brother: brilliant of mind, devoted to his patients, loving of his dead shellan… and utterly rigid. A male of science and order who liked rules and predictability and enjoyed a precise vision of life.
And he was clearly willing to protect that worldview at the cost of her future… her happiness… her very self.
"You are absolutely correct," she said with a strange calm. "I do have to go."
She glanced at the boxes that were filled with the clothes she'd worn and the things she'd bought. Then her eyes found him again. He was doing the same, staring at them as if measuring the life she'd led.
"I shall let you keep the Diirers, of course," he said.
"Of course," she whispered. "Good-bye, brother."
"I am Havers to you now. Not brother. And never again."
He dropped his head and walked out of the room.
In the silence that followed there was the temptation to fall on the bare mattress and cry. But there was no time. She had maybe an hour before light.
Dear Virgin, where would she go?
Chapter Sixteen
When Mr. X came back from meeting the Omega on the other side, he felt like he had heartburn. Which seemed logical, as he'd been fed his own ass.
The master had been teed up about a variety of things. He wanted more lessers, more vampires bleeding out, more progress, more… more… But the thing was, no matter what he was given, he would always be unsatisfied. Maybe that was his curse.
Whatever. The calculus of Mr. X's failure was up on the blackboard, the mathematical equation of his destruction outlined in chalk. The unknown in the algebra was time. How long before the Omega snapped and Mr. X got recalled for eternity?
Things needed to move faster with Van. That man had to get on board and in place ASAP.
Mr. X went over to his laptop and fired the Dell up. Sitting down next to the dried brown stain of a blood pool, he called up the Scrolls and found the relevant passage. The lines of the prophecy calmed him:
There shall be one to bring the end before the master, a fighter of modern time found in the seventh of the
twenty-first,
and he shall be known in the numbers he bears: One more than the compass he apperceives, Though mere four points to make at his right, Three lives has he,
Two scores on his fore,
and with a single black eye, in one well will he be birthed and die.
Mr. X eased back against the wall, cracked his neck, and looked around. The stinky remnants of the meth lab, the filth in the place, the air of bad deeds done without remorse were like a party he didn't want to be at but couldn't leave. Just like the Lessening Society.
Except it was going to be okay. At least he'd spotted the lesser exit.
God, it had been so weird how he'd found Van Dean. X had gone to the ultimate fighting brawls to troll for new recruits and Van had immediately stood out from the others. There was just something special about him, something that elevated him above his opponents. And watching the guy move that first night, Mr. X had thought he'd spotted an important addition to the Society… until he'd noticed the missing finger.
He didn't like to bring in anyone with a physical defect.
But the more he saw Van fight, the more clear it was that an absent pinkie was no liability at all. Then a' couple nights later he saw the tattoo. Van always fought with a T-shirt on, but at one point the thing got shoved up around his pecs. On his back, in black ink, an eye stared out from between his shoulder blades.
That had been what sent Mr. X into the Scrolls. The prophecy was buried deep in the text of the Lessening Society's handbook, an all-but-forgotten paragraph in the midst of the rules of induction. Fortunately, when Mr. X had become Fore-lesser the first time, he'd read the passages thoroughly enough to remember the damn thing was there.
As with the rest of the Scrolls, which had been translated into English in the 1930s, the wording of the prophecy was abstract. But if you were missing a finger on your right hand, then you had only four points to make. "Three lives" was childhood, adulthood, and then life in the Society. And according to the fight crowd, Van was homegrown, born in the city of Caldwell, which was also known as the Well.
But there was more. The man's instincts were twitchy as hell. All you had to do was watch him in that chicken-wire ring to know that north, south, east, and west were only part of what he was sensing. He had a rare talent for anticipating the way his opponent was going to move. It was the gift t
hat set him apart.
The clincher, however, was the appendix removal. The word score could be construed in a variety of ways, but it very conceivably referred to scarring. And everyone had a belly button, so if you'd had your appendix removed as well, you'd have two scars on your "fore," wouldn't you?
Plus it was the right year to find him.
Mr. X reached for his cell phone and called one of his subordinates.
As the line rang, he was aware that he needed Van Dean, that modern fighter, that four-fingered bastard, more than anyone he'd met in his life. Or after his death.
When Marissa materialized in front of the dour gray mansion, she put her hand up to her throat and tilted her head back. God, so much stone rising from the earth, whole quarries stripped to gather the load. And so many leaded-glass windows, the diamond panes looking like bars. And then there was the twenty-foot-high retaining wall that wrapped around the courtyard and the grounds. And the security cameras. And the gates.
So secure, So cold.
The place was precisely as she'd expected it to be, a fortress not a home. And it was surrounded by a buffer of what in the Old Country was called mhis so that unless you were supposed to be here, your brain couldn't process the location well enough for you to find your way around. Hell, the only reason she'd made it to the Brotherhood's compound was because Wrath was inside. After three hundred years of living off his pure blood, she had so much of him in her that she could find him anywhere. Even through the mhis.
As she faced the mountain before her, her nape tingled like she was being stalked, and she looked over her shoulder. In the east, the light of day was gathering momentum, and the radiance made her eyes burn. She was almost out of time.
Hand still on her throat, she walked up to a pair of massive brass doors. There was no doorbell or knocker, so she tried one side. It opened, which was a shock—at least until she stood in the vestibule. Ah, here was where you were screened.
She put her face in front of a camera and waited. No doubt an alarm had gone off when she'd breached the first door, so someone would either come and let her in… or refuse her. In which case she was on to her second choice. At a dead run.