by J. R. Ward
He got to his feet and went over to them slowly.
"I'm a—" He almost said police detective. "I'm a friend. I know what you are and I'm going to take care of you."
The mother's dilated eyes lifted from her daughter's messy hair.
Keeping his voice level and not taking one step closer, he pointed to the Escalade. "I'd like you both to go sit in that car. I'll give you the keys so you're in control and can lock yourself in. Then I'm going to do a quick check-in with my partner, okay? After that, you're going to Havers's."
He waited as the female surveyed him with a calculation he was very familiar with: Would he hurt her or her child? she was wondering. Did she dare trust someone of the opposite sex? What were her other options?
Keeping her daughter tight in her arms, she struggled to her feet, then held her hand way out. He came over and put his keys in her palm, knowing that V had another set so they could still get in the Escalade if they had to.
In a flash, the female turned and ran, her child a heavy, jangling load.
As Butch watched them go, he knew that little girl's face was going to keep him up at night. Unlike her mother, she was totally calm. Like this kind of violence was business as usual.
With a curse, he jogged over to the house and shouted, "V, I'm coming in."
Vishous's voice drifted down from the second floor. "There's no one else in here. And I didn't get a plate on that minivan that took off."
Butch checked out the body in the doorway. Male vampire, looked thirty-four years old or so. Then again, they all did until they started to age.
With his foot, Butch nudged the guy's head. It was loose as a bow on a present.
V's shitkickers came down the stairs. "He still dead?"
"Yup. You got him good—shit, your neck's bleeding. Did I shoot you?"
V put his hand up to his throat, then looked at the blood on his palm. "Don't know. He and I went at it in the back of the house and he nailed me with the saw, so this could be from anything. Where's Rhage?"
"Right here." Hollywood walked in. "I went through the woods. All clear. What happened to the mother and the kid?"
Butch nodded to the front door. "In the Escalade. They should go to the clinic. Mom has fresh bruises."
"Let's you and I take them," V said. "Rhage, why don't you get back to the twins?"
"Good deal. They're heading downtown now to hunt. Be safe, you two."
As Rhage dematerialized, Butch said, "What do you want to do with the body?"
"Let's put it around back. Sun'll be up in a couple of hours and that'll take care of it."
The two of them picked up the male, walked him through the grungy house, and laid him out next to the rotting shell of a Barcalounger.
Butch paused and looked at the hacked-out rear door. "So this guy shows up and goes all Jack Nicholson on his wife and kid. Meanwhile, the lessen have been scoping out the place and lucky, lucky they pick tonight to attack."
"Bingo."
"You get many domestic problems like this?"
"In the Old Country, sure, but here I haven't heard of many."
"Maybe they're just not being reported."
V rubbed his right eye, which was twitching. "Maybe. Yeah… maybe."
They went through what was left of the back door and locked it as best they could. On the way to the front exit, Butch saw a ratty stuffed animal in the corner of the living room, like it had been dropped there. He picked the tiger up, only to frown. The damn thing weighed a ton.
He tucked it under his arm, took out his cell phone, and made two quick calls as V worked on the front door to get it to shut. Then they walked over to the Escalade.
Butch cautiously approached the driver's side with his hands out, the tiger dangling from one palm. And Vishous went around the hood with the same nice-'n-easy routine, coming to a halt about three feet away from the passenger door. Neither of them moved.
The wind blew in from the north, a cold, wet rush that made Butch feel the aches from the fight.
After a moment, the locks in the car were released with a punching sound.
John couldn't stop staring at Blaylock. Especially in the shower. The guy's body was huge now, muscles sprouting from all different places, fanning out from his spine, filling his legs and shoulders, jacking up his arms. Plus he was easily six inches taller. Christ, he had to be six-foot-four now.
But the thing was, he didn't look happy. He moved awkwardly, facing the tiled wall for most of the time he washed. And going by his flinching, the soap he used seemed to irritate him, or maybe his skin itself was the problem. Plus he kept trying to get under the spray, only to step back and adjust the temperature.
"You going to fall in love with him now, too? Brothers might get jealous."
John glared over at Lash. The guy was smiling as he washed his little chest, a thick diamond chain catching the suds.
"Yo, Blay, you better not drop that soap. John-boy over here's eyeing your meat like you read about."
Blaylock ignored the comment.
"Yo, Blay. You heard me? Or you daydreaming about John-boy on his knees?"
John stepped in front of Lash, blocking his view of the other guy.
"Oh, please, like you're going to protect him?" Lash eyed Blaylock. "Blay doesn't need protecting by anyone, does he. He's a biiiiiiiiig man now, aren't you, Blay? Tell me, if John here wants to get you off, you going to let him? Bet you will. Bet you can't wait for it. The two of you are going to make such a—"
John lunged forward, took Lash down to the wet tile, and… beat him senseless.
It was like he was on autopilot. He just hit the guy in the face over and over again, his fists riding a wave of anger until the shower floor ran bright red all the way to the drain. And no matter how many hands grabbed at John's shoulders, he ignored them and kept pounding.
Until suddenly he was airlifted off of Lash.
He fought whoever it was that held him, fought and scratched even as he was dimly aware that the rest of the class had shrunk back in fear.
And John kept fighting and screaming without making a sound as he was hauled out of the shower. Out of the locker room. Down the hall. He clawed and punched until he was thrown onto the blue mats of the gym floor and the breath got knocked from him.
For a moment, all he could do was stare up at the caged ceiling lights, but when he realized he was being held down, the fight rushed back. Baring his teeth, he bit the thick wrist that was closest to his mouth.
Abruptly, he was flipped over onto his stomach and a huge weight gouged into his back. "Wrath! No!"
The name registered only nominally. The queen's voice even less so. John was beyond angry, burning uncontrollably, flailing around.
"You're hurting him!"
"Stay out of this, Beth!" The king's hard voice shot into John's ear. "You finished yet, son? Or you want to go another round with those teeth of yours?"
John struggled even though he couldn't move and his strength was flagging.
"Wrath, please let him up—"
"This is between him and me, leelan. I want you to go to the locker room and deal with the other half of this mess. That kid on the tile is going to have to be taken to Havers."
There was a curse and then the sound of a door shutting.
Wrath's voice came back right next to the side of John's head. "You think popping one of those guys is going to make you a man?"
John heaved against the load on his back, not caring that it was the king. All that mattered, all that he felt, was the fury that ran through his veins.
"You think making that idiot with the fly mouth bleed is going to get you into the Brotherhood? Do you?"
John struggled harder. At least until a heavy hand landed on the back of his neck and his face had a communion with the floor mats.
"I don't need thugs. I need soldiers. You want to know the difference? Soldiers think." More pressure on his neck until John couldn't even blink for the bug eyes he was sporting. "Soldi
ers think."
All at once the weight was gone, and John took a heaving, sucking breath, the air dragging over his front teeth and hammering down his throat.
More breathing. More breathing.
"Get up."
Fuck you, John thought. But he pushed at the mat. Unfortunately, his stupid, weak-ass body felt like it was chained to the floor. He literally couldn't lift himself.
"Get up."
Fuck you.
"What did you say to me?" John got yanked off the ground by the armpits and came face-to-face with the king. Who was savagely pissed off.
Fear struck John hard, the reality of how badly he'd lost it dawning on him.
Wrath bared fangs that seemed as long as John's legs. "You think I can't hear you just because you can't talk?"
John's feet dangled for a moment and then he was dropped. When his knees failed him, he crumpled to the mats.
Wrath stared down with contempt. "It's a good goddamned thing Tohr isn't around right now."
Not fair, John wanted to yell. Not fair.
"You think Tohr would have been impressed by this?"
John thrust himself off the floor and wobbled to a stand, glaring up at Wrath.
Don't say that name, he mouthed. Don't say his name.
From out of nowhere, pain lanced through his temples. Then, in his mind, he heard Wrath's voice saying the word Tohrment again and again. Clamping his hands over his ears, he tripped over his feet, backing away.
Wrath followed, coming forward, the name getting louder until it was a screaming, relentless, pounding chant. Then John saw the face, Tohr's face, clear as if it were before him. The navy blue eyes. The short dark military hair. The hard features.
John opened his mouth and started to scream. No sound came out, but he kept at it until the crying took over. Swamped by heartache, missing the only father he'd known, he covered his eyes and hunched his shoulders, falling in on himself as he wept.
The instant he caved it all went away: His mind silenced. The vision disappeared.
Strong arms gathered him up.
John started screaming again, but now in agony, not anger. With nowhere to turn, he clutched at Wrath's huge shoulders. All he wanted was the hurting to stop… He wanted the pain in him, the stuff he tried to bury deep, to go away. He was raw with emotion from the losses in his life and the tragedies of circumstance, nothing but bruises on the inside.
"Shit…" Wrath rocked him gently. "It's all right, son. God… damn."
Chapter Thirty-two
Marissa got out of the Mercedes then ducked back in. "Will you please wait, Fritz? I want to go to the rental house after this."
"Of course, mistress."
She turned and looked at the back entrance of Havers's clinic, wondering whether he would even let her in.
"Marissa."
She turned around. "Oh, God… Butch." She ran over to the Escalade. "I'm so glad you called me. Are you okay? Are they?"
"Yeah. They're getting checked out."
"And you?"
"Fine. Just fine. I figured I'd wait outside, though, because… you know."
Yes, Havers wouldn't be too happy to see him. Probably wasn't going to like running into her, either.
Marissa glanced toward the clinic's back entrance. "The mother and child… they can't go home after this, can they?"
"No way. The lessers know about the house, so it isn't safe. And frankly, there wasn't much there anyway."
"What about the mother's hellren?"
"He's been… taken care of."
God, she shouldn't feel relieved that there had been a death, but she was. At least until she thought of Butch in the field.
"I love you," she blurted. "That's why I don't want to have you fighting. If I lost you for any reason, my life would be over."
His eyes widened, and she realized they hadn't spoken of love for what seemed like forever. But she was rule number one-ing this. She'd hated spending the daylight hours away from him, hated the distance between them, and she wasn't letting it go on anymore on her side.
Butch stepped in close, his hands going to her face. "Christ, Marissa… you don't know what it means to hear you say that. I need to know that. Need to feel that."
He kissed her softly, whispering loving things against her mouth, and as she trembled, he held her with care. There were things still left awkwardly between them, but none of that mattered at the moment. She just needed to reconnect with him.
When he pulled back a little, she said, "I'm going to go inside, but will you wait? I'd like to show you my new house."
He ran his fingertip lightly down her cheek. Though his eyes grew sad, he said, "Yeah, I'll wait. And I would love to see where you're going to live."
"I won't be long."
She kissed him again and then headed off to the clinic entrance. As she felt like an intruder, it was a surprise to be admitted inside without a fuss, but she knew that didn't mean things were going to go smoothly. While she rode down in the elevator, she fiddled with her hair. She was nervous about seeing Havers. Would there be a scene?
When she walked into the waiting area, the nursing staff knew exactly what she'd come for and she was taken down to a patient room. She knocked on the door and stiffened.
Havers looked up from talking with the young in the cast and his face froze. As he seemed to lose track of the words he was speaking, he pushed up his glasses, then cleared his throat with a cough.
"You came!" the young called out to Marissa.
"Hi, there," she said, lifting her hand.
"If you'll excuse me," Havers murmured to the mother, "I'll get your discharge papers in order. But as I said, there's no hurry for you to leave."
Marissa stared at her brother as he came up to her, wondering whether he would even acknowledge her presence. And he did in a manner of speaking. His glance flicked over the pants she had on and he winced.
"Marissa."
"Havers."
"You look… well."
Nice enough words. But what he meant was she looked different. And he didn't approve. "I am well."
"If you'll excuse me."
As he left without waiting for a response, anger boiled up into her throat, but she didn't let the nasty words on her tongue fly. Instead, she went to the bedside and sat down. While she took the little female's hand, she tried to figure out what to say, but the young's singsong voice got there first.
"My father is dead," the child said factually. "My mahmen is scared. And we have nowhere to sleep if we leave here."
Marissa closed her eyes briefly, thanking the dear Scribe Virgin that at least she had an answer for one of those problems.
She looked over at the mother. "I know exactly where you should go. And I'm going to take you there soon."
The mother started to shake her head. "We have no money—"
"But I can pay rent," the young said, holding her tattered tiger. She loosened the stitching on the back, dug her hand in and took out the wishing plate. "This is gold, right? So it's money… right?"
Marissa breathed in deeply and told herself not to cry. "No, that's a gift to you from me. And there is no rent to be paid. I have an empty home and it needs people to fill it." She glanced once again at the mother. "I would love it if you two would stay there with me as soon as my new house is ready."
When John finally went back to the locker room after his meltdown, he was all alone. Wrath had returned to the main house, Lash had been taken away to the clinic, and the other guys had gone home.
Which was good. In the resounding quiet, he took the longest shower of his life, just stood under the hot spray, letting the water run down him. His body felt achy. Sick.
Jesus Christ. Had he really bitten the king? Beaten a classmate?
John eased back against the tile. In spite of all the spray washing over him and the soap he'd used, nothing cleaned him off. He still seemed curiously… dirty. But then, disgrace and shame did make you feel like you were covered in p
ig shit.
Cursing, he looked down at the sparse muscles of his chest and the sunken pit of his stomach and the pointy knobs of his hips, looked past his utterly unimpressive sex to his little feet. Then followed the tile to the drain where Lash's blood had funneled out.
He could have killed the guy, he realized. He'd been that out of control.
"John?"
He jerked his head up. Zsadist was standing in the shower's entryway, his face utterly impassive.
"You finish, you come up to the main house. We'll be in Wrath's study."
John nodded and turned the water off. Chances were very good that he was going to be kicked out of the training program. Maybe out of the house. And he couldn't blame them. But God, where would he go?
After Z left, John toweled dry, put his clothes on, and went across the hall to Tohr's office. He had to keep his eyes down as he passed through on his way to the tunnel. He couldn't bear any of his memories of Tohrment right now. Not a single one.
Couple minutes later he was in the mansion's foyer, staring up at the grand staircase. He climbed the red-carpeted steps slowly, feeling unbearably tired, and the exhaustion grew worse when he got to the top: The double doors to Wrath's study were open and voices spilled out, the king's and others'. How he would miss them all, he thought.
The first thing he noticed when he stepped into the room was Tohr's chair. The ugly green monster had been moved and was now behind and to the left of the throne. Odd.
John walked forward and waited to be acknowledged.
Wrath was bent over a fancy little desk piled with papers, a magnifying glass in his hand apparently helping him to read. Z and Phury were flanking the king, one on either side, both leaning over the map Wrath was looking at.
"This is where we found the first torture camp," Phury said, pointing to a big green stretch. "Here's where Butch was found. Here's where I was taken."
"Big spread between them all," Wrath muttered. "Lot of miles."
"What we need is an airplane," Z said. "Aerial review would be much more efficient."
"True that." Except Wrath shook his head. "But we'd have to watch it. Get too close to the ground and the FAA would crawl up our ass."