by J. R. Ward
His mouth locked onto her shoulder, his teeth pressing into her skin. As she cried out, her elbows went lax, but he caught her before she fell into the mattress, holding her up with an arm between her breasts.
"Ask me…" she panted.
"I would… if I could stop this… but oh, God…"
He pulled back, then entered her, going just as deep as he'd said he would, the powerful surge making her arch her back and call out his name. He started in with that rhythm that drove her wild, but he was still gentle, moving with so much less power than she sensed he could.
She was loving the feel of him, that fullness, that stretching and gliding back, when it dawned on her that they were going to go to work on his body within the hour.
What if this was their last time?
Tears pooled. Matted her lashes. Blinded her. And when he twisted her chin around so he could kiss her, he saw them.
"Don't think about it," he whispered against her mouth. "Stay with me in this moment. Stay right here with me."
Remember this moment. Remember him here…
He pulled out, turned her over, and joined them face-to-face, brushing at her cheeks and kissing her as he kept up with the sex. They peaked at the same time, the pleasure so great, his head went loose on his neck as if he couldn't hold it up any longer.
Afterward, he rolled onto his side and gathered her against his chest. As she listened to the thumping of his heart, she prayed the thing was as strong as it sounded.
"What were you going to say?" she whispered in the dimness.
"Will you be my wife?"
She lifted her head. His hazel eyes were dead serious and she had the feeling he was thinking the same thing she was: Why hadn't they been mated sooner?
The single word left her on a sigh. "Yes…"
He kissed her softly. "I want to do it both ways. Your way and in a Catholic church. Would that be all right?"
She touched the cross he wore. "Absolutely."
"I wish there was time to—"
The alarm clock started to go off. With a vicious move, he slapped it into silence.
"I guess we need to get up," she said, moving away a little.
She didn't get far. He pulled her back down to the bed, pinned her with his body, and slipped his hand between her legs.
"Butch—"
He kissed her full on and then said against her mouth, "Once more for you. Once more, Marissa."
His gliding, talented fingers left her liquid, her skin and bones melting into him as his mouth went to her breast and he pulled her nipple between his lips. He drove her quickly out of control until she was flushed and gasping, arching into him, enthralled.
Urgent, electric pressure built up and then snapped free in a blaze of current. With loving attention, he helped her ride out the orgasm as she skipped like a flat stone over water, hitting the surface of the pleasure and flying again, only to land and ricochet once more.
The whole time he was above her, watching her with hazel eyes that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
He was going to die tonight. She knew it with total certainty.
John sat in the back of the empty classroom, taking up space in the far corner at his regular, by-his-lonesome table. Training usually started at four, but Zsadist had sent out an e-mail saying classes would begin three hours later tonight. Which was fine. John had had the chance to watch Wrath in action longer.
As the clock ticked closer to seven, the other trainees filed in. Blaylock was last. He was still moving slowly, but he was talking more easily with the guys, kind of like he was getting used to himself. He took a seat up front, shuffling his long legs around to fit.
Abruptly, John realized someone was missing. Where was Lash? Good God… what if he'd died? But no—somebody would have passed that news along.
Down in front, Blaylock laughed at one of the other trainees, then bent over to put his backpack on the floor. As he came back to level, his eyes met John's across the room.
John flushed and looked away.
"Hey, John," Blaylock said, "you want to come sit with me?"
The whole class went quiet. John glanced up.
"View's better from here." Blaylock nodded to the blackboard.
Silence followed. The kind where the Jeopardy! theme plays in everyone's head.
Not knowing what else to do, John grabbed his books, walked down the aisle, and slid into the empty seat. As he parked it, conversation sprang up again while more books landed on the tables and papers rustled.
The clock overhead clicked, the hands showing seven on the dot. As there was still no Zsadist, the talk got even louder in the room, the guys yanking around in earnest now.
John ran his pen in circles on a blank page, feeling awkward as all get-out and wondering what the hell he was doing up front. Maybe it was a practical joke on him? Shit, he should have stayed—
"Thank you," Blaylock said quietly. "For throwing down for me yesterday."
Whoa… maybe this wasn't a joke.
John surreptitiously slid his notebook over so Blaylock could see it. Then he wrote, I didn't mean to take it that far.
"I know. And you won't have to do it again. I mean, I can handle him."
John eyed his classmate. No doubt, he wrote.
From over on the left, one of the guys started humming the Star Trek theme, for God only knew what reason. Others chimed in. Someone lit off with a William Shatner: "I don't know… why I have to… talk like this, Spock…"
In the midst of the chaos, the sound of heavy boots coming down the hall drifted into the room. God, it was like there was an army out in the corridor. With a frown, John looked up to see Wrath walking past the door to the classroom. Then Butch and Marissa went by next. Then Vishous.
What were they all so grim about? he wondered.
Blaylock cleared his throat. "So, John, you want to hang with me and Qhuinn tonight? We were going to chill at my house. Bang some beers. Nothing special."
John whipped his head around, then tried to camo his surprise. But wow. First time any of them had suggested meeting up after class.
Cool, John wrote as Zsadist finally came in and shut the door.
Downtown at the Caldwell police station, Van Dean smiled at the badge in front of him, making sure his face was showing a whole lot of No Big Deal. "I'm an old friend of Brian O'Neal's, that's who I am."
Homicide detective José de la Cruz measured him with smart brown eyes. "What did you say your name is?"
"Bob. Bobby O'Connor. I grew up in Southie with Brian. He moved away. I did, too. Then I came back east recently and someone told me he was working as a cop in Caldwell so I figured I'd drop by. But when I call the CPD main line? No Brian O'Neal. And all I got was the he-doesn't-work-here runaround."
"What makes you think showing up in person will change the answer?"
"I was hoping someone could tell me what happened to him. I called his parents in Southie. His father said he hadn't talked to Brian in a long time, but last he knew his son was still working as a cop. Look, man, I've got no ulterior motive here. I just want some answers."
De la Cruz took a long drink out of his black coffee mug. "O'Neal was put on administrative leave back in July. He did not return to the force."
"That's it?"
"Why don't you give me a telephone number? If I remember anything else, I'll call you."
"Sure thing." Van recited some random numbers, which De la Cruz wrote down. "Thanks, and I'd appreciate a call. Hey, you were his partner, right?"
The other man shook his head. "No. I wasn't."
"Oh, that's what the guy at Dispatch said."
De la Cruz picked up a file from his paper-ridden desk and opened it. "We're done here."
Van smiled a little. "Sure thing. Thanks again, detective."
He was almost out the door when De La Cruz said, "By the way, I know you're full of shit."
"Excuse me?"
"If you were a friend of his, you'd have aske
d for him by the name Butch. Now gitcha ass out of my office and pray that I'm too busy to follow up on you."
Shit. Busted. "Names change, detective."
"Not his. Good-bye, Bobby O'Connor. Or whoever you are."
Van left the office, knowing he was damn lucky you couldn't get arrested just for asking questions about someone. Because sure as hell, De la Cruz would have cuffed him if the guy could have.
Bullshit, those two hadn't been partners. Van had read about them in an article in the Caldwell Courier Journal. But it was obvious that if De la Cruz knew what had become of Brian… Butch… whatever O'Neal, the detective was a dead end on the info trail for Van. And then some.
Van beelined it out of the police station into a nasty March drizzle and jogged over to the minivan. Thanks to his legwork, he had a pretty clear idea of what had happened to O'Neal in the last nine months. Guy's last known address was a one-bedroom in a who-cares apartment building a couple blocks over. Manager had said that when the mail piled up and rent wasn't paid on time, they'd gone in there. The place had been full of furniture and stuff, but it had been clear no one had been keeping house for a while. What little food there was had rotted, and the cable and phone had been turned off for nonpayment. It was like O'Neal had just walked out one morning all business as usual… and never come back.
Because he'd fallen into the vampire world.
Must be kind of like joining the Lessening Society, Van thought as he fired up the Town & Country. Once you were in, you cut all your ties. And never went back.
Except the guy was still in Caldwell.
And that meant sooner or later, O'Neal was going to get popped, and Van wanted to be the one to do it. It was time for an inaugural kill and that ex-cop would fit the bill as well as anything else with a heartbeat would.
Just like Mr. X had said. Find the guy. Take him out.
As Van came up to a stoplight, he frowned, thinking that drive to murder probably should have bothered him. Except ever since he'd been inducted into the Society, he seemed to have lost some of his… humanity. And more was getting up to go every day. He didn't even miss his brother anymore.
That should have bothered him, too, right? But it didn't.
Because he could feel a dark kind of power growing inside of him, taking up the space left by his soul's departure. Every day he was getting more… powerful.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Butch walked across the bright blue mats of the gym, his destination a steel door on the far side marked equipment room. Along the way, as he followed Wrath and V, he held on to Marissa's cold hand. He wanted to give her some kind of pep talk, but she was too smart for that old it's-gonna-be-okay thing. Bottom line was, no one knew what was going to happen, and trying to falsely reassure her was like training a floodlight on the free fall he was about to take.
At the end of the mats, V unlocked the reinforced door and they filed into a jungle of workout gear and caged weapons, heading back to the physical therapy/first aid suite. V let them in and hit the lights, fluorescent tubes flickering on in a chorus of hums.
The place was right out of an episode of ER, all white tiles and glass-front stainless-steel cabinets filled with vials and medical supplies. In the corner there was a whirlpool tub, a massage table, and a cardiac crash cart, but none of that registered much. Butch was primarily interested in the center of the room, where showtime was going to happen: Sitting like a stage waiting for Shakespeare, there was a gurney with some kind of a high-tech chandelier hanging over it. And underneath… a drain in the floor.
He tried to imagine himself up on that table under those lights. And felt like he was drowning.
As Wrath shut the door, Marissa said in a flat voice, "We should be doing this at Havers's clinic."
V shook his head. "No offense, but I wouldn't take Butch to your brother for a paper cut. And the fewer people who know about this, the better." He went over to the gurney and checked that the brake was engaged. "Besides, I'm a damn good medic. Butch, ditch the clothes and let's do this."
Butch stripped to his boxers, his skin goose-bumping all over. "Can we do something about the temperature in this meat locker?"
"Yup." V walked over to the wall. "We want it warm in here for the first part. Then I'm going to throw the air-conditioning on hard-core and you'll love me for it."
Butch went to the gurney and popped his body up on the thing. As a hiss and a rush of toasty air came from overhead, he held his arms out for Marissa. After closing her eyes briefly, she came to him, and he took refuge in her body heat, hugging her hard. Her tears were slow and silent, and when he tried to talk to her, she just shook her head.
"Would you choose to be mated this day?"
Everyone in the room jerked around.
A diminutive figure in black robes had appeared in the corner out of nowhere. The Scribe Virgin.
Butch's heart jackhammered. He'd seen her only once before, at Wrath and Beth's mating ceremony, and she was now as she had been then: a presence to respect and fear, power incarnate, a force of nature.
Then he realized what she'd asked. "I would, yes… Marissa?"
Marissa's hands went down as if she were about to pick up the skirting of a gown she wasn't wearing. Then she dropped her arms awkwardly, but still curtsied low and with grace. As she held the pose, she said, "If it would not offend, we would be honored beyond measure to be joined by Your Holiness."
The Scribe Virgin came forward, her deep chuckle filling the room. As she laid her glowing hand on Marissa's bowed head, she said, "Such manners, child. Your line has always had such perfect manners. Now come to your height and lift thine eyes unto me." Marissa came out of the curtsy and looked up. As she did, Butch could have sworn the Scribe Virgin sighed a little. "Beautiful. Just beautiful. You are so exquisitely formed."
Then the Scribe Virgin looked at Butch. Though there was an opaque black veil over her face, the impact of her stare made his skin tingle all over in warning. Like he was standing in the path of an impending lightning strike.
"What is your father's name, human?"
"Eddie. Edward. O'Neal. But if you don't mind, I'd rather not bring him into this, okay?"
Everyone in the room stiffened and V muttered, "Take it easy with the inquiry, cop. Really easy."
"And why is that, human?" the Scribe Virgin asked. The word human was pronounced like the phrase piece of shit.
Butch shrugged. "He's nothing to me."
"Are humans always so dismissive of their lines?"
"My father and I have nothing to do with each other, that's all."
"Therefore blood ties mean little to you, yes?"
No, Butch thought, glancing over at Wrath. Blood ties were everything.
Butch looked back at the Scribe Virgin. "Do you have any idea how relieved—"
As Marissa gasped, V stepped in and slapped his gloved hand over Butch's mouth, yanking him backward by the head and hissing in his ear, "Do you want to get toasted here, buddy? No questions—"
"Ease from him, warrior," the Scribe Virgin snapped. "This I wish to hear."
V's grip slid off his face. "Watch it."
"Sorry about the question thing," Butch said to the black robes. "But I just… I'm glad I know what's in my veins. And honestly, if I die today, I'm grateful I finally know what I am." He took Marissa's hand. "And who I love. If this is where my life took me after all those years of being lost, I'd say my time here wasn't wasted."
There was a long silence. Then the Scribe Virgin said, "Do you regret that you leave behind your human family?"
"Nope. This is my family. Here with me now and elsewhere in the compound. Why would I need anything else?" The cursing in the room told him he'd thrown another question out there. "Yeah… ah, sorry—"
A soft feminine laugh came from under the robes. "You are rather fearless, human."
"Or you could call it stupid." As Wrath's mouth fell open, Butch rubbed his face. "You know, I'm trying here. I really am. You know,
to be respectful."
"Your hand, human."
He offered her his left, the one that was free.
"Palm up," Wrath barked.
He flipped his hand over.
"Tell me, human," the Scribe Virgin said, "if I asked for the one you hold this female with, would you offer it to me?"
"Yeah. I'd just reach over to her with the other guy." As that little laugh came again, he said, "You know, you sound like birds when you do that chuckle thing. It's nice."
Over to the left, Vishous put his head in his hands.
There was a long silence.
Butch took a deep breath. "Guess I'm not allowed to say that."
The Scribe Virgin reached up and slowly lifted the robes from her face.
Jesus… Christ… Butch squeezed Marissa's hand hard at what was revealed.
"You're an angel," he whispered.
Perfect lips lifted in a smile. "No. I am Myself."
"You're beautiful."
"I know." Her voice became authoritative again. "Your right palm, Butch O'Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath."
Butch let go of Marissa, regripped her with his left hand, and reached forward. When the Scribe Virgin touched him, he flinched. Though his bones weren't crushed, the awesome strength in her was merely shelved potential. She could grind him to powder on a whim.
The Scribe Virgin turned to Marissa. "Child, give me yours now."
The instant that connection was made, a warm current flooded Butch's body. At first he assumed it was because the heating system in the room was really cooking, but then he realized the rush was under his skin.
"Ah, yes. This is a very good mating," the Scribe Virgin pronounced. "And you have my permission to join for however long you have together." She dropped their hands and looked at Wrath. "The presentation to me is complete. If he lives, you shall finish the ceremony as soon as he is well enough."
The king bowed his head. "So be it."
The Scribe Virgin turned back to Butch. "Now, we shall see how strong you are."
"Wait," Butch said, thinking about the glymera. "Marissa's mated now, right? I mean, even if I die, she will have had a mate, right?"