by J. R. Ward
Tohr's voice became very low. "Okay. That's… ah, that's fine. Maybe Butch can take you."
John closed his eyes and exhaled. Whoever this Butch was would work for him.
Tohr started the car. "It's whatever you want, John."
John. Not son.
As they headed out, all he could think was, Dear God, please don't let Tohr ever find out.
CHAPTER 13
As Bella hung up the phone, she had a passing thought that what was going on inside her chest was so explosive, she was going to shatter at any moment. There was just no way her brittle bones and her fragile skin could hold in the kind of emotion she was feeling.
In desperation she looked around the room, seeing the vague, blurry outlines of oil paintings and antique furniture and lamps made from Oriental vases and… Phury staring at her from a chaise longue.
She reminded herself that, like her mother, she was a lady. So she should at least pretend to have some self-control. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for staying while I made that call to my family."
"Of course."
"My mother was… greatly relieved to hear my voice."
"I can imagine."
Well, at least her mother had spoken words of relief. Her affect had been as smooth and calm as always. God… the female was ever the still-watered pond, unshaken by earthly events no matter how grim. And all because of her devotion to the Scribe Virgin. To mahmen, everything happened for a reason… yet nothing ever seemed particularly important.
"My mother… is greatly relieved. She…" Bella stopped.
She'd already said those words, hadn't she? "Mahmen was… she really was… she was relieved."
But it would have helped if she had at least choked up. Or shown anything but the beatific acceptance of the spiritually enlightened. For chrissakes, the female had buried her daughter and then been witness to a resurrection. You'd think that would call for some kind of emotional reaction. Instead it was as if they'd just spoken yesterday, and nothing of the past six weeks had occurred.
Bella glanced back down at the phone. Wrapped her arms around her stomach.
With no warning whatsoever, she cracked wide-open. The sobs came out of her like sneezes: fast, hard, shocking in their ferocity.
The bed dipped, and strong arms came around her. She fought the pull, thinking that a warrior wouldn't want to deal with such sloppy weakness.
"Forgive me…"
"It's okay, Bella. Lean on me."
Oh, hell… She collapsed against Phury, wrapping her arms around his tight waist. His long, beautiful hair tickled her nose and smelled good and felt wonderful under her cheek. She burrowed into it, breathing deep.
When she finally calmed down she felt lighter, but not in a good way. The angry emotions had filled her out, given her contours and weight. Now, because her skin was nothing more than a sieve, she was leaching out, becoming air… becoming nothing.
She didn't want to disappear.
She inhaled and broke free of Phury's embrace. Blinking rapidly, she tried to focus her eyes, but the blurriness from the ointment persisted. God, what had that lesser done to her? She had a feeling it had been bad…
She reached up to her eyelids. "What did he do to me?"
Phury just shook his head.
"Was it that ugly?"
"It's over. You're safe. That's all that matters."
None of it feels over to me, she thought.
But then Phury smiled, his yellow stare impossibly tender, a balm that soothed her. "Would it be easier if you were at home? Because if you want, we can find a way to get you there, even though the dawn's coming very soon."
Bella pictured her mother and couldn't imagine being in the same house with that female. Not right now. And even more to the point, there was Rehvenge. If her brother saw her with any kind of injury he'd go crazy, and the last thing she needed was him on the warpath against the lessers. She wanted the violence to stop. As far as she was concerned, David could go to hell right this minute; she just didn't want anyone she loved risking their lives to send him there.
"No, I don't want to go home. Not until I'm completely healed. And I'm so very tired…" Her voice drifted off as she glanced at the pillows.
After a moment Phury got up. "I'm right next door if you need me."
"Would you like your coat back?"
"Oh, yeah… let me see if there's a robe in here." He disappeared into a closet and came back with black satin draped over his forearm. "Fritz stocks these guest rooms for males, so this is probably going to be too big."
She took the robe and he turned away. When she shrugged out of his heavy leather coat the air chilled her, so she quickly wrapped the satin around herself.
"Okay," she said, grateful for his discretion.
As he pivoted back to her, she put the leather into his hands.
"I'm always saying thank-you to you, aren't I?" she murmured.
He looked at her for a long time. Then in slow motion, he lifted his coat to his face and breathed in deeply.
"You're…" His voice trailed off. Then he dropped the leather to his side and an odd expression hit his face.
Actually, no, that wasn't an expression. It was a mask. He'd gone into hiding.
"Phury?"
"I'm glad you're with us. Try to get some sleep. And eat some of what I brought you, if you can." The door shut behind him without a sound.
The drive back to Tohr's house was awkward, and John spent the time staring out the side window. Tohr's cell phone rang twice. Both conversations were in the Old Language, and the name Zsadist kept reappearing.
When they pulled into the driveway there was an unfamiliar car parked in it. A red Volkswagen Jetta. Yet Tohr didn't seem surprised as he eased past the thing and went into the garage.
He killed the Range Rover's engine and opened his door. "By the way, classes start the day after tomorrow."
John looked up from undoing his seat belt. So soon? he signed.
"We had the last trainee sign up tonight. We're good to go."
The two of them walked in silence through the garage. Tohr was in front, his big shoulders moving with the long steps he took. The man's head was down, as if he were looking for cracks in the concrete floor.
John stopped and whistled.
Tohr slowed, then halted. "Yeah?" he said quietly.
John took out his pad, scribbled something, and held it out.
Tohr's brows came down as he read. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."
John reached out and squeezed the man's biceps. Tohr shook his head.
"It's all right. Come on, I don't want you to catch cold out here." The man glanced over when John didn't move. "Ah, hell… I'm just… I'm there for you. That's all."
John put his pen to the paper. I don't doubt that for a moment. Ever.
"Good. You shouldn't. Straight up, I feel like I'm your…" There was a pause as Tohr rubbed his thumb back and forth across his forehead. "Look, I don't want to crowd you. Let's go inside."
Before John could beg him to finish the sentence, Tohr opened the door into the house. Wellsie's voice drifted out… and so did another woman's. John frowned as he came around the corner into the kitchen. And then stopped dead as a blond female looked over her shoulder.
Oh… wow.
Her hair was cut off at her jawline and her eyes were the color of new leaves. Those hip-hugger jeans she was wearing were so short-waisted… God, he could see her belly button and about an inch of flesh underneath. And her black turtle-neck was… Well, he could tell exactly how perfect her body was, put it like that.
Wellsie grinned. "You guys got here just in time. John, this is my cousin Sarelle. Sarelle, this is John."
"Hi, John." The female smiled.
Fangs. Oh, yeah. Look at those fangs… Something traveled like a hot breeze over his skin, leaving him tingling from head to foot. Out of confusion, he opened his mouth. Then thought, uh-huh, right. As if anything w
as coming out of his useless piehole?
While flushing to all hell and gone, he lifted his hand in a wave.
"Sarelle's helping me with the winter festival," Wellsie said, "and she's going to stay for a bite to eat before dawn breaks. Why don't you two set the table?"
As Sarelle smiled again, that funny tingling thing got so strong, he felt as if he were levitating.
"John? You want to help set the table?" Wellsie prompted.
He nodded. And tried to remember where the knives and forks were.
O's headlights swung across the front of Mr. X's cabin. The Fore-lesser's everyman minivan was parked right next to the door. O stopped his truck behind the Town & Country, blocking it in.
As he got out and the cold air shot into his lungs, he was aware that he was in the zone. In spite of what he was about to do, his emotions lay like smooth feathers over his chest, all arranged, nothing out of place. His body was just as unruffled, moving with its power checked, a gun ready to fire.
The scrolls had taken a long time to wade through, but he'd found what he needed. He knew what had to happen.
He opened the cabin's door without knocking.
Mr. X looked up from the kitchen table. His face was impassive, showing no frown, no sneer, no aggression of any kind. No surprise, either.
So they were both in the zone.
Without a word, the Fore-lesser rose, one hand going around to his back. O knew what was there, and he smiled as he unsheathed his own knife.
"So, Mr. O—"
"I'm ready for a promotion."
"Excuse me?"
O turned his blade on himself, putting the tip to his sternum. With a two-handed jabbing motion, he stabbed his own chest.
The last thing he saw before the great white inferno crisped the shit out of him was the shock on Mr. X's face. Shock that quickly shifted to terror as the man figured out where O was going. And what O was going to do when he got there.
CHAPTER 14
Lying in bed, Bella listened to the quiet sounds around her: male voices down the hall, low-pitched, rhythmic… the wind outside pushing against the mansion, capricious, uneven… the creak of a floorboard, quick, high-pitched.
She forced herself to close her eyes.
A minute or so later she was up and pacing around, the Oriental on the floor soft under her bare feet. None of her elegant surroundings made sense, and she felt like she had to awkwardly transcribe what she was seeing. The normalcy, the safety she was steeping in seemed like another language, one she had forgotten how to speak or read. Or was this a dream?
In the corner of the room the grandfather clock chimed five A.M. How long had she been free, exactly? How long since the Brothers had come for her and taken her from the earth back into the air? Eight hours now? Maybe, except it felt like minutes. Or maybe it felt like years?
The fuzzy quality of time was like her blurry vision, insulating her, scaring her.
She pulled the silk robe around her more tightly. This was all wrong. She should be rejoicing. After God only knew how many weeks in that pipe in the ground with that lesser standing over her, she should be weeping with sweet relief.
Instead everything around her felt fake and insubstantial, as if she were in a life-size dollhouse filled with papier-mâché fakes.
She paused in front of a window and realized that only one thing felt real. And she wished she were with him.
Zsadist must have been the one who had come to the side of the bed as she'd first woken up. She'd been dreaming of being back in the hole, back with the lesser. When she'd opened her eyes, all she'd seen was a massive black shape standing over her, and for a moment she hadn't been able to separate reality from nightmare.
She was still having trouble with that.
God, she wanted to go to Zsadist now, wanted to return to his room. But in the middle of all the chaos after she'd screamed, he hadn't prevented her from leaving him, had he? Maybe he preferred her elsewhere.
Bella ordered her feet to start moving again and she made herself a little track: around the foot of the gigantic bed, over to the chaise, quick loop by the windows, then a big scenic swing past the highboy and the door to the hall and the old-fashioned writing desk. The home stretch took her by the fireplace and the bookshelves.
More pacing. More pacing. More pacing.
Eventually she went into the bathroom. She didn't stop in front of the mirror; didn't want to know what her face looked like. What she was after was some hot water. She wanted to take a hundred showers, a thousand baths. She wanted to strip off the first layer of her skin and shave off the hair that lesser had loved so much and clip her nails and clean her ears and scrub the soles of her feet.
She fired up the showerhead. When the spray was warm, she dropped the robe and stepped under the water. The second the rush hit her back, she covered herself out of instinct, one arm over her breasts, one hand shielding the apex of her thighs… until she realized she didn't have to hide. She was alone. She had privacy here.
She straightened and forced her hands to her sides, feeling like it had been forever since she'd been allowed to wash in private. The lesser had always been there, staring, or worse, helping.
Thank God, he'd never tried to have sex with her. Rape had been one of her greatest fears in the beginning. She'd been terrified, sure he was going to force her, but then she'd discovered he was impotent. No matter how hard he stared at her, his body had always remained flaccid.
With a shudder, she reached to the side for the bar of soap, lathered her hands, and ran them over her arms. She sudsed up her neck and then across her shoulders and worked her way down…
Bella frowned and bent forward. There was something on her belly… faded scratches. Scratches that… Oh, God. That was a D, wasn't it? And the next… that was an A. Then a V and an I and another D.
Bella dropped the bar of soap and covered her stomach with her hands, falling back against the tile. His name was on her body. In her skin. Like a gruesome parody of her species' highest mating ritual. She truly was his wife…
Stumbling from the shower, slipping on the marble floor, she grabbed a towel and wrapped herself up. Grabbed another and did the same. She would have gone for three, four… five, if she'd found more.
Shaky, nauseous, she went up to the mirror that was fogged over. Taking a deep breath, she rubbed her elbow across the condensation. And looked at herself.
John wiped his mouth and somehow managed to drop his napkin. Cursing to himself, he bent down to pick it up… and so did Sarelle, who got to the thing first. He mouthed the words thank you when she handed it to him.
"You're welcome," she said.
Boy, he loved her voice. And he loved the way she smelled like lavender body lotion. And he loved her long, thin hands.
But he'd hated dinner. Wellsie and Tohr had done all the talking for him, giving Sarelle a glossed-over version of his life. What little he'd written on his pad had seemed like stupid filler.
As his head came up to level, Wellsie was smiling at him. But then she cleared her throat, as if trying to play it cool.
"So, as I was saying, a couple of females from the aristocracy used to run the winter solstice ceremony back in the Old Country. Bella's mother was one of them, as a matter of fact. I want to check in with them. Make sure we don't forget anything."
John let the conversation amble along, not paying too much attention until Sarelle said, "Well, I guess I'd better get going. It's thirty-five minutes to dawn. My parents will have a conniption."
She pushed her chair out, and John stood up as everyone else did. While good-byes were said, he found himself fading into the background. At least until Sarelle looked right at him.
"Would you walk me out?" she asked.
His eyes shot to the front door. Walk her out? To her car?
In a sudden rush, some kind of raw male instinct flooded his chest, so powerful he shook a little. Abruptly his palm started to tickle, and he looked down at it, feeling as though
there were something in it, that he was holding something… so he could protect her.
Sarelle cleared her throat. "Okay… um…"
John realized she was waiting for him and snapped out of his little trance. Stepping forward, he indicated with his hand the way to the front door.
As they went outside, she said, "So are you psyched to train?"
John nodded and found his eyes roaming the environs, searching the shadows. He felt himself tense up, and that right palm of his started to hum again. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for. He just knew he had to keep her safe at all costs.
Keys jingled as her hand came out of her pocket.
"I think my friend is going to be in your class. He was supposed to sign up tonight." She unlocked the car door. "Anyway, you know why I'm really here, don't you?"
He shook his head.
"I think they want you to feed from me. When your transition hits."
John coughed from shock, sure that his eyeballs had popped out of his skull and were rolling down the driveway.
"Sorry." She smiled. "Guess they didn't tell you."
Yeah, he would have remembered that conversation.
"I'm cool with it," she said. "Are you?"
Oh. My. God.
"John?" She cleared her throat. "Tell you what. Do you have something I can write on?"
Numbly, he shook his head. He'd left his pad in the house. Idiot.
"Give me your hand." When he reached out, she got a pen from somewhere and bent over his palm. The nub ran across his skin smoothly. "That's my e-mail address and my IM info. I'll be online in about an hour. Messie me, okay? We'll talk."
He looked at what she'd written. Just stared at it.
She shrugged a little. "I mean, you don't have to or anything. Just… you know. I thought we could get to know each other that way." She paused, as if waiting for a response. "Um… whatever. No pressure. I mean—"
He grabbed her hand, whipped the pen out of it, and flattened her palm.
I want to talk to you, he wrote.