by J. R. Ward
Warning bells went off in Marissa’s head as she looked around the room. Of the twenty-one council members present, six were females, but she was the only one to whom the writ would apply. Though she’d been Wrath’s shellan, he’d never taken her, so she qualified as unmated.
As a consensus of approval and support swelled in the library, Marissa stared at her brother. Havers would now have complete control of her. Well played of him, wasn’t it.
If he was her ghardian, she couldn’t leave the house without his permission. Couldn’t remain on the Council unless he agreed. Couldn’t go anywhere or do anything because he would own her as his property, for all intents and purposes.
And there was no hope of Wrath turning down the recommendation if the Princeps Council voted yes on the motion. Given the way things were with the lessers, there was no rational standing for a veto, and although no one could unseat Wrath by law, a lack of confidence in his leadership could lead to civil unrest. Which was the last thing the race needed.
At least Rehvenge wasn’t in the room, so they couldn’t do anything tonight. The venerable laws of procedure for the Princeps Council provided that only representatives from the six original families could vote, but all of the Council had to be present for a motion to be passed. So even though the bloodlines were at the table, with Rehv not in attendance, there would be no resolution now.
While the Council enthusiastically discussed the proposal, Marissa shook her head. How could Havers have opened up this can of worms? And it was all for nothing because she and Butch O’Neal were…nothing. Damn it, she had to talk to her brother and get him to derail this ridiculous proposal. Yes, Wellesandra had been killed and that was beyond tragic, but forcing all females underground was a step backward.
A retreat into the dark ages when females were totally unseen and all but possessions.
With icy clarity, she pictured that mother and her young with the broken leg back at the clinic. Yes, this was not just repressive, it was dangerous if the wrong hellren was in charge of a household. Legally, no one had any recourse against a sehcluded female’s ghardian. At his discretion, he could do whatever he wished to her.
Van Dean stood in another basement of another house in another part of Caldwell, a whistle between his lips as his eyes tracked the movements of the pale-haired men in front of him. The six “students” were in a line, knees bent, fists up. They were striking the empty air in front of them with blurring speed, alternating left and right, shifting their shoulders accordingly. The air was heavy with their sweet smell, but Van didn’t notice that shit anymore.
He blew the whistle twice. As a unit, the six brought both hands up as if grabbing a man’s head like a basketball, and then they slammed their right knees forward repeatedly. Van blew the whistle again and they switched legs.
He hated to admit it, because it meant he was over the hill, but training men to fight was so much easier than going hand to hand in the ring. And he appreciated the break.
Plus he was good at the teaching, evidently. Although these gang members learned fast and hit hard, so he had something to work with.
And these were definitely gang members. Dressed the same. Colored their hair the same. Packed the same weapons. What was not so obvious was what they were about. These boys had the focus of military men; none of that sloppy bullshit most street thugs covered up with bravado and bullets. Hell, if he didn’t know better he’d have assumed they were government: There were squads of them. They had top-notch gear. They were intense as shit. And there were a lot of them. He’d only been on board a week and he’d taught five classes a day, each filled with different guys. Hell, this was only his second trip through the park with this particular bunch of men.
Except why would the feds use someone like him to teach?
He blew the whistle for a long beat, stopping them all. “That’s it for tonight.”
The men broke ranks and went for their bags of gear. They said nothing. Didn’t interact with each other. Didn’t pull any of that macho, nut-busting routine that guys usually did when they were in a group.
As they filed out, Van went to his own bag and got his water bottle. Sucking back some, he thought about how he had to head across town now. He had a fight scheduled in an hour. No time to food up, but he wasn’t that hungry anyway.
He put his windbreaker on, jogged up the basement steps, and did a quick tour of the house. Empty. No furniture. No eats. Nothing. And every single one of the other places had been exactly the same. Shells of houses that from the outside looked all cheery normal.
Fucking weird.
He went out the front, made sure he locked the door, and headed to his truck. The locations they met at had been different each day and he had a feeling they always would be. Every morning at seven A.M., he got a call with an address, and he stayed put when he got there, the men cycling through, the classes on mixed martial-arts fighting lasting two hours apiece. The schedule ran like clockwork.
Maybe they were paramilitary whack jobs.
“Evening, son.”
Van froze then looked over the hood of his truck. A minivan was parked across the street, and Xavier was leaning up against the thing as casual as the mommy-mommy who should have been driving the POS.
“What up?” Van said.
“You’re doing well with the men.” Xavier’s flat smile matched his flat, pale eyes.
“Thanks. I’m just leaving now.”
“Not yet.” Van’s skin prickled as the guy eased off the car and crossed the street. “So, son, I’ve been thinking you might want to become more closely involved with us.”
More closely involved, huh? “I’m not interested in crime. Sorry.”
“What makes you think what we do is criminal?”
“Come on, Xavier.” The guy hated it when he dropped the Mr. So he did it often. “I’ve done time once. It was boring.”
“Yes, that carjacking ring you fell into. I bet your brother had a lot to say about that, didn’t he? Oh—I don’t mean the one you did the stealing with. I’m talking about the law abider in the family. The clean one. Richard, isn’t it?”
Van frowned. “Tell you what. You don’t bring my family into this, I won’t drop a dime and turn in these houses you use to the CPD. I mean, cops would love to come for Sunday dinner, I’m damn sure. Wouldn’t need to ask ’em over twice.”
As Xavier’s face became remote, Van thought, Gotcha.
But then the man just smiled. “And I’ll tell you what. I can give you something no one else can.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Van shook his head, unimpressed. “Isn’t this a little early to invite me in? What if I’m not trustworthy?”
“You will be.”
“Your faith in me is so fucking sweet. But the answer’s no. Sorry.”
He expected argument. All he got was a nod.
“As you wish.” Xavier turned and walked back to the minivan.
Weird, Van thought as he got into his truck. These boys were definitely weird.
But at least they paid on time. And well.
Across town, Vishous took form on the side lawn of a nicely kept apartment building. Rhage was right behind him, materializing into flesh and blood in the shadows.
Shit, V thought. He wished he’d taken a moment for another smoke before he’d come here. He needed a cigarette. He needed…something.
“V, my brother, you okay?”
“Yeah. Perfect. Let’s do this.”
After pulling a little mind bend with the lock system, they walked in the front door. The inside of the place smelled like air freshener, a fake orange stench that coated the nostrils like paint.
They skipped the elevator because it was in use and hit the stairwell. When they got to the second floor, they headed past apartments C1 and C2 and C3. V kept his hand under his jacket and on his Glock, although he had a feeling the worst thing that could come at them would be a hall monitor. The place was neat a
s a pin and QVC cutesy-pie: Fake flower bouquets hung on doors. Welcome mats with hearts or ivy on them were on the floor outside each apartment. Framed inspirational pictures of pink and peach sunsets alternated with ones of fuzzy puppies and clueless kitties.
“Man,” Rhage muttered, “someone hit this place with the Hallmark stick.”
“Until it broke.”
V stopped in front of the door marked c4 and willed the locks to shift.
“What are you doing?”
He and Rhage wheeled around.
Holy shit, it was one of the frickin’ Golden Girls: Three feet high with a crown of kinky white on her head, the old lady was decked out in a bunchy quilted robe, like she was wearing her bed.
Trouble was, she had the eyes of a pit bull. “I asked you young men a question.”
Rhage took over, which was good. He was better with the charm. “Ma’am, we’re just here visiting a friend.”
“You know Dottie’s grandson?”
“Ah, yes, ma’am. We do.”
“Well, you look like you would.” Which was evidently not a compliment. “I think he should move out, by the way. Dottie died four months ago and he doesn’t fit in here.”
And neither do you, those eyes tacked on.
“Oh, he’s moving out.” Rhage smiled pleasantly while keeping his lips together. “Moved out, really. Yeah, tonight.”
V cut in, “’Scuse me, I’ll be right back.”
As Rhage shot him a don’t-you-dare-leave-me-with-this-hot-potato glare, V stepped inside and shut the door on his brother’s face. If Rhage couldn’t handle the biddy, he could just swipe her memories, although that would be a last resort. Older humans sometimes didn’t deal well with the erasing, their brains no longer resilient enough to withstand the invasion.
So yeah, Hollywood and Dottie’s neighbor were going to get tight while V cased the place.
With a sneer, he glanced around. Man, everything smelled of lesser. Sickly sweet. Like Butch.
Shit. Do not think about that.
He forced himself to focus on the apartment. Unlike most lesser pads, this one was furnished, though obviously by its former occupant. And Dottie’s taste had run toward flower prints, doilies, and cat figurines. She fit right in with this building.
Chances were good the lessers had read about her passing in the paper and had copped her identity. Hell, maybe it even was her grandson camping out here after he’d been inducted into the Society.
V walked through the kitchen and out again, not surprised there was no food in the cabinets or the refrigerator. As he headed for the other half of the apartment, he thought it was so curious that the slayers didn’t hide where they crashed. Hell, most died with ID on them that was accurate. Then again, they wanted to encourage conflicts—
Hello.
V went over to a pink and white desk where a Dell Inspiron 8600 was cracked open and running. He swiped his finger across the mouse and did a quick poke around. Encrypted files. Everything password protected up the wazoo. Blah, blah, blah…
Although lessers were all welcome mat about their cribs, they were very tight about their hardware. Most slayers had a compy at home, and the Lessening Society pulled a lot of the same protections and coding maneuvers that V did at the compound. So basically their shit was impenetrable.
Good thing he didn’t know the meaning of impenetrable.
He clapped the Dell shut and unplugged the power line from the unit and the wall. He stuffed the electrical cord in his pocket, zipped up his jacket, and tucked the laptop in close to his chest. Then he went deeper into the apartment. Bedroom looked like a chintz bomb had gone off with flower and frill shrapnel covering the mattress and the windows and the walls.
And then there it was. On a little table beside the bed, sitting next to a phone, a four-month-old issue of Reader’s Digest and a colony of orange pill bottles: a ceramic jar about the size of a quart of milk.
He flipped open his phone and dialed Rhage. When the brother picked up, V said, “I’m outtie. I’ve got a laptop and the jar.”
He hung up, palmed the ceramic container and held it tightly against the hard body of the laptop. Then he dematerialized to the Pit, thinking how handy it was that humans didn’t line their walls with steel.
Chapter Fifteen
As Mr. X watched Van drive off, he knew the ask had come too soon. He should have waited until the guy was a little more hooked on the power trip he went on when he trained the slayers.
Except time was passing.
It wasn’t that he was worried about the loophole closing. The prophecy hadn’t said anything about that kind of thing. But the Omega had been righteous pissed when Mr. X had left him last. Hadn’t taken at all well the news that the contaminated human had been offed by the Brothers in that clearing in the woods. So the stakes were mounting, and not in X’s favor.
From out of nowhere, the center of his chest began to warm, and then he felt a beating where his heart once had been. The rhythmic pulse made him curse. Speak of the devil, the master was calling him.
Mr. X got into the minivan, started the thing up, and drove seven minutes across town to a shitty ranch house on a ratty lot in a bad neighborhood. Place still reeked like the meth lab it had been up until its former owner had been shot by a professional associate. Thanks to the lingering toxicity, the Society had gotten the digs at a discount.
Mr. X parked in the garage and waited until the door squeaked shut before getting out. After killing the security alarm he’d installed, he headed for the back bedroom.
As he went along, his skin was irritated and itchy, like he had a case of prickly heat all over his body. The longer he put off responding to the master, the worse it would get. Until he was crazed from the need to scratch at himself.
Settling on his knees and lowering his head, he didn’t want to get anywhere near the Omega. The master had radar instincts and Mr. X’s goals were now his own, not the Society’s. Problem was, when the Fore-lesser was called, he came as summoned. That was the deal.
As soon as Vishous walked into the Pit, he heard the quiet and hated it. Fortunately, within fifteen minutes of his cracking open that lesser’s laptop on his desk, there was a pounding on the door. He glanced at a monitor, then sprang the locks with his mind.
Rhage walked in munching on something, his hand shoved in a Ziploc bag. “Having any luck with Mr. Dell’s fine product?”
“What are you eating?”
“The last of Mrs. Woolly’s banana nut bread. It’s awesome. Want some?”
V rolled his eyes and went back to the laptop. “No, but you could bring me a bottle of Goose and a glass from the kitchen.”
“No problem.” Rhage made the delivery, then leaned against the wall. “So you find anything in there?”
“Not yet.”
When silence expanded until it crowded out the air in the Pit, V knew there was more to the visit than a check-in on the Dell.
Sure enough, Rhage said, “Listen, my brother—”
“I’m not much for company right now.”
“I know. That’s why they asked me to come.”
V glanced over the top of the computer. “And who’s ‘they’?” Even though he knew.
“The Brotherhood’s worried about you. You’re getting damn tight, V. Twitchy as shit and don’t deny it. Everyone’s noticed.”
“Oh, so Wrath asked you to come play Rorschach on me?”
“Direct order. But I was on my way over here anyway.”
V rubbed his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay if you aren’t.”
No, it really was not. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go through this PC.”
“We going to see you at Last Meal?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Right.
V fiddled with the mouse and kept scanning through the computer’s file systems. As he stared at the screen, he noticed absently that his right eye, the one with the tats on its side, had started to flicker like the lid was
shorting out.
Two massive fists knuckled down on the desk and Rhage leaned in tight. “You come or I come for you.”
As Vishous glared up at his brother, Rhage’s teal gaze just stared back from his towering height and his mind-bending beauty.
Oh, so they were going to play chicken with the eyeballs, huh? Well, fuck you, V thought.
Except Vishous was the one who lost. Moments later, he looked down at the laptop, trying to make like he was just checking on something. “You need to back off, okay. Butch is my roommate, so of course I’m going to be bleeding for him. But it’s no big thing—”
“Phury told us. About your visions drying up.”
“Christ.” V burst out of his chair, pushed Rhage out of the way, and walked around. “That gum-flapping motherfu—”
“If it’s any consolation, Wrath didn’t really give him a choice.”