by J. R. Ward
Beth smiled. “Just you and me in this room. No one has to know.”
Okay…deep breath time. “Ah…I was a virgin. Up until tonight.”
“Oh.” After a long pause, the queen said, “And?”
“I didn’t…”
“Like it?” When she couldn’t respond, Beth said, “I wasn’t into it my first time, either.”
Marissa looked up. “Really?”
“It was painful.”
“You hurt, too?” When the female nodded, Marissa was stunned. Then a little relieved. “It wasn’t all painful. I mean, what led up to it was…is amazing. Butch makes me…he’s just so…the way he touches me, I get…Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m talking like this. And I can’t explain what it’s like with him.”
Beth chuckled. “That’s all right. I know what you mean.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” The queen’s dark blue eyes glowed. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Marissa smiled, then went back to the talking. “When it was time to…you know, when it happened, Butch was really gentle and all. And I wanted to like it, I honestly did. I was just overwhelmed and it was very painful. I think there’s something wrong with me. Inside.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Marissa.”
“But I…it really hurt.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Butch said most females have a difficult time with it in the beginning, but I just didn’t…That’s certainly not what the glymera says.”
“No offense, because you’re a part of the aristocracy, but I wouldn’t take the glymera’s word on anything.”
The queen probably had a point. “How did you get through it with Wrath when you…ah…”
“My first time wasn’t with him.”
“Oh.” Marissa flushed red. “Pardon me, I didn’t mean—”
“No problem. Actually I didn’t like sex until Wrath. I’d been with two guys before him and just…whatever. I mean, I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Frankly, though, even if Wrath had been my first, it probably wouldn’t have been any easier given the size of his—” Now the queen was flushing. “Anyway…you know, sex is an invasion for the woman. Erotic and wonderful, but an invasion just the same, and it takes a little getting used to. And for some, the first time is quite painful. Butch will be patient with you. He’ll—”
“He didn’t finish. I got the impression he…couldn’t.”
“If he hurt you, I can understand why he’d want to stop.”
Marissa threw up her arms. “God, I feel so damned ashamed. When it happened, my head got all tangled…I had all this stuff shooting through my brain. And before I left, I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t find the words. I mean, I love him.”
“Good. That’s good.” Beth took Marissa’s hand. “And it’s going to be all right, I promise you. You two just need to try it again. Now that the pain is over for you, you shouldn’t have a problem.”
Marissa stared into the queen’s midnight blue eyes. And realized that in her whole life, no one had ever talked to her candidly about a problem she had. In fact…she’d never had a friend before. And that’s what the queen felt like. A…friend.
“You know something?” Marissa murmured.
“What?”
“You’re very kind. I can see why Wrath has bonded with you so.”
“Like I said before, I’d do anything to help you.”
“You really have. Tonight…you totally have.” Marissa cleared her throat. “May I—ah, may I try the pants on?”
“Absolutely.”
Marissa picked up the clothes, got a change of underwear from the bureau, and went into the bathroom.
When she came out, she had on a pair of slim black pants and a turtleneck. And she couldn’t stop staring down at herself. Her body seemed so much smaller without all the skirting.
“How do they feel?” Beth asked.
“Odd. Light. Easy.” Marissa walked around in her bare feet. “A little like I’m naked.”
“You’re thinner than I am, so they’re a little baggy. But they look great.”
Marissa went back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. “I think I like them.”
When Butch returned to the Pit, he lurched down to his suite and started the shower. He kept the lights off because he had no interest in seeing how drunk and freaked out he still was, and he got under the spray, even though it was cold, in the hopes that the Antarctic wash would help sober him up.
With rough hands, he worked himself over with a bar of soap, and when he got to his privates, he didn’t look down. Couldn’t bear it. He knew what he was washing off his body, and his chest burned at the thought of the blood that had been on the inside of Marissa’s thighs.
Man…seeing that had been a killer. Then he’d shocked the shit out of himself by doing what he did. He had no idea why he’d put his mouth to her or where the idea had come from. It had just seemed like the thing to do.
Oh…hell. He couldn’t think about all that.
Quick shampoo. Quick rinse. And then he was out. He didn’t bother toweling off, just went dripping to his bed and sat down. The air was freezing cold on his wet skin, and the chill felt like a proper punishment as he rested his chin on his fist and stared across the room. In the dim glow coming under the door, he saw the pile of clothes Marissa had taken off him earlier. Then that dress of hers on the floor.
He went back to looking at what he’d been wearing. That suit wasn’t really his, was it. Neither was the shirt—or the socks or the loafers. Nothing he wore was his.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Took the thing off. Let it fall onto the carpet.
He didn’t live in his own place. He didn’t spend his own money. He had no job, no future. He was a well-kept pet, not a man. And as much as he loved Marissa, after what just happened on that back lawn, it was clear things couldn’t work out between them. The relationship was flat-out destructive, especially for her: she was distraught, blaming herself for shit that wasn’t her fault, suffering, and it was because of him. Goddamn it, she deserved so much better. She deserved…oh, shit, she deserved Rehvenge, that thick-blooded aristocrat. Rehv would be able to take care of her, give her what she needed, take her out socially, be her mate for centuries.
Butch got up, walked to the closet, and took out a Gucci duffel…then realized he didn’t want to take anything of this life with him when he bailed.
Tossing the bag aside, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, shoved his feet into some running shoes, and found the old wallet and set of keys he’d brought with him when he moved in with Vishous. As he looked at the metal tangle on its simple silver ring, he remembered that back in September he hadn’t bothered to do anything with his apartment. So after all this time, his landlord must have long ago busted in and cleared out his stuff. Which was fine. It wasn’t like he wanted to go back there anyway.
Leaving the keys, he headed out of his room, only to realize he had no wheels. He glanced down at his feet. Looked like he was walking it down to Route 22, then hitching a ride from there.
He had no coherent plan for what he was going to do or where he would go. He knew only that he was leaving the brothers and Marissa and that was it. Well, he also knew that to make it stick, he was going to have to get out of Caldwell. Maybe he could head west or something.
When he walked into the living room, he was relieved V wasn’t around. Saying good-bye to his roommate was nearly as awful as leaving his woman. So no reason to have that bon voyage convo.
Shit. What was the Brotherhood going to do about him pulling out? He knew a lot about them—Whatever. He couldn’t stay, and if that meant action had to be taken, it would sure as hell put him out of his misery.
And as for what the Omega did to him? Well, he didn’t have much of an answer for the whole lesser thing. But at least he wouldn’t have to worry about hurting the brothers or Marissa. Because he wasn’t planning on ever seeing them agai
n.
His hand was on the vestibule’s doorknob when V said, “Where you going, cop?”
Butch swiveled his head around as V stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen.
“V…I’m leaving.” Before there was a response, Butch shook his head. “If that means you have to kill me, just do it quick and bury me fast. And don’t let Marissa know.”
“Why you pulling out?”
“It’s better this way, even if it means I’m dead. Hell, you’ll be doing me a favor if you have to off me. I’m in love with a woman I can’t really have. You and the Brotherhood are the only friends I’ve got and I’m giving you up, too. And what the fuck do I have out in the real world waiting for me? Nothing. I got no job. My family thinks I’m whacked. The only good thing is that I’ll be on my own with my own kind.”
V approached, a tall, menacing shadow.
Shit, maybe this would all be over with tonight. Right here. Right now.
“Butch, man, you can’t get out. I told you from the beginning. No getting out.”
“So like I just said…snuff me. Grab a dagger and do me. But hear me clear. I will not stay in this world as an outsider one more minute.”
As their eyes met, Butch didn’t even brace himself. He wasn’t going to fight. He was going to go gently into the good night, carried there by his best friend’s hand on a good, clean kill.
There were worse ways to go, he thought. Many, many worse ways.
Vishous’s eyes narrowed. “There may be another way.”
“Another…V, buddy, a set of plastic fangs ain’t going to make this better.”
“Do you trust me?” When there was only silence, V repeated, “Butch, do you trust me?”
“Yeah.”
“Then give me an hour, cop. Let me see what I can do.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Time dragged and Butch prowled around the Pit while waiting for V to get back. Finally, unable to shake the Scotch haze and still dizzy as shit, he went in and lay down on his bed. As he closed his eyes, it was more to dim the light than with any hope of sleep.
Surrounded by a dense quiet, he thought about his sister Joyce and that new baby of hers. He knew where the baptism had been held today: Same place he’d been dipped. Same place all the O’Neals had been dipped.
Original sin washed away.
He put his hand on his stomach, on that black scar, and thought that evil had certainly come back for him, hadn’t it. Ended up right inside of him.
Palming his cross, he fisted the gold until it cut into his skin, and decided he needed to go back to church. Regularly.
He was still gripping the crucifix when exhaustion took him by stealth, leaching his thoughts away, replacing them with a nothingness he would have been relieved by if he’d been conscious.
Sometime later, he woke up and glanced at the clock. He’d slept for two hours straight, and now he was in the hangover phase of things, his head one big, dull ache, his eyes supersensitive to the light coming in under the door. He rolled over and stretched, his spine cracking.
An eerie moan drifted down the hall.
“V?” he said.
Another moan.
“You okay there, V?”
From out of nowhere, there was a crashing noise, like something heavy had been dropped. Then choking sounds, the kind you made when you were too hurt to cry out and scared to death. Butch sprang off his bed and ran into the living room.
“Jesus Christ!”
Vishous had thrown himself off the couch and landed facefirst on the coffee table, scattering bottles and glasses. As he flailed around, his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth gaped with screams unvoiced.
“Vishous! Wake up!” Butch grabbed on to those heavy arms, only to realize V had taken his glove off: That god-awful hand of his was glowing like the sun, burning holes in the wood of the table and the leather of the couch.
“Fuck!” Butch leaped out of the strike zone as he nearly got swiped.
All he could do was call out Vishous’s name as the brother struggled in the grip of whatever monster held him. Finally, something got through. Maybe the sound of Butch’s voice. Maybe V knocked himself around hard enough to wake himself up.
As Vishous opened his eyes, he was panting and shivering, covered with fear sweat.
“My man?” When Butch knelt down and touched his friend on the shoulder, V shrank back, cowering. Which was the scariest part. “Hey…easy, you’re home. You’re safe.”
V’s stare, usually so cool and calm, was glassy. “Butch…oh, my God. Butch…the death. The death…The blood down the front of my shirt. A shirt of mine…”
“Okay, just go easy. We’re going to cool out here, big guy.” Butch clamped a hand under V’s right armpit and hoisted the brother back on the couch. Poor bastard flopped against the leather cushions like a rag doll. “Let’s get you a drink.”
Butch headed for the galley kitchen, picked up a fairly clean glass off the counter, and rinsed it out. He filled the thing with cold water, even though V would no doubt rather it be Goose.
When he came back, Vishous was lighting up a cigarette with hands that were like flags in the wind.
As V took the glass, Butch said, “You want something stronger?”
“Nah. This is good. Thanks, man.”
Butch sat down on the other end of the sofa. “V, I think it’s time we did something about this nightmare thing.”
“Not going there.” V inhaled deeply and let out a steady stream of smoke from his lips. “Besides, I’ve got good news. Kind of.”
Butch would rather have stayed on the V dreamland shit, but that was clearly not happening. “So talk. And you should have woken me up as soon as you—”
“Tried. You were out cold. Anyway…” Another exhale. This one more normal. “You know I’ve looked into your past, right?”
“I figured.”
“Had to know what was doing, if you were going to live with me—with us. I traced your blood back to Ireland. Lot of pasty-white bog people in your veins, cop.”
Butch got real still. “Did you find…anything else?”
“Not when I searched nine months ago. And not when I retraced you an hour ago.”
Oh. Buzz kill. Although, Christ, what was he thinking? He wasn’t a vampire. “So why are we talking about this?”
“You sure you don’t have any weird-ass stories in your family? Especially back in Europe? You know, some female in your line getting pinched at night? Maybe a pregnancy that came out of the blue? Like someone’s daughter who disappeared and maybe came back with a child?”
Actually, there hadn’t been a lot of O’Neal lore passed along. For his first twelve years, his mother had been busy raising six kids and working as a nurse. Then after Janie’s murder, Odell had been too shattered to carry stories. And his father? Yeah, right. Pulling nine to five for the telephone company and then hitting the night shift as a security guard didn’t make for a lot of quality chat time with the kidlets: When Eddie O’Neal had been home, he’d been drinking or asleep.
“I don’t know of anything.”
“Well, here’s the deal, Butch.” V inhaled, then talked through the smoke as he breathed out. “I want to see if you’ve got any of us in you.”
Whoa. “But you know my family tree, right? And wouldn’t my blood tests at the clinic, or even throughout my life, have shown something?”
“Not necessarily and I have a very precise way of finding out. It’s called ancestor regression.” V brought up his glowing hand and clenched it into a fist. “Goddamn, I hate this thing. But this is how we do it.”
Butch eyed the scorched coffee table. “You’re going to torch me like kindling.”
“I’ll be able to channel it to the purpose. Not saying it will be fun for you, but it shouldn’t kill you. Bottom line? That shit with Marissa and the feeding and the way you reacted to it? The fact that you’re telling me you throw off scent around her? Plus god knows, you’re aggressive enough. Who kno
ws what we’ll find.”
Something warm tingled in Butch’s chest. Something like hope. “And what if I have a vampire relative?”
“Then we might…” V took a very deep drag on the hand-rolled. “We might be able to turn you.”
Holy. Shit. “I thought you couldn’t do that.”
V nodded over at a thigh-high stack of leather volumes by the computers. “There is something in the Chronicles. If you’ve got some of our blood in you, we can give it a shot. It’s very risky, but we could try.”
Man, Butch was so on board with that plan. “Let’s do the regression. Now.”
“Can’t. Even if you have the DNA, we need to get clearance from the Scribe Virgin before we even think about jumpstarting any kind of change. That kind of shit is not to be done lightly, and there’s the added complication of what the lessers did to you. If she won’t allow us to proceed, it won’t matter whether you’ve got relatives with fangs, and I don’t want to put you through an ancestor regression if there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“How long until we know?”
“Wrath said he’d talk to her tonight.”
“Jesus, V. I hope—”
“I want you to take some time and think about this. The regression is a bitch to go through. Your brain’s going to stroke out on us and I understand the pain’s no party. And you might want to talk to Marissa about it, also.”
Butch thought of her. “Oh, I’ll get through it. You don’t worry about that.”
“Don’t get cocky—”
“I’m not. This has to work.”
“Might well not, though.” V stared at the lit tip of his hand-rolled. “Assuming you come out the other side of the regression okay, and we can find a living relative of yours to use to jump-start the change, you could die in the middle of the transition. There’s only a small chance you’ll survive.”
“I’ll do it.”
V laughed in a short burst. “I can’t decide whether you have serious balls or a death wish.”
“Never underestimate the power of self-hatred, V. It’s a hell of a motivator. Besides, we both know what the only other option is.”