by J. R. Ward
On the way to his house, O pulled into a CVS. It didn't take him long to find what he needed, and ten minutes later he shut his front door and deactivated his security alarm. His place was a tiny two-story in a not-so-hot residential section of town, and the location provided good cover. Most of his neighbors were elderly, and those who weren't were green-carders who worked two and three jobs. No one bothered him.
As he walked upstairs to the bedroom, the sound of his footsteps echoing up from the bare floors and bouncing off the empty walls was oddly comforting. Still, the house wasn't a home and never had been. The thing was a barrack. A mattress and a Barcalounger were all he had for furniture. Blinds hung in front of every piece of glass, blocking any view. Closets were stocked with weapons and uniforms. The kitchen was completely empty, the appliances unused since he'd moved in.
He stripped and took a gun into the bathroom along with the white plastic CVS bag. Leaning in toward the mirror, he parted his hair. His roots were showing about an eighth of an inch of pale.
The change had started about a year ago. First a few hairs, right on top, then a whole patch that spread from front to back. His temples had held out the longest, though now even they were fading.
Clairol Hydrience No. 48 Sable Cove took care of the problem, got him back to brown. He'd started with Hair Color for Men, but soon discovered that the shit for women worked better and lasted longer.
He popped open the box and didn't bother with the clear plastic gloves. Emptying the tube into the squeeze bottle, he shook the stuff up and threaded it through to his scalp in sections. He hated the chemical smell. The maintenance. The skunk stripe. But the idea of paling out repulsed him.
Why lessers lost their pigmentation over time was an unknown. Or at least, he'd never asked. The whys didn't matter to him. He just didn't want to be lost in a great anonymity with the others.
He put down the squeeze bottle and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like a total idiot, brown grease slathered all over his head. Jesus Christ, what was he turning into?
Well, wasn't that a stupid question. The deed was long done, and it was too late for regrets.
Man, on the night of his initiation, when he'd traded a part of himself for the chance to kill for years and years and years, he'd thought he'd known what he was giving up and what he was getting in return. The deal had seemed more than fair.
And for three years, it had continued to strike him as a good one. The impotence hadn't bothered him much, because the woman he wanted was dead. The not eating and drinking had taken some getting used to, but he'd never been a big chowhound or a drunk. And he'd been eager to lose his old identity, because the police were looking for him.
The plus side had seemed tremendous. The strength had been more than he'd expected. He'd been one hell of a skull-cracker when he'd worked as a bouncer back in Sioux City. But after the Omega was through doing his thing, O had inhuman tensile power in his arms, legs, and chest, and he'd liked using it.
Another bonus was the financial freedom. The Society gave him everything he needed to do his job, covering the costs of his house, his truck, his weapons and clothes, his electronic toys. He was utterly free to hunt his prey.
Or he had been for the first couple of years. When Mr. X had taken command, that autonomy had come to an end. Now there were check-ins. Squadrons. Quotas.
Visits with the Omega.
O got in the shower and washed the crap out of his hair. As he toweled off, he went back to the mirror and peered at his face. His irises, once brown like his hair, were turning gray.
In another year or so, everything that used to be him would be gone.
He cleared his throat. "My name is David Ormond. David. Ormond. Son of Bob and Lilly. Ormond. Ormond."
God, the name sounded weird as it left his mouth. And in his head, he heard Mr. X's voice referring to him as Mr. O.
A tremendous emotion swelled in him, panic and sorrow combined. He wanted to go back. He wanted… to go back, to undo, to erase. The deal for his soul had only seemed good. In reality, it was a special kind of hell. He was a living, breathing, killing ghost. No longer a man, but a thing.
O dressed with trembling hands and jumped into his truck. By the time he was downtown, he was no longer thinking logically. He parked on Trade Street and started walking the alleys. It took some time before he found what he was looking for.
A whore with long, dark hair. Who, as long as she didn't flash her teeth, looked a little like his Jennifer had.
He slipped her fifty bucks and took her behind a Dumpster.
"I want you to call me David," he said.
"Sure thing." She smiled as she undid her coat and flashed her bare chest. "What do you want to call—"
He clamped a hand over her mouth and started to squeeze. He didn't stop until her eyes were popping.
"Say my name," he commanded.
O released his grip and waited. When all she did was hyperventilate, he took out his knife and pressed it into her throat.
"Say my name."
"David," she whispered.
"Tell me that you love me." When she hesitated, he pricked the skin of her neck with the tip of the blade. Her blood welled up and slid down the shiny metal. "Say it."
Her sloppy breasts, so unlike Jennifer's, pumped up and down. "I… I love you."
He closed his eyes. The voice was all wrong.
This just wasn't giving him what he needed.
O's anger rose to an uncontrollable level.
CHAPTER 16
Rhage heaved the barbell up from his chest, teeth bared, body shaking, sweat pouring off him.
"That's ten," Butch called out.
Rhage set the load back on the stand above him, hearing the thing groan as the weights rattled and fell still.
"Add another fifty."
Butch leaned over the bar. "You got five-twenty-five on there already, my man."
"And I need another fifty."
Hazel eyes narrowed. "Easy, Hollywood. You want to shred your pecs, that's your business. But don't take my head off."
"Sorry." He sat up and shook out his burning arms. It was nine in the morning, and he and the cop had been in the weight room since seven. There wasn't one part of his body that wasn't on fire, but quitting was a long way off. He was shooting for the kind of physical exhaustion that went into the bone.
"Are we there yet?" he muttered.
"Let me tighten the clamps. Okay, good to go."
Rhage laid back down, hoisted the barbell off the stand, and let it rest on his chest. He marshaled his breathing before pumping the weight.
Stray. Dog.
Stray. Dog.
Stray. Dog.
He controlled the load until the last two reps, when Butch had to step in and spot.
"You finished?" Butch asked as he helped settle the bar on the stand.
Rhage sat up and panted, resting his forearms on his knees. "One more set of reps after this break."
Butch came around in front, twisting the shirt he'd taken off into a rope. Thanks to all the lifting they'd been doing, the male's chest and arm muscles were thickening up, and he hadn't been small to begin with. He couldn't pull the kind of iron Rhage did, but for a human, the guy was a bulldozer.
"You're getting into some kind of shape, cop."
"Aw, come on, now." Butch grinned. "Don't let that shower we took go to your head."
Rhage fired a towel at the male. "Just pointing out your beer gut's gone."
"It was a Scotch pot. And I don't miss it." Butch ran a hand over his six-pack. "Now, tell me something. Why are you beating the crap out of yourself this morning?"
"You have much interest in talking about Marissa?"
The human's face tightened up. "Not particularly."
"So you can understand if I don't have a lot to say."
Butch's dark brows rose. "You've got a woman? As in, one specific woman?"
"I thought we weren't talking about females."
&
nbsp; The cop crossed his arms and frowned. Kind of like he was assessing a blackjack hand and trying to decide whether to take another hit from the dealer.
He spoke fast and hard. "I've got it bad for Marissa. She won't see me. That's it, the whole story. Now tell me about your nightmare."
Rhage had to smile. "The idea I'm not the only one on the skids is a relief."
"That tells me nothing. I want details."
"The female threw me out of her house early this morning after doing a job on my ego."
"What kind of hatchet did she use?"
"An unflattering comparison between me and a free-agent canine."
"Ouch." Butch twisted the shirt in the other direction. "So naturally, you're dying to see her again."
"Pretty much."
"You're pathetic."
"I know."
"But I can almost beat that." The cop shook his head. "Last night, I… ah… I drove out to Marissa's brother's house. I don't even know how the Escalade got there. I mean, the last thing I need is to run into her, you feel me?"
"Let me guess. You waited around in hopes of catching a—"
"In the bushes, Rhage. I sat in the bushes. Under her bedroom window."
"Wow. That's…"
"Yeah. In my old life I could have arrested me for stalking. Look, maybe we should change the topic."
"Great idea. Finish the update about that civilian male who escaped from the lessers."
Butch leaned back against the concrete wall, crossing one arm over his chest and pulling it into a stretch. "So Phury talked with the nurse who'd treated him. The guy was pretty well gone, but he managed to tell her that they were asking questions about you brothers. Where you live. How you get around. The victim didn't give a specific address where he'd been worked over, but it has to be somewhere downtown, because that's where he was found, and God knew he couldn't have gotten far. Oh, and he kept mumbling letters. X. O. E."
"That's how lessers refer to themselves."
"Catchy. Very 007." Butch went to work on his other arm, his shoulder cracking. "Anyway, I peeled a wallet off the lesser who'd been strung up in that tree, and Tohr went over to the guy's place. It had been cleaned out, like they knew he was gone."
"Was the jar there?"
"Tohr said no."
"Then they'd definitely been by."
"What's in those things anyway?"
"The heart."
"Nasty. But better than other parts of the anatomy, considering someone told me they can't get it up." Butch dropped his arms and sucked his teeth, a little thinking noise released from his mouth. "You know, all this is starting to make sense. Remember those dead prostitutes I investigated in the back alleys this summer? The ones with the bite marks on their necks and the heroin in their blood?"
"Zsadist's girlfriends, man. It's the way he feeds. Humans only, although how he stays alive on that weak blood is a mystery."
"He said he didn't do it."
Rhage rolled his eyes. "And you think you can believe him?"
"But if we take him at his word—Hey, just humor me, Hollywood. If we believe him, then I have another explanation."
"What's that?"
"Bait. If you wanted to abduct a vampire, how do you do it? Put out food, man. Put it out, wait until one comes, drug them, and drag them wherever you want. I found darts at the scenes, like the kind you'd tranquilize an animal with."
"Jesus."
"And get this. I was listening to the police scanner this morning. Another prostitute was found dead in an alley, close to where the others were killed. I had V hack into the police server, and the online report noted that her throat had been slashed."
"You tell Wrath and Tohr all this?"
"No."
"You should."
The human shifted. "I don't know how much to get involved, you know? I mean, I don't want to stick my nose where it shouldn't be. I'm not one of you."
"But you belong with us. Or at least that's what V said."
Butch frowned. "He did?"
"Yeah. That's why we brought you here with us instead of… well, you know."
"Putting me in the ground?" The human cocked a half smile.
Rhage cleared his throat. "Not that any of us would have enjoyed that. Well, except for Z. Actually, no, he doesn't enjoy anything… The truth is, cop, you've kind of grown on—"
Tohrment's voice cut him off. "Jesus Christ, Hollywood!"
The male stalked into the weight room like a bull. And of all the Brotherhood, he was the levelheaded one. So something was on fire.
"What's up, my brother?" Rhage asked.
"Got a little message for you in the general mailbox. From that human. Mary." Tohr planted his hands on his hips, upper body jutting forward. "Why the hell does she remember you? And how does she have our number?"
"I didn't tell her how to call us."
"And you didn't scrub her memory, either. What the good goddamn are you thinking?"
"She's not going to be a problem."
"She already is. She's on our phone."
"Relax, man—"
Tohr jabbed a finger at him. "You fix her before I have to, you feel me?"
Rhage was off the bench and up his brother's face in the blink of an eye. "No one goes near her, not unless they want to deal with me. This includes you."
Tohr's navy-blue eyes narrowed. They both knew who was going to win if they got down to it. No one could take Rhage in hand-to-hand; it was a proven fact. And he was prepared to beat a no-touch commitment out of Tohrment if he had to. Right here, right now.
Tohr spoke in a grim tone. "I want you to take a deep breath and step off from me, Hollywood."
When Rhage didn't move, footsteps smacked across the mats and Butch's arm went around his waist.
"Why don't you cool off a little, big guy," Butch drawled. "Let's just break up this party, okay?"
Rhage allowed himself to get pulled back, but he kept his eyes on Tohr's. Tension crackled in the air.
"What's going on here?" Tohr demanded.
Rhage stepped free of Butch and paced around the weight room, winding in and out of the barbells on the floor and all the benches.
"Nothing. There's nothing going on. She doesn't know what I am and I don't know how she got the number. Maybe that civilian female gave it to her."
"Look at me, my brother. Rhage, stop where you are and look at me."
Rhage halted and shifted his eyes.
"Why didn't you scrub her? You know once their memories are long-term, you can't get them clean enough. Why didn't you do it when you had the chance?" As silence stretched out between them, Tohr shook his head. "Do not tell me you are getting involved with her."
"Whatever, man."
"I'll take that as a yes. Christ, my brother… what are you thinking? You know you shouldn't get tangled up with a human, and especially not with her because of the boy." Tohr's gaze sharpened. "I'm giving you an order. Again. I want you to scrub yourself from that female's memories, and I don't want you to see her anymore."
"I told you, she doesn't know what I am—"
"Are you trying to negotiate with me on this? You can't be that stupid."
Rhage shot his brother a nasty look. "And you really don't want me up in your grille again. This time, I won't let the cop peel me off."
"You kiss her with that mouth of yours yet? Whatcha tell her about your fangs, Hollywood?" As Rhage closed his eyes and cursed, Tohr's tone eased up. "Be real. She's a complication we don't need, and she's trouble for you because you chose her over a command from me. I'm not doing this to bust your balls, Rhage. It's safer for everybody. Safer for her. You will do this, my brother."
Safer for her.
Rhage leaned down and grabbed his ankles. He stretched his hamstrings so hard, he nearly pulled them off the backs of his legs.
Safer for Mary.
"I'll take care of it," he said finally.
"Ms. Luce? Please come with me."
Mary looked up and
didn't recognize the nurse. The woman seemed really young in her loose pink uniform, was probably right out of school. And she got younger as she smiled because of the dimples.
"Ms. Luce?" She shifted the voluminous file in her arms.
Mary put her purse strap on her shoulder, got to her feet, and followed the woman out of the waiting room. They went halfway down a long, buff-colored hall and paused in front of a check-in station.
"I'm just going to weigh you and take your temperature." The nurse smiled again and got even more points for being good with the scale and the thermometer. She was quick. Friendly.
"You've lost some weight, Ms. Luce," she said, while making a note in the file. "How's your eating?"
"The same."
"We're down here on the left."
The examination rooms were all alike. Framed Monet poster and a little window with drawn blinds. Desk with pamphlets and a computer. Exam table with a piece of white paper stretched over it. Sink area with various supplies. Red biohazard container in the corner.
Mary felt like throwing up.
"Dr. Delia Croce said she wanted to take your vitals." The nurse handed over a neatly folded square of fabric. "If you'll put this on, she'll be right in."
The gowns were all the same, too. Thin, soft cotton, blue with a small pink pattern. There were two sets of ties. She was never sure whether she was putting the damn things on right, whether the slit should go in the front or the back. She chose the front today.
When she was finished changing, Mary slid up onto the table and dangled her feet off the edge. It was chilly without her clothes, and she looked at them, all neatly arranged on the chair next to the desk. She would have paid good money to get back in them.
With a chime and a whistle, her cell phone went off in her purse. She dropped back down to the floor and padded over in her socks.
She didn't recognize the number as she checked caller ID and answered out of hope. "Hello?"
"Mary."
The sound of the rich male voice made her sag with relief. She'd been so sure Hal wouldn't return her call.
"Hi. Hi, Hal. Thanks for calling." She looked around for a place to sit that wasn't on the exam table. Moving her clothes to her lap, she eased into the chair. "Look, I'm really sorry about last night. I just—"