by J. R. Ward
“How did you find her?” the human surgeon asked eventually.
The fact that the man might be Jo’s brother changed a lot of things. In the vampire tradition, bonded males always came first with respect to their females—and there was no one around who didn’t know Syn’s status after the little show he’d put on tonight.
Well… except for Jo that was.
Fuck.
But the next in line after a bonded male? The eldest male in the bloodline. Which, if what Jo alleged was true, meant that Manny deserved answers to questions no one but he had any right to ask.
Syn cleared his throat and felt obligated to keep all images of anything sexual out of his mind while he replayed the course of his relationship with Jo—which he knew damn well was over now.
God, this hurt, he thought.
“She’s a reporter. She was looking into a murder downtown. There were lessers around, and I was worried that they’d recognize her for what she is—even though she is not aware she’s a half-breed.” He decided to edit out the part about her pointing her gun at him. Also the Mafia hit stuff. “There were the human police all over the place, too. She didn’t want her presence to be known, so I made sure it wasn’t. I’ve only ever protected her, I swear to you.”
Manny twisted around in the driver’s seat for a second. “She doesn’t know about the change?”
“No. She’ll find out tonight, though. Or at least she better. It’s so close for her the now.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone?”
“V already knew about her.” Syn did his best to keep any aggression out of his voice. “So she’s been looked after.”
“They should have brought her in.”
There was a long pause. And then Manny said, “I know your reputation.”
Rolling his eyes, Syn muttered, “Who doesn’t. And she’s living and breathing, isn’t she. If I were going to kill her for sport, I would have already.”
There was an even longer silence that followed that little piece of caring-is-sharing, and in the quiet, Syn went back into his past, thinking of the first female he’d gone after in the Old Country. It had been back when being a mercenary had been his only job, before Balz had gotten him in with the war camp and the Bloodletter and Xcor.
In another case of his reputation preceding him, Syn had been approached in a pub by a farmer whose fields were being encroached upon by a neighboring landowner. As the conflict escalated, the farmer’s cows had been poisoned and his lake spoiled. He’d been looking to have the problem resolved.
Syn took the money. Did recon to ensure that the story as represented to him was true. Infiltrated what turned out to be a castle to get a feel of his victim’s environs.
And then it was time to kill the male. His talhman had looked forward to the moment of blade to flesh, but Syn had waited for the spring festival to commence so there would be chaos and distraction and drunkenness inside those thick walls. Lurking within the castle and seeking the perfect moment to strike, he had followed the master of the estate back to his private rooms. Imagine Syn’s surprise when he had attacked and discovered that under the garb of a male there was, in fact, a member of the fairer sex: With her hair shorn, and heavy sandalwood sachets to cover the scent of her, no one had guessed her truth.
When it came to slaughtering her, Syn hadn’t cared about which sex she was.
And he hadn’t spared her.
He had shed all the blood from her veins until the inlaid floor beneath her bedding platform had glistened with what had kept her alive. He had felt nothing.
No, that wasn’t true. The usual rush, the thrill, the sadistic joy he experienced at causing pain, as well as the release from his own buildup of anger and aggression, had all been there.
They were always there.
In fact, that cycle of kindling, target finding, killing, and resulting relative peacefulness was why he had to murder on a regular basis.
His talhman was what made him a serial killer. Like an alcoholic needed a drink to deal with stress, he needed to bring death to complete his cycle, and he had not, and never did, regret a thing. But that was because he had rules. The efforts and time spent determining whether his marks were criminal had ensured he was not like his father.
And had also ensured that he got to kill people like his father, over and over again.
That was why the Lessening Society had never been enough for him. That was business.
What he did with his murder kit on his own time was personal, a return to the death he had wrought on the sire who had tortured him and his mahmen.
Syn was getting lax about the screening process though, wasn’t he. When Gigante had told him to kill Jo, he hadn’t looked into whether the target was an innocent or not. He’d been reeling and kill-starved, overdue and therefore prepared to murder a reporter, regardless of their virtue or lack thereof.
Which was very different from a mobster who sold drugs to kids and did fuck-all else.
“I don’t want you around her,” Manny said abruptly.
“So you’ve decided to believe her. About your kinship with her.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The surgeon’s dark eyes went to the rearview. “Sister or not, she doesn’t need you in her life.”
Syn looked down at the gauze banding around his thigh. Manny had insisted on packing that wound as well as his others.
“So you’re just going to let me bleed out, huh,” Syn said.
“No, I’m still going to treat you. I have professional ethics.”
Syn lowered his head and closed his eyes. As images of Jo came to him, a relentless onslaught of memories, his instinct to protect her surged under his skin and raced along his veins. Under different circumstances, he might have suggested he and her brother fight it out.
What stopped him was… he couldn’t disagree with the man’s conclusion.
Jo was much better off without him.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
You stole from me again.”
As Jo spoke, she stared out of the window of the truck she’d gotten into at the abandoned mall. The last thing she remembered, they were leaving the site of the fighting. Now, they were in a parking garage somewhere… God only knew where.
“It’s for your safety.”
She looked across the seat. The man—male—beside her was Syn’s size, but with a long, flowing, multi-colored hair and the calm demeanor of someone who had done so many super-dangerous things that chauffeuring a woman to… well, wherever the hell they were… was waaaaaaaay down on his list of stressors.
“My safety?” She glanced at the bulk of his leather jacket. “Really. Like I’m not already at risk around you.”
He killed the engine and stared over at her with yellow eyes that were beautiful—and so not human. “You will not be hurt here.”
“I’m supposed to trust you? When I’ve lost—” She tapped the digital clock on the dash. “—seventeen minutes. Oh? You mean you didn’t think I’d check the time? I knew you were going to do something with my memory, so I’ve been keeping track of these numbers as they change.”
The male narrowed his eyes. “What you don’t understand is that there are people who would torture you for the information about where to find us. And they can read your mind and know what you know in the blink of an eye. So yes, it’s for your safety.”
Jo looked back out the window. There wasn’t much to see. Just concrete, asphalt, parking spaces, and no open-air anything.
As he got out of the truck, she followed suit. “Are we underground?”
“Yes.” He indicated an unmarked metal door. “And we’re heading over there.”
Following him—because really, what was her other option?—she ended up in some kind of corridor, going by… what seemed to be classrooms. Meeting rooms. And then some medical facilities that looked every bit as state-of-the-art as any hospital she’d ever seen.
He stopped in front of an open door. “I think Doc Jane wants you in thi
s exam room.”
Jo crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not consenting to any kind of medical procedures, FYI.”
“Not even a blood test to prove that the man you think is your brother is actually related to you?” When she didn’t reply to the rhetorical, the male nodded. “That’s what I thought. Manny—Doctor Manello—is right behind us. I know you two didn’t get a lot of time to talk at the scene. And then you can meet Jane and find out if you’re his kin.”
Before she could ask him anything further, he gave her what looked like a little bow and backed out of the room. After he closed the door, she expected to hear some kind of lock get turned. That didn’t happen. And a few minutes later, when she tried the knob, she was able to open things just fine.
Leaning out, she looked left and right. The corridor continued beyond the room she was in, and she was surprised at the extent of the facilities. This was not anything cobbled together, and it sure as hell couldn’t have been cheap to build or maintain—
Down to the left, the reinforced door she had come through opened and she stiffened. Syn limped in first, and right behind him was Manuel Manello. Both men—males, whatever—stopped dead as they saw her, the heavy panel they’d used shutting with a solid thunch behind them.
Jo stepped out, figuring she had every right to take up some space. Then she noticed the huge red spot that had grown on the white bandage around Syn’s thigh.
“Are you okay?” she asked as they approached. Which was a stupid question.
“He’ll be fine.” Dr. Manello stepped between them. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m just going to stitch him up and then we’ll talk, okay?”
“Yes. Please.”
Standing next to the doctor, Syn was a silent, looming presence that kept his eyes lowered and his head down. But just before he went into the treatment room next door, he glanced sideways at her. And then he was out of view.
As she retreated back into her own exam room, she realized she expected him to say something. Maybe break away and come talk to her. Explain…
Well, what did she expect him to say, anyway?
Pacing, she made a circle around the examination table. Then she went over to the stainless steel sink and cabinet setup. Opening the cupboards, she checked out the orderly sterile supplies and equipment—
The voices in the room beside her were low at first. But then they got louder. And louder still, as an argument intensified.
Jo went over to the wall and put her ear to the Sheetrock. The doctor and Syn were going at it hard-core—and there were so many reasons to just stay out of whatever the fight was about.
Even though, come on, she could guess.
And because she had an idea what they were bumping heads over, she walked out, hung a left, and ripped open the door to the other treatment room.
“—she’s damn well going to go through the transition!” Syn yelled.
“You don’t know that!”
“You’re human, you wouldn’t know—”
“Fuck you—”
The two of them were on opposite sides of the examination table, leaning in, forehead to forehead, arms planted—at least until they noticed her at the same time. That shut them up quick, and the two bags of testosterone straightened, pulled their clothes back into place, and played at total composure.
Like they were choirboys who would never, ever raise their voices.
But she wasn’t worried about audio decorum.
Swallowing through a tight throat, Jo had to clear her voice before she could speak. Twice.
“What am I going to go through?” she asked hoarsely.
* * *
In addition to righteous styling, a fine sound system, and plenty of fucking torque, one of the benefits of the Audi R8 performance coupe was its all-wheel drive. There was also plenty of rubber available for grip on its racing tires, and good braking if you got a little overexcited with the pedal on the right.
Unfortunately, when it came to four-wheeling it through a forest, the car had one great rate limiter.
The thing had the ground clearance of wall-to-wall carpeting.
As a result, as Butch drove the supercar behind the box van, he was fifty-fifty on whether or not he was going to have to give up the ghost and hoof it the rest of the way.
The Tomb was located quite a distance from the Brotherhood mansion, its hidden location born courtesy of a thin fissure in the mountain’s granite and quartz superstructure, one that happened to widen into a huge subterranean cave. From what Butch had been told, the site had been in use way before Darius had built the big house, the underground space serving as the sanctum sanctorum of the Brotherhood. Not only were all the lesser jars that had ever been collected stored in its ante-hall, but deep in its stony belly, inductions and sacred rituals had been hosted for a couple of centuries, all with the Tomb’s special brand of torch-lit, yup-this-some-vampire-shit-right-here.
The R8 gave up the effort about a quarter mile from the site. Or rather, Butch decided that he could run faster than he was going, and given V’s little sojourn in Lassiter’s bubble of happiness, it was better to stop rolling the dice on that front spoiler: He didn’t want to have to explain how he’d peeled the thing like a grape. And besides, he’d made it a good mile farther than he’d thought he would.
Putting the engine in park, he killed the growl and got out, leaving the fob in the slot by the gearshift.
No reason to think the car was going to be five-fingered out here. Not only was the mountain a hard climb, that hard-core, permanent mhis obscured everything in the landscape, making it impossible for anyone or anything who was not supposed to be here… to be, well, here.
Which was why Wrath had voted yes for proposition privacy. The great Blind King hadn’t liked the idea of bringing the enemy to the Tomb any better than Butch or anybody else did. But he’d seen the logic, and made the right choice.
Falling into a jog, Butch scanned the pine trees as he weaved around boulders that reminded him of adult teeth breaking through in a child’s mouth. There wasn’t much underbrush. The mountain, like all of the Adirondack range, was more rock than soil, the topography carved by the advance and retreat of glaciers that had briefly considered a zip code relocation during the Pleistocene epoch.
This, by the way, was all according to V. Who liked to use big fancy words like “Pleistocene epoch” for “Ice Age” (not the movie.)
And so, yes, now, some eleven thousand years later, Butch was here, running over a spongy mattress of fallen pine needles, hell-bent on welcoming the enemy into the most sacred place the Brotherhood had.
He must be crazy.
The plan had seemed very reasonable when he’d been out at that battle site, vulnerable to humans and the Omega alike. But like a lot of decisions made quickly under pressure, when you got to the consequences part of your bright idea, you ended up with a case of the re-think wobbles. Except it was too late now, and the facts remained the same. Unlike the mhis that V threw up from time to time downtown, the shit that blanketed this elevated acreage was impenetrable and permanent.
Sharpie vs. your generic magic marker.
Red wine as opposed to spilled seltzer.
A house, not a lean-to…
As he caught up to the box van, Butch wound down his Top 50 list of endurance metaphors. They weren’t really making him feel much better about this, anyway. Besides, destination reached. No more hypotheticals.
Rhage got out from behind the wheel of the stink-mobile, bent over, and braced his hands on his thighs. Between slow, deep draws of fresh air, he said, “Fuck those Febreze commercials. There is no nose blind for that shit.”
Qhuinn stumbled out of the other side of the van, retching. “And I thought switching out the Diaper Genie was bad.”
While the pair of them tried to recover their olfactory equilibrium, the full complement of the Brotherhood arrived, the leather-clad males materializing in the darkness, stepping forward one by one. Everybo
dy came. Z and Phury. Tohr, obviously. Murhder. John Matthew, the newest inductee.
V was the last to re-form and he walked over to Butch. “I cleaned the site.”
“Good. Oh, quick question. Did you kill that immortal angel when he let you out of the bouncy cage?”
“No, the fucker’s fast on his feet. But it’s coming, true?”
Butch was about to switch gears and address the group, when one more person arrived.
Wrath walked forward into the clearing and everybody shut the fuck up. It was a shock to see him outside of the mansion—and a safety risk. Not even the mhis here seemed secure enough to protect the King. Plus there was no George to guide him.
Not that the male hadn’t been here plenty of times over the last three centuries, dropping off the jars of the lessers he’d killed, adding to the collection of a thousand or more vessels that were already on those shelves in the ante-hall. Plus there had been the inductions of late. And disciplinary actions. But still.
“Will you stop looking at me like that,” Wrath muttered. “Even blind, I can feel your stares. And I’m allowed to fucking be here.”
Like anybody was going to argue with the guy?
Tohr stepped up. “Of course you are.”
When Wrath glared over at the brother—although, to be fair, that was kind of a pat-on-a-toddler’s-head placation—Butch felt the need to intercede.
“Will someone open the gates for us? We gotta move this load.”
The refocus worked, Tohr leading Wrath over to the Tomb’s hidden entrance. As the pair of them penetrated the fissure, Butch popped the latch on the back of the van and—
During shipping, the stacked and slacked lessers had settled right against the double doors, likely the result of the ascension up the mountain, and as a result, they spilled out like fish guts at Butch’s feet. Jumping back from the tide of black stank and body parts, he cursed and kicked off some kind of anatomy from his shitkicker—looked like intestines?—before turning to V.
“We shoulda brought a goddamn shovel,” he said to his roommate.