When Mr. X came back from meeting the Omega on the other side, he felt like he had heartburn. Which seemed logical, as he'd been fed his own ass.
The master had been teed up about a variety of things. He wanted more lessers, more vampires bleeding out, more progress, more... more... But the thing was, no matter what he was given, he would always be unsatisfied. Maybe that was his curse.
Whatever. The calculus of Mr. X's failure was up on the blackboard, the mathematical equation of his destruction outlined in chalk. The unknown in the algebra was time. How long before the Omega snapped and Mr. X got recalled for eternity?
Things needed to move faster with Van. That man had to get on board and in place ASAP.
Mr. X went over to his laptop and fired the Dell up. Sitting down next to the dried brown stain of a blood pool, he called up the Scrolls and found the relevant passage. The lines of the prophecy calmed him:
There shall be one to bring the end before the master, a fighter of modern time found in the seventh of the
twenty-first,
and he shall be known in the numbers he bears: One more than the compass he apperceives, Though mere four points to make at his right, Three lives has he,
Two scores on his fore,
and with a single black eye, in one well will he be birthed and die.
Mr. X eased back against the wall, cracked his neck, and looked around. The stinky remnants of the meth lab, the filth in the place, the air of bad deeds done without remorse were like a party he didn't want to be at but couldn't leave. Just like the Lessening Society.
Except it was going to be okay. At least he'd spotted the lesser exit.
God, it had been so weird how he'd found Van Dean. X had gone to the ultimate fighting brawls to troll for new recruits and Van had immediately stood out from the others. There was just something special about him, something that elevated him above his opponents. And watching the guy move that first night, Mr. X had thought he'd spotted an important addition to the Society... until he'd noticed the missing finger.
He didn't like to bring in anyone with a physical defect.
But the more he saw Van fight, the more clear it was that an absent pinkie was no liability at all. Then a' couple nights later he saw the tattoo. Van always fought with a T-shirt on, but at one point the thing got shoved up around his pecs. On his back, in black ink, an eye stared out from between his shoulder blades.
That had been what sent Mr. X into the Scrolls. The prophecy was buried deep in the text of the Lessening Society's handbook, an all-but-forgotten paragraph in the midst of the rules of induction. Fortunately, when Mr. X had become Fore-lesser the first time, he'd read the passages thoroughly enough to remember the damn thing was there.
As with the rest of the Scrolls, which had been translated into English in the 1930s, the wording of the prophecy was abstract. But if you were missing a finger on your right hand, then you had only four points to make. "Three lives" was childhood, adulthood, and then life in the Society. And according to the fight crowd, Van was homegrown, born in the city of Caldwell, which was also known as the Well.
But there was more. The man's instincts were twitchy as hell. All you had to do was watch him in that chicken-wire ring to know that north, south, east, and west were only part of what he was sensing. He had a rare talent for anticipating the way his opponent was going to move. It was the gift that set him apart.
The clincher, however, was the appendix removal. The word score could be construed in a variety of ways, but it very conceivably referred to scarring. And everyone had a belly button, so if you'd had your appendix removed as well, you'd have two scars on your "fore," wouldn't you?
Plus it was the right year to find him.
Mr. X reached for his cell phone and called one of his subordinates.
As the line rang, he was aware that he needed Van Dean, that modern fighter, that four-fingered bastard, more than anyone he'd met in his life. Or after his death.
When Marissa materialized in front of the dour gray mansion, she put her hand up to her throat and tilted her head back. God, so much stone rising from the earth, whole quarries stripped to gather the load. And so many leaded-glass windows, the diamond panes looking like bars. And then there was the twenty-foot-high retaining wall that wrapped around the courtyard and the grounds. And the security cameras. And the gates.
So secure, So cold.
The place was precisely as she'd expected it to be, a fortress not a home. And it was surrounded by a buffer of what in the Old Country was called mhis so that unless you were supposed to be here, your brain couldn't process the location well enough for you to find your way around. Hell, the only reason she'd made it to the Brotherhood's compound was because Wrath was inside. After three hundred years of living off his pure blood, she had so much of him in her that she could find him anywhere. Even through the mhis.
As she faced the mountain before her, her nape tingled like she was being stalked, and she looked over her shoulder. In the east, the light of day was gathering momentum, and the radiance made her eyes burn. She was almost out of time.
Hand still on her throat, she walked up to a pair of massive brass doors. There was no doorbell or knocker, so she tried one side. It opened, which was a shock¡ªat least until she stood in the vestibule. Ah, here was where you were screened.
She put her face in front of a camera and waited. No doubt an alarm had gone off when she'd breached the first door, so someone would either come and let her in... or refuse her. In which case she was on to her second choice. At a dead run.
Rehvenge was the only other person she could have turned to, but he was complicated. His mahmen was a spiritual counselor of sorts to the glymera and would no doubt be highly offended by Marissa's presence.
With a prayer to the Scribe Virgin, she smoothed her hair with her palm. Maybe she'd gambled wrong, but she'd assumed that Wrath wouldn't turn her away this close to dawn. For all she'd endured with him, she figured he could spare her one day under the cover of his roof. And he was a male of honor.
At least Butch didn't live with the Brotherhood as far as she knew. He'd stayed at another place somewhere else over the summer and she guessed he still had it. Hoped he did.
The heavy wooden doors ahead of her opened, and Fritz, the butler, seemed very surprised to see her. "Madam?" The elderly doggen bowed low. "Are you... expected?"
"No, I'm not." She was about as far away from expected as it got. "I, ah¡ª"
"Fritz, who is it?" came a female voice.
As footsteps got closer, Marissa clasped her hands together and lowered her head.
Oh, Lord. Beth, the queen. It would have been so much better to see Wrath first. And now she could only assume this wasn't going to work out.
Surely her majesty would let her use the phone to call Rehvenge? God, did she even have time to dial?
The doors creaked open even wider. "Who is... Marissa!"
Marissa kept her eyes on the floor and curtsied, as was custom. "My queen."
"Fritz, will you excuse us?" A moment later Beth said, "Would you like to come in?"
Marissa hesitated, then stepped through the door. She had a peripheral sense of incredible color and warmth, but she couldn't lift her head to take it all in.
"How did you find us?" Beth asked.
"Your... hellren's blood lingers within me. I... I have come to him for a favor. I would speak to Wrath, if it would not offend?"
Marissa was shocked when her hand was grasped. "What's happened?"
When she lifted her eyes to the queen, she nearly gasped. Beth was so genuinely concerned, so worried. To be greeted with any kind of warmth was disarming, especially from this female who by all rights might be tempted to kick her out.
"Marissa, talk to me."
Where to start. "I am... ah, I am in need of a place to stay. I have nowhere to go. I have been cast out. I am¡ª"
"Wait, slow down. Just slow down. What happened?"
Marissa took a deep breath and gave a condensed version of the story, one that avoided any mention of Butch. The words ran out of her like dirty water, spilling onto the brilliant mosaic floor, staining the beauty beneath her feet. The shame of the recounting stung her throat.
"So you will stay with us," Beth pronounced when it was over.
"Just the one night."
"For however long you want." Beth squeezed Marissa's hand. "However. Long."
As Marissa shut her eyes and tried not to break down, she became dimly aware of a pounding sound, of heavy boots descending carpeted stairs.
Then Wrath's deep voice filled the cavernous three-story foyer. "What the hell's going on?"
"Marissa is moving in with us."
While Marissa dropped into another curtsy, she was totally stripped of her pride, as vulnerable as if she were naked. To have nothing and throw yourself on the mercy of others was a strange kind of terror.
"Marissa, look at me."
Wrath's hard tone was utterly familiar, the one he'd always used with her, the one that had made her cringe for three centuries. In desperation, she eyed the open door to the vestibule even though she was by now officially out of time.
The wooden panels slammed shut as if the king had willed it so. "Marissa, talk."
"Back off, Wrath," the queen snapped. "She's been through too much tonight already. Havers threw her out."
"What? Why?"
Beth made quick work of the story, and hearing it from a third party only increased Marissa's humiliation. As her vision blurred, she struggled not to lose it.
And the battle was lost when Wrath said, "Jesus Christ, that idiot. Of course she stays here."
With a shaking hand, she brushed under both eyes, capturing her tears and quickly rubbing them away between her fingertips.
"Marissa? Look at me."
She lifted her head. God, Wrath was just the same, his face too cruel to be truly handsome, those wraparound sunglasses making him look even more intimidating. Absently, she noted that his hair was much longer than when she'd known him, down nearly to the small of his back.
"I'm glad you came to us."
She cleared her throat. "I would be grateful for a short tenure here."
"Where are your things?"
"They're all packed up at my house¡ªer, my brother's¡ªI mean, Havers's house. I came back from the Princeps Council and everything I own was in boxes. But it can remain there until I figure out¡ª"
"Fritz!" When the doggen came running in, Wrath said, "Go to Havers's and pick up her stuff. You better take the van and an extra set of arms."
Fritz bowed and took off, moving faster than you would think an old doggen could.
Marissa tried to find words. "I¡ªI¡ª"
"I'm going to show you to your room," Beth said. "You look like you're about to collapse."
The queen took Marissa over to the grand staircase, and as they went, Marissa glanced over her shoulder. Wrath had an utterly ruthless expression on his face, his jaw set like concrete.
She had to stop. "Are you sure?" she asked him.
His glower got worse. "That brother of yours has a real knack for pissing me off."
"I don't mean to inconvenience you¡ª"
Wrath rolled right over her words. "This was about Butch, wasn't it. V told me that you went to the cop and pulled him through. Let me guess¡ªHavers didn't appreciate you getting too tight with our human, right?"
Marissa could only nod.
"Like I said, your brother really pisses me off. Butch is our boy even if he isn't in the Brotherhood and anyone who cares for him cares for us. So you take up residence here for the rest of your natural goddamned life as far as I'm concerned." Wrath headed around the base of the stairs. "Fucking Havers. Fucking idiot. I'll go find V and let him know you're here. Butch isn't around, but V'll know where to find him."
"Oh¡ªno, you don't have to¡ª"
Wrath didn't stop, didn't even hesitate, reminding her that you didn't tell the king to do anything. Even if it was not to worry about something.
"Well," Beth murmured, "at least he's not armed right now."
"I'm surprised he cares this much."
"Are you kidding? It's appalling. To turn you out right before dawn? Anyway, let's get you settled."
Marissa resisted the female's gentle pull. "You welcome me so graciously. How can you be so¡ª"
"Marissa." Beth's navy blue eyes were level. "You saved the man I love. When he was shot and my blood wasn't strong enough, you kept him alive by giving him your wrist. So let's be perfectly clear. There is absolutely nothing I wouldn't do for you."
As dawn arrived and light poured into the penthouse, Butch woke up fully aroused and in the process of grinding his hips into a twist of satin sheets. He was covered with sweat, his skin hypersensitized, his erection pulsing.
Groggy, confused as to what was reality and what he just hoped was real, he reached downward. Undid his belt. Burrowed through his slacks and his boxers.
Images of Marissa swirled in his head, half the fantasy he'd been so gloriously lost in, half memories of the feel of her. He fell into a rhythm with his hand, unsure whether he was the one who was doing the stroking... Maybe it was her... God, he wanted it to be her.
He closed his eyes and arched his back. Oh, yeah. So good.
Except then he woke up.
As he realized what he was doing, he became vicious. Angry with himself and so much of what was going on, he handled his sex roughly until he barked a curse and ejaculated. He couldn't even call it an orgasm. More like his cock swore out loud.
With sickening dread, he braced himself and looked down at his hand.
Then just sagged from relief. At least something was back to normal.
After kicking out of his trousers and wiping up with the boxers, he went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Under the spray, all he could think about was Marissa. He missed her with a stinging hunger, a kind of craving pain that reminded him of when he'd quit smoking the year before.
And shit, no Nicoderm for this.
When he came out of the bath with a towel around his hips, his new cell phone was ringing. He fumbled around the pillows and finally found the thing.
"Yeah, V?" he rasped. Man, his voice was always shot to shit in the morning and today was no different. He sounded like a car engine that wouldn't turn over.
Okay, so that was two normals in his favor.
"Marissa's moved in."
"What?" He sank down onto the mattress. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Havers kicked her out."
"Because of me?"
"Yup."
"That bastard¡ª"
"She's here in the compound, so you don't worry about her safety. But she's rattled as hell." There was a long silence. "Cop? You there, my man?"
"Yeah." Butch fell back on the bed. Realized his thigh muscles were twitching with the need to get to her.
"So like I said, she's okay. You want me to bring her to you tonight?"
Butch put his hand up to his eyes. The idea that someone had hurt her in any way made him positively mental. To the point of violence.
"Butch? Hello?"
As Marissa settled into a canopied bed, she pulled the covers up to her neck and wished she weren't naked. Trouble was, she had no clothes.
God, even though no one would bother her here, being bare just... felt wrong. Scandalous, though no one would ever know.
She glanced around. The room she'd been given was lovely, done in a delphinium blue toile, with the pastoral scene of a lady and a kneeling suitor repeated on the walls, the drapes, the bedcovers, the chair.
Not exactly what she wanted to look at. The two French lovers crowded her, striking her as not visual but audible, a chaotic staccato of what she didn't have with Butch. Wouldn't ever have with Butch.
To solve the problem, she turned off the light and closed her eyes. And the ocular version of earplugs worked like a charm.
Dear Virgin, what a mess. And she had to wonder in what manner things were going to get worse. Fritz and two other doggen had gone over to her brother's¡ªto Havers's¡ªand she half expected them to come back with nothing. Maybe Havers would decide to just get rid of her things in the meantime. Like he'd done with her.
While she lay there in the dark, she sifted through the rubble of her life, trying to see what was still usable and what she had to abandon as unsalvageable. All she found was depressing litter, a hodgepodge of unhappy memories that gave her no direction. She had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do or where she should go.
And didn't that make sense. She'd spent three centuries waiting and hoping for a male to notice her. Three centuries trying to fit in with the glymera. Three centuries working desperately to be someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's mate. All those expectations had been the laws of physics that had governed her life, more pervasive and grounding than gravity.
Except where had trying to meet them gotten her? Orphaned, unmated, and shunned.
All right, then, her first rule for the rest of her days: no more looking outside for definitions. She might not have any clue who she was, but better to be lost and searching than shoved into a social box by someone else.
The phone next to the bed rang and she jumped. After five rounds of chiming, she answered the thing only because it refused to stop going off. "Hello?"
"Madam?" A doggen. "You have a call from our master Butch. Are you receiving?"
Oh, great. So he'd heard.
"Madam?"
"Ah... yes, I am."
"Very well. And I've given him your direct dial. Please hold."
There was a click and then that telltale gravel voice. "Marissa? Are you okay?"
Not really, she thought, but it was none of his business. "Yes, thank you. Beth and Wrath have been very charitable to me."
"Listen, I want to see you."
"You do? Then may I assume that all your problems have magically disappeared? You must be thrilled to be back to normal. Congratulations."
He cursed. "I'm worried about you."
"Kind of you, but¡ª"
"Marissa¡ª"
"¡ªwe wouldn't want to endanger me, would we?"
"Listen, I just¡ª"
"So you better stay away so I don't get hurt¡ª"
"Damn you, Marissa. Goddamn this whole thing!"
She closed her eyes, mad at the world and at him and at her brother and herself. And with Butch getting angry, too, this conversation was a hand grenade about to go off.
In a low voice she said, "I appreciate you checking in on me, but I'm fine."
"Shit..."
"Yes, I believe that covers the situation well. Good-bye, Butch."
As she hung up the phone, she realized she was shaking all over.
The ringer went off again immediately and she glared at the bedside table. With a quick lean-and-grab, she reached over and yanked the cord out of the wall.
Shoving her body down through the sheets, she curled over on her side. There was no way she was going to go to sleep, but she shut her eyes anyway.
As she fumed in the dark, she came to a conclusion. Even though everything was... well, shit, to use Butch's eloquent summation... she could say this at least: Being pissed off was better than having a panic attack.
Twenty minutes later, with his Sox cap pulled down low and a pair of sunglasses in place, Butch walked up to a dark green '03 Honda Accord. He looked left and right. No one was in the alley. There were no windows on the buildings. No cars passing by on Ninth Street.
Bending down, he picked up a hunk of rock from the ground and punched a hole in the driver's side window. As the alarm went apeshit, he stepped away from the sedan and melted into the shadows. No one came running. The noise died off.
He hadn't stolen a car since he was sixteen and a juvenile delinquent in South Boston, but he was back in the groove now. He walked over calmly, popped the door, and got in. The sequence that came next was quick and efficient, proving that crime, like his Southie accent, was something he'd never quite lost: He ripped off the panel underneath the dash. Found the wires. Put the right two together and... vroom.
Butch knocked out the rest of the shattered glass with his elbow and took off at a leisurely roll. As his knees were nearly up to his chest, he reached down, hit the release and shoved the seat back as far as it could go. Propping his arm on the window, like he was just taking in the early spring air, he leaned back, all casual.
When he got to the stop sign at the end of the alley, he hit the directional signal and came to a full-tire halt: Following traffic laws when you were in a stolen vehicle and had no ID on you was mission critical.
As he hung a louie and headed down Ninth, he felt bad for whatever Joe he'd just royally fucked over.. Losing your wheels was not fun, and at the first stoplight he came to, he flipped open the glove compartment. Car was registered to one Sally Forrester. 1247 Barnstable Street.
He vowed to return the Honda to her ASAP and leave her a couple of grand to cover the inconvenience and the busted window.
Speaking of busted things... he tilted the rearview mirror toward himself. Oh, Christ, he was a train wreck. He needed a shave and his face was still a mess from the beatings. With a curse, he repositioned the glass so he didn't have to look at his road map of ugly.
Unfortunately, he still had a pretty clear picture of what was doing.
Heading out of town in Sally Forrester's Accord, sporting a puss like a punching bag, he got nailed with a good shot of self-awareness that he didn't appreciate. He'd always straddled that line between good and bad, had always been willing to bend the rules to suit his purposes. Hell, he'd cracked suspects around until they broke. Turned a blind eye on occasion if it would get him information on a case. Done drugs even after he'd joined the force¡ªat least until he'd kicked his coke habit.
Only no-no's had been kickbacks and sexual favors in the line of duty.
So, yeah, guess those two made him a hero.
And what was he doing now? Going after a female whose life was already a mess. Just so he could join the shit parade that was marching all over her.
Except he couldn't stop himself. After he'd called Marissa back on the phone over and over again, he'd been unable to keep himself from this road trip. Obsessed before, now he was possessed by her. He just had to see if she was all right and... well, hell, he was thinking maybe he could explain himself a little better.
There was one good thing, though. He truly seemed back to normal on the inside. Back in V's lair, he'd given himself a fresh slice in the arm with a knife because, hand-job results notwithstanding, he'd had to check his blood. The stuff had been red, thank God.
He took a deep breath¡ªand then frowned. Putting his nose down to his bicep, he inhaled again. What the hell was this? Even with the wind rushing around in the car, and even through his clothes, he could smell something and no, not the cloying baby powder bullshit, which had fortunately faded. Now there was something else coming out of him.
Christ. Lately, it was like his body was a Glade PlugIn that couldn't make its mind up. But at least this spicy scent he liked¡ª
Whoa. It couldn't be... No, it wasn't. Just wasn't. Right?
Absolutely not. He took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. As soon as he heard V's "hello," he said, "Heads up, I'm coming in."
There was a rasp and an inhale like Vishous had lit up. "I'm not surprised. But how are you getting here?"
"Sally Forrester's Honda."
"Whose?"
"No idea, I stole it. Look, I'm not pulling anything strange." Yeah, right. "Well, the lesser kind of strange. I just need to see Marissa."
There was a long silence. "I'll let you in through the gates. Hell, the mhis has kept those slayers off this property for seventy years, so it's not like they could track you here. And I don't believe you're coming after us. Unless I've got my head wedged?"
"Damn straight I'm not."
Butch repositioned the Sox cap, and as his wrist passed by his nose, he got another whiff of himself. "Ah, V... listen, there's something weird going down with me."
"What?"
"I smell like men's cologne."
"Good for you. Females dig that kind of thing."
"Vishous, I smell like Obsession for Men, only I'm not wearing any, you feel me?"
There was silence on the line. Then, "Human's don't bond."
"Oh, really. You want to tell that to my central nervous system and my sweat glands? They'd appreciate the news flash, I'm sure."
"You noticed it after you two were in that patient room together?"
"It's been worse since then, but I thought I smelled something like it one other time."
"When?"
"I watched her get into a car with a male."
"How long ago?"
"Like three months. Palmed a Glock when I saw it happen."
Silence. "Butch, humans do not bond like we do."
"I know."
More silence. Then, "Any chance you were adopted?"
"No. And there are no fangs in the family, if that's what you're thinking. V, man, I drank some of you. Are you sure that I haven't become¡ª"
"Genetics is the only way. That bite/turning thing's just bullshit folklore. Look, I'll let you through the gates and we'll talk after you see her. Oh, and check it. Wrath has no problem working over lessers to find out what happened to you. But he doesn't want you involved."
Butch's hand cranked hard on the steering wheel. "Fuck. That. I spent hours earning the right for payback, V. I bled for the right to knock those assholes around and get my own answers."
"Wrath¡ª"
"Is a nice guy, but he ain't my king. So he can lay down on this."
"He just wants to protect you."
"Tell him I don't need the favor."
V let off a foul-sounding line or two in the Old Language, then muttered, "Fine."
"Thank you."
"One last deet, cop. Marissa's a guest of the Brotherhood's. If she doesn't want to see you, we're going to haul your ass out, true?"
"If she doesn't want to see me, I'll leave on my own. I swear."
