The first thing Butch thought when he came around was that someone needed to turn that faucet off. The drip, drip, drip was annoying.
Then he cracked an eyelid and realized his own blood was pulling the Kohler routine. Oh¡ right. He'd been beaten and he was leaking.
This had been a long, long, very bad day. How many hours had he been interrogated? Twelve? Felt like a thousand.
He tried to take a deep breath, but some of his ribs were broken, so he picked hypoxia over more pain. Man, thanks to his captor's attentions, everything hurt like a motherfucker, but at least the lesser had sealed up that gunshot wound.
Just to keep questioning going longer.
The only saving grace to the nightmare was that not one thing about the Brotherhood had passed his lips. Not a thing. Even when the slayer went to work on his fingernails and between his legs. Butch was going to die soon, but at least he could look Saint Peter in the eye and know he wasn't a squealer when he got to heaven.
Or had he died and gone to hell? Was that what all this was about? Given some of the shit he'd pulled on earth, he could see why he'd ended up in the devil's guesthouse. But then wouldn't his torturer have horns, like devils did?
Okay, he was flirting with Looney Tunes here.
He opened his eyes a little farther, figuring it was time to try to separate reality from mind-grinding nonsense. He had a feeling this was probably his last shot at consciousness, so he should make it count.
Vision was blurry. Hands¡ feet¡ yup, chained down. And he was still lying on something hard, a table. Room was¡ dark. Dirt smell meant he was probably in a basement. Bald lightbulb revealed¡ yeah, the torture tool kit. He looked away from the spread of sharp things, shuddering.
What was that sound? A dim roar. Getting louder. Louder.
As soon as it was cut off, a door opened upstairs and Butch heard a man say in a muffled voice, "Master."
Soft reply. Indistinct. Then a conversation, with one set of footsteps pacing around, causing dust to filter down from the floorboards. Eventually, another door squeaked open, and the stairs next to him started to creak.
Butch broke out in a cold sweat and lowered his eyelids. Through the cracks between his lashes, he watched what came at him.
First guy was the lesser who'd been working him out, the guy from over the summer, from the Caldwell Martial Arts Academy¡ªJoseph Xavier was his name, if Butch remembered correctly. The other was draped from head to foot in a brilliant white robe, his face and hands completely covered. Looked like some kind of monk or priest.
Except that was no man of God under there. As Butch absorbed the person's vibe, he couldn't breathe from his repulsion. Whatever was hidden by that robe was distilled evil, the kind that mobilized serial killers and rapists and murderers and people who enjoyed beating their children: hatred and malevolence in an upright, solid form.
Butch's fear level shot through the roof. He could handle being knocked around; the pain was bitch, but there was a definable end point marked by when his heart stopped beating. But whatever was hiding under that robe held mysteries of suffering the likes of which were biblical. And how did he know? His whole body was revolting, his instincts firing off to run, save himself¡ pray.
Words came to him, marching through his mind. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want¡
The robed figure's hood turned toward Butch with the boneless swivel of an owl's head.
Butch slammed his lids shut and hurried through the Twenty-third Psalm. Faster¡ needed to get the words into his mind, faster. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters¡ He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake¡
"This man is the one?" The voice that reverberated through the basement tripped Butch up, making him lose his rhythm: It was resonant and carried an echo, something out of a sci-fi movie with all that eerie distortion.
"His gun had the Brotherhood's bullets in it."
Get back to the Psalm. And do it faster. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil¡ª
"I know you wake, human." The echoing voice shot right into Butch's ear. "Look upon me and know your captor's master."
Butch opened his eyes, turned his head, and swallowed compulsively. The face staring down into his was condensed blackness, a shadow come to life.
The Omega.
The Evil laughed a little. "So you know what I am, do you?" It straightened. "Given you anything, has he, Fore-lesser?"
"I'm not finished."
"Ah, so that is no. And you have worked him well, given how close to death he is. Yes, I can feel it coming to him. So close." The Omega bent down again and inhaled the air over Butch's body. "Yes, within the hour. Maybe less."
"He'll last as long as I want him to."
"No, he won't." The Omega started to circle the table and Butch tracked the movement, terror getting tighter and tighter, strengthening in the centrifugal force of the Evil's pacing. Around, around, around¡ Butch trembled so badly his teeth clapped together.
The shaking dried up the second the Omega came to a halt at the far end of the table. Shadowy hands lifted up, grasped the white robe's hood, and pulled it off. Overhead, the bald light-bulb flickered as if its illumination were sucked in by the black form.
"You are letting him go," the Omega said, that voice like a wave, filtered and enhanced by the air in turns. "You are leaving him out in the woods. You are telling the others to stay away from him."
What? Butch thought.
"What?" the Fore-lesser said.
"The Brotherhood has among its weaknesses a paralyzing loyalty, do they not? Yes, paralyzing fidelity. They claim what is theirs. It is the animal in them." The Omega held out its hand. "A knife, please. I am of a mind to make this human useful."
"You just said he was going to die."
"But I'm going to give him a little life, as it were. As well , as a gift. Knife."
Butch's eyes cracked wide open as an eight-inch hunting number changed hands.
The Omega placed one hand on the table, put the blade to the tip of its finger, and bore down. There was a crack, like a carrot had been cut.
The Omega leaned over Butch. "Where to hide, where to hide¡"
As the knife came up and hovered over Butch's abdomen, Butch screamed. And he was still screaming as a shallow slice was made into his belly. Then the Omega picked up the little part of itself, the black digit.
Butch fought, yanking against the binds. Horror had his eyes bulging until the pressure on his optic nerve blinded him.
The Omega inserted its fingertip into Butch's gut, then bent low and blew over the fresh cut. The skin sealed up, the flesh knitting together. Immediately, Butch felt the rotting inside him, sensed the evil worming around, moving. He lifted his head. The skin around the cut was already turning gray.
Tears raced to his eyes. Seeped down his raw cheeks.
"Release him."
The Fore-lesser went to work on the chains, but when they were off, Butch realized he couldn't move. He was paralyzed.
"I will take him," the Omega said. "And he will survive and find his way back to the Brotherhood."
"They'll sense you."
"Perhaps, but they will take him."
"He'll tell them."
"No, because he won't remember me." The Omega's face tilted toward Butch. "You won't remember a thing."
As their stares met, Butch could feel the affinity between them, could sense the bond, the sameness. He wept for the violation of himself, but more for the Brotherhood. They would take him in. They would try to help him in whatever way they could.
And sure as the evil in him, he would end up betraying them.
Except maybe Vishous or the brothers wouldn't find him. How could they? And with no clothes on, surely he would die from exposure fast.
The Omega reached out and wiped the tears from one of Butch's cheeks. The shimmer of wetness was iridescent against those translucent black fingers, and Butch wanted what had come out of him back. Not to be. Lifting the hand to its mouth, the Evil savored Butch's pain and fear, licking¡ sucking.
Despair scrambled Butch's memory, but the faith he'd thought he'd foresworn spit out another line of the Psalm: Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
But that was no longer possible now, was it? He had evil inside him, under his skin.
The Omega smiled, though Butch didn't know how he knew it. "Pity we don't have more time, as you are in a fragile state. But there will be opportunities for you and me in the future. What I claim as my own always comes back to me. Now, sleep."
And like a lamp being clicked off, Butch did.
"Answer the fucking question, Vishous." V looked away from his king just as the grandfather clock in the corner of the study started to go off. It stopped at four chimes, so it was four in the afternoon. The Brotherhood had been in Wrath's command central all day long, prowling around the ridiculously elegant Louis XIV salon, saturating the delicate air of the place with their anger.
"Vishous," Wrath growled, "I'm waiting, How will you know how to find the cop? And why didn't you mention this before now?"
Because he'd known it was going to create problems, and their shopping cart of shit was already full.
As V tried to think of what he could say, he looked at his brothers. Phury was on the pale blue silk couch in front of the fireplace, his body dwarfing the piece of furniture, his multicolored hair now back down past his jawline. Z was behind his twin, up against the mantel, his eyes back to black because he was enraged. Rhage was by the door, his beautiful face set in a nasty expression, his shoulders twitching as if his inner beast was likewise rip shit pissed.
And then there was Wrath. Behind a dainty desk, the Blind King was all menace, his cruel visage set hard, his weak eyes hidden behind black-framed wraparounds. His heavy forearms, marked on the insides with tattoos of his pure-blooded lineage, were planted on a gold-embossed blotter.
That Tohr was not with the group was a gaping wound to all of them.
"V? Answer the question or so help me God I'll beat it out of you."
"I just know how to find him."
"What are you hiding?"
V went over to the bar, poured himself a couple fingers of Grey Goose, and hammered the shot. He swallowed a number of times and then let the words fly.
"I fed him."
A chorus of inhales floated around the room. As Wrath rose in disbelief, V poured himself another hit of Goose.
"You did what?" The last word was bellowed.
"I had him drink some of me."
"Vishous¡" Wrath stalked around the desk, shitkickers hitting the floor like boulders. The king got face-to-face close. "He's a male. He's human. What the fuck were you thinking?" More vodka. Definitely time for more Goose.
V swallowed the shot and poured number four. "With my blood in him, I can find him and that's why I had him drink. I saw¡ that I was supposed to. So I did it, and I would do it again."
Wrath wheeled away and paced around the room, hands cranked into fists. As the boss man walked off frustration, the rest of the Brotherhood looked over with curiosity.
"I did what I had to," V snapped, throwing his glass back.
Wrath stopped by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The thing was shuttered for the day, no light coming through. "Did he take your vein?"
"No."
A couple of the brothers cleared their throats, like they were urging him to be honest.
V cursed and poured some more. "Oh, for God's sake, it's not like that with him. I gave him some in a glass. He didn't know what he was drinking."
"Shit, V," Wrath muttered, "you could have killed him outright¡ª"
"It was three months ago. He got through it, so there's no harm done¡ª"
Wrath's voice rang out loud as an air strike. "You violated the law! Feeding a human! Christ! What am I supposed to do with this?"
"You want to serve me up to the Scribe Virgin, I'll go willingly. But I want to be clear. First, I find Butch and bring him home, dead or alive."
Wrath popped up his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes, a habit he'd developed lately when he got tired of the king shit. "If he was interrogated, he may have talked. We could be compromised."
V looked down into his glass and slowly shook his head. "He'd die before giving us up. I guarantee it." He swallowed the vodka and felt it slide down his throat. "My man is good like that."
