Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

Oh … shit.

Rubbing his eyes, he blinked a couple of times and … yup, there it was, in the right quadrant: a lineup of jagged lines that shimmered like sunlight through blown glass.

“Fuck me…”

Courtesy of the sex sesh in the bathroom, the blonde had gotten herself a new hardwiring job—and he was about to enjoy eight to ten hours of barfing, diarrhea, and searing head pain.

As all migraine sufferers did, he glanced at his watch. He had about twenty minutes before the fun and games started, and he couldn’t afford to waste them.

Walking faster, he pushed his way through the bodies, nodding to the working girls and his security team like everything was fine. Then he went into the staff-only back of the house, hit his office for his leather jacket and his keys, and exited stage left into the parking lot. His BMW was waiting for him, and as he got in, yanked the seat belt across his chest and hit the gas, he wished like hell he still lived at the Commodore—because then he could have had one of his bouncers do the driving.

Now that he’d taken up res at the Brotherhood mansion? Disinterested, third-party chauffeurs were a no-go.

Of course, he could call his brother. But iAm would offer his silent-treatment commentary the whole way home, and there was no need to subject himself to that loud noise: iAm was the only person he’d ever met who could make quiet harder on the ears than a jet plane taking flight.

As his phone went off, he thought, shit, he’d better call in and let everyone at work know he was down for the count.

Taking the cell out, he looked at the– “Great.”

But it wasn’t like he could send iAm to voice mail. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he put the thing up to his ear even though New York was a hands-free state.

His brother didn’t even give him a chance to “hello” shit. “You’re having a migraine.”

“You’re not supposed to be psychic.”

“I’m not. I just pulled in as you tore out. I’m right behind you—and there’s only one reason you drive off like that at one a.m.”

Trez glanced in the rearview, and was quite proud of himself—if he cocked his head in a certain way, he could actually see the pair of headlights.

“Pull over.”

“I’m—”

“Pull the fuck over. I’ll come back for the car once I get you home.”

Trez continued driving, heading for the Northway, thinking, nah, he could do this.

Good plan. At least until a car approached in the opposite lane—as it got closer, he was blinded completely and had no choice but to ease off on the gas. Blinking in the aftermath, he had every intention of nailing the accelerator and continuing on, except reality set in: He was running out of time, and not just in terms of the migraine.

The s’Hisbe were only going to up their warfare to get him back to the territories, and God only knew what their next move was going to be. So what this situation did not need was iAm watching his brother die right in front of him.

Trez had already done so much damage to the guy.

A Beamer fireball was not a good chaser to his track record.

Giving up, he pulled to the side, hit the brakes, and put his forehead down on his steering wheel. Even though he shut his eyes, the aura continued along its way, spreading out and moving gradually off to the upper edge. When it disappeared? Party time—and not in a fun way.

As he waited for iAm to stop next to him, he thought that it was ironic how doing the right thing sometimes felt like a total defeat.

FOUR

“Okay, what have we got here …?”

The question was more, what haven’t they got, Beth thought as she leaned over a freezer unit dedicated solely to ice cream.

Turned out pregnant women liked the sweet cold stuff. Okay, the pregnant Chosen, Layla, liked it—and Beth had delivered the same kind on schedule, every night for the last … how long had it been since the female’s needing?

God, time flew.

And as she counted the days, she was well aware she wasn’t thinking about Layla’s progression. What she was really adding up was how many hours she’d logged in that room, sitting close by … hoping that for once an old wives’ tale would come true.

She didn’t just go up there to be a kind housemate or supportive friend.

Nope. Although why the hell she thought she and Wrath needed a baby in the middle of all this drama was a mystery. Mother Nature, however, had forced her around some kind of corner and there was no going back, no making sense of it, no reasoning with the urge.

Not that she’d necessarily talked to Wrath about it lately. As if he didn’t already have enough on his plate. But come on, if she were able to kick-start her needing …

She just wanted to hold a piece of herself and of Wrath—and the more dangerous things became with the Band of Bastards, the more desperate that need became.

In some ways, it was the saddest commentary on where they were at.

At least something of him would survive if the Band of Bastards succeeded in killing—

The wave of pain at the thought was so great, she sagged against the freezer and it was a while before she could refocus on the mother lode of Breyers, Ben & Jerry’s, Häagen-Dazs and Klondikes.

So much safer to stress over which flavor she’d have tonight. Layla was always vanilla—it was the only kind she could keep down. But Beth was wide open on that one, and thanks to Rhage’s infamous appetite, there were, like, a gabillion choices.

As she searched for inspiration, the dilemma was a slice right out of her childhood, a modern-day echo of the days when she would palm up one of her hard-earned dollars, walk a half mile to Mac’s Grocery, and take twenty minutes to get the same Hershey’s Dixie cup of chocolate that she always did. Funny, she could still remember how the place had smelled like those cake cones Mac had handmade. And that cash register, the old-fashioned one that had had a hand crank.

When she’d check out, Mac would always give her a red plastic spoon, a napkin and a smile—along with her twenty-six cents in change.

He’d been extra nice to the orphans who’d lived down at Our Lady. Then again, there were a lot of people who had been kind to her and the other kids who had been either unwanted or unlucky.

“Mint chocolate chip,” she said, reaching in and long-arming a stretch to the back.

As the cold air wafted up, she stopped to soak in the deep freeze. “Oh, yeah…”

Even though it was frickin’ December, she found herself craving the chill, her skin goose-bumping, the pores on her face tightening, the inside of her nose humming from all the dryness.

Guess all that sex was still revving her up.

Closing her eyes, she went back to Wrath taking her down onto the floor and ripping her clothes off. So good. So what they needed.

Although she hated the way she felt now.

He was so damned far away, even though his body was just upstairs in that study.

Maybe that was another reason she wanted a child.

Refocus, refocus. “Vanilla, vanilla … where are you?”

When it turned out the vanilla was MIA, she had to settle for a trio’d half gallon that was polluted with strawberry and chocolate. No biggie. With proper surgical extraction, she’d be able to get the job done without getting any offending contamination in Layla’s bowl.

Leaving the pantry and entering the kitchen proper, the sweet, earthy smell of sautéing onions and mushrooms mixed with basil and oregano was heaven in her nose. But the ambrosia wasn’t for Last Meal and it wasn’t a doggen at the sauce pot.

Nope. It was iAm—again. Which considering he appeared to cook when stressed suggested someone else’s life was in the crapper.

The Shadow and his brother were the most recent additions to the Brotherhood house, and as the owner and head chef of the ultra-old-school Salvatore’s Restaurant, iAm had more than proved his chops with linguine—although that was not to say Fritz approved of the guy getting out all those multi-gallon pots: As usual, the butler was hovering in the periphery, apoplectic that one of the household guests was doing any cooking.

“That smells delicious,” she said as she put the containers on the deck-size granite island.

She didn’t have a chance to get the bowls or spoons. Fritz sprang into action, pulling open cupboards and drawers—and she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to wait on her.

“So what is it this time?” she asked the Shadow.

“Bolognese.” iAm cracked open another spice bottle, and seemed to know the exact amount to put in without benefit of a measuring spoon.

Meeting his almond-shaped black eyes, Beth pulled her turtleneck higher to hide the bite marks on her neck. Not that he seemed to care either way. “Where’s your brother?”

“Upstairs,” came the tight reply.

Ah. Closed subject. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at Last Meal?”

“I’ve got a meeting, but there’s lamb for the rest of you, or so I’ve heard.”

“Oh, I thought you were cooking for—”

“This is therapy,” he said, banging the wooden spoon clean on the rim of the pot. “It’s the only reason Fritz lets me use his stove.”

She dropped her voice. “I thought you had special powers over him.”

“Trust me, if I did, I’d use them.” He turned down the flame. “S’cuse me. I’ve got to go check on Trez.”

“Is he injured?”

“You might say.” He gave her a brief bow and headed out of the room. “Later.”

In his wake, the air seemed to change, the molecules in the kitchen calming down sure as if his dark mood had electrified them. Freaky, but she liked him and his brother: Another couple of trained killers in the house was not a bad thing at all.

“Mistress, I believe I have everything you need.” The butler presented her with the accoutrements necessary for Breyer’s imbibing on a silver tray. “For you and the Chosen.”

“Oh, Fritz, how lovely—but, actually, I just need one bowl. I’m going to eat mine out of the carton as tacky as that sounds. But I could use a—thank you.” She smiled as the butler handed over a scoop. “Do you read minds?”

The doggen blushed, his weathered, lined face breaking into a smile. “No, mistress. Occasionally I anticipate well, however.”

Popping the top off the tri-flavor carton, she dug in, being careful to scoop the vanilla only. “Try all the time on that one.”

As he flushed and ducked his already drooping eyes, she wanted to hug him. But the last time she’d done that, he’d nearly fainted from the impropriety. Doggen lived by a strict code of behavior, and although their fondest wish was to serve well, they simply couldn’t handle it if they were praised.

And iAm had already stressed the poor guy out.

“Are you sure I may not apportion the servings for you?” the butler said anxiously.

“You know how I like to do it myself.”

“May I carry the tray up for you, then?”

“No, I’ve got it.” When he seemed ready to implode, she finished filling Layla’s bowl and hedged, “Would you mind putting the ice cream away for me?”

“Yes, please, mistress. And the scoop. I shall take care of that.”

As he made off like a bank robber with loot, she shook her head, picked up the tray and headed out into the dining room. Emerging on the far side into the foyer, she had to pause and take it all in. Even though she’d seen the three-story expanse every night for the last two years, the astounding space was still like entering into a different world: from its gold leafing to its brilliantly colored mosaic floor, from the muraled ceiling so high above to all the malachite-and-marble columns, it was pure magic.

And pure royalty.

In fact, the entire mansion was a work of art, each space in the house a new flavor of awe-inspiring luxury, a different tone set to perfection in every room.

She’d certainly never lived like this before Wrath had come into her life—or expected to. Dear Lord, she could remember after the two of them had first moved in here. Hand in hand, they’d gone through all the wings and floors, from the catacombed basement to the raftered attic. How many rooms were there? She’d lost count in the fifties.

Crazy, crazy.

And to think it hadn’t been the only thing she had inherited from her father. Money … there had been so much money, too.

To the point where, even though she had shared half of it all with John Matthew after he’d come into their lives? Hadn’t made a dent in spite of her half-brother taking millions and millions.

Totally nuts.

Crossing over the depiction of an apple tree in bloom, she hit the bloodred carpeted stairs and gunned for the second floor. An orphan all her life, it had been a shock to find out her father had known of her, had watched over her, had provided for her. But then from everything she’d heard, Darius had been like that. Never one to shirk duty.

God, she wished she’d known him.

Especially now.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she found the doors to the study open, and her man was where he hated to be—curled over acres of paperwork done in Braille, his huge shoulders blocking out most of the carved throne he sat in, his talented fingers tracing line by line, his brow furrowed trench-deep behind those wraparounds—

Both her man and George, his beloved service dog, looked over as if they’d caught her scent.

“Leelan,” Wrath said on an exhale.

With a scramble, the golden retriever jumped up from his curled position on the floor, flagged tail wagging, jowls scrunching into a grin that made him sneeze.

She was the only one he smiled for—although even as much as he loved her, he did not leave Wrath’s side.

Putting the silver tray of ice cream down on a hall table, she strode in and waved to Saxton, who was in his usual spot on one of the pale blue French sofas. “How are the hardest-working menfolk on the planet?”

The attorney in the Old Laws stood up from his own pile of papers and gave her a bow, his fine bespoke suit accommodating the movement with ease. “You are looking well.”

Yeah, well, nothin’ like a little lovin’.

“Thanks.” She went around the massive desk and took her husband’s face in her hands. “Hey.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he breathed—like it had been years since they’d seen each other.

Leaning down to kiss his mouth, she knew that he had closed his eyes even though she couldn’t see behind the dark lenses.

And then she had to be about the dog.

“How are you, George?” Just like her hubs, she gave that puppy-soft face a smooch. “You taking care of our King?”

The chuff and the thud-thud-thud of his tail hitting the edge of the throne was a big, fat yes if she’d ever heard it.

“So what are you guys working on?” she asked as Wrath pulled her into his lap and stroked her back.

It was so odd. Before she’d met him, she’d hated the touchy-feely, cutesy cuddle stuff couples pulled. But what do you know, times changed.

“Just petitions.” Read: Bullshit I’d rather light on fire than deal with.

“And we have another two dozen left.” Saxton stretched his right arm as if it had kinked. “And then we have dispute resolutions and birth and death announcements.”

Wrath let his head fall back. “I keep thinking there’s a better way of dealing with this. I hate turning you into a secretary, Saxton.”

The male shrugged over his legal pad. “I don’t mind it a’tall. Anything to get the job done.”

“On that note, what’s our next one?”

Saxton took a piece of paper out of a thick folder. “Right. So this gentlemale wants to take on another shellan—”

Beth rolled her eyes. “What, like, Sister Wives, the vampire edition?”

“It is lawful.” Saxton shook his head. “Although frankly, as a gay male, I don’t know why anybody would want one, much less multiple—oh, I mean but for your good self, my queen. You would be worth making an exception for.”

“Watch it, solicitor,” Wrath growled.

“Kidding,” the solicitor shot back.

Beth smiled at how comfortable they’d become with each other. “Wait, so is the two-wives thing common?”

Saxton lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “It used to be more prevalent when the population was larger. Now, we have fewer of everything: matings, births, deaths.”

Wrath put his lips by her ear. “Can you stay and have my break with me?”

A roll of his hips suggested his brain had taken a U-ie into horizontal territory. Or vertical—God knew he was strong enough to hold her off the floor for however long he wanted.

As her body began to warm … she thought of the ice cream she’d left in the hall. “Can you give me an hour? I have to—”

A loud crash out on the second-floor landing brought everyone’s heads around.

“What the fuck is that?” Wrath gritted.

* * *

Downtown in that alley, Xcor crouched and covered his bullet wound as popping sounds rang out all around him and screeching tires announced the arrival of more gang members.

Cover. He needed cover—now. These humans did not care about him, but their gunfire was thick as a downpour and as unpredictable and undiscriminating as a stampede of bulls.

Leaping backward, he threw his body against the building, and the pain in his shoulder was a stunner. No time to dwell on it. Looking to the left … the right …

The only thing he saw was a door about fifteen feet away, and he dropped to the ground and rolled to it, outing his own gun in the process. Discharging two shots into the steel locking mechanism, he kicked hard and dove into the darkness beyond.

The air inside was fetid … and sweet.

Sickly sweet. Like the rot of death.

Rancid … like a lesser.

As he shut himself in, shots continued to be fired, and it wasn’t going to be long before sirens would ring out. The question was, how many dead, how many wounded, and would any of that bunch of rats without tails find their way in here?

Alas, those silly questions would have to be answered after he figured out why this place smelled of his enemy.

Taking out his penlight, he flashed it around from his position on the dirty floor. The commercial kitchen had clearly been abandoned, spiderwebs hanging from the industrial fan over the stove and the empty racks above the counters … dust having settled on all surfaces … the detritus of a move hastily executed littering the way to the door.

Getting to his feet, Xcor panned his illumination in fat circles. Empty, tipped-over buckets that had once held commercial portions of sauces and yogurts cluttered a prep station, and topless tubs still full of mustard and ketchup revealed contents that had turned into solids, long since past rot and into a state of mummification. Farther in, a lineup of trays by a rusty industrial dishwasher had an errant spoon or fork in them, and opaque, half-broken glassware sat as if waiting for a ghostly washer to send them through the machine.

Crunching through the remnants of white china plates, he followed the scent that had commanded his attention.

The Lessening Society was made up of humans recruited into a war against vampires, weaklings transformed out of their pitiful state by the Omega—the side effect of which was a permanent stench somewhere between a two-day-old dead deer and spoiled milk.

One could always find the enemy by one’s nose …

The kitchen’s meat locker was in the far corner, its prison-worthy door cracked open, its interior another pitch-black slice of God only knew what.

As he reached forward for the latch, his skin glowed white in the flashlight beam, and the creak of him widening the gap was loud enough to make his ears hum. A mad-dash scattering of tiny paws suggested actual rats were fleeing his arrival, and he felt them go over the tops of his combat boots.

The stink was enough to make his eyes water.

The beam entered first.

And there it was.

Hanging in the center of the walk-in unit, suspended on a hook through the back of the neck, a human male was doing an excellent bovine imitation.

At least, Xcor assumed it was a male, going by the pants and the leather jacket. Facial identification was impossible: The rats were eating him from the crown down, using the chain that was keeping everything up off the floor as a motorway to get to their fragrant meal.

So this was tragically not his enemy, but an actual dead body.

Such a disappointment. He had been hoping for something that pertained to himself. Instead, only more humans—

The crashing sound of somebody stumbling into the darkness had him clicking off his flashlight, his senses going on high alert.

Even with the stench from his friend with the meat-hook bow tie, the copper scent of fresh blood preceded whoever it was. As did the grunting of the wounded.

Awww. Someone had a boo-boo.

The flailing continued as sirens announced the Caldwell police’s arrival—but the sounds were muffled, suggesting that the new arrival to the kitchen had had the presence of mind to shut them in together.

“Fuck!”

His visitor sent some of those empty plastic containers flying as he ran into the counter. Then there was more cursing. A groan as if he were laying himself down, likely on that stretch of stainless steel. Then shallow panting.

Losing patience with the entire drama, Xcor stepped free of the refrigerator. Unlike the injured gang member, he had some idea of the layout, and he managed to zero in on the guy, thanks to his hearing and a memory of where the center island was.

Things would have been much easier with sight, however. Apart from the obvious benefits of orientation, he did not enjoy the weightless feeling that came with blindness, nor the fact that he had to rely on his ears and sense of smell to navigate. There was also the reality that anything could be in front of his feet, ready to trip him up.

But he made it over toward the stricken human.

“You are not alone,” Xcor drawled into the darkness.

“What! Oh, God! Who—”

“Do I sound like one of your own?” He was careful to roll the R a little longer than he usually would, just in case his Old Language accent was not perfectly clear.

More breathing. Heavy, very heavy. Accompanied by the acrid smell of true terror.

“You humans…” Xcor took a couple more steps forward, no longer bothering to muffle the fall of his boots. “The problem with you is that you have no true enemies. You fight amongst yourselves over the blocks of city streets or the lines of countries, because there is nothing external to unite you. My kind, conversely? We have an enemy that necessitates a certain cohesion.”

Not enough to forestall his crown-ish ambitions, however.

At this point, the human started talking gibberish. Or mayhap that was a prayer of some sort?

Such weakness. It was deplorable—and exploitable as a moral imperative.

Xcor flicked on his flashlight.

In its beam, the gang member jerked around, his bloodstained body wiping clean a section of the countertop.

Plasma … as good as Windex, evidently.

Wide eyes strained the confines of their sockets, and hard breathing whistled out of an open mouth, the former tough guy taken down multiple pegs as pain and fear sliced his bravado into nothing but a memory.

“You should know that there are others who walk amongst you,” Xcor said in a low voice. “Like, but not the same. And we are always watching.”

The man cringed away, not that there was far to go. The counter was a workspace for cutlery and sieves, not a mattress for a grown-ass man.

Any more of that and he was going to end up on the floor.

“Who … who are you?”

“Mayhap a visual rather than a description shall suffice.”

Baring his fangs, Xcor tipped up the flashlight and put his face within the illumination.

The loud scream was high-pitched, and did not last. Thanks to the overwhelming adrenal response, the man passed out cold, the stink of urine that wafted up suggesting he’d lost control of his functions.

Rather amusing, really.

Xcor moved quickly, navigating with ease over to the door, thanks to the flashlight. Assuming position against the wall, he clicked off the beam and let that scream draw its proper attention.

The Caldwell Police Department responded with admirable efficiency, a number of the officers throwing open the door, their own flashlights piercing through the dense darkness.

The instant they saw the gang member, they rushed forward, and that was Xcor’s cue for a departure.

As he slipped out the door, he heard the word vampire rise up through a chaos of conversation—and thus it was with a smile that he dematerialized out of the way of the crowd.

Back in the Old Country, he and his Band of Bastards had kept the speculations and myths going by showing themselves from time to time, always to individuals, and ever in ways that fit the misconceptions that humans had of the species.

Defilers of virgins. Sources of evil that slept in coffins. Monsters of the night.

Such pish—although the latter did indeed pertain to himself.

And in truth, it felt good to do something similar here in Caldwell, rather as a dog marks its territory. Enjoyable, too, to give the irrelevance on that kitchen island something to haunt his memory during all his upcoming days in prison.

One needed to take one’s amusement where one found it.