Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

Checking in with Z, who he could see out of his left eye, and Phury, who he tracked out of his right, he motioned upward . . . then dematerialized onto the roof.

The asphalt shingles gave good traction and he stayed in a crouch, well aware of what a good target he was, silhouetted against the night sky. There wasn’t a moon out, which was a bonus, but he was a goddamn sitting duck up here. Heading over to the chimney, he shouldered into the stack of bricks and mortar and listened.

No sounds again.

When the whistle came, it was from down below, and he closed his eyes and ghosted back to the ground.

Z, Vishous, and Phury were standing together in the rear.

“Nothing up there,” Rhage whispered.

“I don’t see anything inside,” Phury agreed.

V stared at the house. “Then we have to assume that it’s booby-trapped.”

Yup. That was exactly what he was thinking.

“You have anything to disarm shit with?” Rhage asked.

V rolled his diamond eyes. “I’m a fucking Boy Scout. What do you think.”

“What’s the approach?”

They decided to enter through one of the windows in the kitchen. Doors were too obvious, as was the chimney, and anything through the garage.

Going around to the back porch, V removed his lead-lined glove, got out his black dagger, and went over to the window above the sink. Putting the tip of the weapon to the glass, he moved the blade in a circle; then placed his glowing fingers on the inside of the cutout and removed the section so that it didn’t fall in.

Three. Two.

One—

Silence.

Rhage glanced around, listening for anything: footsteps in the undergrowth, the click of a safety being taken off a gun, a whisper of clothing.

Nothing.

V snaked his normal hand through the hole he’d made and clicked on his penlight. Inside, a nothing-special kitchen was illuminated in the thin beam: refrigerator, stove, cabinets. More to the point, there was nothing suspicious, no boxes or bags with wires coming out of them in the middle of the room, no beeping lights, not even an alarm panel that was obvious.

“Ready?” V asked.

Rhage breathed in deep, testing the air that was escaping from the house. The scents were of male sweat, booze, tobacco, gun cleaner . . . a pizza . . . cooked meat.

And it was all fresh.

“I’m going first,” Rhage said. With his beast, he was the most likely to survive a bomb blast: any extremes of temperature, pain, or aggression, and his other side would be triggered in a split second, providing him with a set of scales that was better than any kind of Kevlar.

“Be careful, my brother,” Phury said.

“Always. I got meals to look forward to.”

Rhage ghosted in and took form on the linoleum. Cue the waiting. Again.

But there were no alarms going off. No ambushes. Nothing that screamed or even whispered attack.

He took a step forward. Another. A third, waiting for a hidden mine to get triggered.

Under his shitkickers, floorboards creaked and groaned.

That was it.

“Far enough, Hollywood,” V ordered through the window’s cutout. “Let me get in there.”

Vishous joined him as the twins stayed outside to monitor the exterior. With quick, practiced moves, V put on a headset and looked around. Took out an aerosol spray can and hit the go nozzle, moving in a circle.

“It’s clear, as far as I can see.”

Rhage glanced to the back door. “So that’s where the security pad is.”

The ADT panel had no lights glowing on its face, no green means go. No red means armed.

“We have to go through the whole house,” V said grimly.

Rhage nodded. “I’ll take care of the first floor.”

“We do it together.”

With careful steps, they headed into the front of the house, V sporting his gogs, Rhage’s skin prickling across his back as his beast joined the instinct parade.

The front room was clearly where the Bastards spent most of their time. There were a number of couches set at angles so they formed a circle, and the scents were the strongest in here—to the point that Rhage guessed the fighters had pulled the drapes and actually slept aboveground during daylight hours.

Detritus littered the floor: Empty ammo boxes that suggested they had both shotguns and forties. Dead-soldier bottles of Jack and Jim. Hannaford plastic bags filled with crushed protein-bar wrappers and Motrin bottles with the lids off and wads of surgical gauze marked with dried blood. An open Papa John’s box had a single slice left in it—that was cold, but not moldy.

“They do not live here anymore,” V said.

“And they up and left fast,” Rhage muttered as he poked at another Hannaford bag with the steel tip of his shitkicker.

There wasn’t a single backpack. Duffel. Piece of luggage. And although he wouldn’t have counted the Band of Bastards as any kind of Town & Country types with the personal effects, there wasn’t even a stray sock, backup set of combat boots, or a fucking comb left behind.

As Rhage came around to the base of the stairs, he felt his phone vibrate in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. No checking the thing, though. He wasn’t about to get goat-fucked in this shell of a house, and the farther he and his brother went in, the greater the chances that they’d run into something that could cost them an arm. A leg.

Their lives.

That was the reality of their jobs, and something he accepted, because one, he wasn’t about to let nobody push around his race or its King, whether it was a bunch of shitty-smelling slayers or Xcor’s circle of douches. And two, it wasn’t like he was suited to do anything else.

Well, other than eat and fuck, and God knew he took care of business on those two fronts very, very well during his time off.

Hell, even with all the high alert going on here, in the back of his mind, he was already counting down the hours until he could get his Mary really fucking naked.

Nights like tonight made him think fondly of going down on her for about seven hours straight.

Shaking himself back into focus, he approached the base of the stairs.

“I’m going up,” he told his brother.

“Wait for me.”

But of course, he didn’t. He just headed on up, one foot after the other after the other. Probably a stupid move, but he’d never been good at waiting.

Just not part of his nature.

SEVENTEEN

As Trez stood in the corner of Selena’s hospital room, he felt . . . shit, totally cornered.

He didn’t want to be angry with the female. For fuck’s sake, she’d nearly died in front of him.

“What?” she said. “What’s on your mind.”

The good news was that he had watched, over the last twenty minutes or so, as her coloring had returned in full, how her eyes were now sharp as tacks, as her body, though still stiff, was so much closer to normal.

The bad news was that her little dissertation there about the nature of his sex addiction and him trying to do right by her was not anything he was going to hear. And he prayed to God she didn’t keep pushing the subject.

“Selena, I think you need to rest.”

“Don’t tune me out, Trez.”

He shoved his hand across his head. Wished he had some long-ass hair like Wrath’s just so he had something to pull at. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you.”

“So tell me I’m wrong. Even though I don’t believe that. But say something. Anything.”

Trez grimaced and shook his head. “I’ma go now and—”

“Trez—”

“No, we’re not going to do this.”

“Why? If we have a thousand nights, what’s one awkward conversation.”

“This is a helluva lot more than awkward, sweetheart.” God, he could hear the sharpness in his own voice. Feel the ramp-up in his body. “Yeah, I think I’ll come back—”

“It’s still going to be here when you return.” She motioned between them with her hand, and for a moment, he was so damned grateful for the movement, he forgot what they were talking about. “Distance is not going to help this.”

His heart started to pound. Like he was afraid or some shit.

But that wasn’t what was happening.

Really. It wasn’t.

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “Give me the words and the inflection and I’ll do it. Anything to make this go away.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.”

Long pause. “All right,” she said with defeat.

Oh, great. That made him feel soooo much better.

How had they traveled the distance between relief at her survival to all this tension so fast?

He wasn’t about to tell her about the news from the s’Hisbe. She had more than enough to worry about on her own, and he didn’t want her concerned that the Queen’s executioner was going to put him in chains and drag him back to the Territory at any moment.

“Selena, listen . . .” He shook his head. “Am I embarrassed about what I did with all those humans? Absolutely. Do I have regrets? All the time. Do I believe that I’m tainted? According to my culture, I’m completely contaminated. But you need to know that sometimes, a slut is just a slut. A whore is nothing more than a whore. I had a drive and I had nowhere else to go with it.”

He looked away, tracing the floorboards with his eyes.

The silence grew louder than a scream.

“I think you’re right,” she said.

Trez exhaled in relief. Thank God she was buying it—

“You do need to go.”

“What?”

“Until you can be honest? I think you need to stay away. Because either you’re lying to yourself or you’re lying to me. Either way, you need to—as the Brothers would say—get your shit together.”

He shook his head. “Yeah. Wow. Not how I saw this going.”

“Me neither.”

“Okay. Then. So.”

As she just stared over at him, the room ran out of its air supply. At least as far as he was concerned.

Trez cleared his throat. “Fuck . . . I’ll go then.”

He stalked out, using the door that led into the corridor rather than run the risk of running across Doc Jane and Ehlena in that examination room.

Yeah, ’cuz he really felt like having an audience right now.

Thank fuck iAm had left and gone to check in at shAdoWs, The Iron Mask and Sal’s. His brother was the last person he wanted to be around at the moment.

Moving quickly, he stalked down the corridor and paused before stepping in front of the glass door of the office. When he didn’t hear any voices, he peered around. Empty.

Score.

He made it through the supply closet and out into the tunnel without a hitch, and he even jogged down to the staircase. Codes were entered. Steps were mounted. The door under the stairs was opened quietly.

The sound of a vacuum cleaner running in the library was not a surprise. But the lack of any Brothers anywhere was. Usually, at this time of night, the ones who were off rotation were chilling in the billiards room, watching tube. Playing pool. Drinking.

He took advantage of the ghost-town routine and headed for the bar. As he came up to the top shelf display, he paused for a moment to consider his options and then chose Woodford Reserve. And Grey Goose. And a bottle of chard that was sitting out, unchilled, on the granite counter.

Like he was really going to fucking care what he drank.

The grand staircase was a piece of cake, and he was not surprised to find the King’s study empty as Wrath spent most of his nights out meeting with his civilians. Making the turn toward the hall of statues, he pared off before all that marble and opened the door to the stairs that took him up to the third floor.

The First Family’s suite of rooms was hidden behind a bank vault, but his room and his brother’s were right out in the open, just two normal doors close together.

In spite of the argument with Selena, he wasn’t going to bolt to the Commodore. He wanted to be on site in case she . . .

Yeah.

Closing himself in, he put his three new best friends on the bedside table, and turned on the lamp. The velvet drapes were drawn, and he left them that way as he continued on to the bathroom, shedding his clothes. With a crank of the showerhead, he got the water rolling, and he was careful to leave the lights off.

No reason to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

He waited until things got steamy before stepping into the marble enclave. He’d had more than enough of things that were uncomfortable, thank you very much.

Soap—everywhere. Rinse—everywhere. Shampoo—on his head, followed by conditioner. Razor—on his jaw, his chin, his cheeks.

Then it was a case of out with the towel and naked into his bed.

He got under the covers from habit, his brain studiously checking out of absolutely all thought, only common practice driving him to a place and situation where he could get drunk horizontally.

Cracking the lid on the Grey Goose, he took a good pull and ground his molars as the burn fired down his throat and lit up his gut like Fenway Park.

As V would have said.

How in the hell had the night ended up like this.

* * *

iAm was not about to waste time with shAdoWs, The Iron Mask or Sal’s. Screw that. There was more than enough competent staff at all three to take care of business. He’d just told his brother the lie because he didn’t want Trez even more freaked out.

Materializing on the terrace of their condo, he glanced at his watch and then went inside. Pacing around, he turned on some lights, checked the refrigerator even though he knew there was nothing much in it, and poked around the cabinets.

He hadn’t eaten since . . . Sal’s the night before, actually. And he hadn’t fed in . . . shit, he didn’t know how long.

Probably needed to handle that, but as always, he had little interest in the vein. Not that he didn’t appreciate and respect the Chosen who served him and his brother. He just didn’t like the whole business of sucking at someone’s wrists when she was a stranger. Yeah, yeah, duty, whatever.

Guess he was far more Shadow-ish than his brother.

In their culture, anything physical like that was sacred. Which sucked, because biological necessity forced him to feed probably six times a year, and every time he did, it was an exercise in self-discipline—and not because he wanted to bang whoever it was.

He was, at his ripe old age, still a virgin.

He blamed the celibacy on the shit with Trez, and the teachings and traditions of his kind, which he sometimes felt like he took waaaaay too seriously—

Wow. He was so wound that he was talking to himself.

About shit he already knew.

Which wasn’t even that interesting to begin with.

He paced around. Checked his watch again and then looked to the terrace. Where the fuck was—

“That you?”

iAm wheeled around at the male voice that came from the bedrooms. Striding forward to the hall, he palmed his forty, but given the inflection? Not much was going to be a problem.

And sure enough, as he rounded the corner into what had been his crib, he found s’Ex stretched out on the bed, the sheets wadded up around his naked body, a double-size bottle of Ciroc nestled in his arms like a baby.

“I thought you were in mourning,” iAm said as he tucked his gun away.

“Am.” s’Ex held up the half-empty bottle. “This is my Kleenex.”

“Doesn’t the Queen want you in the Territory.”

“Not really.” The male slashed his hand through the air. “Too embarrassing. I’m okay to fuck behind closed doors, but out in the open? No good. Course, all woulda been forgiven if the chart’d been right. But no.”

iAm leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “How long have you been here?”

“Since you left—was it last night? You need more liquor up in here. When can you bring it? And I want some females.”

iAm’s first instinct was to tell the guy to go screw. Natch. But he needed something from the bastard.

“I can make that happen,” he said.

s’Ex closed his eyes and rolled his hips under the sheets. “When.”

“You gotta do something for me first.”

Those lids lifted slowly, and the black eyes glittered. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Actually, it does.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.” iAm held that gaze steadily. “I need to get into the palace.”

s’Ex shut his piehole. Then he shoved his tremendous torso upright, the covers falling down, pooling at his waist. In the light from the bathroom, the tattoos that covered every inch of his flesh glowed like they were fluorescent against his dark skin.

“Not what I thought you’d say,” he murmured. “Without a gun to your head.”

“What I need from you is a guaranteed out.”

“So you’re going to steal something.”

“I just want access to the library.”

“Lot of recreational reading out here in the human world.”

“And I need to go now.”

s’Ex stared at him for a while. And then he yawned like a lion, great fangs flashing as his jaw cracked from the strain.

“Now,” iAm said.

“The palace is closed for mourning.”

“You got out.”

s’Ex made a noncommittal noise. “What kind of information are you looking for?”

“Not relevant for your purposes.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Look, I need to go now, and I have to be back before dawn. This is an emergency. I’m not asking to stroke you.”

s’Ex frowned. “Like I said, the palace is closed.”

“So you’re going to have to sneak me in.”

“Why the fuck do you think I’m going to help you.”

iAm smiled coldly. “Get me in and out, and you’re fucking that Queen of yours.”

“Ours. And if I want to screw her, all I have to do is slide into her bed.”

“You think you can still stand to do that now?”

“Don’t romanticize me,” s’Ex said grimly.

iAm shrugged. “Whatever. Bottom line is, you’re never going to get Trez at this point. I’ve got to try to help him.”

If Selena died? Everybody was going to lose him. Shit, all iAm had to do was think of his brother bolting from that exam room, racing out into the corridor with a gun up to his temple, ready to pull the trig.

s’Ex stared up at him for the longest time. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m giving it to you straight. Your interests and mine are aligned. I don’t want my brother dead and neither do you. We’ll fight over what happens to him at the end of this, but right now? You need me to get him through a certain crisis.”

“Put a definition on ‘crisis.’”

iAm looked away. “Someone who’s close to him is sick.”

“Not him, though?”

“No.”

“You?”

“Do I look sick.” iAm met the executioner’s eyes again. “Look, you and I both have a management problem with him. You think I like trusting you? If there were any other option, I’d be getting it in. But like you know firsthand, you got to deal with what life gives you. And I need that goddamn library.”

The s’Hisbe had a long and distinguished history as healers. And as Shadows were, like symphaths, an evolutionary offshoot of vampires, it would seem logical that this Arrest disease might have shown up at some point in his race’s past—and if it did, it would be in that library.

If they were lucky, the healers might have some kind of treatment—at which point, stop number two was going to be the s’Hisbe’s extensive pharmacology vault. The Shadows had been synthesizing drugs from plant and animal material for centuries, titrating all kinds of compounds to deal with diseases and disorders—and as with record keeping, the healers were meticulous about their trials and studies.

His people had brought rationalism into medicine long before humans ushered out mysticism and embraced scientific thinking.

Maybe there was hope. He had to find out.

“I do not want to rely on you,” iAm said roughly. “But I have to. Just like you are going to have to do this for me if you want any chance of getting Trez in line. He will be dead within the hour if that female dies.”

“Female?” When iAm said nothing more, s’Ex cursed. “The two of you are a huge pain in my ass, you know that.”

“I feel the same way about you and your Queen.”

“Ours. You’re a member of the s’Hisbe no matter where you choose to live.”

It was, of course, total bullshit about Trez going back to the Territory and falling in line with that astrological chart of his. That was never going to happen. But iAm had to use whatever leverage there was, and s’Ex was probably drunk enough not to look too closely at the motivation involved here.

And what do you know, it worked.

With a curse, the huge male threw off the covers and got to his feet—and for a moment, iAm checked out those tattoos. Christ. The executioner’s flesh was covered from throat to ankle, shoulder to wrist, with white markings, the only absent places his face and his cock and balls. Even iAm had to be impressed. The “ink” was actually a poison that discolored the skin. Most males prided themselves on withstanding the pain and sickness of a small symbol of their families on the shoulder or the name of a mate over the heart.

The fact that s’Ex had lived through all that was visible confirmation that he was a badass. Or a masochistic psycho.

Leaving the guy to get dressed, iAm went into the living area. As he approached the glass sliders, he looked out over the nightscape of Caldwell: the speckled illumination randomly spaced in the skyscrapers, the twin lanes of red taillights and white headlights wrapping around the curves of the Hudson River, a plane or two blinking high over the horizon.

In and out, he told himself. That was how this had to be.

And if there was a God, he’d be able to find something that would help Selena.