And then V's voice was directly in front of him.
"You good?" the brother asked in his raspy voice. "Feeling back to normal?"
"Yeah. I'm back in working order except for my eyesight." I'm sorry, too. And I'm scared. "You know, just a little tired--"
Whack!
The chin shot came out of nowhere, nailing him so hard, his head knocked back and nearly snapped off his spine.
"What the fuck!" Rhage blurted as he rubbed his jaw. "What--"
"That was for not fucking listening to me."
Crack!
The second shot came from the opposite direction, which was a good thing--the swelling would be bilateral, so his face wouldn't look as fucked up.
"And that is for going out early and fucking our strategy."
As Rhage brought his brains to level for a second time, he held his jaw with both hands. 'Cuz there was a possibility the lower half of his skull was going to fall off.
The good news was that the double shots cleared his vision a little, the blindness receding enough so that he could make out the hazy blotches of his brothers' bodies and clothes.
"We coulda justh talked thith out," Rhage bitched. "Great, I'm talkin' wif a lispth."
"Where's the fun in that, true?" V grabbed hold of him and hugged him hard. "Now don't ever fucking do that again."
Rhage waited for the others to start asking questions. When no one did, he had to guess that V had already told them about the vision thing. Unless . . . well, everybody had seen him run out into that field early and that kind of shit was grounds for a beat down.
"I can thee now," he said.
"You can thank me for that later."
There was a bunch of conversation at that point--which led him to ohhhh-snapping the fact that they had Xcor in custody.
"Tohr kill the fucker yet?" he asked.
"No," came from all fronts.
Then there was a story about the Omega showing up and doing a Mr. Clean at the campus, and V saving the day with some mhis action.
"I'll take a thift," Rhage said. "Guarding the bastard, that ith."
"Later." V exhaled some Turkish smoke. "All cylinders first. Then we'll place you."
On that note, the group dispersed, some heading up to the mansion, others hitting the workout room. Rhage went along with the ones who took the tunnel to the main house, but as his brothers went for their beds, he walked through the dining room and into the mansion's kitchen.
God, he wished Mary was with him.
The good news was that there were no doggen around, First Meal having not been served thanks to the number of injuries that had been sustained during the attack and all the drama with him. The household staff were no doubt having a rare and well-deserved rest before they resumed their cleaning and tending, and he was relieved not to be fussed over.
As he wandered around Fritz's sacred space, however, he did feel like he should put out an offering or something so he didn't get in trouble with the butler. And on that note, he decided no cooking. He was going to take whatever was readily available and not start thinking independently with the stove or the pantry.
He'd already been punched twice and the night was young.
But first, clothing. He'd been too blind down in the bathroom to see that anything had been left out for him, and he went into the laundry behind the pantry, using his half-assed eyesight and keen sense of touch to locate a set of loose black sweats and a huge sweatshirt with the American Horror Story logo on it. Then it was time to get serious about the calories.
Raiding the bread stash, he began to clean it out by putting bags of bagels and sourdough loaves on the counter--but then he thought, Fuck it. Reaching under the drawer, he took the thing off its track and carried the whole damn shebang over to the oak table. Step two was to double back to the fridge, get out a pound of unsalted butter and a package of cream cheese, and snag the toaster, unplugging it by pulling the body until the cord gave up the ghost.
A serrated knife and a cutting board later, along with the coffee pot, the sugar bowl, and a small carton of half-and-half, and he was in business. While the coffee percolated, he got to slicing, making mountains of butterable pieces off to the right. The bagels he set up on a Henry Ford, so he could process them through the toaster and into the Phillie zone.
Probably should have gotten a plate. And at least one other knife, but the bigger blade was going to be efficient for spreading.
When the coffee had finished brewing, he took the pot out from under, poured the entire sugar bowl into it, and followed that up with as much of the half-and-half as he could fit in. Then he took a test sip.
Perfect.
He put the thing back on the heat plate and started systematically working his way through the bagels--'cuz, hey, that was close to First Meal-type stuff, right? Next up was anything sourdough because that was as lunch-ish as his options allowed. Dessert was going to be a pecan coffee cake. Or two.
As he chewed along, his teeth were a little loose thanks to V. Mayweather's bare knuckles, but it wasn't a huge deal. And from time to time, he washed things down with drafts off the lip of the coffee pot.
About two thousand calories into the binge, the reality of how alone he was really hit him.
Then again, the room could have been filled with his brothers and he would have felt the same.
Worse, he had the sense that even his Mary's presence couldn't have fixed this isolation for him.
As he sat there, filling his hollow stomach yet unable to do anything about the emptiness that really counted, he thought it would have been so much easier if he had even a clue as to what his problem was--
Off in the distance, in the dining room, a sound echoed around.
And came closer.
It was a flurry of footsteps, like someone was running.
What the hell? he thought as he rose from his chair.
SEVENTEEN
There was a great deal of math to be contemplated when one had an addiction.
As Assail took a seat behind the desk at his glass mansion, he pulled open the long thin drawer that was directly over his thighs and took out three vials that were identical to the one the Brother Vishous had emptied upon his own forearm back at the Brotherhood's subterranean facility.
Math, math, math . . . mostly multiplication. As in, given the amount of cocaine he had, how long would he be able to keep the cravings at bay? Fourteen hours? Fifteen?
He opened up one of the little brown containers and poured its white powder out on the leather blotter. Using a Centurion American Express card, he made a pair of lines, leaned over them, and took care of his business. Then he sat back in his chair and snuffed everything into place.
Truly, he hated the dripping down the back of his throat. The burn in his sinuses. The bitter taste that bloomed in his mouth. And he most especially despised the fact that he didn't really get high anymore. He merely experienced a temporary upswing on this horrible roller coaster he had set himself upon, said respite to inevitably be followed by a rushing crash--and then, if he did not attend to himself, the clawing, relentless grab of the cravings.
Glancing at the remaining two vials, he found it difficult to believe that he'd fallen into this pattern. The slip and fall had been both the work of a moment and a slow-motion tragedy. He had initially started using to keep himself alert, but what had begun as a habit of practicality now owned him sure as a master had dominion over a servant in the Old Country.
Fates, he had not intended this.
Had not intended rather a lot, of late.
Extending his arm, he woke up his laptop with a stroke on its touch pad, signed in using one hand even though there were capitals involved in his password, and accessed, via encrypted channels, his overseas account. The big one that was in Geneva.
He had several others.
So many digits and commas before the decimal point on the balance. And staring at the line up, he contemplated exactly how much money one needed--even
assuming that as a vampire, he would live out ten human lifespans or more.
Assuming his little habit didn't usher him off unto the Fade.
Or in his case, Dhund in all likelihood.
Surely he had enough by any practical standard, even in light of recent international finance crises . . . so did he truly have to deal in the drugs anymore? Then again, at the rate he was snorting powder up his nose, he was in danger of becoming his own best customer.
I need your help with the glymera.
As he considered Wrath's proposal, he had to wonder how what the King wanted him to do was any better or worse than making money off the backs of humans and their need for chemical reinforcement. The royal endeavor was something to pass the time, surely. And if he wasn't going to traffic in drugs, he needed to surmount the night hours somehow.
Otherwise he would go insane.
Mostly from missing that female of his. Who had not, in fact, ever been his own.
"Marisol," he whispered into the air.
Why in the hell had he never taken a picture of her? When she had stayed here, in this very house, when he had protected her, with his very life, why hadn't he picked up his phone, pointed it in her direction and snapped a shot? A mere moment of time, a split second, that was all that it required. But no, he had not done such a thing, and now, here he was, on the far side of the divide, with nothing left of her save that which was in his mind.
It was as if she had died. Except she was still on the planet.
In fact, she was down in Florida, where the ocean lapped at the sweet sand and the nights were a balmy mystery even in fucking October.
He knew exactly where she was, precisely where she stayed--because he had tracked her down there. Made sure that she had gotten to her destination with her grandmother safely. Pined for her from the shadows in the most pathetic manner possible.
But he had honored her request. He had let her go. Let her be free of him and this illegal lifestyle they had both participated in.
Cat burglars and drug dealers could co-exist.
A human woman who wanted to be on the correct side of the law and a vampire pusher addict could not.
With a groan, he put his face in his hands and called her to mind. Yes, oh, yes, he could remember her dark hair and her lithe body, her skin and her dark eyes with a certain clarity. But the passage of time . . . he worried he would forget some nuance at first and then ever larger and more significant details.
And the loss of that was a death by inches even as he continued to breathe.
"Enough," he muttered as he dropped his arms and leaned back.
Refocusing on himself, he thought about what the King had laid out for him. It would be a change of endeavor, for certain. But he had enough money. He had enough time. And finding another network of middlemen dealers to farm out his product on the streets of Caldwell and Manhattan abruptly seemed too much like work.
Besides . . . having fought side by side with the Brotherhood? He found himself respecting those males. Respecting their leader, too.
It was quite the about-face for an otherwise avowed Libertarian--rather like an atheist considering the existence of God following a near-death experience.
Plus, he owed Vishous his life; that much he was sure of. As worthless as his existence was, he would not be sitting upon this chair, in this glass mansion on the Hudson River, feeding his cocaine habit, unless that Brother had thrown him over his shoulder and run like hell.
Twice.
Oh, that beast. Had he not seen it, he would ne'er have believed its existence.
Assail pushed his chair around with his foot such that he could peer out the windows to the river beyond. A subtle chiming rang from the corner of the room where an old French clock was placed. In the background, over in the rear part of the house, he could hear his cousins moving around in the kitchen.
When he decided to use his cell phone, all he had to do was reach into the pocket of his shredded leather jacket. He had neglected to remove the ruined outerwear even though his house was well-heated against the cold October night.
Then again, all he had cared to do when he had arrived back home was sequester himself in private so he could play catch-up with his little problem.
He could not abide doing lines in front of his cousins. Not that he had any intention of altering his behavior for anybody.
Summoning a number up out of his contacts, he hesitated before initiating the call. As his thumb hovered over the screen, he was acutely aware that if he followed through on this, he was going to become something he had always disdained.
An agent of the King.
Or more to the point . . . an agent of another.
With a strange feeling of dread, he gave into the impulse and put the device to his ear, listening to the ringing commence. In the end, he decided to give himself up to Wrath's demand for the simple reason that it seemed like the only good thing he could do with himself.
A right thing.
A positive thing.
He was beginning to feel as if it were about time. And mayhap he was taking a page from his Marisol's book because it was the only way he could be close to her now.
No more drug dealing for him.
Although what he was about to do might well prove to be just as dangerous. So at least he would not grow bored.
"Hello, darling," he said when the call was answered by a female. "Yes, I do need to feed, thank you. Tonight would be preferable, yes. And I have missed you as well. Indeed, very much so." He let her go on a bit as she took his lie and swallowed it whole. "Actually, at your main house, please. No, the cottage does not suit a male such as myself. I was willing to make the accommodation at first due to your hellren's presence, but now that he has taken unto his bed, I find myself unable to make that concession any further. You understand."
There was a long pause, but he knew that she would relent. "Thank you, nalla," he intoned evenly. "I shall see you very soon--oh, be in something red. No panties. That is all."
He hung up on her because she was a female who required schooling if one was to capture and hold her attention. Too easygoing? Too charming? She would lose interest, and that couldn't happen until he had acquired what he needed from her.
His next call was to the Brother Vishous. When the male answered, Assail uttered only three words prior to hanging up once again.
"I am in."
*
"Suuuuure, I'll stay late. No problem. Not like I have anything better to do."
As Jo Early sat behind her reception desk, the rest of the real estate office was empty, nothing but a lingering mishmash of colognes and the strangely depressing Muzak overhead to keep her company. Well, that and the frickin' ficus bushes on either side of her.
Those things dropped their leaves like they were on a constant molt-down--and her OCD just wouldn't let her relax unless the floor was clean. Then again, she didn't have to do stomach crunches at the gym.
Not that she went to a gym.
Checking her phone, she shook her head. Seven o'clock.
The plan, the "favor," she was doing for her boss was to stay here until he brought three contracts in with signatures so she could scan them and e-mail them over to the various buyers' brokers. Why he couldn't feed the things into the machine himself and do a little PDF'ing was a mystery.
And okay, maybe she was part of the problem, too.
Not that she was proud to admit it.
Looking up over the lip of the desk counter, she focused on the smoky glass doors that opened to the outside. The office was located in an up-market strip mall that had a hair salon where the cuts started at a hundred bucks--and that was just for the men, a boutique that displayed two pieces of barely-there clothing in its window, a glass-and-china shop that sparkled even on gray days, and, at the far end, a jewelry store that the trophy wives of Caldwell seemed to approve of.
Going by the place's pneumatic clientele.
"Come on, Bryant. Come on . . ."
Although really, where did she have to go. Home to Dougie and the crop circle arguments? Now there was a party.
As a telephone rang back where the offices were, she woke up her computer and stared at Bryant's calendar. She put his appointments into Outlook when he texted or called to tell her to. Scheduled things like valid real estate meetings, but also the service for his BMW and visits by the pool man for his place over in that new development. Reminded him to call his mother on her birthday, and ordered flowers for the women he dated.
All the while wondering what he would think if he knew who her parents were.
That little secret was what she soothed herself with when he'd come in on a Monday morning and whisper that he'd been out with a divorcee on Friday and a personal trainer on Saturday and then had a brunch with someone else on Sunday.
Her true identity was armor she used to fight against him. In a war he was utterly unaware of them being engaged in.
Closing out his busy life, she stared at the logo on the screen. Bryant's last name, Drumm, was the second in line--because the firm had been started by his father. When the man had died nearly two years ago, Bryant had stepped into his shoes, as well as his prime office space, in the same way he did everything else--smiling and with charm. And hey, it wasn't a bad strategy. Say what you would about the guy's playboy lifestyle, he could move a ton of real estate and look good doing it.
Caldwell, NY's own Million Dollar Listing star.
"Come on, Bryant . . . where are you?"
After a re-visit of her already-twice tidied desk, she checked the floor under the right ficus, picked up a leaf and tossed it, sat back and . . .
What the hell, she went onto YouTube.
Dougie had posted that stupid footage on his channel--a rocking destination with a grand total of twenty-nine subscribers. Of which, like, four were Dougie himself in different sock puppets and two were spammers with low standards. As she hit the arrow to watch the forty-two-second clip all over again, she turned on the speakers. The sound track was right out of amateur-central, a combination of too-loud rustling as her roommate held the iPhone up and a distant, not-so-quiet roaring.
Okay, so yes, it certainly looked like something Jurassic-ish out in the middle of that field. And yeah, there seemed to be a lot of clutter on the ground, but who knew what all that was. It was only a camera phone capturing the footage, and maybe that was just the way the trampled area looked to its lens.