Learned helplessness, she thought. Wasn't that what it was called? She'd heard Marissa and Mary use the term when referring to the brain freeze that victims of domestic violence sometimes found themselves locked in by.
Although in her case, she wasn't being abused. She'd earned this out-of-her-control honestly.
She went back to staring at the night, shifting herself so she could look out the sliding doors behind the table. There was a porch on the far side of the broad panes of glass, and in the glow of the security lighting, she measured the meager build-up of ice and snow, and tracked the trails of crusty brown leaves break-dancing across the frigid stage. During the day, when she hadn't been sleeping downstairs in the basement, she had turned on the local news at noon. Apparently, there was a freak early blizzard heading Caldwell's way, and sure enough, she could hear the salt trucks rumbling in the distance, laying down tracks of brine on the roads.
Perhaps human children would be off from school when it hit, and this made her check out the houses on the far sides of the backyard fence. She could not see much of the homes, just the glow of lights on the second floors, and she imagined all sorts of human young nestled in beds while their parents caught a bit of TV before they retired for the night.
How she envied them all.
And on that note, God, she hoped V left. She was going to go insane cooped up with his glowering presence--although the idea of Lassiter as substitute was enough to make her suicidal.
"All right," Vishous muttered. "I'll be back when I know something."
"Please don't send that angel."
"Nah. That would make your punishment cruel and unusual."
She released the breath she'd been holding. "Thank you."
The Brother hesitated. "Layla. Listen--"
"At the risk of pissing you off, too, there is nothing you can say to me that will make this better or worse. That's how you know you're in Hell, by the way. No hope and pain is all you can see."
The sound of Vishous's heavy boots on the tile was loud in the quiet little kitchen, and for some reason, she thought of the Brother Tohrment's love of Godzilla movies. Just the other evening, she had come down to stretch her legs and found Tohr kicked back on the sofa in the billiards room, Autumn asleep on top of his body, Godzilla vs. Mothra playing on the big screen over the fireplace.
She'd thought things had been complicated then. Now? She wished she could go back to those halcyon nights when all she had had on her mind was guilt and self-blame.
As V stopped in front of her, her shoulders tightened up until she felt an ache at the base of her skull. "Yes," she snapped, "I will set the security system after you leave. And I know how to work the remotes. You showed me that earlier, although I can assure you, I don't even care about Game of Thrones at this point."
It was so unlike her to be bitchy, but she was down the proverbial rabbit hole, lost to who and what she normally was.
"Xcor escaped. Last night."
Layla recoiled so sharply she nearly fell off the chair. And before she could ask, the Brother said, "No one was killed in the process. But he ended up locking Qhuinn in the Tomb--which was where we were keeping him. And he left the key behind."
Layla's heart started to pound, but before she could say anything, or really even gather her thoughts, Vishous arched a brow. "Still feel safe on your own?"
She leveled a hard stare at him. "Are you actually worried about that?"
"You remain a member of the family."
"Uh-huh. Right." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, he's not going to come for me, if that's what you're concerned about. He's done with me. There is literally nothing that could make that male get anywhere near me--which gives him something in common with Qhuinn, ironically."
Vishous didn't respond. He just loomed over her, his icy eyes tracking every nuance of her body, her affect, her very breathing.
It was kind of like being onstage in front of a hundred million people. With theater lights burning your retinas.
Exactly what she was in the mood for.
"You don't think Xcor would want to know where you are?" The question was posed with such an even tone, it was impossible to guess whether it was an actual inquiry or a rhetorical one.
Either way, she knew the answer. "Nope. Not a chance."
She turned away and refocused on the darkness outside the sliders. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, but she was determined to try to keep that to herself.
"You still love him," V said remotely. "Don't you."
"Does it matter?"
As Vishous lit another hand-rolled, he paced around, going back by the stove where he had been standing. Then over to the door into the basement. And finally returning to the table where she was seated.
In a low voice, he said, "I'm not sure how much you know about Jane and me, but I had to wipe her memories of me once. The circumstances aren't important, and destiny had other ideas, thank fuck...but I know what it's like not to be with the one you love. Also know what it's like when nothing about the relationship makes sense to anybody but the two of you. I mean, I fell for a fucking human, and then she died. So now I'm in love with a ghost, and not in a metaphoric sense. This Xcor thing? I know you would have chosen a different path if you could have."
As Layla looked up at the Brother, she could feel her eyes popping. Of all the things Vishous could have said? She would have been less surprised if he'd told her he was buying stock in Apple.
"Wait...what?" she blurted.
"Sometimes the heart shit doesn't make sense. And you know, at the end of it all, Xcor didn't hurt you. You saw him for how long? He never terrorized you or those young. I hate the motherfucker, don't get me wrong, and you did consort with the enemy. But damn him to hell, he sure as fuck wasn't acting like one, at least not when it came to you--and he also never attacked us, did he. All that time, he knew where we were, but the Band of Bastards never came on the property. I'm not saying I want to sit down and have a drink with the SOB, or that you weren't in the wrong. But the good thing about being logical is that you can judge both history and the present with clarity--and I'm a very logical male."
Layla's eyes began to water. And then in a broken voice, she whispered, "I hated myself the whole time. But...I loved him. And I fear I always will."
Vishous's diamond eyes shifted down so that they seemed to rest on his shitkickers. Then he stretched an arm out and grabbed the mug he'd been using as an ashtray. Tapping his hand-rolled over the thing, he shrugged. "We don't get to pick who we fall for, and trying to talk yourself out of emotions is a recipe for failure. You were not wrong in loving him, true? That part, no one can blame you for, 'cuz it is what it is--and you've suffered enough. Besides, like I said...he never hurt you, did he. So there has to be something in him that isn't evil."
"I looked in his eyes." She sniffled and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "I saw the truth in them and it was that he would never injure me or anyone I loved. And as for why our relationship ended? He didn't want to love me any more than I wanted to love him."
She was ready to talk more, hungry for the unexpected relief that came with someone understanding where she was at. But all at once, V's compassion was gone, the impenetrable mask he usually wore back in place on his face, the door to the discussion closed as if it had never been opened.
"Here." The Brother put his cell phone on the table. "The passcode's ten ten. I don't know how long Wrath is going to take to decide what kind of visitation schedule there's going to be, but you can assume you're going to be in this house for a while. Call me if you need us. My second phone is listed under V two in the contacts list."
Layla reached out and took the cell. It was still warm from him holding it.
"Thank you," she said softly as she held the thing up. "And not just for this."
"Whatever," he muttered. "Funny how curses can come in all kinds of different flavors, true. My mom was creative like that."
--
Down in the underground tunnel, Qhuinn made his way from the training center's medical clinic to the mansion like a drunk, his stride as uncoordinated as a dice roll, his head spinning, his stomach rolling, the stitches in his side hurting so badly he stopped from time to time to lift up his hospital gown and check that he hadn't Alien'd something out of his gut.
All he wanted was a straight shot up to the twins, an unimpeded route from the hidden door under the big house's grand staircase to that bedroom up on the second floor: no concerned looks from doggen, no confrontational glares from his brothers, nobody trying to feed him. And please, dear God, nothing at all from Lassiter.
As he emerged out from under the stairs, he paused before he went any further into the foyer and took a listen. First Meal had come and was in the process of being gone, the servants cleaning things up in the dining room, their soft patter of talk and the quiet sound of sterling being cleared from porcelain whispering out from the open archway up ahead.
Nothing from the billiards room.
Nobody on the red-carpeted stairs--
Right on schedule--not--a strange pool of light appeared directly in the center of the vast, resplendent space, as if someone had carved a hole in the ceiling and an improbable noonday sun was shining in through the roof.
For a second, all Qhuinn could think of was thank God. The human second coming had arrived just in time to kill all of his suffering on a oner--and actually, a figure did appear in the midst of the shaft of light. But it was not the Christ that Butch prayed to all the time.
It was also not Santa Claus with his streusel gut and his ponies with horns or whatever the fuck they were--which given the Christmas season might have been an option.
Nope, it was the Great Immortal Agitator: Lassiter, the fallen angel, materialized in the midst of the great, source-less illumination, and the sparkling glow faded as he took his form like it was the delivery system that had brought him from wherever he had been.
Okay, the clothes were weird, Qhuinn thought.
And not in the crazy fuck's normal bizarre-drobe of zebra stripes and feather boas. The angel had a flannel shirt tied around his waist. Blue jeans that were one trip through the wash away from losing their structural integrity. And a Nirvana shirt from the Saint Andrew's Hall performance in Detroit on October 11, 1991.
That music wasn't his usual his jam, either. Lassiter was a Fetty Wap fan when he wasn't swooning over Midler.
The good news? The angel just walked off into the billiards room, not even tweaking that Qhuinn was half naked and nauseous at the base of the stairs.
So there was some grace and mercy left in the world, it seemed.
Yeah, except then came Qhuinn's trip up to the second floor. The ascent required the use of the balustrade and a lot of molar grinding, but after several months, if not years, of climbing, Qhuinn made it. At the top, he was relieved to see that the doors to Wrath's study were closed. What wasn't so hot? The fact that there were a lot of voices going back and forth behind those panels.
He could just imagine what the topic was.
Continuing on to the hall of statues, he went down to the bedroom Layla had stayed in, and found himself wanting to knock even though his kids were in there. Manning up, he grabbed the knob of the new door and twisted so hard his wrist felt like it was going to snap off the bottom of his arm.
As he opened things up, he stopped.
Beth had her back to him as she leaned over Lyric's bassinet, the Queen murmuring all kinds of lovely things as she settled the infant into the soft cocoon.
When his presence registered, it was not a surprise that Beth crossed her arms over her chest and squared off at him like he was the enemy.
"Thanks for taking care of them," he said as he limped in.
"You look like hell."
"I feel worse."
"Good." When he cocked an eyebrow at her, the Queen shrugged. "What do you want me to say? That it's okay you kicked Layla out of this house?"
"She did that to herself, not me."
God, his head was thumping, that conversation with Blay going around and around in his brain like a race car stuck on a closed track. So, yeah, talking about that Chosen was really awesome right now.
"Just so you know"--the Queen put her hands on her hips--"I think Layla's rights should stay in place, and I think you and she need to work out a fair visitation schedule where these babies go and stay with their mahmen overnight."
"They're not leaving this house. And Layla can't be here. The situation is what it is."
"You're not in charge."
"Yeah, well, neither are you," he said with exhaustion. "So why don't we just drop it at that."
Beth checked on Rhamp, and then came forward. Meeting him directly in the eye, she said, "This is not about your butt hurt, Qhuinn. These two kids need the both of you, and that means you are required to act like an adult even when you don't feel like it. You do not have to see Layla, but they do."
Qhuinn went over to the bed and sat down, because it was either that or he was going to go throw rug on the floor at her feet. "Treason, Beth. Against your mate. This is not a case of a parent forgetting to feed 'em once, or getting 'em off their sleep schedule."
"You don't need to tell me who shot my husband," Beth snapped. "Just like I don't have to tell you that it's up to Wrath--and not anybody else--to forgive or not, punish or don't. This is not fucking about you, Qhuinn. Get your head out of your ass, do what's right for your children, and work on your damn temper."
As she marched out of the room, he was absolutely positive that but for Lyric and Rhamp, she would have slammed that new door hard enough for the sound to echo in the Fade.
Putting his head in his hands, he nearly vomited on his bare feet.
Jesus, he was only in a frickin' hospital gown.
Yeah, 'cuz with all the shit going on, what he was wearing was such a big deal. Then again, when you were surrounded by things that you couldn't control, couldn't make right, and didn't want to deal with, what covered your ass was a welcome vacation for your pea-sized brain.
Dropping his arms, he got to his feet and went over to the bassinets. He picked up Rhamp first, holding his blooded son in his palms and carrying the young over to the huge bed. Placing the infant close to the pillows, he quickly brought Lyric over and stretched out with them both.
Rhamp fussed a little. Lyric was chill.
Before long, both of them were asleep in the crooks of Qhuinn's arms. But there was no rest for him, and not just because his body hurt all over.
Yet the insomnia made no goddamn sense. He'd gotten what he wanted: Layla was out of the mansion, and no matter what Beth said, Wrath was going to do the right thing and cut the Chosen off from his young. Also, Blay was bound to come around. They'd been through worse things and had always arrived on the far side of the conflict better and stronger together.
Plus he had his young safely with him.
In spite of all that, however, Qhuinn felt like someone had hollowed him out on the inside, nothing left in between his ribs, his pelvis empty of its contents, his skin a useless bag with nothing really to do.
He closed his eyes. Told himself to chill out. Relax.
Within seconds, his lids were open. And as he stared at the ceiling, at the bullet holes he'd put in the corner, he ached in the place where his heart should have been.
Made sense. That vital organ of his was way on the other side of Caldwell, at Blay's parents' new house, the one the male's mahmen didn't like because everything in it worked and the floorboards didn't creak when you walked on them.
Without his heart, Qhuinn was an empty vessel. Even with his young beside him.
So, yup, that hurt. He was just surprised by how much.
FIFTEEN
The Caldwell Insurance Company building was some seventy stories high and located in the financial district, serving as a landmark amid the other sleeker but shorter skyscrapers. According to its cornerstone, it had been construc
ted in 1927, and indeed, compared to its more modern neighbors, it was a glorious grande dame in the company of lesser harlots. With sets of gargoyles marking its three different stages of elevation, and an ornate crown of carvings and Latin phrases at its top, the CIC was a monument to the city's greatness and longevity.
As Zypher formed on its rooftop, the wind whipped his hair straight back from his face, and his eyes watered from the cold rush. Far below, the lights of the city sprawled outward in an earthbound halo that was bisected by the Hudson River.
One by one, the others in the Band of Bastards joined him: Balthazar, the wild one; Syphon, the spy; and Syn, who stayed on the periphery like a source of evil waiting to trip up someone's happy destiny.
Familiar, they all were unto him, these males with whom he had fought side by side for over two hundred years. There was naught that they had not shared: bloodshed, of their own and of the enemy's; females, of the vampire and the human variety; locations, both here and in the Old Country.
"So 'tis the morrow, then," Balthazar commented into the wind.
"Aye." Zypher traced the highway down below with his eyes, noting the white headlights of the oncoming traffic, the red taillights for outgoing. "On the morrow's eve, we leave."
The lot of them had been here in the New World for but a short while, and they had accomplished naught of what they had sought when they had traveled from across the ocean. They had originally come in search of slayers, as the numbers of the enemy back home in the Old Country had shrunk to almost nil and terrorizing humans was fun only to a point. But upon arrival, they had discovered a similarly decimated population here. Ambitions had soon broadened, however. Xcor had wanted to be King, and necessary alliances had been formed with aristocrats in the glymera who wanted the Council to take on more power.
The coup had failed.
Even though they had managed to put a bullet in Wrath's throat, the King had not just survived the assassination attempt, he had risen to an even greater height of power--and that had put the Band of Bastards at a critical disadvantage.
And then the fundamentals had changed, at least for Xcor.
Once the Chosen Layla had entered their leader's life, none of anything else seemed to matter to the male--and that had actually been viewed as a benefit to the group at large. Xcor's nature had long been aligned with a cruelty that had inspired fear and thus respect. After that female? The fighter's hard edges had been filed down such that he became far easier with which to deal--and in turn, the Bastards had been more productive, as they were not constantly monitoring what Xcor's mood was.