Except then their leader had been captured or killed.
To this night, they knew not which it was, and ne'er was Xcor to be seen again, evidently. Fates knew they had tried to find him, whether it be the remains or the male himself, and ending the search was difficult. But with nothing else to go on, and the Brotherhood continuing to hunt them, it was the better choice to return from whence they had come.
Abruptly, an image of Throe came to mind and Zypher frowned.
Alas, there had been one other who had been lost. Throe, their second in command for all intents and purposes, had been kicked out of the group when his ambitions for the throne had proven more enduring than Xcor's. That incompatibility of goal had torn the two of them apart--and thus, the male who shouldn't have been with them anyway had departed, nothing save a footnote in their history. Indeed, Throe, a former aristocrat who had once been ridiculed and conscripted into service as payment for a debt, but who had then proven himself over time, was gone from their ranks, perhaps killed by lessers or the others of his station with whom he had conspired. Or mayhap he lived among the blue bloods still, accepted once more unto his fold and scheming anew.
None of them cared about his loss as much as Xcor's, however.
For truth, as Zypher stared out over the city, it would have seemed inconceivable when they arrived on these shores that they would leave without the two who had been partners in all the ways that mattered. But there was one truism that ruled o'er both the quick and the dead: Destiny ran upon its own course, with individual choice and predilection and prediction being, nine times out of ten, naught of consequence.
"Our purpose now is..." He let that drift.
Balthazar cursed. "We shall find another, mate. And we shall do it where we belong."
Yes, Zypher thought, so they would. Back in the Old Country, they had a castle that they owned free and clear, and a staff of doggen who worked its land, providing sustenance and wares and produce to sell in the surrounding villages. The superstitious humans in the region stayed away from them. There were women and a few females to bed. Mayhap they would find some slayers, after all--
Fates, it sounded too fucking awful. A step backward instead of forward.
Yet they could not stay here. The first rule of conflict was that if you wanted to live, you didn't engage with a more powerful enemy--and the Brotherhood, helmed by the King as they were, had tremendous financial resources, facilities, and armaments. When there had been a possibility of deposing Wrath, it had been a different scenario. But with the Bastards possessing only four fighters, no clear leader, and no agenda?
Nay. It wasnae good.
"On the morrow, then," Balthazar said. "We depart."
"Aye."
Zypher truly wished they were bringing Xcor's body back with them, however. "We will search for him one last time," he announced to the wind. "For this, our final night, we shall endeavor to find our leader."
They would make one more attempt--and even though the outcome was not likely to be different from all the others, the effort would help them make peace with the collective sense that they were deserting their dead.
"Let us off unto the hunt, then," Balthazar said.
One by one, they dematerialized, into the cold darkness.
--
As soon as Vishous left the safe house, Layla took a deep breath--but the exhale didn't do a damn thing for her.
Staying where she was, at that table in the kitchen, she listened to all the absolutely-nothing for a while, and then she stood up and walked around the first floor, going in and out of the cozy rooms. In the back of her mind, she had a thought that the ranch truly was a perfect little nest, the kind of place a female alone could feel secure in.
Was she even going to get the chance to have the twins come here?
Anxiety made it hard to breathe and she went to the sliding glass door that V had put to use. Pulling it open, she stepped outside, and as her slippers crushed the crunchy top layer of snow on the porch, she tried the whole deep-inhale thing again.
This time, as she let out air, her breath was a cloud that drifted off over her head.
Her cheeks, raw from all the crying and the wiping of tears, burned in the cold, clear air, and she looked up to the heavens above. There was a thick cloud cover blocking out the twinkling stars, and more fresh snow on the lawn, suggesting that the weather had been blustery and marked with flurries during the day.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Layla--
Everything stopped for her. From her heart rate to her breathing to even the thoughts in her messed-up brain, it was like her inner power grid blew its fuse and she became as the inside of the house behind her: utterly still and empty.
Turning to the east, she drew a breath in until her ribs strained from the effort, but she was not attempting to scent anything. She was trying to hold her lungs immobile in her chest--and if she could have paused her heart and the functions of her organs, she would have.
The echo of her own blood was so faint, it was difficult to determine whether or not it was a mistake on her part, a misapprehension of what was actually occurring. But no...she was in fact picking up a whisper of her own life source in the direction of the north...actually, the northwest.
Now her heart thundered.
"Xcor...?" she whispered.
The signal, such as it was, was not coming from where the Brotherhood's compound was located. It was too far west for that. It was...
She looked back at the slider she'd come out of. Hesitated. Except then she thought of Vishous, and everything he'd said.
Unsure of exactly where she was going, she shut her eyes and dematerialized out a short distance, re-forming in a children's park that she had spotted when she had been driven in the night before.
As she stood beside the empty swings and jungle gyms, she stilled herself anew.
Yes...there--
Behind her, a metal creak made her wrench around. But it was naught save the wind pushing at one of the swings, its chain links protesting at the disturbance.
Lowering her lids once more, she concentrated on her destination, and tried not to get ahead of herself.
As she flew forth in a scatter of molecules, she heard Vishous's voice in her head.
We don't get to pick who we fall for...you were not wrong in loving him, true? That part, no one can blame you for...and you've suffered enough.
He never hurt you, did he. There has to be something in him that isn't evil.
This time, when she resumed her form, the beacon she was homing in on was even stronger, and her trajectory was spot-on. So she proceeded another half mile. And then a distance even longer, to the last ring of suburban neighborhoods before the farmland started. After that? She went even farther, penetrating the forested lands that were the beginning of the Adirondack Park.
Her last leg was but three hundred yards, and as she came back unto her corporeal being, it was with a tree branch right in her face.
Pushing the bare limb out of the way, she looked around. The snow was thicker herein, the breeze lesser, the terrain rocky. Shadows were everywhere--or mayhap that was her nervousness making it seem that way.
Close...so close by. But where precisely?
Layla turned slowly in a circle. No one was about, and neither were woodland animals moving around.
It seemed unlikely that Xcor would have spent a full day out here and still have survived--although...there had been a snowfall and that big storm was on its way. Perhaps there had been sufficient cloud cover? It wasn't a gamble one would have ever taken unless one were out of other, safer options, but if he were incapacitated in some way?
After all, if he were dead, she wouldn't have picked up on anything.
Cranking her head around, she frowned as something atypical in the landscape caught her eye.
There was something...over there...to the left of an oak so tall and thick it had to be at least a hundred years old.
Yes, it was a mound of
sorts that seemed out of place on the forest floor.
Gathering her robing, she took one step...and then another...
...toward whatever it was.
SIXTEEN
Salvatore's Restaurant was a staple on not just the Caldwell, but the whole East Coast's, eating scene, a long-standing throwback to Rat Pack days when three-martini lunches, mistresses, and Don Drapers who knew how to dress were the norm. In the modern era, much had changed in the outside world...not much had changed under its roof. The red flocked wallpaper of the entrance foyer was still in place, as was the rest of the Godfather decor with all the heavy carved wood and the linen tablecloths. Throughout the multiple serving areas and the back bar, the seating arrangements were exactly as they had been opening night way back when, and the waiters and waitresses still wore tuxedoes. On the menu? Only the best authentic Italian food west of Sicilia, the recipes prepared exactly as they should be and always had been.
There had been a few updates, but they were all in the massive kitchen. And two entrees had been added, which had been a thing--at least until the third generation of its clientele had tried the dishes and decided, yeah, that's good.
Well, and there was one other thing that was different.
As iAm sat down behind the desk in his office, he answered the phone and picked up his most recent meat order at the same time.
"Vinnie, how're ya?" he said as he cocked his head to the side to keep the receiver to his ear. "Yeah...good. I'm good. Yeah, no, I need more veal than that. Yeah. And I want that other supplier. The quality is--"
His front house manager stuck his head in the door. "She's here. Good experience, nice demeanor. She'll do."
iAm covered the bottom of the receiver. "Send her in."
As the commercial butcher and he continued to go over the order, iAm thought back to right after he'd gotten the place. The humans he dealt with had assumed he was African American, which he wasn't, but as a Shadow, he was used to passing in the human world as a member of that race. And for a black man to take over the historically, and extremely proud, Italian landmark had been a shocker to everyone from the kitchen staff to the front of the house to the patrons and the suppliers.
But the third Salvatore had given him his blessing after iAm had cooked the shit out of some gato di patate, pasta alla Norma, and caponata--and then presented the old man with the best cannolis the guy had ever had. Not that Sal III had had a choice. Gambling debts to Rehv had meant he'd had to give up what he'd loved, and Rehv had in turn passed the enterprise on to iAm as a reward for good work.
But still, as the new owner, iAm had wanted to keep the continuity going--and also the Italian patrons coming in--and Sal III's support had ensured both. Especially as iAm had let the haters hate, and earned each and every one of the old schoolers back, seducing them with his basil and his fusilli.
The place was thriving, and the respect was flowing, and it was s'all good. He had also found his mate...who happened to be the Queen of the s'Hisbe. So his life should have been perfect.
It was not.
The situation with his brother, Trez, was straight up killing him. It was so hard to see a male of worth brought to his knees by fate, the guy's soul bowed under a loss that iAm couldn't even contemplate without wanting to vomit--
"I'm sorry, what?" iAm refocused. "Yeah, sorry, that's good. Thanks, man--wait, say that again? Oh, yeah, I can do that. How much you need? Nah, you don't pay me. If you do, I will be insulted. I bring the manicot as a gift to you and your mother. You take it, you enjoy."
iAm was smiling as he hung up the phone. The old-school Italians turned out to be a lot like Shadows: closed off to outsiders, proud of their traditions, suspicious of people they didn't know. But once you were in with them? Once you proved yourself and were accepted? They were so loyal and generous it was almost like they weren't humans at all.
In fact, to him, proper Italians had become a subspecies apart from the other rats without tails on the planet.
That manicot? He'd make it for Vinnie's mom, Mrs. Giuffrida, and bring it over in person. And then when his meat order came in? There would be extra chops or some sausage or a choice cut of beef for free. The thing was, he would have made the manicot anyway, even if there was nothing coming back toward him--because Mrs. Giuffrida was a love of the first order who came in the first Friday of every month and always ordered the pasta con le sarde. And if you were nice to Vinnie's mother? That man would ride or die for you till the end of his days.
It was a great arrangement and--
All at once, iAm went statue, everything about him going stock still. And funny, considering what had come to stand in the office's open doorway, it seemed appropriate that he should try a version of the Arrest on for size.
The female vampire between the jambs was tall and curvy, her body clothed in loose black slacks and a black sweater with a boat neck. Her black wavy hair had been pulled into a clip, and her face was free of makeup--not that she needed any help from the likes of Maybelline. She was stunningly beautiful, with perfect lips and eyes that were almost anime and cheeks that were rosy from her having come in from the cold--or perhaps because she was nervous about interviewing for their waitress position.
The individual components of her and her wardrobe weren't the shocker, however. It was the whole damn thing put together that took his breath away.
iAm rose slowly to his feet, like maybe if he moved too fast, his head would explode.
"Selena?" he whispered. Except this couldn't be real...could it?
The female's pretty eyebrows popped. "Um...no? My name is Therese? My friends call me Tres?"
All at once, the world spun on its axis and iAm fell back down into his chair.
The female took a step in as if she were worried he needed CPR, but then she stopped like she didn't know what to do. Which made two of them.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
In a voice that sounded absolutely, positively, exactly, like his brother's dead shellan.
--
Instead of heading back to the Brotherhood mansion for the day, Trez had stayed at his club. For one, as a Shadow, he not only could handle sunlight, but he actually liked the stuff--even though there had been none of it to see because of the flurries that had fallen all morning and afternoon. More to the point, though, he hung where he was because sometimes the crush of people at home was too much for his already-done-in head and he had to take a breather and hide, but not hide, here.
One advantage? His chair was so padded it was basically an adjustable hospital bed, just without the rails and the IV bag.
Swiveling around to face the glass wall, he looked down at the dance floor. The house lights were on, and all the scuffs on the black-painted pine boards irritated the fuck out of him. The cleaners did a great job, but there was nothing they could do to fix the damage made by hundreds of drunken feet. It was probably time to strip and restain. Again.
Of course, pulling a re-polish was arguably a waste of time and money because that floor was just going to get ruined once more, and besides, nobody could see the bare spots when the lasers were flashing and the place was dark as the inside of a hat. But he couldn't stand it. He knew the imperfections were there and despised them.
He supposed the floor upkeep was the club equivalent to mowing your lawn: You knew you were just chasing a moving target, but at least for ten minutes, your grass looked like a proper wall-to-wall carpet.
He checked his watch. Seven o'clock.
About two hours ago, around five-ish, he'd taken a shower in his private bathroom, shaved, and put on a fresh version of his work uniform, which was slacks and a silk button-down. Tonight, the top half of him was gray, the bottom half was white, and the shit in the middle was commando.
He took another glance at his watch. And counted the hours since he'd last put food in his mouth.
As if his stomach knew this was its only chance to register an opinion, the frickin' thing roared.
G
oddamn Lassiter. Dinner invite. Sal's.
WTF.
The last thing he wanted to do was sit across from that angel and listen to a Reservoir Dogs opener about dick symbolism in Deadpool. The problem? His brother, iAm, did make the best Bolognese anywhere, and besides, if Trez didn't show? Lassiter was just the flavor of asshole to turn up here in a clown costume and honk his nose until Trez lost his mind.
Short trip lately, granted. But still.
He looked at his watch again. Cursed. Made the decision.
Getting to his feet, he checked that his gun was in place at the small of his back, grabbed his wallet and his cell phone, and pulled on a suit jacket.
Downstairs, Xhex was inventory-ing the liquor at the bar.
"I'll be back," he told his head of security. "You want me to bring you anything from my brother's for dinner?"
She shook her head as she lifted a case of Absolut onto the counter like it weighed nothing. Xhex had shoulders almost as big as a human male's, and the rest of her was just as in shape. With her short hair and her gunmetal-gray eyes, she was the kind of thing that even drunks recognized as a do-not-fuck-with, which made her perfect for her job.
"I'm good. Ate at home." She cocked an eyebrow. "Missed you at First Meal."
That was as far as she would go with the why-didn't-you-come-home-last-night, and he appreciated it. Xhex was like a guy in a lot of respects: short, to the point, and didn't go enmeshment with the sympathy shit.
Frankly, she was one of the few people he could reliably stand to be around. Lately, he had come to detest pitying eyes and long, meaningful sighs and hugs that went on too long. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the support, but the thing was...when you were deep in mourning, it was hard to be around folks who felt bad because you were feeling bad. Seeing the Brotherhood and their mates in pain on his behalf? Well, that hurt him, and then that made him feel even worse and even more exhausted. And around and around again.