Assail looked away from the drop down to the icy cold waters of the Hudson. "I had forgotten. But yes."
And he was bringing Ghisele again.
God, that was another thing he didn't want to think about. Feeding reminded him of all that he was keeping to himself. Plus he hated the idea of being close to any female other than Marisol in any manner.
Biology trumped everything, though. Or maybe it was more like trampled.
It was rather like destiny, in that regard.
FORTY
After leaving the Great Camp in response to that text, Vishous re-formed downtown about two blocks away from a techno club that was pumping music so loud, you could hear the shit all the way down the street. Z was already on scene, and so were John Matthew and Qhuinn.
There was nothing to fight, however: No lessers were anywhere in sight. None of those shadow things, either.
No, this was about the aftermath.
His two brothers and John Matthew were kneeling around a figure on the ground, and as V came in for the close-up, he cursed. It was a male civilian dressed in good clothes that were getting ruined in the salted slush.
Death was coming, V thought as he got down on his haunches. And fast. The male's skin was chalky, his lips curled back from pain, his arms and legs flopping as if he were searching for positional relief that refused to come.
"What the fuck happened," V muttered as he leaned over and picked up a gun that was in the snow.
Checking the clip of the autoloader, he found three bullets left.
"Shot at it," the male was mumbling. "Shot...at it...but the bullets did nothing...they did nothing to it..."
Fucking lessers, V thought.
"Hold on," Qhuinn muttered as he took the male's hand. "Stay with us. We got help coming."
A scatter of talk came around the corner, and V stood up. Four humans--three men and a woman--stopped short.
"Oh, hell, he take that shit Johnny did?" one of them said.
"Yo, you need an ambulance? They can't arrest you if you're getting help for an OD--"
Vishous approached the group and didn't waste time or oxygen on them. He reached into their minds onetwothreefour and shut them all down. Wiping their memories clean, so that they would not recall seeing anything at all, he sent them on their drunken way by ringing hunger bells in their brains.
They were going to go on a mad search for Dunkin' Donuts. And would recall nothing else.
Where the fuck was the medical help? V thought as he refocused on the downed male.
Right on cue, the mobile surgical van arrived on scene, and his Jane was behind the wheel. With quick efficiency, she assessed the civilian, and then V helped her get the poor kid up on a stretcher and into the treatment space.
"I'll drive," Qhuinn said as he went forward into the cockpit and got behind the wheel. "John Matthew and Z are going to search the area."
"Let me assist you," V said to Jane.
"Can you have his chest cleared for me so I can monitor his heart?"
"Roger that."
As Jane turned away to get equipment out of locked cupboards, Qhuinn hit the gas and V worked to strip off the kind of clothes that Butch would have worn: everything was expensive and handmade. Too bad he had to treat the stuff like it was disposable. When he was down to the silk shirt, he didn't bother with the buttons, but jerked the two halves apart and--
"Oh...fuck," he muttered.
Jane wheeled around. "Do we have an open injury--shit."
Shit was right. The male's well-developed chest was lashed with welts, the skin swollen up in strips.
Just as V's had been when he'd two-stepped with that shadow.
V put his face into the civilian's. "What was it? What did it look like?"
The male struggled to focus. "Shot at it--"
"I know." V took one of those flailing hands in his own and squeezed, like maybe that would help the kid to focus. "Tell me what it was."
"A sh-sh-shadow...I could see through...it. Came out of nowhere...the bullets did nothing...the bullets..."
Motherfucker. "Was there anyone else around? Did you see anybody else?"
"No. No...no...noooooooo--"
"He's arresting!" Jane said.
V spun around and grabbed for the portable defibrillator, unlatching the little table it was on and yanking the machine forward.
As the surgical unit lumbered on, bumping over the icy road, Jane leaned in and started chest compressions. She went hands-off long enough for Vishous to slap the electrodes on, and then they both stepped back.
"Clear," she said.
Vishous hit the button and sent the electricity in, the civilian's chest jerking up off the table, his arms flopping.
Jane went in and tested at the jugular. "Nothing. Again."
He is not coming back, V thought.
They did two more rounds after that. And when there was still no pulse, Jane continued chest compressions and ordered V to get the standard protocol of drugs. But even after they pumped that kid full of adrenaline and other things...there was still nothing.
Some ten minutes and God only knew how many miles of road later, Jane stood back and shook her head.
"We lost him." She cursed. "He's gone."
V looked toward the front of the van. "Yo, Q, take us to Havers's. We've got a body, not a patient, back here."
* * *
--
Throe watched it all happen from the rooftop of the club. He had taken care with himself this time, for he did not know what to expect and his previous arrogance--which had been grounded in what he'd assumed was the invincibility of his creation--had been replaced with a far more appropriate caution.
No more street clothes. He was dressed in all black, with a knit mask pulled down over his face so that nothing of him showed or could reflect light. He was also heavily armed, with sets of guns and rounds of ammunition strapped to his body. Finally, he had been sure to keep himself downwind of where the attack would take place--and he was not alone. This evening, he had brought with him two shadows, one to send down to street level, and a second to wait with him and be a protective backup if necessary.
Throe had a feeling that the Brothers were going to come quickly unto the scene, and assuming they did, it was critical that they not identify him in any fashion. He was not prepared to come forward. Yet.
And then there was too much waiting for his taste. The attack took far longer to transpire than he had anticipated, as the intended target was late, which was irritating.
But then all went according to plan. The male who had been summoned to meet finally arrived, and Throe sent down one of the shadows and observed keenly what transpired. This was a test on so many levels, including of his entities' ability to fight without conventional weapons. When he had ordered them to kill Naasha's ancient hellren, he had provided them with a knife. And he had done the same when he had sent them after those Brothers the other evening. But having witnessed that fight and seen what his creations were capable of with their bodies, he realized that weaponizing them may be a waste.
And he was right. His shadows were lightning fast with their forms, snapping out tendrils that caused pain without shredding clothes or seeming to break skin. Verily, that aristocrat proved no match for the ferocity of the attack, falling back from his feet, landing upon the ground--and as he fumbled to get out a gun, Throe nearly interceded.
But instead of the bullets stopping the shadow, they passed through the form and ricocheted off the buildings behind the entity.
Throe had waited for some kind of pain to register as it had done before. Except there had been nothing; the attack didn't even slow--and there had been the temptation to let the final course of the meal be served. Throe needed, however, for there to be a reporting of the incident. Thus, he had called off his dog, so to speak, the shadow returning to a heel, a balloon once again tethered unto him.
Down below, on the street, in the snow, there had been much gasping
and rolling about, and then the male had done as was predicted. With a sloppy hand, he had gotten out a cell phone and texted something.
And like the saviors they preferred to think of themselves as, the Brothers had come unto the fallen, confirming what Throe had suspected: Yes, there was an emergency system in place, a method by which endangered citizens could ask for and receive aid from within the species. This was important information to have, and it was going to be managed with strategy.
As the heroic arrivals had clustered around the injured male, Throe had been sorely tempted to stay and continue to play witness.
But the risk was too great, especially as yet another Brother arrived.
With an unspoken order, Throe had called his shadows into travel, and return to home they had gone, arriving the now in the snowy yard behind the grand house.
Throe paused and considered his options in the cold. There was the prospect of doing another attack this evening, but no. He wanted to see how the natural course of this first one played out. How long it took for the story to percolate and be expressed on social media. How others in the race, especially other aristocrats, responded. What Wrath, the great Blind King, did.
When one was sowing the seeds of social dissension, one had to proceed with care, lest the bonfire thus started got out of bounds and spread in directions that did not support the larger goal.
Originally, he had assumed he needed an army of shadows to attack the Brotherhood and kill the King. But upon further reflection, he decided he did not need such a largesse. Instead, he could use what he had to create social unrest--and that was a far better avenue for him to realize his ambitions. If enough attacks like this occurred, in a short enough period of time, it would not take long before Wrath and the Brotherhood would be perceived as weak: Unable to protect their citizens, they would suffer a rightful fall from grace--and the race would be looking for a hero.
And vacuums needed to be filled, didn't they.
It was one of the laws of physics.
"Come," he ordered his balloons. "Let us get out of the cold. The dominoes have just started to fall, and it will be a while as of yet."
Naturally, his shadows did exactly what he told them to.
FORTY-ONE
Not long after Sola helped bring the groceries in, and Assail and his cousins started to cook, Dr. Manello came to check on the patient--which was fine, great, whatever, Sola thought.
It was just...well, that that other nurse in the long robes was with him. And hey, the woman was perfectly professional and solicitous, but Sola had to cop to feeling a spike of that's-my-man. Which was frickin' ridiculous.
In lieu of giving herself a time-out, she went downstairs and wasted ten minutes tidying her already neat guest room. And then she flipped through some TV. And then...
Unable to settle for some reason, she decided a shower was in order, and she was naked, and under the hot spray, when Assail came and found her: One moment she was alone and doing a quick wash of things...the next, a dark shape was just outside the shower stall.
Jerking the door open, she leaned out into the cold. "What did Dr. Manello say? Everything still okay?"
Assail didn't respond verbally. Instead, he took off his clothes, letting them fall to the damp tile floor.
His sex was totally erect, sticking out straight out from his hips.
"I need you," he said with a growl.
As she stepped back to make room for him, she was aware of a heady scent, some kind of delicious cologne that he had been wearing lately. Damn, the stuff went into her nose and through her body--
His hands were rough as he pulled her against him, and his mouth was the same, grinding, taking, demanding. And as she kissed him back, she was aware of a strange taste, as if he had been drinking wine? It was not unpleasant at all, it was just...a type of Cabernet she had never had before.
When he put one of her hands on his arousal, she started stroking him--and he climaxed immediately, coming on her belly, the ejaculations hot and powerful. In the back of her mind, she had a split second of disappointment that he had finished so soon, the session ending before it got started for her.
She couldn't have been more wrong.
Before she knew what was happening, he was lifting her up and she was grabbing on to the top of the stall's glass panels. Suspending herself at his hip height, he entered her core with a hard shove, the penetration slicing through her with an erotic sharpness. And as he began to move inside of her, an unusual tingling flowed throughout her body, as if her blood had turned to sparkles.
So hot. So heavy. So hard. And then his mouth was at her breasts, his dark head moving as wet suction locked on her nipples.
How great that his hair was already growing in, she thought in the back of her mind.
And then she didn't think about anything at all. Her orgasm was no ripple--it was a roar, a great fireball that incinerated her from the inside out, the sensations wiping everything out of her consciousness except the pleasure. Three thrusts later, and he came along with her, locking his hips into her pelvis, his sex filling her up.
But Assail didn't stop. He kept going, ravishing her, moving his mouth from her breasts to her neck, where he nipped and sucked at her. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to make any sound. This was not upstairs, where there was privacy. No, he had come to her down in the basement, as if he had been too impatient to wait.
At least his cousins and Markcus were upstairs cooking, her grandmother supervising them with frustration as the men tried to provide for her.
But that could change at any moment.
"I want more," Assail said in her ear. "I want...more from you."
Snaking a hand up the back of his neck, she pulled him closer. "Then take it. Take all of me--"
A lance of something so pleasurable it stung made her forget herself and she cried out as she lost her hold on the shower stall. With a squeak, her hand slipped down the glass, shifting her position, crashing them together, arms, legs, bodies tangling as slippery skin and awkward angles conspired to send her into a fall.
Assail scrambled to catch her as his arousal popped free, and then she was down on the floor by the drain.
She started to laugh. She couldn't help it.
"Okay, that was a traffic accident," she said as she looked up at him. "Good thing I--"
She stopped as she realized he wasn't laughing with her. And then his expression registered properly. Pain, dark and torturous, had drawn his face in tightly.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
That was when she noticed the faint red tinge to the water that was escaping through the drain. Shit. Her period.
"I'm not hurt," she chided. "It's a woman thing."
As he helped her to her feet, he seemed profoundly unsteady. "I am so sorry."
"What for? It happens once a month."
Assail just shook his head and gathered her close. "I am...so very sorry."
Sola rolled her eyes as she put her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. "I'm perfectly fine."
With gentle brushes, he nuzzled her neck, kissing her softly before hanging his head.
They stayed there for so long, the water began to lose its temperature, and even then, he didn't seem to want to leave.
"We have to get out," she told him. "They'll wonder what we're up to--and chances are, at least your cousins will get it right."
Making the decision for them, she cut the water off and stepped out. There were two towels hanging on the rod, and she took them both off, offering him one.
She could have sworn his hand shook as he accepted it.
"Did Dr. Manello have anything to say about your--"
"It all went fine," he replied roughly. "I'm fine."
Assail turned away to dry off and she watched his muscles shift under his smooth skin. Even though it had been just a few days, she could swear he was regaining some of his bulk already--but probably, as with her thinking that his hair was coming in, that wa
s optimism over accuracy on her part.
"Assail, what's wrong?"
He stopped, his head dropping as if in defeat. "I am...I just am so sorry."
"I don't understand what for." She wrapped the towel around herself. "Everything is good. We're good. I'm good. You're good."
As she continued on in that vein, she wondered who she was trying to argue that to: him or her.
* * *
--
Exactly how the hell did he think this was all going to work, Assail wondered as he left the steamy bathroom and went back up to the first floor.
How did he think he was going to be with a human for the rest of their lives?
Opening the cellar door, he cleared his throat as all the eyes in the kitchen shifted to him.
"Marisol is coming directly. If you all will just excuse me? I'm afraid I slipped and fell in the bath--bathroom, I mean."
The lie sounded ridiculous to his own ears, and only Marisol's grandmother nodded as if that made perfect sense. Then again, she was incentivized to believe in the virtue of her granddaughter--and at least his cousins and Markcus stayed silent on the subject.
With his head in a tangle, Assail strode off for the stairs to his own room, and when he got to the second floor, he stripped everything off and went into his loo. Willing the lights on, he looked at himself in the mirror.
Under the illumination coming from the ceiling, he appeared downright evil, great shadows where his deep-set eyes sat within his skull, his body as yet unsated even by the intense session in Marisol's shower, the Chosen's vein he had just taken powering him up.
The loginess that came with feeding had yet to kick in and he prayed it would soon.
He was dangerous like this, a bonded male so close to his female and yet unable to have her fully.
And by that, he meant more than just her sex.
Putting his head into his hands, he ran his tongue over the sharp points of his descended fangs.
He hadn't meant to bite Marisol. Or rather...when he had told her he needed more and she had answered for him to have all of her, there had been no proper context for her consent. He had taken her vein with love, he had had her in the way he so desperately wanted, but in doing so he had...
Violated her.
Marisol had had no idea what he'd been asking for. And thus he had done the unforgivable.