The Blind King dematerialized right on the motherfucker, striking from above with fangs bared to lock into the back of the slayers neck. The stinging sweetness of the lessers blood was the taste of triumph, and the chorus of victory was not long in coming either as Wrath grabbed onto both of the bastards upper arms.
Payback was a snap. Or two, as it were.
The thing screamed as both bones popped out of their sockets, but the howl didnt travel far after Wrath clapped his palm over its mouth.
Thats just a warm-up, Wrath hissed. Its important to get loose before youre worked out.
The king flipped the slayer over and stared down at the thing. From behind Wraths wraparounds, his weak eyes were sharper than usual, the adrenaline cruising along his highway of veins giving him a shot at visual acuity. Which was good. He needed to see what he killed in a way that had nothing to do with ensuring the accuracy of a mortal blow.
As the lesser strained for breath, the skin of its face sported an unreal, plastic sheen-as if the bone structure had been upholstered in the shit you made grain sacks out of-and the eyes were popping wide, the sweet stench of the thing like the sweat of roadkill on a hot night.
Wrath unclipped the steel chain that hung from the shoulder of his biker jacket and unwound the shiny links from under his arm. Holding the heavy weight in his right hand, he wrapped his fist, widening the spread of his knuckles, adding to their hard contours.
Say cheese.
Wrath struck the thing in the eye. Once. Twice. Three times. His fist was a battering ram, the eye socket below giving way like it was nothing more than a pocket door. With every cracking impact, black blood burst up and out, hitting Wraths face and jacket and sunglasses. He felt all the spray, even through the leather he wore, and wanted more.
He was a glutton for this kind of meal.
With a hard smile, he let the chain uncoil from his fist, and it hit the dirty asphalt on a seething, metallic laugh, as if it had enjoyed that as much as he had. Below him, the lesser wasnt dead. Even though the thing was no doubt developing massive subdural hematomas on the front and back of its brain, it would still live, because there were only two ways to kill a slayer.
One was to stab it in the chest with the black daggers the Brothers wore strapped to their chests. This sent the POS back to its maker, the Omega, but was only a temporary fix, because the evil would just use that essence to turn another human into a killing machine. It was not death, but delay.
The other way was permanent.
Wrath got out his cell phone and dialed. When a deep male voice with a Boston accent answered, he said, Eighth and Trade. Three down.
Butch ONeal, a.k.a. the Dhestroyer, descended of Wrath, son of Wrath, was characteristically phlegmatic in his response. Real middle-of-the-road. Easygoing. Leaving so much room for interpretation in his words:
Oh, for fucks sake. Are you kidding me? Wrath, you have got to stop this moonlighting shit. Youre the king now. Youre not a Brother any-
Wrath clipped the phone shut.
Yup. The other way to get rid of these sonsabitches, the permanent way, was going to be here in about five minutes. With his mouth riding shotgun. Unfortunately.
Wrath sat back on his heels, re-coiled the chain on his shoulder, and looked up at the squat box of night sky that was visible above the rooftops. As his adrenaline ebbed, he could only slightly differentiate the rising dark torsos of the buildings against the flat plane of the galaxy, and he squinted hard.
Youre not a Brother anymore.
The hell he wasnt. He didnt care what the law said. His race needed him to be more than a bureaucrat.
With a curse in the Old Language, he got back with the program, going through the slayers jacket and pants, looking for ID. In an ass pocket, he found a thin wallet with a drivers license and two dollars in it-
You thoughthe was one of yours
The slayers voice was both reedy and malicious, and the horror-movie sound triggered Wraths aggression once more. In a rush, his vision sharpened, bringing his enemy into semifocus.
What did you say to me?
The lesser smiled a little, seeming not to notice that half its face had the consistency of a runny omelet. He was alwaysone of ours.
What the fuck are you talking about?
Howdo you think-the lesser took a shuddering breath-we foundall those houses this summer-
A vehicles arrival cut off the words, and Wraths head shot around. Thank fuck it was the black Escalade he was hoping for and not some human with a cell phone cocked and loaded with a 911 call.
Butch ONeal stepped out from behind the wheel, his gum-flapping in full swing. Have you lost your damn mind? What are we going to do with you? Youre gonna give
As the cop kept riding the Holy Hell Trail, Wrath looked back at the slayer. How did you find them? The houses?
The slayer started laughing, the weak wheeze the kind of thing you heard out of the deranged. Because hed been in them allthats how.
The bastard passed out, and shaking him didnt help bring him back. Neither did a palm slam or two.
Wrath got to his feet, frustration triggering the rise. Do your business, cop. The other two are back behind the Dumpster on the next block.
The cop just stared at him. Youre not supposed to fight.
Im the king. I can do whatever the fuck I want.
Wrath started to walk away, but Butch grabbed onto his arm. Does Beth know where you are? What youre doing? You tell her? Or is it only me youre asking to keep this secret?
Worry about that. Wrath pointed to the slayer. Not me and my shellan.
As he pulled free, Butch barked, Where are you going?
Wrath marched up into the cops grille. I thought I would pick up a civilians dead body and carry it to the Escalade. You got a problem with that, son?
Butch held his ground. Just one more way their shared blood showed. We lose you as king and the whole race is fucked.
And we got four Brothers left in the field. You like that math? I dont.
But-
Do your business, Butch. And stay out of mine.
Wrath stalked the three hundred yards back to where the fighting had started. The beaten slayers were right where hed left them: moaning on the ground, their limbs at wrong angles, their black blood seeping out into filthy slush puddles beneath their bodies. They were no longer his concern, though. Going around behind the Dumpster he looked at his dead civilian and found it hard to breathe.
The king knelt down and carefully brushed the hair back from the males beaten-to-shit face. Clearly, the guy had fought back, taking a number of hits before getting stabbed through the heart. Brave kid.
Wrath cupped the nape of the males neck, slid his other arm under the knees, and slowly rose. The weight of the dead was heavier than the pounds of the body. As he stepped away from the Dumpster and started for the Escalade, Wrath felt as though he held his whole race aloft in his arms, and he was glad he had to wear sunglasses to protect his weak eyes.
His wraparounds hid the sheen of tears.
He passed Butch as the cop jogged off toward the broken slayers to do his thing. After the guys footfalls halted, Wrath heard a long, deep inhale that sounded like the hiss of a balloon slowly deflating. The retching that followed was much louder.
As the suck and gag was repeated, Wrath laid the dead out in the back of the Escalade and went through the pockets. There was nothingno wallet, no phone, not even a gum wrapper.
Fuck. Wrath pivoted around and sat on the SUVs back bumper. One of the lessers had cleaned him out already in the course of the fightingand that meant that as all the slayers had just been inhaled, the civilians ID was ashed.
As Butch came weaving down the alley toward the Escalade, he was like an alkie on a bender and the cop didnt smell like Acqua di Parma anymore. He stank of lesser, as if hed lined his clothes in Downy dryer sheets, taped a pair of fake-vanilla car fresheners under his armpits, and done a dog roll in some dead fish.
Wrath got up and shut the Escalades back.
You sure you can drive? he asked as Butch carefully eased himself behind the wheel, looking like he was about to throw up.
Yeah. Good to go.
Wrath shook his head at the hoarse voice and glanced around the alley. There were no windows going up the buildings, and having Vishous come right away to heal the cop wouldnt take a lot of time, but between the fights and the cleanup there had been a lot going on here for the last half hour. They needed to get out of the area.
Originally, Wraths plan had been to take a picture of the slayers ID with his camera phone, enlarge it enough so he could read the address, and go after the jar of that fucker. He couldnt leave Butch on his own, though.
The cop seemed surprised when Wrath got into the Escalades shotgun seat. What are you-
Well take the body to the clinic. V can meet you there and take care of you.
Wrath-
Lets fight on the way, shall we, cousin mine?
Butch put the SUV in gear, reversed out of the alley, and turned around at the first cross street they came to. When he hit Trade, he took a left and headed for the bridges that stretched over the Hudson River. As he drove, he white-knuckled the steering wheel-not because he was scared, but because he was no doubt trying to hold down the bile in his gut.
I cant keep lying like this, Butch mumbled as they got to the other side of Caldwell. A little gag was followed by a cough.
Yeah, you can.
The cop looked over. Its killing me. Beth needs to know.
I dont want her to worry.
I get that- Butch made a choking sound. Hold on.
The cop pulled over onto the iced-up shoulder, popped open the door, and dry-heaved like his liver had received evacuation orders from his colon.
Wrath let his head fall back, an ache setting up shop behind both his eyes. The pain was so not a surprise. Lately he had migraines the way allergy sufferers had sneezes.
Butch reached back and patted around the center console, his upper body still arched out of the Escalade.
You want the water? Wrath asked.
Ye- Retching cut off the rest of the word.
Wrath picked up a Poland Spring bottle, cracked it open, and put the thing in Butchs hand.
When there was a break in the throwing up, the cop glugged some water, but the shit didnt stay down.
Wrath took out his phone. Im calling V now.
Just give me a minute.
It took more like ten, but eventually the cop got himself back in the car and put them on the road again. They both were silent for a couple miles, Wraths brain racing while his headache got worse.
Youre not a Brother anymore.
Youre not a Brother anymore.
But he had to be. His race needed him.
He cleared his throat. When V shows up at the morgue, youre going to say you found the civilians body and did the nasty with the lessers.
Hell want to know why youre there.
Well tell him that I was on the next block meeting with Rehvenge at ZeroSum and I sensed that you needed help. Wrath leaned across the front seat and locked a hand on the guys forearm. No one is going to find out, understand?
This is not a good idea. This is so not a good idea.
The fuck it isnt.
As they fell silent, the lights from cars on the other side of the highway made Wrath wince, even though his lids were down and his wraparounds in place. To cut the glare, he turned his face to the side, making like he was staring out his window.
V knows something is up, Butch muttered after a while.
And he can keep wondering. I need to be out in the field.
What if you get hurt?
Wrath put his forearm over his face in hopes of blocking out those goddamn headlights. Man, now he was getting nauseated.
I wont get hurt. Dont worry.
THREE
You ready for your juice, Father?
When there was no response, Ehlena, blooded daughter of Alyne, paused in the process of buttoning her uniform. Father?
From down the hall, she heard over the dulcet strings of Chopin a pair of slippers moving across bare floorboards and a soft waterfall of tumbling words, like a deck of cards being shuffled together.
This was good. He was up on his own.
Ehlena pulled her hair back, twisted it, and put a white scrunchie on to hold the knot in place. Halfway through her shift, she was going to have to redo the bun. Havers, the races physician, required his nurses to be as pressed and starched and well-ordered as everything in his clinic.
Standards, he always said, were critical.
On the way out of her bedroom, she picked up a black shoulder bag shed gotten from Target. Nineteen bucks. A steal. In it was the shortish skirt and the knockoff Polo sweater she was going to change into about two hours before dawn.
A date. She was actually going on a date.
The trip upstairs to the kitchen involved only one flight of stairs, and the first thing she did when she emerged from the basement was head over to the old-fashioned Frigidaire. Inside, there were eighteen small bottles of Ocean Spray CranRaspberry in three rows of six. She took one from the front, then carefully moved the others forward so that they were all lined up.
The pills were located behind the dusty stack of cookbooks. She took out one trifluoperazine and two loxapine and put them in a white mug. The stainless-steel spoon she used to crush them up was bent at a slight angle, and so were all the others.
Shed been crushing pills like this for close to two years now.
The CranRas hit the fine white powder and swirled it away, and to make sure the taste was adequately hidden, she put two ice cubes in the mug. The colder the better.
Father, your juice is ready. She put the mug down on the small table, right on top of a circle of tape that delineated where it needed to be placed.
The six cupboards across the way were as orderly and relatively empty as the fridge, and out of one she grabbed a box of Wheaties, and from another she got a bowl. After pouring herself some flakes she grabbed the milk carton, and as soon as she was finished using it, she put the thing right back where it went: next to two more of its kind, the Hood labels facing out.
She glanced at her watch and switched into the Old Language. Father? I must take my leave.
The sun had set, and that meant her shift, which started fifteen minutes after dark, was about to kick off.
She glanced at the window over the kitchen sink, although it wasnt as if she could measure how dark it was. The panes were covered with sheets of overlapping aluminum foil that were duct-taped to the molding.
Even if she and her father hadnt been vampires and unable to handle daylight, those Reynolds Wrap blinds would have had to be in place over each window in the house: They were lids on the rest of the world, sealing it out, containing it so that this crappy little rented house was protected and insulatedfrom threats only her father could sense.
When she was finished with the Breakfast of Champions, she washed and dried her bowl with paper towels, because sponges and dishcloths werent allowed, and put it and the spoon shed used back where they belonged.
Father mine?
She propped her hip against the chipped Formica counter and waited, trying not to look too closely at the faded wallpaper or the linoleum floor with its worn tracks.
The house was barely more than a dingy shed, but it was all she could afford. Between her fathers doctor visits and his meds and his visiting nurse there just wasnt much left over from her salary, and shed long ago used up what little was left of the family money, silver, antiques, and jewelry.
They were barely staying afloat.
And yet, as her father appeared in the cellars doorway, she had to smile. His fine gray hair radiated out of his head, a halo of fluff making him look like Beethoven, and his overly observant, slightly frantic eyes also gave him the look of a mad genius. Still, he seemed better than he had in a long while. For one thing, he had his fraying satin robe and silk pajamas on right-everything facing forward, with the top and bottom matching and the sash done up. He was clean, too, freshly bathed and smelling like bay rum aftershave.
It was such a contradiction: He needed his environment spotless and precisely ordered, but his personal hygiene and what he wore were not an issue at all. Although perhaps it made sense. Caught up in his tangled thoughts, he got too distracted by his delusions to be self-aware.
The meds were helping, though, and it showed as he met her eye and actually saw her.
Daughter mine, he said in the Old Language, how fare thee this night?
She responded as he preferred, in the mother tongue. Well, my father. And you?
He bowed with the grace of the aristocrat he was by blood and had been by station. As always I am charmed by your greeting. Ah, yes, the doggen has put out my juice. How good of her.
Her father sat with a swish of his robes, and he picked up the ceramic mug as if it were fine English china. Whither thou goest?
To work. I am going to work.
Her father frowned as he sipped. You are well aware I do not approve of your industry outside of the home. A lady of your breeding should not be tendering her hours as such.
I know, father mine. But it makes me happy.
His face softened. Well, that is different. Alas, I do not understand the younger generation. Your mother managed the household and the servants and the gardens, and that was plenty to engage her nightly impulses.
Ehlena looked down, thinking that her mother would weep to see where they had ended up. I know.
You shall do as you will, though, and I shall love you eermore.
She smiled at the words shed heard all of her life. And on that noteFather?
He lowered the mug. Yes?
I shall be a bit late in getting home this evening.
Indeed? Why for?
I am going to have coffee with a male-
What is that?
The change in his tone brought her head up, and she looked around to see what-Oh, no
Nothing, Father, verily, it is nothing. She quickly went over to the spoon shed used to crush the pills and picked it up, rushing for the sink like she had a burn that needed cold water stat.
Her fathers voice quavered. Whatwhat was it doing? I-
Ehlena quickly dried the spoon and slipped it in the drawer. See? All gone. See? She pointed to where it had been. The counter is clean. Theres nothing there.
It was thereI saw it. Metal objects are not to be leftIts not safe toWho left itWho left it outWho left the spoon-
The maid did.
The maid! Again! She must be fired. I have told her-nothing metal is left out nothing metal is left out nothing metal is left out-they-are-watching-andtheywillpunishthosewhodisobeytheyarecloserthanweknowand-
In the beginning, when her fathers attacks had first occurred, Ehlena had reached out to him as he got agitated, thinking a pat on the shoulder or a comforting hand in his own would help. Now she knew better. The less sensory input into his brain, the faster the rolling hysteria slowed: On the advice of his nurse, Ehlena pointed out the reality to him once and then didnt move or speak.
It was hard, though, to watch him suffer and be unable to do anything to help. Especially when it was her fault.
Her fathers head shook back and forth, the agitation frothing his hair up into a fright wig of crazy frizz, while in his wobbling grip, CranRas jumped out of the mug, splashing on his veined hand and the sleeve of the robe and the pitted Formica tabletop. From his trembling lips, the staccato beats of syllables increased, his internal record getting played at an ever-higher speed, the flush of madness riding up the column of his throat and flaring in his cheeks.
Ehlena prayed this wasnt going to be a bad one. The attacks, when they came, varied in intensity and duration, and the drugs helped shrink both metrics. But sometimes the illness bested the chemical management.
As her fathers words became too crowded to comprehend and he dropped the mug on the floor, all Ehlena could do was wait and pray to the Scribe Virgin that this would pass soon. Forcing her feet to stay glued to the crappy linoleum, she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her rib cage.
If she had just remembered to put the spoon away. If she had just-
When her fathers chair scraped back and crashed to the floor, she knew she was going to be late for work. Again.
Humans really were cattle, Xhex thought as she looked over all the heads and shoulders packed in tight around ZeroSums general-population bar.
It was like some farmer had just grained up a trough and the milking stock was jockeying for muzzle space.
Not that the bovine characteristics of Homo sapiens were a bad thing. The herd mentality was easier to manage from a security point of view, and in a way, like cows, one could feed off of them: That crush around those bottles was all about wallet purge, with the tide flowing only one way-into the coffers.
Liquor sales were good. But the drugs and sex had even higher profit margins.
Xhex walked by the bars outer rim slowly, dousing the hot speculation of heterosexual men and homosexual women with hard looks. Man, she didnt get it. Never had. For a female who wore nothing but muscle shirts and leathers and had hair cut short as a infantrymans, she caught attention as much as the half-dressed prostitutes up in VIP area did.
Then again, rough sex was in fashion these days, and volunteers for autoerotic asphyxiation and ass-crack whippings and three ways with handcuffs were like the rats in Caldwells sewer system: everywhere and out at night. Which resulted in over a third of the clubs profits every month.
Thank you very much.
Unlike the working girls, however, she never took money for sex. Didnt really do the sex thing at all. Except for Butch ONeal, that cop. Well, that cop and
Xhex came up to the VIP sections velvet rope and took a glance inside the exclusive part of the club.
Shit. He was here.
Just what she needed tonight.
Her libidos favorite eye candy was sitting in the far back at the Brotherhoods table, his two buddies flanking him and thus buffering him from the three girls who were also crowded into the banquette. Damn, he was big in that booth, all decked out in an Affliction T-shirt and a black leather jacket that was built half biker, half flak.
There were weapons under it. Guns. Knives.
How things had changed. The first time hed made an appearance, hed been the size of a bar stool, packing barely enough muscle to bench-press a swizzle stick. But that was not the case anymore.
As she nodded to her bouncer and went up the three graduated steps, John Matthew lifted his stare from his Corona. Even through the dimness, his deep blue eyes glowed when he saw her, flashing like a set of sapphires.
Man, she could pick em. The son of a bitch was just out of his transition. The king was his whard. He lived with the Brotherhood. And he was a damned mute.
Christ. And shed thought Murhder had been a bad idea? Youd have figured shed learned her lesson over two decades ago with that Brother. But nooooooooooooo
Thing was, as she looked at the kid, all she could picture was him spread out naked on a bed, thick cock in his hand, palm going up and downuntil her name left his lips on a soundless groan and he came all over his tight six-pack.
The tragedy was that what she saw wasnt a fantasy. Those fist pneumatics actually happened. Often. And how did she know? Because, like an asshole, shed read his mind and caught the Memorex, good-as-live version.
Sick to shit of herself, Xhex went deeper into the VIP section and stayed away from him, checking in with the floor manager of the working girls. Marie-Terese was a brunette with great legs and an expensive look. One of the big earners, she was a strict professional and therefore exactly the kind of HBIC you wanted: She never fell into catty crap, always showed up for her shifts on time, and never brought whatever was wrong in her personal life to work. She was a fine woman in a horrible job, making money hand over fist for a damn good reason.
How we doing? Xhex asked. You need anything from me and my boys?
Marie-Terese glanced around at the other working women, her high cheekbones catching the dim light, making her look not just sexually alluring, but downright beautiful. Were good for now. Two in the back at the moment. Its been business as usual, except for the fact that our girl is not here.
Xhex snapped her brows down. Chrissy again?
Marie-Terese inclined her head of long, black, and lovely. Something needs to be done about that gentleman caller of hers.
Something was, but it didnt go far enough. And if hes a gentleman, Im Estée fucking Lauder. Xhex fisted both hands. That son of a bitch-
Boss?
Xhex looked over her shoulder. Past the mountain of bouncer who was trying to get her attention, she caught another full-on of John Matthew. Who was still staring at her.
Boss?
Xhex refocused. What.
Theres a cop here to see you.
She didnt move her eyes from her bouncer. Marie-Terese, tell the girls to relax for ten.
Im on it.
The head bitch in charge moved fast while seeming to just saunter in her stillies, going to each of the girls and tapping them on the left shoulder, then knocking once on each of the private bathroom doors down the dark hall to the right.
As the place emptied of prostitutes, Xhex said, Who and why.
Homicide detective. The bouncer handed over a card. José de la Cruz, he said his name was.
Xhex took the thing and knew exactly why the guy was here. And Chrissy was not. Park him in my office. Ill be there in two.
Roger that.
Xhex brought her wristwatch up to her lips. Trez? iAm? Weve got heat in the house. Tell the bookies to chill and Rally to stop the scales.
When confirmation came through her earpiece, she did a quick double check that all the girls were off the floor; then she headed back to the open part of the club.
As she left the VIP section, she could feel John Matthews eyes on her and tried not to think about what she had done two dawns ago when she got homeand what she was likely going to do when she was by herself at the end of tonight as well.
Fucking John Matthew. Ever since shed barged into his brain and saw what hed been doing to himself whenever he thought about hershed been doing likewise.
Fucking. John Matthew.
Like she needed this shit?
Now, as she went through the human herd, she was rough, not caring when she hard-elbowed a couple of dancers. She almost hoped one complained so she could toss them out on their ass.
Her office was up on the mezzanine floor in the back, as far away as you could get from where the sex-for-hire happened and from where the beat-downs and the deals rolled out in Rehvenges private space. As head of security, she was the primary interface with the police, and there was no reason to bring the blue unis closer to the action than they had to be.
Scrubbing the minds of humans was a handy tool, but it had its complications.
Her door was open and she sized up the detective from behind. He wasnt too tall, but he had a thick build she approved of. His sports coat was Mens Wearhouse, his shoes were Florsheim. Watch peeking out of his cuff was Seiko.
As he turned to look at her, his dark brown eyes were Sherlock-smart. He might not be making a lot of paper, but he was no dummy.
Detective, she said, shutting the door and going past him to take a seat behind her desk.
Her office was all but naked. No pictures. No plants. Not even a phone or a computer. The records in the three locked fireproof filing cabinets pertained only to the legitimate side of the business, and the wastepaper basket was a shredder.
Which meant Detective de la Cruz had learned absolutely nothing about anything during the 120 seconds hed spent alone in the room.
De la Cruz took his badge out and flashed it. Im here about one of your employees.
Xhex pretended to lean across and look at the shield, but she didnt need the ID. Her symphath side told her all she had to know: The detectives emotions were the correct mix of suspicion, concern, resolve, and pissed off. He took his job seriously, and he was here on business.
Which employee? she asked.