"There's not enough room in the shed for an audience."
"I'm talking about the bedroom. It's quite large. As you know."
O swallowed and kept his voice smooth. "If you want me to teach, I'll need more space than that."
"You will come here until we build. That clear enough for you, or do you want a diagram?'
Fine. He'd deal.
O opened the door.
"Mr. O, I believe you have forgotten something."
Jesus. Now he knew what people meant when they said their skin crawled.
"Yes, sensei?"
"I want you to thank me for the promotion."
"Thank you, sensei," O said with a tight jaw.
"Don't disappointment me, son."
Yeah, fuck you, daddy.
O bowed a little and left quickly. It felt good to get in his truck and drive away. Better than good. It felt like a goddamned liberation.
On the way to his house, O pulled into a CVS. It didn't take him long to find what he needed, and ten minutes later he shut his front door and deactivated his security alarm. His place was a tiny two-story in a not-so-hot residential section of town, and the location provided good cover. Most of his neighbors were elderly, and those who weren't were green-carders who worked two and three jobs. No one bothered him.
As he walked upstairs to the bedroom, the sound of his footsteps echoing up from the bare floors and bouncing off the empty walls was oddly comforting. Still, the house wasn't a home and never had been. The thing was a barrack. A mattress and a Barcalounger were all he had for furniture. Blinds hung in front of every piece of glass, blocking any view. Closets were stocked with weapons and uniforms. The kitchen was completely empty, the appliances unused since he'd moved in.
He stripped and took a gun into the bathroom along with the white plastic CVS bag. Leaning in toward the mirror, he parted his hair. His roots were showing about an eighth of an inch of pale.
The change had started about a year ago. First a few hairs, right on top, then a whole patch that spread from front to back. His temples had held out the longest, though now even they were fading.
Clairol Hydrience No. 48 Sable Cove took care of the problem, got him back to brown. He'd started with Hair Color for Men, but soon discovered that the shit for women worked better and lasted longer.
He popped open the box and didn't bother with the clear plastic gloves. Emptying the tube into the squeeze bottle, he shook the stuff up and threaded it through to his scalp in sections. He hated the chemical smell. The maintenance. The skunk stripe. But the idea of paling out repulsed him.
Why lessers lost their pigmentation over time was an unknown. Or at least, he'd never asked. The whys didn't matter to him. He just didn't want to be lost in a great anonymity with the others.
He put down the squeeze bottle and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like a total idiot, brown grease slathered all over his head. Jesus Christ, what was he turning into?
Well, wasn't that a stupid question. The deed was long done, and it was too late for regrets.
Man, on the night of his initiation, when he'd traded a part of himself for the chance to kill for years and years and years, he'd thought he'd known what he was giving up and what he was getting in return. The deal had seemed more than fair.
And for three years, it had continued to strike him as a good one. The impotence hadn't bothered him much, because the woman he wanted was dead. The not eating and drinking had taken some getting used to, but he'd never been a big chowhound or a drunk. And he'd been eager to lose his old identity, because the police were looking for him.
The plus side had seemed tremendous. The strength had been more than he'd expected. He'd been one hell of a skull-cracker when he'd worked as a bouncer back in Sioux City. But after the Omega was through doing his thing, O had inhuman tensile power in his arms, legs, and chest, and he'd liked using it.
Another bonus was the financial freedom. The Society gave him everything he needed to do his job, covering the costs of his house, his truck, his weapons and clothes, his electronic toys. He was utterly free to hunt his prey.
Or he had been for the first couple of years. When Mr. X had taken command, that autonomy had come to an end. Now there were check-ins. Squadrons. Quotas.
Visits with the Omega.
O got in the shower and washed the crap out of his hair. As he toweled off, he went back to the mirror and peered at his face. His irises, once brown like his hair, were turning gray.
In another year or so, everything that used to be him would be gone.
He cleared his throat. "My name is David Ormond. David. Ormond. Son of Bob and Lilly. Ormond. Ormond."
God, the name sounded weird as it left his mouth. And in his head, he heard Mr. X's voice referring to him as Mr. O.
A tremendous emotion swelled in him, panic and sorrow combined. He wanted to go back. He wanted to go back, to undo, to erase. The deal for his soul had only seemed good. In reality, it was a special kind of hell. He was a living, breathing, killing ghost. No longer a man, but a thing.
O dressed with trembling hands and jumped into his truck. By the time he was downtown, he was no longer thinking logically. He parked on Trade Street and started walking the alleys. It took some time before he found what he was looking for.
A whore with long, dark hair. Who, as long as she didn't flash her teeth, looked a little like his Jennifer had.
He slipped her fifty bucks and took her behind a Dumpster.
"I want you to call me David," he said.
"Sure thing." She smiled as she undid her coat and flashed her bare chest. "What do you want to call"
He clamped a hand over her mouth and started to squeeze. He didn't stop until her eyes were popping.
"Say my name," he commanded.
O released his grip and waited. When all she did was hyperventilate, he took out his knife and pressed it into her throat.
"Say my name."
"David," she whispered.
"Tell me that you love me." When she hesitated, he pricked the skin of her neck with the tip of the blade. Her blood welled up and slid down the shiny metal. "Say it."
Her sloppy breasts, so unlike Jennifer's, pumped up and down. "I I love you."
He closed his eyes. The voice was all wrong.
This just wasn't giving him what he needed.
O's anger rose to an uncontrollable level.
CHAPTER 16
Rhage heaved the barbell up from his chest, teeth bared, body shaking, sweat pouring off him.
"That's ten," Butch called out.
Rhage set the load back on the stand above him, hearing the thing groan as the weights rattled and fell still.
"Add another fifty."
Butch leaned over the bar. "You got five-twenty-five on there already, my man."
"And I need another fifty."
Hazel eyes narrowed. "Easy, Hollywood. You want to shred your pecs, that's your business. But don't take my head off."
"Sorry." He sat up and shook out his burning arms. It was nine in the morning, and he and the cop had been in the weight room since seven. There wasn't one part of his body that wasn't on fire, but quitting was a long way off. He was shooting for the kind of physical exhaustion that went into the bone.
"Are we there yet?" he muttered.
"Let me tighten the clamps. Okay, good to go."
Rhage laid back down, hoisted the barbell off the stand, and let it rest on his chest. He marshaled his breathing before pumping the weight.
Stray. Dog.
Stray. Dog.
Stray. Dog.
He controlled the load until the last two reps, when Butch had to step in and spot.
"You finished?" Butch asked as he helped settle the bar on the stand.
Rhage sat up and panted, resting his forearms on his knees. "One more set of reps after this break."
Butch came around in front, twisting the shirt he'd taken off into a rope. Thanks to all the lifting they'd been doing, the male's chest and arm muscles were thickening up, and he hadn't been small to begin with. He couldn't pull the kind of iron Rhage did, but for a human, the guy was a bulldozer.
"You're getting into some kind of shape, cop."
"Aw, come on, now." Butch grinned. "Don't let that shower we took go to your head."
Rhage fired a towel at the male. "Just pointing out your beer gut's gone."
"It was a Scotch pot. And I don't miss it." Butch ran a hand over his six-pack. "Now, tell me something. Why are you beating the crap out of yourself this morning?"
"You have much interest in talking about Marissa?"
The human's face tightened up. "Not particularly."
"So you can understand if I don't have a lot to say."
Butch's dark brows rose. "You've got a woman? As in, one specific woman?"
"I thought we weren't talking about females."
The cop crossed his arms and frowned. Kind of like he was assessing a blackjack hand and trying to decide whether to take another hit from the dealer.
He spoke fast and hard. "I've got it bad for Marissa. She won't see me. That's it, the whole story. Now tell me about your nightmare."
Rhage had to smile. "The idea I'm not the only one on the skids is a relief."
"That tells me nothing. I want details."
"The female threw me out of her house early this morning after doing a job on my ego."
"What kind of hatchet did she use?"
"An unflattering comparison between me and a free-agent canine."
"Ouch." Butch twisted the shirt in the other direction. "So naturally, you're dying to see her again."
"Pretty much."
"You're pathetic."
"I know."
"But I can almost beat that." The cop shook his head. "Last night, I ah I drove out to Marissa's brother's house. I don't even know how the Escalade got there. I mean, the last thing I need is to run into her, you feel me?"
"Let me guess. You waited around in hopes of catching a"
"In the bushes, Rhage. I sat in the bushes. Under her bedroom window."
"Wow. That's"
"Yeah. In my old life I could have arrested me for stalking. Look, maybe we should change the topic."
"Great idea. Finish the update about that civilian male who escaped from the lessers."
Butch leaned back against the concrete wall, crossing one arm over his chest and pulling it into a stretch. "So Phury talked with the nurse who'd treated him. The guy was pretty well gone, but he managed to tell her that they were asking questions about you brothers. Where you live. How you get around. The victim didn't give a specific address where he'd been worked over, but it has to be somewhere downtown, because that's where he was found, and God knew he couldn't have gotten far. Oh, and he kept mumbling letters. X. O. E."
"That's how lessers refer to themselves."
"Catchy. Very 007." Butch went to work on his other arm, his shoulder cracking. "Anyway, I peeled a wallet off the lesser who'd been strung up in that tree, and Tohr went over to the guy's place. It had been cleaned out, like they knew he was gone."
"Was the jar there?"
"Tohr said no."
"Then they'd definitely been by."
"What's in those things anyway?"
"The heart."
"Nasty. But better than other parts of the anatomy, considering someone told me they can't get it up." Butch dropped his arms and sucked his teeth, a little thinking noise released from his mouth. "You know, all this is starting to make sense. Remember those dead prostitutes I investigated in the back alleys this summer? The ones with the bite marks on their necks and the heroin in their blood?"
"Zsadist's girlfriends, man. It's the way he feeds. Humans only, although how he stays alive on that weak blood is a mystery."
"He said he didn't do it."
Rhage rolled his eyes. "And you think you can believe him?"
"But if we take him at his wordHey, just humor me, Hollywood. If we believe him, then I have another explanation."
"What's that?"
"Bait. If you wanted to abduct a vampire, how do you do it? Put out food, man. Put it out, wait until one comes, drug them, and drag them wherever you want. I found darts at the scenes, like the kind you'd tranquilize an animal with."
"Jesus."
"And get this. I was listening to the police scanner this morning. Another prostitute was found dead in an alley, close to where the others were killed. I had V hack into the police server, and the online report noted that her throat had been slashed."
"You tell Wrath and Tohr all this?"
"No."
"You should."
The human shifted. "I don't know how much to get involved, you know? I mean, I don't want to stick my nose where it shouldn't be. I'm not one of you."
"But you belong with us. Or at least that's what V said."
Butch frowned. "He did?"
"Yeah. That's why we brought you here with us instead of well, you know."
"Putting me in the ground?" The human cocked a half smile.
Rhage cleared his throat. "Not that any of us would have enjoyed that. Well, except for Z. Actually, no, he doesn't enjoy anything The truth is, cop, you've kind of grown on"
Tohrment's voice cut him off. "Jesus Christ, Hollywood!"
The male stalked into the weight room like a bull. And of all the Brotherhood, he was the levelheaded one. So something was on fire.
"What's up, my brother?" Rhage asked.
"Got a little message for you in the general mailbox. From that human. Mary." Tohr planted his hands on his hips, upper body jutting forward. "Why the hell does she remember you? And how does she have our number?"
"I didn't tell her how to call us."
"And you didn't scrub her memory, either. What the good goddamn are you thinking?"
"She's not going to be a problem."
"She already is. She's on our phone."
"Relax, man"
Tohr jabbed a finger at him. "You fix her before I have to, you feel me?"
Rhage was off the bench and up his brother's face in the blink of an eye. "No one goes near her, not unless they want to deal with me. This includes you."
Tohr's navy-blue eyes narrowed. They both knew who was going to win if they got down to it. No one could take Rhage in hand-to-hand; it was a proven fact. And he was prepared to beat a no-touch commitment out of Tohrment if he had to. Right here, right now.
Tohr spoke in a grim tone. "I want you to take a deep breath and step off from me, Hollywood."
When Rhage didn't move, footsteps smacked across the mats and Butch's arm went around his waist.
"Why don't you cool off a little, big guy," Butch drawled. "Let's just break up this party, okay?"
Rhage allowed himself to get pulled back, but he kept his eyes on Tohr's. Tension crackled in the air.
"What's going on here?" Tohr demanded.
Rhage stepped free of Butch and paced around the weight room, winding in and out of the barbells on the floor and all the benches.
"Nothing. There's nothing going on. She doesn't know what I am and I don't know how she got the number. Maybe that civilian female gave it to her."
"Look at me, my brother. Rhage, stop where you are and look at me."
Rhage halted and shifted his eyes.
"Why didn't you scrub her? You know once their memories are long-term, you can't get them clean enough. Why didn't you do it when you had the chance?" As silence stretched out between them, Tohr shook his head. "Do not tell me you are getting involved with her."
"Whatever, man."
"I'll take that as a yes. Christ, my brother what are you thinking? You know you shouldn't get tangled up with a human, and especially not with her because of the boy." Tohr's gaze sharpened. "I'm giving you an order. Again. I want you to scrub yourself from that female's memories, and I don't want you to see her anymore."
"I told you, she doesn't know what I am"
"Are you trying to negotiate with me on this? You can't be that stupid."
Rhage shot his brother a nasty look. "And you really don't want me up in your grille again. This time, I won't let the cop peel me off."
"You kiss her with that mouth of yours yet? Whatcha tell her about your fangs, Hollywood?" As Rhage closed his eyes and cursed, Tohr's tone eased up. "Be real. She's a complication we don't need, and she's trouble for you because you chose her over a command from me. I'm not doing this to bust your balls, Rhage. It's safer for everybody. Safer for her. You will do this, my brother."
Safer for her.
Rhage leaned down and grabbed his ankles. He stretched his hamstrings so hard, he nearly pulled them off the backs of his legs.
Safer for Mary.
"I'll take care of it," he said finally.
"Ms. Luce? Please come with me."
Mary looked up and didn't recognize the nurse. The woman seemed really young in her loose pink uniform, was probably right out of school. And she got younger as she smiled because of the dimples.
"Ms. Luce?" She shifted the voluminous file in her arms.
Mary put her purse strap on her shoulder, got to her feet, and followed the woman out of the waiting room. They went halfway down a long, buff-colored hall and paused in front of a check-in station.
"I'm just going to weigh you and take your temperature." The nurse smiled again and got even more points for being good with the scale and the thermometer. She was quick. Friendly.
"You've lost some weight, Ms. Luce," she said, while making a note in the file. "How's your eating?"
"The same."
"We're down here on the left."
The examination rooms were all alike. Framed Monet poster and a little window with drawn blinds. Desk with pamphlets and a computer. Exam table with a piece of white paper stretched over it. Sink area with various supplies. Red biohazard container in the corner.
Mary felt like throwing up.
"Dr. Delia Croce said she wanted to take your vitals." The nurse handed over a neatly folded square of fabric. "If you'll put this on, she'll be right in."
The gowns were all the same, too. Thin, soft cotton, blue with a small pink pattern. There were two sets of ties. She was never sure whether she was putting the damn things on right, whether the slit should go in the front or the back. She chose the front today.
When she was finished changing, Mary slid up onto the table and dangled her feet off the edge. It was chilly without her clothes, and she looked at them, all neatly arranged on the chair next to the desk. She would have paid good money to get back in them.
With a chime and a whistle, her cell phone went off in her purse. She dropped back down to the floor and padded over in her socks.
She didn't recognize the number as she checked caller ID and answered out of hope. "Hello?"
"Mary."
The sound of the rich male voice made her sag with relief. She'd been so sure Hal wouldn't return her call.
"Hi. Hi, Hal. Thanks for calling." She looked around for a place to sit that wasn't on the exam table. Moving her clothes to her lap, she eased into the chair. "Look, I'm really sorry about last night. I just"
There was a knock and then the nurse poked her head in.
"Excuse me, did you release your bone scans from last July to us?"
"Yes. They should be in my record." When the nurse shut the door, Mary said, "Sorry."
"Where are you?"
"I, ah" She cleared her throat. "It's not important. I just wanted you to know how bad I felt about what I said to you."
There was a long silence.
"I just panicked," she said.
"Why?"
"You make me I don't know, you're just" Mary fiddled with the edge of the gown. The words tumbled out. "I've got cancer, Hal. I mean, I've had it and it might be back."
"I know."
"So Bella told you." Mary waited for him to confirm it; when he didn't she took a deep breath. "I'm not using the leukemia as an excuse for the way I behaved. It's just I'm in a weird place right now. My emotions are bouncing all over and having you in my house"being totally attracted to you"it triggered something and I lashed out."
"I understand."
Somehow, she felt as though he did.
But God, his silences were a killer. She began to feel like a fool for keeping him on the line.
"Anyway, that's all I wanted to say."
"I'll pick you up tonight at eight. Your house."
She gripped the phone. God, she wanted to see him so badly. "I'll be waiting for you."
From outside the door of the exam room, Dr. Delia Croce's voice rose and fell in concert with the nurse's.
"And Mary?"
"Yes?"
"Wear your hair down for me."
There was a knock and the doctor came in.
"All right. I will," Mary said before hanging up. "Hey, Susan."
"Hi, Mary." As Dr. Delia Croce crossed the shallow room, she smiled and her brown eyes crinkled at the corners. She was about fifty, with thick white hair that was squared off at her jawline.
The doctor sat down behind the desk and crossed her legs. As she took a moment to collect herself, Mary shook her head.
"I hate it when I'm right," she muttered.
"About what?"
"It's back, isn't it."
There was a slight pause. "I'm sorry, Mary."
CHAPTER 17
Mary didn't go to work. Instead she drove home, stripped, and got into bed. A quick call to the office and she had the rest of the day as well as the following week off. She was going to need the time. After the long Columbus Day weekend she was going in for a variety of tests and second opinions, and then she and Dr. Delia Croce were going to meet and discuss options.
The weird thing was, Mary wasn't surprised. She'd always known in her heart that they'd browbeaten the disease into a retreat, not a surrender.
Or maybe she was just in shock and being sick felt familiar.
When she thought about what she was facing, what scared her wasn't the pain; it was the loss of time. How long until they got it back under control? How long would the next respite last? When could she get back to her life?
She refused to think there was an alternative to remission. She wasn't going to go there.
Turning over onto her side, she stared at the wall across the room and thought of her mother. She saw her mom rolling a rosary through her fingertips, murmuring words of devotion while lying in bed. The combination of the rubbing and the whispering had helped her find an ease beyond that which the morphine was able to give her. Because somehow, even in the midst of her curse, even at the apex of the pain and fear, her mother had believed in miracles.
Mary had wanted to ask her mom if she actually thought she'd be saved, and not in the metaphorical sense, but in a practical way. Had Cissy truly believed that if she said the right words and had the right objects around her that she would be cured, that she would walk again, live again?
The questions were never posed. That kind of inquiry would have been cruel, and Mary had known the answer anyway. She'd had the sense that her mother had waited for a temporal redemption right up until the very end.
But then, maybe Mary had just projected what she would have wished for. To her, saving grace meant you got to live out your life like a normal person: You were healthy and strong, and the prospect of death was just some far-off, barely acknowledged hypothetical. A debt to be paid off in a future you couldn't imagine.
Perhaps her mother had looked at it in a different way, but one thing was for sure: Her outcome hadn't changed. The prayers hadn't saved her.
Mary closed her eyes, and exhaustion sucked her down. As she was swallowed whole, she was grateful for the temporary emptiness. She slept for hours, fading in and out of consciousness, flopping around on the bed.
At seven o'clock she woke up and reached for the phone, dialing the number Bella had given her to reach Hal. She hung up without leaving a message. Canceling was probably the right thing to do, because she wasn't going to be great company, but damn it, she was feeling selfish. She wanted to see him. Hal made her feel alive, and right now she was desperate for that buzz.
After a quick shower, she threw on a skirt and a turtle-neck. In the full-length mirror on the bathroom door both were looser than they had been, and she thought about the scale this morning at the doctor's. She should probably eat like Hal tonight, because God knew there was no reason to diet right now. If she was facing another round of chemo, she should be packing on the pounds.
The thought froze her in place.
She drew her hands through her hair, pulling it out from her scalp, letting it seep through her fingers and fall to her shoulders. So unremarkable in all its brownness, she thought. And so unimportant in the larger scheme of things.
The idea of losing it made her want to weep.
With a grim expression, she gathered the lengths together, twisted them into a knot, and clipped them into place.
She was out her front door and waiting in her driveway a few minutes later. The cold was a shock, and she realized she'd forgotten to put on a coat. She went back inside, grabbed a black wool jacket, and lost her keys in the process.
Where were her keys? Had she left her keys in the
Yup, keys were in the door.
She shut herself out of the house, turned the lock, and pitched the metal tangle into her coat pocket.
While waiting, she thought of Hal.
Wear your hair down for me.
All right.
She freed the barrette and finger-combed the stuff as best she could. And then she fell still.
The night was so quiet, she thought. And this was why she loved living in farm country; she had no neighbors except for Bella.
Which reminded her: She'd meant to call and report in on the date, but hadn't felt up to it. Tomorrow. She would talk to Bella tomorrow. And report on two dates.
A sedan turned onto the lane about a half mile away, accelerating in a low growl she heard clearly. If it hadn't been for the two headlights, she'd have assumed a Harley was coming up her road.
As the deep-purple muscle car stopped in front of her, she thought it looked like a GTO of some sort. Glossy, noisy, flashy it was totally fitting for a man who was into speed and comfortable with attention.
Hal got out from the driver's side and walked around the hood. He was in a suit, a very sharp black suit with an open-collared black shirt underneath. His hair was brushed back from his face, falling in thick, gold chunks to the nape of his neck. He looked like a fantasy, sexy and powerful and mysterious.
Except his expression sure wasn't daydream material. His eyes were narrow, his lips and jaw tight.
Still, he smiled a little as he came up to her. "You wore your hair down."
"I said I would."
He lifted his hand as if to touch her, but hesitated. "You ready to go?"
"Where are you taking us?"
"I made reservations at Excel." He dropped his arm and looked away, becoming silent, unmoving.
Oh hell.
"Hal, are you sure you want to do this? You're clearly a little off tonight. Frankly, so am I."
He stepped away and stared at the pavement, grinding his jaw.
"We could just do it some other time," she said, figuring he was too much of a nice guy to leave without some kind of rain check. "It's no big"
He moved so fast she couldn't track him. One moment he was a couple feet away from her; the next he was up against her body. He took her face in his hands and put his lips on hers. With their mouths locked, he looked her right in the eye.
There was no passion in him, just a grim intent that turned the gesture into some kind of vow.
When he let her go, she stumbled back. And fell right on her ass.
"Ah, damn, Mary, I'm sorry." He knelt down. "Are you okay?"
She nodded even though she wasn't. She felt gauche and ridiculous all sprawled out on the grass.
"You sure you're all right?"
"Yes." Ignoring the hand he offered, she got up and brushed bits of lawn off herself. Thank God her skirt was brown and the ground dry.
"Let's just go to dinner, Mary. Come on."
One big hand slid around to her nape, and he led her by the neck to the car, giving her no choice but to follow.
Although it wasn't like the concept of fighting him occurred to her. She was overwhelmed by a whole lot of things, him most among them, and she was too tired to put up any resistance. Besides, something had passed between them in that instant their mouths had met. She had no idea what it was or what it meant, but a bond was there.
Hal opened the passenger door and helped her inside the car. When he slid into the driver's seat, she looked around at the pristine interior to avoid getting caught up in his profile.
The GTO growled as he put it in first gear and they shot down her little road to the stop sign at Route 22. He looked both ways and then accelerated to the right, the sound of the engine rising and falling like breath as he shifted again and again until they were cruising.