She gagged and wretched, her throat working through the dry heaves, nothing coming up but air. Sweat broke out on her forehead and under her armpits and between her breasts. Head spinning, mouth gaping, she struggled for breath as thoughts of dying and having no one to help her, of ruining her brother's party, of being an abhorred object swarmed like bees bees in her head, buzzing, stinging causing the death thoughts like bees
Marissa started to cry, not because she thought she was going to die but because she knew she wasn't.
God, the panic attacks had been brutal these last few months, her anxiety a stalker with no solid form, whose persistence knew no exhaustion. And every time she had a meltdown, the experience was a fresh and horrible revelation.
Propping her head on her hand, she wept hoarsely, tears running down her face and getting trapped in the pearls and diamonds at her throat. She was so alone. Caged in a beautiful, wealthy, fancy nightmare where the bogeymen wore tuxedos and smoking jackets and the vultures swooped down on wings of satin and silk to peck out her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to get some control over her respiration. Easy easy now. You're okay. You've done this before.
After a while, she looked down into the toilet. The bowl was solid gold and the surface of the water rippled from her falling tears as if sunlight shined within it. She became abruptly aware that the tile was hard beneath her knees. And her corset was biting into her rib cage. And her skin was clammy.
She lifted her head and glanced around. Well, what do you know. She'd picked her favorite private chamber to fall apart in, the one based on the Lilies of the Valley egg. As she sat draped over the toilet, she was surrounded by blush-pink walls hand-painted with bright green vines and little white flowers. The floor and counter and sink were pink marble veined with white and cream. The sconces were gold.
Very nice. Perfect background for an anxiety attack, really. But then, lately panic went with everything, didn't it? The new black.
Marissa pushed herself up from the floor, turned off the faucet, and collapsed into the little silk-covered chair in the corner. Her gown settled around her as if it were an animal stretching out now that the drama was over.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was blotchy, her nose red. Her makeup was ruined. Her hair was a ragged mess.
See, this was what she looked like on the inside, so no wonder the glymera despised her. Somehow they knew this was the truth of her.
God maybe that was why Butch hadn't wanted her
Oh, hell no. The last thing she needed was to think about him right now. What she had to do was straighten herself up as best she could and then scoot up to her bedroom. Sure, hiding was unattractive, but so was she.
Just as she reached up to her hair, she heard the outside door to the lounge open, the chamber music swelling, then easing off as it closed.
Great. Now she was trapped. But maybe it was only one female so she didn't have to worry about being an eavesdropper.
"I can't believe I spilled on my shawl, Sanima."
Okay, so now she was an eavesdropper as well as a coward.
"It's barely noticeable," Sanima said. "Although thank the Virgin you caught it before anyone else did. We'll go in here together and use some water."
Marissa shook herself into focus. Don't worry about them, just fix your hair. And for the Virgin's sake do something about that mascara. You look like a raccoon.
She grabbed a washcloth and wet it quietly while the two females went into the little room across the way. Obviously, they left the door opentheir voices were undimmed.
"But what if someone saw?"
"Shh let's take the shawl offoh, my Lord." There was a short laugh. "Your neck."
The younger female's voice dropped to an ecstatic hush. "It's Marlus. Ever since we were mated last month, he's been"
Now the laughter was shared.
"Does he come to you often during the day?" Sanima's secretive tone was delighted.
"Oh, yes. When he said he wanted our bedrooms connected, I didn't know why. Now, I do. He's insatiable. And he he doesn't just want to feed."
Marissa stopped with the washcloth under her eye. Only once had she known a male's hunger for her. One kiss, only one and she held the memory with care. She was going to her grave a virgin, and that brief meeting of mouths was all she would ever have of anything sexual.
Butch O'Neal. Butch had kissed her withStop it.
She went to work on the other side of her face.
"To be newly mated, how marvelous. Though you mustn't let anyone see these marks. Your skin is marred."
"That's why I rushed in here. What if someone told me to take off the wrap because of the wine I spilled?" This was said with the kind of horror usually reserved for accidents involving knives.
Although, given the glymera, Marissa could understand all too well wanting to avoid their attention.
Tossing the washcloth aside, she tried to rework her hair and gave up not thinking about Butch.
God, she would have loved having to hide his teeth marks from the eyes of the glymera. Would have loved to hold the delicious secret that under the civilized gowns she wore, her body had known his raw sex. And she would have loved to bear the scent of his bonding for her on her skin, emphasizing it, as mated females did, by choosing the perfect complementary perfume.
But none of that was going to happen. For one thing, humans didn't bond, from what she'd heard. And even if they did, Butch O'Neal had walked away from her the last time she'd seen him, so he wasn't interested in her anymore. Probably because he'd heard about her deficiencies. As he was close with the Brotherhood, no doubt he knew all kinds of things about her now.
"Is there someone in here?" Sanima said sharply.
Marissa cursed under her breath and figured she'd just sighed out loud. Giving up on her hair and her face, she opened the door. When she stepped out, both females looked down, which was in this instance was a good thing. Her hair was a train wreck.
"Worry not. I will say nothing," she murmured. Because sex was never to be discussed in a public place. Or any private ones, really.
The two curtsied dutifully and did not reply while Marissa left.
And as soon as she walked out of the lounge, she felt more glances sliding away from her, all eyes going elsewhere especially those of the unmated males smoking cigars over in the corner.
Just before she turned her back on the ball, she caught Havers's stare through the crowd. He nodded and smiled sadly, as if he knew she couldn't stay a moment longer.
Dearest brother, she thought. He had always supported her, had never given any indication he was ashamed of how she had turned out. She would have loved him for their shared parents, but she adored him for his loyalty most of all.
With a last look at the glymera in all its glory, she went to her room. After a quick shower, she changed into a simpler floor-length dress and lower-heeled shoes, then went down the mansion's back stairs.
Untouched and unwanted she could deal with. If that was the fate the Scribe Virgin laid upon her, so be it. There were far worse lives to be led, and bemoaning what she lacked, considering all she had, was boring and selfish.
What she couldn't handle was being purposeless. Thank God that she had her position on the Princeps Council and that her seat was secure by virtue of her bloodline. But there was also another way to leave a positive mark on her world.
As she keyed in a code and unlocked a steel door, she envied the couples dancing at the other end of the mansion and probably always would. Except that was not her destiny.
She had other paths to walk.
Chapter Two
Butch walked out of ZeroSum at three forty-five, and though the Escalade was parked in the back, he headed in the opposite direction. He needed air. Jesus he needed air.
The middle of March was still winter so far as upstate New York was concerned, and the night was meat-locker cold. Butch walked alone down Trade Street, his breath leaving his mouth in white clouds and drifting over his shoulder. The chill and the isolation suited him: He was hot and crowded even though he'd left the club's crush of people behind.
As he went along, his Ferragamos hit hard against the sidewalk, the heels grinding the salt and sand on the little concrete strip between dirty snowbanks. In the background, muffled music thumped out of the other bars on Trade, though business hours were soon going to be over.
When he came up to McGrider's, he popped his collar and up'd his pace. He avoided the blues bar because the boys on the force hung out there and he didn't want to see them. Far as his former colleagues in the CPD knew, he'd up and disappeared, and that was the way he wanted to keep it.
Screamer's was next and hard-core rap pounded, turning the whole damn building into a bass extender. When he got to the far side of the club, he paused and looked down the alley that ran the length of the place.
It had all started here. His weird trip into the vampire world had started right here the previous July, with a car bomb he'd investigated at this site: a BMW blown to shit. A man ashed.
No material evidence left behind except a couple of martial-arts throwing stars. The hit had been very professional, the kind of thing that sent a message, and shortly thereafter the bodies of the prostitutes had appeared in the alleys. Throats cut. Blood levels sky high with heroine. With more martial-arts weapons around.
He and his partner, José de la Cruz, had assumed the blast was a pimp-related turf toaster and the dead women payback, but soon enough he'd learned the whole story. Darius, a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, had been taken out by his race's enemies, the lessers. And the murders of those prostitutes were part of a strategy by the Lessening Society to capture civilian vampires for questioning.
Man, back then he'd never have even guessed vampires existed. Much less drove $90,000 BMWs. Or had sophisticated enemies.
Butch walked down the alley, right to the spot where the 650i had been blown to high heaven. There was still a black soot ring on the building from the bomb's heat and he reached out, putting fingertips on the cold brick.
It had all started here.
A gust of wind came up and flashed under his coat, lifting the fine cashmere, getting to the fancy suit underneath. Dropping his hand, he looked down at his clothes. Overcoat was Missoni, about five grand. Suit underneath, an RL Black Label, about three grand. Shoes were amateur night at a mere seven hundred bucks. Cuff links were Cartier and into the five-digit category. Watch was Patek Philippe. Twenty-five grand.
The two forty-millimeter Glocks under his pits were two grand a piece.
So he was sporting Jesus Christ, about $44,000 worth of Saks Fifth and Army/Navy. And this wasn't even the tip of the iceberg for his threads. He had two closets worth of the shit back at the compound none of which he'd bought with his own cash. All of which had been purchased with Brotherhood green.
Shit he dressed in clothes that weren't his. Lived in a house and ate food and watched a plasma screen TV none of which were his. Drank Scotch he didn't pay for. Drove a sweet ride he didn't own. And what did he do in return? Not a whole hell of a lot. Every time action went down, the brothers kept him on the sidelines
Footsteps rang out at the far end of the alley, pounding, pounding, getting closer. And there was more than one set.
Butch eased back into the shadows, slipping free the buttons on his coat and his suit jacket so he could get at his heat if he needed it. He had no intention of mixing up someone else's biz, but he wasn't the type to hang back if an innocent was getting cracked.
Guess the cop in him wasn't dead yet.
As the alley had only one open end, the track-and-fielders heading this way were going to pass by him. Hoping to avoid any crossfire, he got tight with a Dumpster and waited to see what turned up.
Young guy flew by, terror on his face, his body all jerky panic. And then well, what do you know, the two thugs in his trunk were pale haired. Big as houses. Smelling like baby powder.
Lessers. Going after a civilian.
Butch palmed one of his Glocks, speed-dialed V's cell phone, and took off in pursuit. As he ran, the call dumped into voice mail, so he just shoved his Razr back into his pocket.
When he caught up with the drama, the three were at the base of the alley, a loose knot of bad news. Now that the slayers had the civilian cornered, they were moving all lazy, closing in, backing off, smiling, toying. The civilian was shaking, eyes so wide the whites glowed in the dark.
Butch leveled his gun at the scene. "Hey, Blondies, how 'bout you show me your hands?"
The lessers stopped and looked at him. Man, it was like getting pegged with headlights, assuming you were a deer and the thing coming at you was a Peterbilt. Those undead bastards were pure power backed up by cold logica nasty combination, especially in duplicate.
"This isn't your business," the one on the left said.
"Yeah, that's what my roommate keeps telling me. But, see, I don't take direction real well."
He had to give the lessers credit; they were smart. One focused on him. The other closed in on the civilian, who looked as if he was way too scared to be able to dematerialize.
This is quickly going to become a hostage situation, Butch thought.
"Why don't you head out?" the bastard on the right said. "Better for you."
"Probably, but worse for him." Butch nodded toward the civilian.
An ice cube breeze shot down the alley, ruffling orphaned newspaper pages and empty plastic shopping bags. Butch's nose tingled and he shook his head, hating the smell.
"You know," he said, "this whole baby powder thinghow do you lessers stand it?"
The slayers' pale eyes traveled up and down him as if they couldn't figure out why he even knew the word. And then they all flipped into action. The lesser closest to the civilian made a grab and hauled the vampire against its chest, turning the hostage potential into a reality. At the same moment, the other one lunged at Butch, moving quick as a blink.
Butch wasn't into getting rattled, though. He calmly angled the muzzle of the Glock and shot the steamrolling sonofabitch right in the chest. The second his bullet penetrated, a screech worthy of a banshee exploded out of the slayer's throat and the thing hit the ground like a bag of sand, immobilized.
Which was not the normal lesser response to getting plugged. Usually they could throw it off, but Butch was packing something special in his clip, thanks to the Brotherhood.
"What the fuck," the upright slayer breathed.
"Surprise, surprise, cocksucker. Got me some fancy lead."
The lesser snapped back to reality, hauling the civilian off the ground in a one-arm waist hold, using the vampire as a body shield.
Butch leveled the gun at the twosome. Goddamn it. No shot. No shot at all. "Let him go."
A muzzle emerged from under the civilian's armpit.
Butch dove for a shallow doorway as the first bullet ricocheted off the asphalt. Just as he took shelter, a second shot ripped through his thigh.
Fuuuuuck, welcome to roadkill-ville. His leg felt like it had a red-hot roofing spike drilled into it, the niche he was jammed into offered about as much protection as a lamppost and the lesser was moving into better shooting position.
Butch grabbed an empty Coors bottle and tossed it across the alley. As the lesser's head popped around the civilian's shoulder to track the sound, Butch lit off four precisely targeted shots in a semicircle around the pair. The vampire panicked, just as expected, and became an unstable load. As he fell loose from the slayer's grip, Butch put a slug into the lesser's shoulder, spinning the bastard away, landing him facefirst on the ground.
Good shot, but the undead was still moving, and sure as shit he was going to be on his feet in another minute and a half. Those special bullets were good, but the stun didn't last forever and it helped if you nailed a chest rather than an arm.
And what do you know. More problems.
Now that the civilian vampire was free, he'd caught his breath and started to scream.
Butch limped over, cursing through the pain in his leg. Jesus Christ, this male was making enough racket to bring in an entire police forceall the way from goddamned Manhattan.
Butch got up in the guy's face, pegging him with hard eyes. "I need you to stop yelling, okay? Listen to me. Stop. Yelling. Now." The vampire sputtered, then clammed up like his voice box's engine had run out of gas. "Good. I got two things I need from you. First, I want you to calm yourself so you can dematerialize. Do you understand what I'm saying? Breathe slow and deepthat's right. Nice. And I want you to cover your eyes now. Go on, cover them."
"How do you know"
"Talking wasn't on your to-do list. Close your eyes and cover them. And keep breathing. Everything's going to be okay provided you get yourself out of this alley."
As the male clamped trembling hands over his eyes, Butch went over to the second slayer, who was lying facedown on the pavement. The thing had black blood oozing from its shoulder and little moans coming out of its mouth.
Butch grabbed a fistful of the lesser's hair, tilted the thing's head off the asphalt, and put the dock's muzzle in tight to the base of the skull. He pulled the trigger. As the top half of the bastard's face vaporized, its arms and legs twitched. Fell still.
But the job wasn't done. Both slayers needed to be stabbed in the chest to truly be dead. And Butch didn't have anything sharp and shiny on him.
He got out his cell phone and hit speed dial again as he rolled the slayer over with his foot. While V's cell started to ring, Butch went through the lesser's pockets. He lifted a BlackBerry as well as a wallet
"Fuck me," Butch breathed. The slayer had activated his phone, obviously calling for an assist. And through the open line, the sounds of heavy breathing and flapping clothes were a loud and clear sign that the backup brigade was coming fast.
Butch glanced at the vampire as V's phone continued to ring. "How we doin'? You look good. You look really calm and in control."
V, pick up the damn phone. V
The vampire dropped his hands, and his eyes fell upon the slayer, whose forehead was now all over the brick wall on the right. "Oh my God"
Butch stood up, putting his body in the way. "You don't think about that."
The civilian's hand came out and pointed downward. "And youyou're shot."
"Yeah, you don't worry about me, either. I need you to cool out and leave, my man." Like right fucking now.
Just as V's voice mail kicked in, the sound of boots pounding the pavement drifted down the alley. Butch shoved his phone in the vicinity of his pocket and ditched the clip out of the Glock. As he slammed in a fresh one, he was through with the hand-holding. "Dematerialize. Dematerialize now."
"Butbut"
"Now! For fuck's sake, get your ass out of here or you're going home in a box."
"Why are you doing this? You're just a human"
"I am so sick of hearing that. Leave!"
The vampire closed his eyes, breathed a word in the Old Language, and disappeared.
As the hellfire beat of the slayers got louder, Butch looked around for shelter, aware that his left shoe was soaking wet from his own blood. The shallow doorway was his only bet. Cursing again, he flattened himself in it and looked at what was coming at him.
"Oh, shit" Jesus God in heaven there were six of them.
Vishous knew what was about to happen next, and it was nothing he needed to be a part of. As a flash of brilliant white light turned the night to noontime, he spun away, shoving his shitkickers into the ground. And there was no reason to glance back when the great roar of the beast rumbled through the night. V knew the drill: Rhage had turned, the creature was loose, and the lessers they'd been fighting were about to be lunch. Pretty much business as usual except for their current location: Caldwell High School's football field.
Go, Bulldogs! Rah!
V pounded over to the bleachers and StairMastered them, taking himself to the top of CHS's cheering section. Down below, on the fifty-yard line, the beast snatched a lesser, tossed the thing up into the air, and caught the undead between its teeth.
Vishous glanced around. The moon wasn't out, which was great, but there were maybe twenty-five frickin' houses around the high school. And the humans inside those split-levels and ranches and Middle America colonials had just woken up to a flare as bright as a nuclear explosion.
V cursed and whipped off the lead-lined driving glove that covered his right hand. As he put his arm out, the glow from his godforsaken palm's inner core illuminated the tattoos that ran from his fingertips to his wrist on both sides. Staring at the field, V concentrated on the beat of his heart, feeling the pump in his veins and getting into the pulse, the pulse, the pulse
Buffering waves came out of his palm, something like heat waves rising off asphalt. Just as a couple of porch lights came on and front doors were opened and fathers of the household poked their heads out of their castles, the masking of mhis took over: The sights and the sounds of the fighting on the field were replaced with the nothing special illusion that all was well and as it should be.
From the bleachers, V used his night vision to watch the human men look around and wave to each other. When one smiled and shrugged, V could imagine the conversation.
Hey, Bob, you see that too?
Yeah, Gary. Big light. Huge.
Should we call the police?
Everything looks okay.
Yeah. Weird. Hey, you and Marilyn and the kids free this Saturday? We could do a mall crawl, maybe hit pizza afterward?
Great idea. I'll talk to Sue. 'Night.
'Night.
While the doors were shut and those men no doubt shuffled to the refridge for a night bite, Vishous kept up the masking.
The beast didn't take long. And didn't leave much uneaten. When it was finished, the scaled dragon looked around and as the thing spotted V, a growl rippled up to the bleachers, then ended in a snort.
"You finished, big guy?" V called down. "FYI, goalpost over there would work righteous as a toothpick."
Another snort. Then Rhage lay down; the creature appeared to be naked in its place on the black-soaked ground. As soon as the change was complete, V hauled it down the bleachers and jogged across the field.
"My brother?" Rhage groaned as he shivered in the snow.
"Yeah, Hollywood, it's me. I'm gonna get you home to Mary."
"Not as bad as it used to be."
"Good."
V whipped off his leather jacket and stretched it across Rhage's chest; then he snagged his cell phone from a pocket. Two calls had come through from Butch's number and he hit back at the cop, needing a pickup fast. When there was no answer, V called the Pit and got voice mail.
Holy hell Phury was at Havers's getting his prosthesis adjusted again. Wrath couldn't drive because of his blindness. No one had seen Tohrment for months. That left Zsadist.
After a hundred years of dealing with that male, it was hard not to curse as the call went out. Z was not lifeboat material, not by a long shot; he was more like the sharks in the water. But what was the other option? Besides, at least the brother had been a little better since he'd gotten mated.
"Yeah," came the sharp answer.
"Hollywood expressed his inner Godzilla again. I need a car."
"Where are you?"
"Weston Road. Caldwell High School football field."
"I'll be there in ten. First aid?"
"No, we're both intact."
"'Got it. Hang tight."
The connection ended and V looked at his phone. The idea that that scary-ass bastard could be relied upon was a surprise. Never would have seen that one coming not that he saw anything anymore.
V put his good hand on Rhage's shoulder and looked up at the sky. An infinite, unknowable universe loomed above him, above them all, and for the first time, the vastness terrified him. But then, for the first time in his life he was flying without a net.
His visions were gone. Those snapshots of the future, those bullshit, invasive telecasts of what was coming, those pictures without dates that had kept him on edge ever since he could remember, were just gone. And so were the intrusions of other people's thoughts.
He'd always wanted to be alone in his head. How ironic that he found the silence deafening.
"V? We okay?"
He looked down at Rhage. The brother's perfect blond beauty was still blinding, even with all the lesser blood on his face. "Ride's coming soon. We'll get you home to your Mary."
Rhage started to mumble and V just let him go. Poor miserable guy. Curses were never a party.
Ten minutes later, Zsadist pulled right up onto the football field in his twin's BMW, busting through a shrinking, dirty snowbank and mud-tracking it in. As the M5 came through the snow, V knew they were going to trash the leather in the backseat, but then Fritz, butler extraordinaire, could get stains out like you wouldn't believe.
Zsadist got out of the car and came around the hood. After a century of being half-starved by choice, he was now packing a good two hundred eighty-five pounds on his six-foot-six frame. The scar on his face remained obvious, and so did his tattooed slave bands, but thanks to his shellan, Bella, his eyes were no longer black pits of hatred. For the most part.
Without saying anything, the two of them manhandled Rhage over to the car and stuffed his massive body into the backseat.
"You poofing it home?" Z said as he got behind the wheel.
"Yeah, but I need to clear the scene." Which meant using his hand to fry-clean the lesser blood that was splattered everywhere.
"You want me to wait?"
"No, get our boy home. Mary's going to want to see him ASAP."
Zsadist scanned the vicinity with a quick head twist. "I'll wait."
"Z, it's cool. I won't stay here alone long."
That ruined lip lifted into a snarl. "If you're not at the compound by the time I get there, I'm coming for you."
The Beemer took off, back tires kicking up mud and snow.
Jesus, Z really was backup.
Ten minutes later V dematerialized to the compound, just as Zsadist was pulling in with Rhage. As Z took Hollywood inside, Vishous looked around at the cars parked in the courtyard.
Where the hell was the Escalade? Butch should be back by now.
V took out his phone and hit speed dial. When he got voice mail, he said, "Hey, buddy, I'm home. Where are you, cop?"
As the two of them called each other constantly, he knew Butch would check in soon enough. Hell, maybe the guy was getting busy for the first time in recorded history. It was about time the sorry SOB shelved his obsession with Marissa and got a little sexual relief.
And speaking of relief V measured the light in the sky. He figured he had about an hour and a half of darkness left, and man, he was twitchy as shit. There was something going on tonight, something bad in the air, but with his visions gone, he didn't know what it was. And the blank slate was making him mental.
He fired up his cell again and hit a number. When the ringing stopped, he didn't wait for a hello. "You will get ready for me now. You will wear what I bought for you. Your hair will be bound and off your neck."
He waited to hear the only three words he cared about and they came right away, the female voice saying, "Yes, my lheage."
V hung up and dematerialized.
Chapter Three
ZeroSum was doing excellent business lately, Rehvenge thought as he looked at the tallies. Cash flow was strong. There was growth in the sports booking receipts. Attendance was up. God, he'd owned the club for how long now? Five? Six years? And it was finally cranking enough income that he could take a deep breath.
It was a despicable way of making money, of course, what with the sex and the drugs and the booze and the betting. But he needed to support his mahmen and, up until recently, his sister, Bella. Then there was the blackmail overhead he had to cover.
Secrets could be so expensive to keep.