Standing in the foyer with his brothers, Tohr had a bad feeling about the way the night was going to go. Then again, he'd woken up from that dream of his Wellsie and the young, the one he had had from time to time, but only truly understood since Lassiter had provided the context. He knew now that the two were in the In Between, huddled under a gray blanket in the midst of a dark gray landscape that was cold and unyielding.
They were gradually moving off into the distance.
The first time he'd had the vision, he'd been able to pick out each individual hair on his shellan's head... and the quarter-moon whites at the tips of her fingernails... and the way the blanket's rough fibers caught the strange, ambient light...
As well as the contours of the tiny bundle she cradled against her heart.
Now, though, she was yards off, the gray ground between them something that he tried to cross, but was unable to cover. And just as dire, she had lost all color, her face and hair now tinted with the gray of the prison she was trapped in.
Naturally, he'd been insane when he woke up.
For fuck's sake, he'd done everything he could to move on in the last few months: Put the dress away. Gone down for First and Last Meals. Tried cocksucking yoga, transcendental bullcrap, and even gotten on the Internet to research grief stages and other psychobabble bullshit.
He'd attempted to not think of Wellsie consciously, and if his subconscious burped up a memory, he quashed it. When his heart ached, he pictured those f-in' white doves released from cages, and dams bursting, and shooting stars, and a bunch of other dumb-ass metaphoricals that belonged on motivational posters.
And still he'd had that dream in shades of gray.
And still Lassiter was here.
It wasn't working -
"Tohr? You with us," Wrath barked out.
"Yeah."
"You sure about that." After a moment, Wrath's wraparounds swung back to the rest of the group. "So we do this. V, John Matthew, Qhuinn, and Tohr on me. Everyone else in the field, ready to come in as backup."
There was a shout of agreement from the Brothers, and then they were all filing through the vestibule.
Tohr was the last through the door, and just as he got to the jambs, something made him stop and look over his shoulder.
No'One had stepped out from somewhere, and stood on the edge of the depiction of the apple tree in the floor, her hood and robe making her seem like a shadow that had suddenly gone 3-D.
Time slowed and then ground to a halt as he met her eyes, some strange pull keeping him where he stood.
In the intervening months since the spring, he had seen her at meals, had forced himself to speak with her, had pulled out chairs and helped to serve her as he did the other females in the house.
But he hadn't been alone with her, and he'd never touched her.
He felt like he was touching her now, for some reason.
"No'One?" he said.
Her arms unfolded from out of her sleeves and her hands lifted to the hood that covered her face. With grace, she revealed herself to him.
Her eyes were luminous and a little scared, her features as perfect as they had been back in the spring at the Sanctuary. And down lower, her throat was a perfect, pale column of flesh... which she touched lightly with fingertips that trembled.
From out of nowhere, hunger struck him hard, the need reverberating through his body, lengthening his fangs, parting his lips -
"Tohr? What the fuck?"
V's sharp voice broke the spell, and with a curse, he looked over his shoulder. "I'm coming - "
"Good. 'Cuz the king's waiting for you, true."
Tohr glanced back across the foyer, but No'One was gone. As if she had never been.
Rubbing his eyes, he wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing. Had he exhausted himself to the point of hallucination -
If he was seeing things, it wasn't exhaustion, some part of him pointed out.
"Don't say another word," he muttered as he brushed past his brother. "Not one goddamn thing."
As V started talking under his breath, it was obviously a litany of all of Tohr's faults, real and imagined, but whatever. At least that shit was keeping the fucker's mouth busy as they strode out toward Wrath, John Matthew, and Qhuinn.
"Ready," Tohr announced.
None of them needed to about-fucking-time him verbally. Their expressions were loud enough.
Seconds later, the five of them rematerialized on the rolling lawn of a house so big you could keep an army in it. Tragically, only the owner was in residence, because that was all that was left of the bloodline.
They had been to so many houses like this over the last few months. Too many. And the stories were all the same. Families decimated. Hope gone. Those left behind limping, not living.
The Brotherhood did not take for granted that these visits were welcome, even though, naturally, no one turned down the king. And they did not take chances: With their guns in their hands, the formation they assumed as they approached the door was with Tohr in front of Wrath, V to the rear, John at the king's dagger hand, and Qhuinn on the other side.
Two more meetings like this to go and they could take a breather -
What went down next proved that tits up could happen in an instant.
Abruptly, the world started spinning, the sprawling antique house twisting and turning sure as if it had eggbeaters for a foundation.
"Tohr!" someone barked out.
A hand grabbed him. Somebody else cursed.
"Has he been shot?"
"Motherfucker - "
With a curse, Tohr shoved everyone off of him and regained his balance. "For chrissakes, I'm fine - "
V crawled so far up into his grill, the bastard was practically inside his nose. "Go home."
"Have you lost your mind - "
"You're a liability here. I'm calling in for backup."
Tohr was ready to argue, but Wrath just shook his head. "You need to feed, my brother. It's time."
"Layla's prepared for it," Qhuinn tacked on. "I've been keeping her going on this side."
Tohr looked at the four of them and he knew he'd lost. Christ, V already had his phone to his ear.
He also knew on some level they were right. But, God, he didn't want to face that ordeal again.
"Go home," Wrath commanded.
V put his cell away. "Rhage's ETA is - bingo."
As Hollywood appeared, Tohr cursed a couple of times. But there was no fighting them... or his reality.
With all the enthusiasm of someone facing a limb amputation, he returned to the mansion... to go find the Chosen Layla.
Fuck.
Through his binoculars, Xcor watched the venerable Assail stride into a massive kitchen and pause at a window that faced the direction of the bastards.
The male was still sinfully handsome with dark, viciously black hair and tan skin. Features were so aristocratic, he actually looked intelligent - although that was the thing with the glymera. Often people with fine countenances and fit bodies were mistakenly assumed by others to have the brains to match.
As the vampire fell into some kind of activity, Xcor frowned and wondered if he wasn't seeing things. Alas... no. It appeared that the male was indeed checking the mechanism of a gun as if he were used to doing so. And after he tucked the weapon under that precisely tailored black suit jacket, he picked up another and went through the same motions.
Strange.
Unless the king had warned him there could be trouble on the visit? But no, that would be daft. If you were the seat of power for the race, you would not want to appear under siege.
Especially if in fact you were.
"He's departing," Xcor announced as Assail appeared to head for the garage. "He is not meeting Wrath. At least not tonight - or certainly not here. Let us cross the river. Now."
In a flash, they dematerialized, reassuming their forms in the stand of pines at the edge of the property.
He'd been wrong about the landscaping, Xcor realized. There were circular patches all over the lawn where the grass was filling in, and here, around the back of the house, there was a neatly stacked pile of not simply logs, but whole trees.
As well as an ax buried in a stump, and a bow saw... and corded wood newly cut for burning.
So the male had some doggen, at least. And apparently a respect for how important it was to not provide coverage for attackers. Unless the removals had been for the sake of the view?
Not much but forest on this side of the house.
Indeed, Assail did not appear to be the average aristocrat, Xcor thought grimly. The question was why.
The door to the garage bay closest to the house began to rise soundlessly, its ascent unleashing an ever-broadening pool of light. Inside, a powerful engine revved, and then some variety of low-slung, shiny black thing eased out in reverse.
As the vehicle stopped dead and the door began to descend, it was clear Assail was waiting patiently for the house to be secured before he left.
And then when he took off, it was not fast; and it was not with his headlights on.
"We follow him," Xcor commanded, collapsing the binoculars and securing them at his belt.
By dematerializing at intervals, they were able to track the male down the river toward Caldwell. The pursuit presented no challenge at all: In spite of being behind the wheel of what appeared to be a sports car of some speed, Assail seemed to feel no urgency... which, under other circumstances, Xcor would have chalked up to the male being a typical aristocrat with nothing better to do than look good in a leather seat.
But mayhap not so in this case....
The car stopped at all the red lights, avoided the highway, and penetrated the downtown area's alleys and streets with the same lack of alacrity.
Assail went left, then right... left again. Another left. Still more turns, until he was in the oldest part of the city thicket, where the brick office buildings were dilapidated, and missions and food kitchens serving the homeless were more common than for-profit businesses.
A more circuitous route there could not have been taken.
Xcor and his band of bastards kept on him by flashing from rooftop to rooftop, a practice that became tricky as the conditions degraded.
Except then the car stopped in a tight alley between a tenement house that had been condemned and the crumbled shell of a walk-up. As Assail got out, he puffed on his cigar, the sweet smoke drifting up on the currents of air to Xcor's nose.
For a moment, Xcor wondered if they had been lulled into a trap - and as he went for his gun, his soldiers did likewise. But then a large black sedan made a fat turn and rolled into the lane. As it halted afore him, Assail's preferred positioning became clear. Unlike the new arrivals, the vampire had parked at the head of a four-way, so that he could go in any direction.
Wise if one wanted to get away.
Humans emerged from the other car. Four of them.
"You here alone?" the one in front asked.
"Aye. As you asked."
The humans shared looks that suggested the male's compliance was crazy. "Do you have the money?"
"Aye."
"Where is it?"
"In my possession." The male's English was similar to Xcor's - thickly accented - but there the comparison ended. That was a high-class drawl down there, not a rough brogue. "Have you my goods."
"Yeah, we got it. Let's see the cash."
"After I inspect what you have brought me."
The man doing the talking took out a gun and pointed it at the vampire's chest. "That's not the way we're going to do this."
Assail released a puff of blue smoke and rolled the cigar between the tips of his fingers.
"Did you hear what I said, asshole?" the human barked as the three behind him disappeared hands into their suit jackets.
"Aye."
"This is going to be done the way we want, asshole."
"That would be 'Assail,' kind sir."
"Fuck you. Gimme the cash."
"Hm. Indeed. So you have demanded."
Abruptly the vampire's eyes locked on that human's, and after a moment, the autoloader in that meaty palm began to vibrate ever so slightly. Frowning, the guy focused on his hand, as if he were sending it a command.
"That is not how I do business, however," Assail murmured.
That gun muzzle gradually began to move, shifting away from the vampire and moving in a broad circle farther and farther afield. With growing panic, the man gripped his own wrist, as if he were fighting another, but naught of his effort derailed the changing trajectory.
Whilst the weapon was gradually turned on its own operator, the other men began to shout and shuffle about. The vampire said nothing, did nothing, remaining utterly calm and in control as he froze those three in place, locking their bodies but not their faces. Oh, those expressions of panic. Rather delightful.
When the gun was up to the man's temple, Assail smiled, flashing white teeth that gleamed in the darkness.
"Permit me to show you how I do business," he said in a low voice.
And then the human pulled the trigger and shot himself in the head.
As the body dropped to the pavement and the sound of the shot echoed around, the remaining men's eyes drew wide in horror even as their bodies remained immobilized.
"You," Assail said to the one closest to the sedan. "Bring me what I bought."
"I-I-I..." The man swallowed hard. "We don't got nothing."
With hauteur worthy of a king, Assail countered, "I'm sorry, what did you say."
"We dint bring nothing."
"And why not."
"Because we was going to..." The man had to take another stab at swallowing. "We was going to..."
"You were going to take my money and leave me for dead?" When there was no reply, Assail nodded. "I can see the value in that. And no doubt you'll understand what I must do now."
While the vampire puffed on his cigar, the man who had been speaking began to reposition his own gun, the muzzle ending up upon his temple.
One by one, three more shots rang out.
And then the vampire sauntered over and extinguished his cigar in the dead mouth of the first to go down.
Xcor laughed softly as Assail returned to his vehicle.
"Do we follow him?" Zypher asked.
Wasn't that the question. There were lessers to fight here in the downtown area, and there was no reason to care if Assail was making money off the addictions of humans. Still, there was a lot of night left to be utilized, and there might as yet be a meeting between the male and the king forthcoming.
"Aye," Xcor replied. "But only myself and Throe. If there is a rendezvous with Wrath we will find you."
"This is why we all need cell phones," Throe said. "Faster, better coordination."
Xcor ground his teeth. Since their arrival in the New World, he had allowed Throe to engage one such cellular, and no others: A fighter's sense of smell and hearing, his instinct honed by training and practice, his knowledge of his enemy and himself, these did not come with a monthly bill, the need for recharging, or the threat of being laid aside and lost or stolen.
Ignoring the commentary, Xcor ordered, "The rest of you go forth and find the enemy."
"Which one," Zypher said with a hearty laugh. "There are a growing number from which to choose."
Indeed. For Assail was not behaving like an aristocrat. He was acting like a male who might be trying to build some kind of empire of his own.
It was entirely possible this member of the glymera was Xcor's kind of vampire. Which meant he might well have to be eliminated at some point - and not simply as collateral damage.
There was room for only one king in Caldwell.