After nearly two hundred years of having been mated, Tohr was pretty familiar with the way arguments between pigheaded fighters and hot-tempered females went. And how ridiculous was it to have a case of the nostalgias over the way John and Xhex were hairy-eyeballing each other.
God, he and his Wellsie had gone a few good rounds during their day.
Just one more thing to mourn.
Dragging his exhausted brain back on track, he stepped in between the pair, figuring the situation needed a reality injection. If it had been any other two, he wouldn't have wasted his breath. Romance was not his business - whether it was going well or badly - but this was John. This was... the son he'd once hoped to have.
"Time to go back to the compound," he said. "You both need treatment."
"Stay out of this - "
Stay out of this -
Tohr reached over and clamped a hold on the nape of John Matthew's neck, squeezing those tendons until the male was forced to look at him. "Don't be an asshole about this."
Oh, sure, it was okay for you to be an asshole -
"You got it, kid. That's the privilege of age. Now shut up and get in the fucking car."
John frowned as if he'd just noticed Butch had rolled up in the Escalade.
"And you," Tohr said in a softer tone. "Do everyone a favor and get that shoulder dealt with. Afterward, you can call him a fuck-twit, an ass-hat, and any other thing that strikes you - but right now, that injury of yours is reknitting in three or four different bad ways. You need to see our surgeons fast, and as you are a reasonable female, I know you see the merits of what I'm saying - "
Tohr took his forefinger and shoved it in John's face. "Shut. Up. And no, she's going to get herself back to the compound. Aren't you, Xhex. She's not getting in that SUV with you."
John's hands started going, but they stopped when Xhex said, "Okay. I'll head north now."
"Good. Come on, son." Tohr shoved John in the direction of the SUV, prepared to pick him up by the short hairs if he had to. "Time to have a little ride."
Man, John was so pissed off, you could have fried an egg on his forehead.
Tough. Shit. Tohr whipped open the passenger-side door and packed the fighter into the front seat like he would have an overnight duffel, or a set of golf clubs, or maybe a bag of groceries.
"Can you do the seat belt yourself like a big boy - or should I work it for you?"
John's lip curled up, his fangs making a reveal.
Tohr just shook his head and propped an arm on the SUV's black body paint. Man, he was fucking tired. "Listen to me - as a male who's been in your boots with this kind of thing a million times, you two have to have some space right now. Separate corners, a little calm-down - then you can talk shit through and..." His voice got gruff. "Well, makeup sex is fantastic, if memory serves."
John Matthew's mouth formed a couple variations on fuck. Then he slammed his head back against the rest. Twice.
Mental note: Have Fritz check for structural damage to the seat.
"Trust me, son. The pair of you are going to do this from time to time, and you might as well start to deal with it rationally now. Took me a good fifty years of making shit worse till I figured out a better way to handle arguments. Learn from my mistakes."
John's head cranked over, and he started to mouth, I love her so much. I'd die if anything happened to h -
When he stopped short, Tohr took a deep breath through the pain in his chest. "I know. Trust me... I know."
Shutting the door with a clap, he went around to Butch's side. When the window was put down, he said quietly, "Drive slow and take the long route. Let's try to have her in and out of surgery before he gets there. Last thing we need is him riding Manny's ass in the OR."
The cop nodded. "Hey, you want a ride back? You don't look so hot."
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure you know what those two words mean?"
"Yup. Later."
When he turned away, he saw that Xhex was gone, and knew there was a good probability she had done what she'd said she was going to. Even though she was as pissed off as John, it was doubtful she'd be stupid about her health, or their future.
Females, after all, were not just the fairer sex, but the fairly reasonable one. Which was the only reason the race had survived this long.
As the Escalade eased off at a snail's pace, Tohr anticipated all the fun Butch was going to have on the way home. Hard not to feel sorry for the poor bastard.
Annnnnnd then he faced off at his peanut galley. Looked like the cop from Boston wasn't the only one about to get an earful, and sure enough, each one of the males lobbed a sentence back at him:
"Time to go back to the training center."
"You need treatment."
"You are a reasonable male, and I know you see the merits of what I'm saying."
"Don't be an asshole."
Rhage summed up the regurgitation with two words: "Kettle. Black."
Fucking hell. "Did you guys plan that out?"
"Yeah, and if you don't fight us" - Hollywood bit down on his grape Tootsie Pop - "we'll do it again - only with the dance moves this time."
"Spare me."
"Fine. Unless you agree to home it, we will rock the dance moves." To prove the point, the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, ohhhh, yeeeeeeeaaaah, who's your daddy..."
The others looked at Rhage like he'd grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Nothing unusual there. And Tohr knew that, in spite of this ridiculous diversion, if he didn't cave, the lot of them would crawl so far up his ass, he'd be coughing up shitkickers.
Also nothing unusual.
Rhage wheeled around, shoved out his butt, and started slapping his moneymaker like it was bread dough.
The only advantage? Whatever shit he was spouting was muffled.
"For the love of the Virgin Scribe," Z muttered, "put us out of this misery, and go the fuck home."
Someone else chimed in, "You know, I never thought there were advantages to being blind...."
"Or deaf."
"Or mute," somebody added.
Tohr looked around the periphery, hoping that something that smelled like three-day-old sandwich meat would jump out of the shadows.
No luck.
And next thing you knew, Rhage would break into the robot. Or the Cabbage Patch. Or go Twist and Shout on their asses.
His brothers would never forgive him.
An hour and a half...
It took one hour and thirty cocksucking minutes to get back home.
As far as John could figure, the only way the trip could have taken longer was if Butch had detoured through Connecticut. Or maybe Maryland.
When they finally pulled in front of the great stone mansion, he didn't wait for the Escalade to get parked - or even slow down. He unlocked the door and leaped out while the SUV was still crusing. Landing in a flat-out run, he took the stone steps up to the front entrance in a single leap, and after ripping into the vestibule, shoved his face so tightly into the security camera, he almost broke the lens with his nose.
The massive bronze portal opened fairly quickly, but damned if he could have said who did the honors. And the incredible rainbow-colored foyer with its marble and malachite columns and its lofty painted ceiling made no impression at all. Neither did the mosaic tiles on the floor that he crossed at a dead run, or the calls of his name from who-the-fuck-knew.
Hitting the door that was tucked underneath the grand staircase, he plowed into the underground tunnel that connected to the training center, punching in pass codes so viciously it was a wonder he didn't break the keypads. Entering through the back of the office's supply closet, he vaulted around the desk, shot out through the glass door, and -
"She's being operated on now," V announced from fifty yards away.
The Brother was standing outside the main examination room's doorway, a hand-rolled between his teeth, a lighter in his gloved hand.
"It'll be another twenty minutes or so."
As a shhhh-ch rose up, a little flame made an appearance, and V brought the heat to the tip of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the scent of Turkish tobacco wafted leisurely down the hall.
Rubbing his aching head, John felt like he'd been put in a metaphorical time-out.
"She's going to be fine," V said on a stream of smoke.
No reason to rush now, and not just because she was on the table. It was pretty damn obvious that V had been put out in the hall as a living, breathing doorstop: John wasn't getting in that room until the Brother let him.
Probably smart. Given his mood, he'd have been perfectly capable of breaking the door down cartoon-style, leaving nothing but the outline of his body in the panel - and naturally, that was what you wanted in the middle of scalpel-palooza.
Robbed of a target, John dragged his sorry ass down to the Brother. They put you out here, didn't they.
"Nah. Just a cigarette break."
Yeah, right.
Settling against the wall next to the male, John was tempted to give the back of his head a workout against the concrete, but he didn't want to risk making any noise.
It was too soon, he thought. Too soon for him to be locked out of yet another procedure of hers. Too soon for them to be fighting. Too soon for the tension and the anger.
Can I try one of those? he signed.
V cocked a brow, but didn't try to talk sense into him. The Brother just pulled out a pouch and some cigarette papers. "You want to do the honors yourself?"
John shook his head. For one thing, although he'd watched V's rolling procedure countless times, he'd never tried anything like it before. For another, he didn't think his hands were steady enough.
V took care of things in the work of a moment, and as he gave the coffin nail over, he flicked his lighter.
They both leaned in. Just before John connected the cigarette to the flame, V said, "Word of advice. These have a kick, so don't suck too hard - "
Holy hypoxia, Batman.
John's lungs didn't just reject the onslaught; they had a seizure over it. And as he coughed his bronchial tubes up, V took the offending item from him. Helpful - meant he could brace both palms on his thighs as he bent over and retched.
When the stars faded from his watering eyes, he looked over at V... and felt his balls shrivel up and hibernate in his lower gut. The Brother had taken John's hand-rolled and added it to his own, drawing on both of them at the same time.
Great. Like he didn't already feel like a pussy.
V held the pair out between his fore- and middle fingers. "Unless you want to give it another go?" When John shook his head, he got a nod of approval. "Good call. A second drag and your next stop's the wastepaper basket - and not to toss your Kleenex, true."
John let his ass slide down the wall until the linoleum floor came up and caught his tailbone. Where's Tohr? He come home yet?
"Yup. I sent him to go eat. Told him he wasn't allowed back here until he had a sworn affidavit that he'd sucked down a full meal with dessert." V took another drag and talked out the fragrant smoke. "I nearly had to drag him up there myself. He's there for you, for real."
He nearly got himself killed tonight.
"Same could be said for all of us. It's the nature of the job."
You know with him it's different.
A grunt was all he got in return.
As time passed, and V smoked like a big shot, John found himself wanting to ask the unaskable.
Teetering on the brink of propriety, desperation eventually threw him over the edge. Whistling softly so Vishous would look over, he used his hands carefully.
How does she die, V. As the Brother stiffened, John signed, I've heard you sometimes see these things.
And if I knew it was old age, I could handle this stuff about her in the field so much better.
V shook his head, his dark brows going down over his diamond eyes, the tattoo at his temple shifting its shape. "You shouldn't make any changes to your life based on my visions. They're just a snapshot of a moment in time - which could be next week, next year, three centuries from now. It's occurrence without context, not a when and where."
With his throat closing up, John shot back, So she does die violently.
"I didn't say that."
What happens to her? Please.
V's eyes shifted away so that he was staring across the concrete hallway. And in the silence, John was both terrified of, and starved for, whatever the Brother was seeing.
"Sorry, John. I made the mistake of telling someone this information once. It relieved him in the short term, it truly did, but... in the end, it was a curse. So, yeah, I know firsthand that opening this can of worms doesn't get anyone anywhere." He glanced over. "Funny, most people don't want to know, true? And I think that's good and the way it's supposed to be. That's why I can't see my own death. Or Butch's. Or Payne's. Too close. Life's meant to be lived blind - that's how you don't take shit for granted. The crap I see isn't natural - it ain't right, kid."
John felt a great hum start up in his head. He knew the guy was talking sense, but he was tingling with the need to know. One look at V's jaw, however, told him he was barking up the wrong tree if he pushed the issue.
Nothing was going to come back at him.
Except maybe a fist.
Still, it was horrible to stand on the lip of such knowledge, knowing that it was out there in the world, a book that should not, must not be read - that he nonetheless was dying to have in his palms.
It was just... his whole life was in there with Doc Jane and Manny. Everything he was, and would ever be, was on that slab of a table, out like a light, getting repaired because the enemy had hurt her.
As he closed his eyes, he saw the madness in Tohr's face as the Brother attacked that lesser.
Yes, he thought, he now knew down to his marrow precisely how the male felt.
Hell on earth made you do some pretty fucked-up shit.