Nope. Nothing yet.
Then again, the aristocracy did consider themselves above social media—
As his cell phone went off with a text, he threw out a hand and grabbed the thing. When he saw who it was from and what it was about, he cursed and got to his feet.
Heading back to the bedroom, he snuck in, not wanting to disturb Jane—or Butch and Marissa, who were sleeping next door. And he was doing okay on the whole getting-dressed thing until he slammed his bare foot into the corner of the dresser.
Sure, he managed to keep the HOLY FUCKING WHAT THE FUCKBITCHASSFUCKINGPIECEOFSHIT WAS THAT to himself, but the thunderous toe-to-wood contact sound was nothing he could control.
“V?” Jane said in a sleepy way.
“Hey.” MOTHERFUCKINGOWFUCKOW—he rubbed his foot. “Sorry. Didn’t want to wake you.”
Of course, now that you’re up, honey, can you amputate my lower leg on this side? That’d be great. Thanks.
“You okay?”
“Perfect.” Fishing through the dresser, he grabbed and yanked on the first pair of pant-like anything he came to. Then he pulled on a T-shirt. “I gotta leave for a second before the Brotherhood meeting.”
“Mmm, love you. I’m going to go down to the clinic—what time is it?”
“Six p.m. You have another twenty minutes. Love you, too.”
Closing his eyes, he concentrated…
…and after a Tilt-A-Whirl, came out on the Other Side, in the Sanctuary. Without missing a beat, he strode across the cropped Astroturf-but-it-was-“real” lawn toward the Treasury.
As he closed in on the building, Phury stepped out of its entryway and lifted a hand. “Hey, my brother,” he called over. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.” V slowed as the guy gave him a strange look. “What. Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Interesting pants.”
“Huh—oh, fuck.”
As V checked out his lower half, his only thought was thank God it was Phury and not anyone else: He had on Jane’s pink flannel PJ bottoms. The ones that had My Little Cocksucking Pony all over them. The ones that had been given to all the females in the house by Lassiter—not because he liked My Little Motherfucking Pony, but because the fallen angel knew when the ladies wore them, their hellrens were going to have to see Apple Jack and Rainbow Dash in their nightmares.
And now V was sporting a set like he was a fan.
Oh, and P.S., they were high-waters because he was ten inches taller than his shellan.
“That is the last time I get dressed in the dark, true,” he muttered.
“Hey, it could be worse.”
“Yeah? How.”
“You could have put the top on, too.”
“Will you be offended if I just take them off?”
“Do you have boxer shorts on?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then let’s keep those puppies where they are, shall we?” Phury gave him a condescending smile. “Just in case any of the Chosen are up here. Modesty, you know.”
“Personally, I’d pick my one-balled wonder routine over this, but yeah, sure. Whatever you want.” V nodded toward the Treasury’s interior. “So what we got, Primale?”
“It’s bad.” Phury’s glowing yellow eyes narrowed. “Epic bad, actually.”
The two of them went inside, the bins of sparkling gems like fires banked, the wealth at once extraordinary and an as-you-do.
The brother went over to the display case with the burn mark. “So guess what was in here.”
“Fritz’s cookbook and he finally got it back.” V patted around for a hand-rolled and realized he hadn’t brought any with him. “Damn it.”
“I wouldn’t let you smoke in here anyway.” Phury opened the case’s glass lid. “And this was a cookbook, actually. But it’s the kind you don’t want in anyone’s hands—which was why it was here.”
“I’d like to remind you we can’t get lung cancer,” V muttered. “And everything is perfect up here, remember. I’ll bet if I exhaled, rose petals would come out of my mouth—but I digress. Cookbook? What are you talking about?”
“It’s a book of conjuring spells. Whoever has it can bring bad things to life.”
V ditched the levity quick. “The shadow entities.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Those things just started showing up, didn’t they.”
“But why would the Omega need a book? If he knows how to—”
“You were right that first night. I don’t think it’s the Omega. Which is only one of a whole host of problems we’ve got.” The brother passed his hand over the burned spot. “Because check this out, the other reason the book was stored here was because it can’t be destroyed—if you burn it or try to rip up the pages, you release all of the spells at once. So this was deemed the only safe place. No one was supposed to get to it.”
“Where the fuck did it come from?”
“I don’t know about its origins. I’m just passing on what Amalya, the Directrix, told me. She’s really upset—not just because of the book being gone, but because we’re both wondering who got access to the Sanctuary when they weren’t supposed to be here? Let me ask you, when were you and Jane up here that you noticed it was gone?”
“I told you the night after. When I saw you at the Great Camp. Jane and I were just—well, she ended up here after she was shot.” He thought about Lassiter. “And I came to her. She pointed it out to me.”
Phury cursed. “I’m going to have to talk to Wrath about this.”
V stared at the doors that were open. And decided that if there were ever a moment in his life to be diplomatic, now was it.
“Listen, my man, I don’t know how to say this nicely.” He tried to pick his words carefully. “But is there any chance one of your Chosen might be doing an end run on this thing?”
Ooooooor he could just put the shit out there.
“Absolutely not.” Phury glared at him. “Those females are—”
“Out in the world. Making connections. Forging relationships with people they meet at the Audience House, online, while they work. How do you know that one of them didn’t take it, either for their own use, or someone else’s.”
Phury crossed his thick arms over his chest—and V was pretty damn sure that if the brother wasn’t a gentlemale, he’d have been throwing the kind of punches that knocked out teeth.
“My Chosen would never do anything to endanger the race.”
“But think this through.” V put his palms up, all let’s-chill. “No one else is allowed here without permission. So either one of two things happened. Someone who does have access took the book, or someone who has access took the book for somebody else. There are no other logical explanations.”
* * *
—
At eight o’clock that night, Vitoria pulled her brother’s Bentley into a parking space about seven blocks down from the gallery. It was a legal space, although there was no reason to put anything in the meter because it was after six p.m.
The snow that had been forecasted had arrived, and before she opened the driver’s side door, she pulled the hood of her black sweatshirt into place and zipped up the parka she had used to keep warm while climbing the mountain. After a pause to check her phone, she got out and kept her head down as the wind blew flakes into her face.
As she walked away from the Bentley, she left that door open and the key fob on the center console.
Pity that she did not have someone to bet with concerning how long it would take for somebody to steal the Flying Spur. The weather was bad, it was true, and that could decrease foot traffic and therefore the number of thieves. But it was a $250,000 sedan. Some junkie or another would take advantage of good fortune. It was the way of the human race.
Vitoria kept up a brisk pace as she went along, hands in the pockets of that parka that added to her bulk, head still down, her face obscured by the hood.
She went deeper and deeper into downtown…until, some number of blocks later, she got to the bridge that spanned the river.