Lassiter, page 17
Depending on his answer, that was all going to change. Over time, lessers lost their pigmentation, everything turning pale.
“You talkin’ or what?” the stumpy one asked with the kind of cockiness that came with being a prick by nature.
And being armed under that leather jacket.
They were all armed, bulges under coats, in ass pockets—but then they had things to protect. There were drugs under wraps on the chipped table in the corner, a couple different piles of white powders, along with dusty scales and crumpled bills, solving a mystery that required little, if any, sleuthing. Lash had gotten a gander at the display before they’d pulled a tarp over the setup after Mouthy had knocked on the door with the butt of a shotgun and not waited for an answer. As he’d busted in, the punks had scrambled to attention all around the room, their drug-addled minds trying to catch up with the surprise visitors. Meanwhile, Mouthy had taken control, something that was easy when you had a double-barrel on your side of persuasion, and some kind of relationship with the infiltrated.
“I asked you a question,” Stump said as he jabbed a forefinger at Lash. “You’re gonna fucking answer me—”
“He don’t have to talk,” Mouthy cut in. “You want to dick around here or be a part of something bigger. You want more? Or you want this shit.”
Mouthy kicked a jug full of what could have been apple juice, but was more likely piss. “What do you want, Muggs. What do you want, Bullz. What do you want, Dollah…”
He went down the line and asked the question, made the demand, whatever. Just like Lash had told him to: When it came to the Lessening Society, there were two rules. Only two. One, the inductees had to choose of their own volition; Lash wasn’t allowed to influence them.
The second rule only came into play when they were in the field. Number two bridged the divide between enemies, uniting the hunter and the prey—no human involvement, and if there was any, you cleaned that up, whether you were a slayer or a vampire.
Nobody wanted humans getting involved in the private business of the war.
“We doin’ okay,” Stump tossed back. “We eat good—”
“Power. Real power.” Mouthy pointed the shotgun at the drug table. “Not this middleman bullshit. I’m talking clout. Like you own Caldwell. Or you wanna be under Big Tony ’til you get your fucking top blown off. This man right here’s your answer.”
All eyes on him. Like Tupac said. And Lash stared back.
“And it’s forever,” Mouthy pressed it. “For fucking ever.”
The tipping of the scales occurred at a different rate for each one of the men, and Lash could tell by their expressions when the click was made, the consent given, the choosing over, the decision set. They didn’t have to respond verbally because their bodies suddenly projected a different energy, yet their lips did clap together in confirmation, their heads nodding as they spoke to Mouthy.
But that slayer’s role in this was over now. Lash had what he needed from them.
“Step aside,” he said softly.
Mouthy shut up, cutting off his own words, whatever they were. And Silent Bob didn’t fuck with it, either. They got out of the way, moving over to the door to bar any escape, good ol’ Bob getting a chair and bracing it under the doorknob.
It was a subtle thing. Cute, really.
“What you doing?” Stump demanded.
“Don’t worry about that,” Lash said as he stepped forward.
There was an unobstructed wall behind where the group had loosely shoulder-to-shouldered themselves, the expanse as stained and marred as everything else was. How convenient.
“What the fuck you looking at us like that—”
Lash swept his hand, and the movement translated to the bodies, slamming them back against the grimy vertical, pinning them in place.
The lineup of punks struggled, trying to pull and kick free of the invisible bands that held them aloft and mounted them as moving sculptures. And as they were of different heights, he made his job easy and evened them up. At throat level.
Then he shifted his eyes to the side and measured the dirty windows. The apartment was stacked on top of more of the same, the ten-story building teetering on a condemned notice—just like the pair of look-alikes on either side of it. The development was on the fringes of downtown, an attempt from the eighties at reinvigorating a declining part of the city. Maybe there had been an initial success with some urban professionals, but that time had passed, and now things were back where they had started.
Economic challenges aside, there were neighbors. Lots of them.
He was not going to deprive himself of this experience, however—so he was just going to take for granted that mind-your-own-business was a universal tenet for the other tenants.
Taking out the hunting knife he’d whittled with back in that basement, he held the stainless steel blade up. The response in the inductees was satisfying, and he inhaled, drawing in the tangy scent of fear sweat as they began to beg.
At which point, he decided he had to silence their commotion. That second rule was pesky, but practical, and this was going to go well beyond usual levels of disturbance in the building.
Pity, really. His favorite sopranos were the ones singing for their very lives.
Walking up to Stump, he enjoyed the flapping mouth, the peeled-wide eyes, the flushing panic and fruitless struggle. And he didn’t read lips, but he could dub in the gist of the speech. Wonder how many f-bombs there were now—although he was rather thinking the one on the far end, with the tattoo of a cross on the front of his neck, was praying.
Twirling the knife in his fingers, Lash gripped the handle so that the blade could stab most effectively, but that wasn’t the motion he was going to use. He crossed the weapon over his pecs, placed it at the correct level, and held on tight for the ride: With a long stride, he walked down the row, the sharp edge doing its work sure as if it were going for a gold star.
A set of second mouths opened freely across each of the necks, a chorus of them, and the blood that ran out of those jugulars was a glossy show, red and vital. When he got to the religious one on the end, he loosened the lockdown a little so that, as he licked the blade clean with his tongue, he could enjoy the show.
Talk about puppets. All the arms and legs clapped against the filthy wall with a fine show of herky-jerky, the heads bucking, the gurgling quiet.
With a curling anticipation, he knew he was going to do this a hundred more times. A thousand.
The good thing about humans, for his purposes, was that they were easy to come by, and equally easily exploited, their modern-life ennui a perfect entry point for promises of power that would come at a very high price.
Breathing in deeply through his nose again, the copper perfume was nuanced as each of the drug dealers brought their own particular tilt to the common scent—and he knew, as he measured the puddles forming under the boots and sneakers, that this was going to take a long time. They were just beginning the inductions. Add the recovery time afterward? He wouldn’t be able to use these new lessers tonight at all unless he hurried shit up.
Stepping into Stump, he reholstered his knife and went for the button and zipper on the front of those jeans. As he took care of business and then yanked the waistband down to the knees, blood dropped on the backs of his hands and he paused to lick it off. It tasted like crap, watered down and contaminated with chemicals. Whatever.
Ah, yes, commando. Of course. And it appeared, given the open sores on the flaccid penis, that someone had been getting busy without using proper protection.
What was going to happen next would take care of that. Not the herpes, but the dipshit’s ability to spread the virus—
Lash re-palmed the hunting knife and plunged the point into the sinew just below where the thigh plugged into the pelvis. In response, the body did a siezure-jump, everything animating for a brief second, and the same thing happened when he sliced into the femoral artery on the other side.
“That’s better,” he said, as the blood flowed even faster.
With Stump’s puddle immediately doubling in size, the punk next door knew what was coming, and as Lash stepped up to him, the guy fought hard, so very hard, until he choked himself out, his eyes rolling back as he lost consciousness.
“This won’t take long,” Lash drawled. “Don’t worry.”
As he went on a pants-down repeat, he thought of his father. The Omega had had a special way of welcoming his inductees into the Lessening Society, but Lash had no interest in that sexual shit. This was absolutely not a turn-on for him, and there was a shot of superiority that he remained detached.
Sloppy, really, to fuck your acolytes.
“Say cheese,” he said just before he made the cut in the left artery first.
As the dealer woke back up, his face stretched like Silly Putty, the features elongating as he hollered for help and made no sound at all. And things got even more strain-tastic as Lash sliced into things on the right side.
Continuing on to the third punk, Lash checked on Stump—and decided not to forge ahead. Things were getting bone-dry in the circulatory system over there, and he didn’t want the cardiac muscle starved for oxygen for too long. He needed it in good pumping order.
“You’ll have to wait,” he told the third in line. “But be ready. I won’t be long.”
Back at the head of the class, Stump was on the verge of losing consciousness, but the surge of adrenaline that came with Lash returning was enough to perk him up into a panic.
“Open wide,” Lash said.
Bringing his own wrist to his mouth, he scored his vein and thought that his sire had had his own way of doing this part, too. But as he’d resolved the night before, it was a new era, and he felt like honoring his vampire roots. Feedings, after all, were a necessity for the species that had taken him in and raised him.
So this unnatural event felt more natural this way
Willing the human’s head back, Lash went to put the puncture wounds over that goldfish mouth. “Drink and join me in forever.”
The black ooze that came out of him gave him a pause, and he had the sense that he was never going to get used to it. His blood had been red, once. Like the humans’ in that regard. And it had smelled of copper, too.
Not anymore.
Curling his lip in disgust, he told himself to refocus. Some gifts came with complications, and did he really want to be powerless and mortal? Did the appearance and odor of what was in his veins matter so much?
“The fuck it does,” he said softly as he pressed his bite to the human’s mouth and made the man start swallowing, even as he choked.
Because hello, there was a slice across his windpipe. Enough got down, though, and the thrashing was nearly instantaneous. These movements now were different from the struggle to get free, the epileptic activity repetitive and spastic in its uncoordination, no larger purpose to it—
Vomiting presently. Red blood and bile first.
And now… black.
Yes, good. His essence was taking over, propagating, magnifying—and he felt a stirring, a thrill that he imagined was like watching conception happen.
“Fuck,” Mr. Mouthy whispered behind him.
“Surely you haven’t forgotten how this works,” Lash countered dryly.
Thrusting his hand forward, he clapped his open palm on Stump’s chest, directly above the sternum.
“Come to me,” he commanded.
The heat was instantaneous, leaping up to greet his hand, not a kindling but a flame without fire. The vibration came next, the calling answered by a need to respond—
The scream was so loud and long, it broke free of the imposed silence, the ringing, high-pitched auditory explosion something Lash drank with his ears—as the rib cage broke apart and the muscle popped out, steel to a magnet.
Except unlike metal, it was warm, soft…
And wet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rage was a dark magic, really. Or maybe “evil” was the word.
As the vengeful emotion swept through Lassiter, it was transformative, taking him away from what he knew of himself and making a monster of him: Sitting at the foot of Rahvyn’s hospital bed, with her admission ringing in his skull, he was ready to commit murder.
And draw the shit out.
“Does he live,” he repeated, in a voice that did not sound like his own. “The male who hurt you, does he live.”
“No,” Rahvyn replied roughly. “He… does not.”
The answer should have satisfied him. Instead, he felt his fury thicken. Who had done the duty? Sahvage? Or another male relation of hers—
“Do you still…” She touched her mouth. “Do you still want… to kiss me?”
It took him a moment to translate what she was saying through all the fury. And when her words finally processed, they were probably the only thing that could have cooled him off.
Refocusing, he cradled her face in his hands, searching her beauty, wondering how he could express himself. “Of course I do. What happened to you—it’s not you. It was something that was done to you, by someone who was wrong.”
Someone who needed to be skinned alive, inch by inch. And yes, the irony of giving her earnest, heartfelt advice that also applied to himself was resolutely and firmly lost on him. She was different.
“What is it,” he said as she grew tense.
“I am changed now. Fore’ermore.”
“Yes,” he said. “But at your core, you are still you.”
“No, I’m not. And I am afraid to tell you this…”
As she hesitated, he took her hand and put it over his heart. “You can tell me anything. Anything.”
Her ragged inhale, her pale face, the way she held herself so tightly, made him want to start looking for a weapon. But he already knew without checking under the hospital bed or looking in the cabinet above the little basin, that the recovery room had no guns or knives, no flamethrowers or grenades. No axes, no hammers, no saws or crowbars.
Also, no target.
Just the damned bed. The rolling table with his absurd attempt to feed her piled high. The TV in the corner, suspended from the ceiling. The medical equipment that was not in use.
Goddamn, why did the asshole have to be dead? He wanted to kill him.
“Tell me,” he prompted. “I promise you, there is nothing that you can say or do that will make me see you in any other light than I do now.”
As she lowered her head, her platinum hair fell forward like a veil. “The truth of it is… though it was terrible, I am strengthened from what was done to me.”
When her eyes darted to his, as if to check his reaction, he nodded. “That’s because you survived.” He tucked her hair back so he could keep seeing her properly. “You know, I’ve crossed paths with a lot of survivors in my line of work. Only a few have scars on the outside, and even if they do, it’s what is on the inside that’s always been harder to heal. But you’re right. They are stronger for what they’ve endured.”
“You do not judge me, then.”
“I don’t.” He touched her chin and lifted her face. “I think you’re even more beautiful. Because you’re a survivor.”
There was a long silence, and he imagined she was testing his words, his tone, his vibe, for the truth in what he was saying. And just as he was wondering what else he could say to reassure her, she cleared her throat.
“Will you do something for me?” she said. “If it is… agreeable to you.”
“Anything.”
As he had done to her, now she did to him, her free hand rising up, her fingertips moving over his face, brushing his jaw, his cheek, his hair. The wonder in her eyes, the reverence, humbled him—and he almost told her it was misplaced.
“I want you to clean him out of me.” She looked down at her sweater and jeans. “I want the memory of… what he did taken from me. I want to think of you, never… him. Please… make that go away.”
Her hesitant request, and all it implied, took his fucking breath away.
Holy hell, he’d sat at the foot of the Creator, had seen the earth from another dimension, had felt the shifts of births and deaths alike—and never, never, had he been so moved, never had he been so resolved. And as he imagined doing exactly what Rahvyn had asked, Devina’s specter was instantly raised, and he slapped that shit down. He was going to lock that nasty in his vault and never think of it again.
Wiped clean. Erased. Gone, as if it had never happened.
After all, why burden Rahvyn with what he’d gone through.
As a sense of peace came over him, it was unexpected—and he brushed her lips with his thumb. “I’m going to kiss you. Now. And you can tell me… whatever else you want me to do. Or if you change your mind, we can stop—”
“I am not going to stop.” Her eyes went to his mouth. “I think I decided the first moment I saw you, at Luchas House, in the garage. I chose you then, I choose you now.”
Fucking hell, he couldn’t breathe. “I remember that moment. You captivated me. You were standing there with Sahvage, and I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
“Kiss me…”
Lassiter leaned in and got lost in her eyes, the world around them disappearing—and this kind of magic, so different from what came with rage, was something he was into. He’d been so destroyed by the demon, left demoralized and unsure on how he could recover, but Rahvyn was showing him the way: In service to her, he was given a further purpose that made him whole in a way he couldn’t have foreseen.
Saving them both.
I love you, he thought just as he put his mouth on hers.
Lassiter kept the kiss soft and slow, giving her all kinds of opportunity to pull back, rethink, pump the brakes. When she just made a pleading sound—that went right down between his legs—he tilted his head and deepened the contact, stroking his lips over hers as he cupped her nape. She was the one who lay back, and when he went with her, their bodies stretching out together, he threw the lock on the door with his mind.
Lifting his head a little, he took a moment to soak in the sight of her, her silken hair flowing over the pillow, her hungry eyes roaming around his face and shoulders—as if she didn’t know what to expect.
