Lover Unveiled, page 21
Guess that made them soul mates.
“You okay, son?” Rhage asked.
Nate did a double take. “Oh, I thought you’d left.”
“I am now.” The Brother went over to where he’d been on an armchair. “I forgot my jacket and had to come back for it.”
There was a pause, and it was clear the older male wanted to say something. And not about the weather.
“Please don’t tell my dad…” Nate mumbled.
“What, that you gave a female your number for the first time?” As Nate blushed, Rhage nodded. “Not to worry. That’s your story to share, not mine. Take care of yourself, son.”
Ten minutes later, Nate was still standing in the newly kitted-out living room when the front door opened again and the guys started coming in with their overalls and their tools. As he nodded at the crew, and tried to play it cool, he had a thought that there wasn’t much else to do at the site—and what a pity that was. Considering this was an extension of Safe Place, he felt like as long as Elyn was there and he was here, a connection between them still existed.
Yeah, unlike that cell phone number, which seemed way too tenuous, and not because it was on a lollipop wrapper. She had to choose to use those numbers, and time was running out before she took off—
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
With a start, he turned to Shuli—and felt like he didn’t recognize his friend. Which was nuts because the guy was wearing the same Izod polo, cashmere sweater, and khaki shorts kind of thing that he always did. He even had a pair of Ray-Bans tucked into the V-neck—like James Spader in that old movie. Pretty in Purple? What was the title?
“Hello?” Shuli waved a hand. “Anybody in there?”
Absently, Nate’s eyes tracked the glint of the fancy watch on his buddy’s wrist. And because he didn’t want to think about anything else, and because he certainly didn’t want to talk about all the things he didn’t want to think about, he blurted out, “Why do you work here?”
“Huh—oh, why am I on the crew? My sire thinks minimum wage builds character.”
“I don’t think it’s working.”
“Ouch—but you’re probably right. I can be a prick sometimes. And on that note, why are you looking like someone punched you in the nuts?”
“I’m not. I don’t. I mean—let’s go finish the painting in the garage.”
As Nate started hoofing it, Shuli chuckled and followed along. “So that’s why you’re not rubbing one out on a regular basis. It explains a lot.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“No nuts, no erection. Problem solved.”
“Not even close,” Nate muttered.
“No, really, it’s how it works—”
“Please, for the love of God, stop talking.”
“Like, about nuts? Or anything at all?”
The glare Nate sent over his shoulder answered that one. And as they filed out into the garage, he prayed Shuli gave him two minutes to recalibrate. When the guy blessedly started opening the cans and organizing the paint brushes in silence, Nate tried to pull it together, and looked down at the leaf he’d taken out of Elyn’s hair—
Frowning, he turned it over to check the back. And then turned the thing faceup again.
When he’d first seen the maple leaf in her hair, out by where the meteor had landed, it had been dried up, brown, past its life cycle.
What he was holding now was pliable and yellow with red tips, as if it had just fallen from its autumnal branch.
“What the hell you looking at?” Shuli said. “And for what it’s worth, if it’s your love line, I’m worried about where that’s headed.”
“It’s nothing,” Nate muttered as he put the leaf into his pocket. “You ready to paint?”
* * *
Collective wisdom was wrong. You could, in fact, be in two places at once.
As Sahvage stood in front of Mae inside her garage, another part of him was out in the dark with that other woman. Female. Thing-that-shall-not-be-named.
With the specificity of a newscaster, he was replaying everything the brunette had said to him, what she’d looked like, how she’d behaved. It was like searching for underground mines in a field, lifting rocks to see if he’d found all the danger.
“So?” Mae prompted tersely. “What do I have to agree to.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Let’s have your caveat.”
Shaking himself back into focus, he said, “If I tell you to leave me, you have to promise you will. When I go down, you need to leave me where I fall and save yourself.”
As her eyes widened, he couldn’t help her. Something inside of him was once again looking into the misty future… and seeing a moment in time for them both where only one walked away.
He stared into her eyes. “You have to leave me when it counts. Promise me.”
Mae’s brows went down hard. “What if I refuse?”
“Then I leave you now.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Well, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, but he just waited for her to come to whatever conclusion she did. This was a nonnegotiable, and even though she’d pissed him off, he was glad they’d had to renegotiate their—well, whatever this was between them.
“Okay. Fine.”
Sahvage put his dagger hand out. “On your honor. Swear to it.”
She hesitated for a moment. Then she shoved her palm forward and clasped what he offered her with a serious squeeze—as if, in her head, she was ripping his arm off and beating some sense into him with it.
“Say the words,” he demanded.
“I promise.”
He nodded once, as if they’d made a blood pact. And then he glanced at her car. “Leave that here and let’s dematerialize back to the cottage. I cracked the shutter on the front left on the second floor. We can get in that way.”
“Did you seal the second-story windows, too? With salt?”
“Evil can only enter a place on the ground floor or with an invitation.”
“And if a house isn’t protected?”
“She can walk in any way she pleases.” He rubbed his aching head. “Come down the chimney like Santa Claus if she wants. I don’t fucking know.”
“I’ll say it again, thank God you did what you did.” Mae went over and got her bag and purse out of her car. “And you’re sure this house is safe.”
“You saw for yourself. She couldn’t get in.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
Sahvage went across to a rear window. The daytime shutters were down, and he released the locking hooks to pop the seal—but made sure things stayed mostly in place.
“I’ll get you back to the cottage,” he said, “then I’m going to my place to pick up some more weapons.”
“I can help. I’ll go with you—”
“You need to stay with Tallah. You two should be safe together and I’m not going to be gone long—”
“Can I ask you something?”
He glanced over. Mae had her purse up on her shoulder, and a two-handled bag in her left grip. She looked frazzled, her hair fuzzing out of that ponytail, her eyes too bright, her cheeks too pale. But it was clear she wasn’t going to quit.
Fucking hell. He was going to miss her when he left.
“Depends on what you want to know,” he said softly.
“Where do you live? Who is… do you have anyone in your life?”
“Don’t worry. Nobody is going to wonder where I am or what I’m doing and get nosy. Your privacy, and Tallah’s, is locked tight.”
Mae cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you’re alone.”
“It’s by design, I assure you—”
“So that’s why you’re telling me to leave you before we even start, huh. Even if you’re hurt. Even if you’re… dying.”
All Sahvage could do was shake his head at her. “Don’t play the hypothetical game.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not changing my one demand just because you’re restating it to me, sweetheart. Now let’s head out, I need some fucking air—and yes, I did just sweetheart you again. You want to yell at me for it, hold your breath for when we get back to the cottage.”
Mae walked over to him. Tilted her chin up. And—
“Not now,” he all but groaned. “Please. Just go and I’ll meet you at that old female’s. She’s the one you care about, remember?”
“You don’t need to remind me where my priorities are.”
With that, Mae left—and for a split second, as he glanced around the garage, he entertained a brief, insane fantasy where he came home at the end of the night, and she was back from whatever work she did, and they sat across from each other at a dinner table and talked over the hours they’d been apart.
Never going to happen, he thought as he ghosted away. For so many reasons.
As he traveled out of suburbia in a scatter, he followed the echo of his blood in her out into farm country—and re-formed inside the bedroom at the front of the cottage. She was already there and going for the stairs, her purse clapping against her side, that bag swinging in her hand.
“Checking on Tallah?” he asked.
“What do you think,” she muttered.
Or at least he assumed that’s what she said.
As he listened to her descend the old, rickety staircase, he came to two conclusions, neither of which gave him any comfort: They were going to need weapons she could use, too. And shit, he wished he believed in the Scribe Virgin.
He could have used someone to pray to.
“I’ll be right back,” he called out.
No response. But he hadn’t expected one.
Listening to her move around down on the first level, he gave her a chance to walk off some stress. Then he heard her go into the cellar, the sound of her footfalls growing dim.
Closing his eyes, he sent his instincts out, just to make sure that there were no sounds, scents, or strange disturbances of any kind in the cottage. When nothing came back to him, he figured things were as safe as they were going to get.
Needless to say, the trip back to his place was going to be a real fucking quick one. And shit, he didn’t think he had enough firepower.
Then again, he could have had a missile launcher in the side yard and still felt like he was light-packing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As Lassiter walked through the forest of the Brotherhood’s mountain, it was not with a swagger, like he owned the joint. Instead, he carefully picked the places in the leaves and craggy underbrush where he could safely put his booted feet. And he constantly brushed off his shoulders, convinced things were dropping on him from overhead. And that sweet, natural pine smell? Irritated the fuck out of his sinuses.
For all the dominion he had over earthly matters, and vampires in particular, he fucking hated nature. Something was always sneaking under your collar and fifteen-feeting it down your spine. Or pooping on your head. Or poking you in the eye. Or giving you rabies.
Plus rain. Snow. Sleet. Hail. Which led to the fun and games of faucet-running noses, frostbitten toes, and oh, yeah, black ice that sent your car face-first into a tree trunk.
And then, because June through August didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to harass people, you got the too-hot summer. So in addition to bees, wasps, and yellowjackets, you had armpit sweat. Chafing. Flip-flops.
He couldn’t fucking stand flip-flops. Nobody ever needed to see anybody else’s piggies-go-to-market.
And there was another part to it all. To make his climate intolerance and allergy to nature’s so-called wonders worse? He lived with Vishous. Who was only too happy to call a person out as a “pussy” if they happened to bring up the fact that maybe staying indoors was a great idea when the temperature was higher, or lower, than seventy degrees.
Whatever. Put that snarky SOB in a world full of Hallmark cards, MLM hun-bots, and “Save Britney” hashtags, and see how he did—
As the wind changed direction and half of the angel’s pec-length hair spidered into his face, he batted the stuff away and glared to the northeast.
“I swear to fucking God, I will put a muzzle on you.”
Aware that he had just told a force of nature to quit it or he’d give it something to cry about, he decided maybe he was just spoiled. His office was on the Other Side, up in the Sanctuary. Where it was always seventy degrees with no breeze—and no ticks, hornets, or mosquitos. Brown recluses. Asps.
Vishouses.
Talk about muzzles. Technically, there were options for dealing with that brother. In the hierarchy of things, the real flowchart of authority? Lassiter was the apex asshole, above even Wrath. And no matter how annoyed that made V, it was what it was: Gravity. The rise and fall of the sun. The supremacy of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar licks, Bea Arthur’s sense of style, the New York Yankees’ batting average… and Lassiter’s buck-stops-here.
Actually, he didn’t really give a fuck about baseball. He just really enjoyed messing with V’s Red Sox obsession.
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” he said to himself.
As he considered fresh approaches to winding up tall, dark, and judgy, the cave he was looking for came forth to greet him. The craggy hole in the side of the mountain was utterly unremarkable, nothing but a split in a vein of granite that was camo’d by trees and brush. Unless you knew it was there, you’d never see it—and that was the point.
Slipping inside, he got a prickly whiff of earth and mold—another grand recommendation for camping—and in the darkness, he orientated himself by throwing a golden glow around the low-ceiling’d—
Directly in front of him, on just an any-closer-and-it-woulda-bit-ya foot away, was a mound of pottery shards that was hip height and wide as a dance floor.
The remnants of the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s collection of lesser jars.
Picking up an irregularly shaped piece that had a blue glaze, he thought of the Omega. The Lessening Society. The end of that era.
How many trips had it taken to clear the mess out? he wondered as he tossed the shard back and stepped around the pile.
Heading into a subtle curve in the fissure, he came up to a set of iron gates that were covered with a shiny-bright mesh. The bars were thick as a male’s wrist, and the fine weave of steel, which prevented vampires from dematerializing inside, had been soldered on. The lock was copper.
With a sweep of his hand, he cast the venerable barrier aside and stepped into a hall set with torches that hissed and spit on their mountings. The sounds of brooms a-whisking escorted him forward, and soon enough, the ruination presented itself. From floor to ceiling, shelving made from hand-hewn planks was hanging in disarray, the lengths broken or mostly missing, the ragged ends like something had bitten at them. As he went along, he pictured things as they had been before, the horizontal levels set with jars of an incalculable number of different shapes and sizes and colors. There must have been… shit, a thousand of them? No, maybe more. And inside of those jars? The hearts of the lessers that the Brotherhood had killed.
The containers had been from every century, from ancient pottery ones that had been handmade all the way up to cheapo, mass-produced stuff from Target.
The collection had existed for so long, and been added to for so many years, that it had, in the manner of all things frequently seen, been taken to be permanent. The Omega had fixed that. Like a late-summer wasp on its last throes, the evil had come in to sting one final time, reclaiming the hearts he had removed during inductions to bolster his lagging strength.
The evil had ultimately been defeated, however.
And now? A new enemy had come to Caldwell.
Lassiter could only pray to himself that what they needed to fight the Book was still in that coffin.
Down about forty yards, Butch and Vishous were doing the brooming thing, the pair of them dressed in long black robes, some kind of conversation back-and-forthing between them.
No doubt the cop was trying to chill his roommate out about something.
How that former human managed to live with a Molotov cocktail like V was a shining example of forbearance.
“Speak of the devil,” Lassiter said to Vishous. “And how’re ya, Butch?”
“Don’t you ever knock?” V bent over to corral a wedge of debris into a handheld dustpan with a Joe Rogan Experience sticker on it.
“Nice to see you, too.” Lassiter sauntered by. “And jeez, you boys are handy with the tidy-up. If I had a car, I’d ask you to detail it.”
“Why are you here again?” V said as he sloughed the dust off Rogan’s face and into a Rubbermaid trash roller.
“Oh, same ol’, same ol’.” Lassiter shrugged. “I haven’t seen you for almost twenty-two minutes and I just wanted to be in your presence. You know, to recharge myself with all the warmth you put out into the world.”
As V straightened and glared across the narrow corridor, Butch clapped his roommate on the shoulder. “No, you can’t hit him with your broom. Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m going to start calling him your zookeeper, V.” Lassiter winked and kept going. Then, over his shoulder, he added, “See you at the altar, boys.”
“I wouldn’t cross the road to piss a fire out on your dead body,” Vishous announced.
Lassiter pointed to the top of his head without turning around. “Immortal, remember?”
The sanctum sanctorum of the Black Dagger Brotherhood was deep inside the mountain, the vast subterranean cavern having once served as the reservoir for an underground river. And down at the terminal point of the gradual descent was the focus of it all: A raised dais, lit by black candles on stanchions, on which a stone altar had been set so that the ancient skull of the first brother could be properly displayed. Behind that precious artifact? An enormous wall of marble that was inscribed with the name of every member of the Brotherhood, from the first… to the most recent, John Matthew.
