Lassiter, page 21
“I told you,” Nate countered calmly. “I needed to know how far it went.”
“What if it hadn’t—what if you had…”
“Then I would have known the answer.”
The logical way the response was framed was so chilling, Shuli felt compelled to spell everything out in words of one syllable.
So he did: “But you’da been dead.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” The guy nodded to the entrance of the shed. “You coming with?”
Shuli reached out and put his hand on a heavy shoulder. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“Of course I do. Why do you think I cleaned my room before I came out here?”
“You honestly believe that is what we would have all cared about? That your clothes were fucking folded and your bed made?”
“Hung.”
“What?”
“I like to hang my clothes. Not fold them.”
Shuli rubbed his face, and entertained the idea that this might be some kind of fucked-up dream. But then he dropped his arms… and nothing was any different. They were still out in the woods, and the little word volley was still in the air between them.
“Nate. What the fuck has gotten into you—and please. Don’t bullshit me. You need to be alarmed by all of this, and instead, you’re…”
“What am I alarmed by.” An eyebrow raised. “Tell me.”
“You just shot yourself in the head—and you don’t seem to be bothered by the fact that you don’t care whether you lived or died.”
“Yup, that’s where I’m at. You want to sum it all up for a third time? Would it make you feel better?”
Shuli wanted to grab the guy by the sweatshirt and shake the shit out of him. “If you’d died, and I’d found you, what the fuck do you think it would do to me?”
“You weren’t supposed to be out here.”
“So fine!” He threw up his hands. “I’d have gotten a phone call—whenever they found your body. What about your parents—”
“They’re not really my parents. They’re just giving me a place to put my head—”
“That night in the clinic when you came in on a stretcher, they were weeping.”
“Were you there? Did you see it yourself? ’Cuz if I remember, you were still back in the club, fucking humans in the bathroom, while I was getting shot and bleeding out on the sidewalk. So how the hell would you know what those two people did next to my hospital bed better than me.”
“They love you,” Shuli said roughly.
“Or maybe they just have savior complexes that have nothing to do with me. In which case, it’s not my problem if they get all twisted.”
“Are you listening to yourself? What the fuck.”
As Shuli’s voice went up an octave and projected like a loudspeaker, a night bird flushed off into the darkness, but that was the only reaction he got. Nate just stood there as if he were a bad actor in a Dawson’s Creek remake.
Shuli shook his head. “I need a drink.”
“Good, I’ll go get my phone and call in sick to work.” Nate shrugged in that offhand way again. “I didn’t feel like going in anyway. And I think I’d like to get drunk.”
“This isn’t right. You need to talk to someone.”
“I just found out I’m a fucking superhero, and you’re upset? Really? This is not bad news.” Nate turned back to the shed and opened things. “I’m going out for a drink. You can come or not. I don’t really care.”
As the shed door clapped shut behind the guy, Shuli looked up at the sky and decided that whoever the male was who had just up and left without a care in the world, he was not his friend.
He only happened to be inhabiting Nate’s body.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sometimes, you had to show and not tell.
Aware that those pains in the angels were waiting for him out in the corridor, Lassiter ducked back into Rahvyn’s recovery room, and kept as quiet as he could. She had curled onto her side facing the door, her hands under her chin, her feet tucked in. A blanket had been pulled up from the base of the bed, but he imagined she’d been half asleep when she’d gone looking for extra warmth, because the thing covered only part of her legs and none of her back.
He would have given anything to be able to join her.
Whispering across the cool, tiled floor, he carefully lifted the blanket and rearranged it so that—
“You return,” she said in a husky voice.
As her eyes fluttered open, he laid the thin covering properly over her body. “Just to check on you. I have to go out.”
“For a while… or fore’ermore?”
“Just for a while.” He brushed her cheek. “Don’t worry.”
At least that was the plan.
Rahvyn rolled over and stretched, and his eyes went to the soft swells of her breasts. She had changed into a fresh set of scrubs, the loose fabric hiding her curves from him, but also from others if anyone else came into the recovery room—and yes, maybe it made him a prehistoric, bonded knucklehead, but he was not in any kind of hurry for another male to see what she looked like naked.
Mostly because they were likely to lose their minds at how beautiful she was, and then he was going to have to murder the poor bastard.
Ah, yes, bonded males were such fun.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “If I may inquire.”
“Of course you can. I’m going to the Audience House.”
“Oh.” She pushed herself off the pillows. “Will you be safe?”
“I promise. And as soon as I’m done, I’ll come back here.”
So they could finish what they’d started, he thought to himself.
“Please be careful.”
Her smile was the worried kind, the one you put on when you were trying not to show how anxious you were.
Bending down, he pressed his lips to hers and lingered with the contact, his body instantly flaring back to life—which, considering how fucking distracted he was with all the shit going on? Was an indication of exactly how desperate he was to have her.
“I’m always careful.” He kissed her again. “Just rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Rahvyn nodded and resumed her tuck-in, but she didn’t look like she was going to sleep any more, her stare too fixed on the door—as if she knew who was waiting for him on the other side of it.
“Don’t worry about Eddie and Adrian,” he told her. “I’m taking care of it.”
Now she sighed. “All right.”
He waited until her lids got low again, and honestly, all he wanted to do, maybe for the rest of his immortal life, was just stand over her like this, guarding her as she caught up on the rest she clearly needed. But nooooooo.
He was going to play tour guide. But shit, maybe if those two angels could see what the Brotherhood and the King did every night, maybe they’d understand why he had to stay here.
“Sleep well,” he whispered.
Lassiter kept the “my love” to himself as he headed back for the exit.
He was careful to shut things up behind himself. Then he looked at Eddie and Adrian.
“Give me your hands,” he said.
Eddie shook his head. “I am not do-si-do’ing with you.”
“I’m in.” Ad popped the last of the Snickers he’d picked up off the floor into his mouth. “Let’s do this—and Eddie, will you just relax. Fuck—sorry, fudge.”
The angel grabbed Lassiter’s palm and then stared at Eddie like there was something wrong with the guy. And wasn’t that the most endearing thing Adrian Vogel had ever done.
“You know exactly what’s at stake here,” Eddie muttered.
But out came his broad palm, and as Lassiter took it, he nodded at Ad to close the circle.
The moment contact was made, up, up, and away they went, the three of them swept into a swirling draft, their corporeal forms reduced to a whiff of smoke that dissipated. Traveling as ether, he led them out of the training center through the ductwork, and when they were off into the night, he piloted them away from the mountain’s base, across the Adirondack Park, and past the farms that ringed the suburban skirt of Caldwell.
When they were finally in the right neighborhood, he reconstituted himself, and in doing so, them as well, all their bodies reappearing in the shadows on the front lawn of a gracious Federal house.
Ad whistled softly. “Nice digs. You thinking of buying it or is this an aspirational thing?”
Leading the way to the door, Lassiter paused and glanced over his shoulder. “And you’re both going to have to remain hidden, too, ’kay?”
Though Ad was sticking right with the program, Eddie was still out on the grass, his boots planted like he was some kind of heavy-duty, hard-ass garden gnome. With his thick braid, and those ready-to-fight clothes, he fit in—but only with the people on the inside.
Some of the people, that was.
“Eddie.” Lassiter motioned for the guy to come on up. “Let’s go.”
After a moment, the angel approached the shallow steps. “You’re bargaining with the wrong people. You don’t need to convince us.”
“I know, I know. You’re just the messengers, doing your job. Well, I’m trying to do mine and I want to show you a part of it. And can you lose that disapproval stew you’re marinating in? You’ll scare the fucking children.” He glanced at Ad. “Or… is it frickin’?”
“He doesn’t swear anymore.” Ad shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”
“Wow. New leaves getting turned all over the place. So how about you work on your attitude, Blackhawk.”
Eddie hit the steps. “I am not responsible for what my face does when you’re talking.”
“You know,” Lassiter muttered, “you and Vishous are soul mates.”
Passing through the door, he waited on the far side, wondering whether either of them—
Thank God, he thought as Eddie and Ad ghosted through.
The Audience House’s foyer wasn’t anything like the Brotherhood mansion’s enormous cavern of marble and mirror and crystal, but it wasn’t dogshit, either. The generous space separated what had once been a dining room capable of sitting twenty-four, easy, and a parlor that was now a waiting room. A formal staircase in the middle accessed the second floor, and hallways on either side led to the library and study to the left, and Fritz’s second home, the kitchen and pantry, to the right.
Leaning into the waiting area, he wanted the angels to look at the civilians cooling their jets before they saw their King: There were three groups sitting on the silk chairs and antique sofas, all of them fidgeting and recrossing legs, the females checking their makeup in compacts, the males on their phones or staring off into space. Two guys were up on their feet and pacing—and assiduously not making eye contact or getting in each other’s way.
The receptionist, a lovely female with an easy smile and a knack for staying calm and organizing things, was not at her post. But there was an empty spot on the coffee table where the Danish were always served at the beginning of the night. Maybe she’d taken the platter back for a refill, although Fritz was not going to approve of that.
“Come on,” Lassiter murmured.
The closed dining room doors were no barrier at all to him—yet as invisible as he was, the instant he was on the far side, Vishous straightened out of his lean against one of the sideboards, the brother’s hand going to one of the black daggers that were holstered, handles down, on his chest. Likewise, Rhage, who was over between the windows that faced out the front of the mansion, stiffened and swept the room back and forth with his Bahamas blue gaze.
There was an audience in process, and Lassiter stayed just inside the entry, crossing his arms and tuning in to the other end of the room. The young couple who were huddled together on the Persian rug didn’t notice anything. Then again, they were facing the hearth—not that they were interested in the modest fire that crackled and sparked in a friendly way. Their attention was consumed by the pair of armchairs angled in toward each other.
Only one of the seats had been called into service, and Wrath’s imposing royal form overfilled its high back and generous contours. Dressed in black leathers and a muscle shirt, with those black wraparounds hiding his blind eyes and his long black hair falling from that widow’s peak, it was easy to understand why a pair of civilians would be shitting their knickers.
And the King was aware something had altered in the environment.
Like the two brothers who were guarding him, Wrath knew other interested parties had entered the proverbial chat. His head tilted up ever so slightly, as if his eyes were in working order and he was searching exactly where Lassiter and the other angels were. And then his nostrils flared as though scenting the air. As well, George, who was very hale and hearty at his feet, lifted his boxy head and pricked his ears.
After a moment, the King refocused on the couple. Extending his dagger hand, the black diamond he wore flashed as he motioned.
“Bring the young to me,” he commanded.
The female glanced at her male, and then she repositioned the bundle in her arms. When her hellren nodded, they both approached cautiously. Made sense. Sitting the way he was, with his hard jaw up, and all those muscles showing, Wrath looked like he could go either way, aristocrat or aggressor.
And that was a really tiny little baby in the burrito of pale blue blanketing.
“G-g-go on, then,” the male stuttered as he gingerly moved his shellan in front of him. “Bring him up.”
The guy didn’t abandon her. He stayed connected to his mate, keeping his hands on her shoulders, pressing his chest into her back.
Such a fragile young family, Lassiter thought. Just starting out and scared to death—because everything they were in life was wrapped in that cotton bundle.
“Go ahead, leelan,” the male whispered.
The female was trembling so badly, it seemed like she could barely stand, and Lassiter glanced at V and Rhage, hoping one of them would step in, do a solid, and make it so the young didn’t hit the floor and crack open like an egg.
But neither of them moved, and Saxton, the King’s solicitor, was nowhere in sight, his desk, with its neatly arranged paperwork and volumes of the Old Laws, vacant for the moment.
Fine, Lassiter thought as he went to step forward. He might as well demonstrate exactly how he helped—
Wrath’s face softened and he leaned to the side, placing his broad palm on George’s head to stroke the dog.
“That’s what I call my mate,” he said as he fiddled with one of the blond ears. “Leelan. She is my beloved.”
“The Queen,” said the male with awe.
Nodding, Wrath kept his face angled in their direction. “We have a son, too. I remember how scary it was in the beginning. Do you watch over him when he sleeps? We did that constantly for the first month.”
The female glanced back at her hellren. Then cleared her throat. In a wavering voice, she said, “I’m afraid he won’t wake up. I almost prefer him fussy and crying.”
Wrath nodded again. “Oh, I remember those days. They’re really long. L.W. is past that now, but you never forget it. They’re so small. How many nights old?”
The female said with a little more gumption, “Three nights.”
“Are you okay?” Wrath lifted his hand toward the male. “If you’ll permit me the inquiry of your shellan?”
The civilian seemed dumbfounded that the ruler would ask his permission. Then he nodded furiously—before seeming to recall the King could not see.
“Yes, I mean,” he said. “Please.”
“I am well,” the female answered. “As long as he is well.”
Now, when the King held out his hands, the female went forward, and as she transferred the young, there was a rousing and a squawk. A proper crying commenced, and as the couple rushed forward, the King secured the infant in the crook of his arm and started gently batting that diaper.
Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat.
The young settled in almost immediately, and the male and female fell back a little, holding on to each other.
Wrath murmured to the infant, his low, deep voice weaving throughout the room. After a little bit, he moved his free hand up and parted the folds around the face. Blunt fingers traveled over the tiny features.
In the Old Language, he said more loudly, “What name hath been given unto this young?”
“Rohn the Younger,” the hellren replied with a choked sound.
“I hereby proclaim this fine-born male as Rohn, son of Rohn, pride of his mahmen and father, anchor of his bloodline. May he find all blessings in this life, and carry forth unto further years the love and honor of his family. In accordance with the right and proper way, and as my royal sire before me and his before him, I welcome Rohn unto the world corporeal.”
And then the King smiled.
Not in a perfunctory way. Not in a just-doing-my-job fashion. He well and truly beamed, the warmth transforming that harsh, autocratic face into something altogether approachable.
Well… almost approachable.
When he held the infant out, the mahmen took Rohn back—and then the couple fell onto their knees with bowed heads, the scent of their tears of joy wafting up. That dagger hand was extended, and both of the civilians kissed the black diamond, words of devotion and submission whispered over the ancient King’s ring.
Lassiter glanced at Eddie and Ad. They were staring across the long room, their faces serious.
Good. He was glad he didn’t need to state the obvious. Generations of vampires, in the midst of their fragile mortal lives, had fallen in line with this private ceremony, a linkage that went from the current moment to all the ones that had gone before… back to the very first King and the very first young who had been recognized, welcomed, and approved of.
Turning back to the hearth, Lassiter’s eyes shifted over and down to George.
The golden retriever had angled his head toward the exchange, and with his jaws open in an easy pant, it seemed as though he was also smiling at the baby. For certain, he was alert and tracking everything, his blond fur and kind eyes like a second banked fire warming the room.
