The Beloved, page 21
Incandescent rage overtook him, and before he could stop himself, he pointed his gun and shot in that direction.
With the suppressor on, there was just a whiff! sound, and then the driver of the car, his second cousin once removed, grabbed for his shoulder and looked confused.
Juiced with triumph, Evan started shooting repeatedly, hitting the men and the car, busting out safety glass, sparking the pavement, nailing the quarter panel and even one of the chromed-out mud flaps.
He didn’t care whether he actually got his uncle. He wanted chaos and fear for the whole organization.
And then he could come for Uncle.
As the lieutenants scrambled back into the car, and the Mercedes was thrown into reverse, those icy-white headlights slapped the back of the club as it spun its tires on the salt, got purchase, and wheeled around.
Just before it shot forward out of the lot, the vampire was spotlit like the felon he was, his gun down by his side, his face a mask of deadly composure as he measured the sedan and then looked in Evan’s direction.
Haul ass, Evan told himself. Fucking haul ass.
He took off from the club, linking up with the cross street behind the lot and sticking to the shadows. He made sure that his boots fell as quietly as he could make them, and avoided cans that would be noisy if they were kicked, and jumped over paper bags and frozen spray paint cans. The wind in his ears roared, but once again, his heart remained steady Freddie.
It wasn’t until he’d gone a good ten blocks that he slowed down and checked if there was anything in his wake.
There was not.
Wherever the vampire was, it wasn’t with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The cookies turned out perfectly.
Then again, when chocolate chips and melting were involved, and your base was made out of butter and sugar, how badly could you go wrong? Nalla stayed all through the cleanup, too, working side by side with Rahvyn at the sink, the other female on washing, her on drying.
“Just in time for group to get out,” Rahvyn said as she turned the water off and flicked her hands before reaching for a dishtowel. “Thank you for the help.”
“Anytime.” Nalla hung the damp one she’d been using on the oven’s pull rod. “And we have taste-tested ’em properly. You know, for manufacturing defects.”
“Exactly.”
As Rahvyn turned around and leaned back against the sink rim, she took her time with the drying off.
“I think you have something you want to ask me,” the female murmured.
Annnnd cue the putting away, Nalla thought as she grabbed the mixing bowl and walked across to the lower cupboard it belonged in.
“Not at all.” She went back and sifted through the mixing utensils she’d dried. “It’s time for me to get back to work, you know. Two nights off in a row is a weekend.”
What the hell was she saying?
“And maybe we should have waited on the washing thing.” She went to the glass jars next to the stove and returned the whisks and spatulas to their places. “Until after the dishwasher was finished running from First Meal, you know? I think it saves water versus hand doing it.”
She made busywork reordering all the utensils and then she pulled the flat drawer underneath out just to double-check the sharps were good to go. Man, she wished she had a house with this setup. The kitchen had been done over just a couple of years ago, the new solar-powered appliances paired up with hand-paneled cherry cabinets and beautiful red-and-brown granite counters and gray slate floors that had red area rugs on them. The long table that ran down the meadow-view side of things was already set for Last Meal, and for a split second, the twenty places reminded her of the mansion.
No sterling, porcelain, or damask napkins, but stainless steel, pottery, and gingham squares. But many seats, for a community of people.
She rubbed the ache in the center of her chest, and knew she had to go face the music at home. Even though the last thing she wanted to do was get into a fight about…
“What about him?”
Nalla shook herself to attention and glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry? What?”
Rahvyn was still at the sink, her silver hair down over the bright-red sweater she was wearing, the combo candy-cane bright, yet her beauty such that it wasn’t overpowered.
“Nate.”
Shit. She must have spoken his name out loud. “Ah, nothing.”
There was a long pause, and Nalla filled it fiddling with the knives some more. Which even to her was an admission of guilt, not that she’d been accused of anything—
“It is not any of my business, but I know he was upstairs with you.”
As Nalla’s head snapped back around, Rahvyn put her hand up. “It is fine. You are a guest here, and he is not a resident, so there is no conflict of interest. And before you ask, no, that was not why I went up there. I really did want you to make cookies with me. I was worried about you last night.”
Nalla shut the drawer and eased back against it, mirroring the other female’s pose. “I’m surprised you’re here again this evening.” She winced. “That sounds bad. I didn’t mean—”
“Like I said, my life has changed.” The female ran a hand through her silver hair. “Time is precious, so I like to use it where I can make a difference.”
As their eyes met, Nalla knew she really had to go. But then she thought of what had been interrupted on the second floor. “Nate is just… a friend of mine.”
“I am glad to hear that. He needs a friend right now. More than ever.”
Nalla frowned. “Why’s that?”
“He has got a lot on his mind.” Rahvyn shrugged with what seemed like sad resignation. “But it is really not my place to say, you know?”
“Oh, I’m not prying.” Bullshit. Bulllllshittttttt. “Really, I’m not.”
“I hope you give him a chance. He needs… a friend.”
“I wish I knew why.”
Nah, she wasn’t prying. She was just dying to know anything about his past and what kind of pain he’d treated with those tattoos… hell, how about the sweatshirt? For fuck’s sake, she’d take a DL on the XXL.
“He’s very different… from other people,” Nalla prompted.
Rahvyn nodded gravely. “Yes, he is, and that alienates him. But everybody needs support and—”
A soft chiming sound brought both their heads around to the monitoring screen mounted by the microwave.
“Looks like we have company,” Rahvyn said with a sudden smile. “Your mahmen, how great.”
As the female headed out to open the front door and do the greeting thing, Nalla closed her eyes and let her head fall back.
But come on, she couldn’t avoid her parents forever.
* * *
Out at his crappy log cabin, Nate closed the door and leaned against the rough planks, his arms crossed over his chest. As he opened his mouth to speak—
He didn’t have a chance to say anything.
“You’ve got to cut the shit downtown.” Murhder’s eyes were as direct as a slap in the face. “You can’t be pulling the crap you do, expecting other people to clean up after…”
As his father continued speaking from that worn-out armchair by the dead fireplace, Nate knew that responses from him weren’t required. Then again, it was all things that had been said before, none of the condemnations wrong, all of the conclusions correct, each sentence punctuated with the same frustration with which it was received.
He had gone off the chain with the shit he’d pulled on Market. He had been an asshole the last decade or three. And…?
“So what do you have to say for yourself?”
You fucking asshole, Nate tacked on for his father.
And well, he was surprised that there wasn’t anyhing about Nalla and the slayer in that alley.
“Nothing? That’s what I figured.” Murhder shook his head and got to his feet. “So I’ll stop wasting my time. You’re off rotation—”
“Oh, fuck that.” Nate uncoiled himself as well. “That’s—”
“The only responsible thing to do.”
“—ridiculous. There are lessers all over the city. The Brotherhood is stretched thin. You can’t spare me.”
“We can’t afford you. Do you have any idea how many hours Vishous and his team wasted last night, striking footage from those municipal cameras on Market? But worse, did you not consider, for even a second, the danger you put Shuli in?”
Nate started pacing around, making a circle of the mostly vacant room. Certainly the old sofa and that one armchair didn’t get in his way much, and in his current mood, it was a good thing all his stuff was on the lower level. He was feeling like throwing things, mostly because he knew the Brothers were right to remove him from the schedule.
He was out of control.
“Okay, fine,” he said as he forced himself to calm the fuck down and face his father. “When do I get back on.”
Murhder’s upper lip twitched like his fangs were descending. “You don’t.”
With brows popping, he leaned forward on his hips. “Excuse me?”
“You’re out.”
“You can’t be fucking serious. Over one car accident.”
“That’s not the first time you’ve done something stupid, and you know it—”
“I want to talk to Tohr.”
“He’s not interested in talking to you. And the only reason this termination hasn’t happened sooner is because I went to bat for you in the past. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m done.”
As his father headed for the door, Nate stepped into his path. “Hold up, we need to talk about this—”
“Oh, now you want to talk.” Murhder narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t have the decency to return my calls before. But with consequences falling on your head you’re looking for conversation? Fuck you, Nate. It’s too late.”
“Fine, I won’t pull a gun on a cop-bot again—”
“Not even close to a solution.”
Nate threw his hands up. “I wasn’t even on duty last night. When I’m fighting, I’m tight—”
“I’m not going to argue with you about this. The decision is final.” Murhder looked away. Looked back. “I know you went through some horrible things in your past. How you survived in that lab, I do not know, and nobody expects you to just put all that behind you and move along like none of it happened. But even with your past, you are responsible for your actions, and the consequences are hitting now.”
“What does Mom say?”
The darkness that came across that face was the protection of a bonded male for his mate. “You’ve broken her fucking heart. And I’m leaving it at that because the only thing that will hurt her more is me with your blood on my hands. Immortal or not, I want to tear you the fuck up for making her cry like she has the last twenty-four hours. After years of the same. Do yourself a favor and drop that subject right now.”
Nate closed his eyes. And to avoid feeling like an absolute asshole, he distracted himself by trying to imagine his life without the fighting.
“I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” he said.
“We’re well aware of your work on the human side,” came the dry response.
As his surprise obviously showed, Murhder cocked a brow. “Did you think we didn’t know? And you can play in that cesspool until it blows up in your face if you want, I don’t care—and neither does the Brotherhood.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to be involved with humans,” Nate shot back.
“You’re not one of us anymore. So your business is your own.”
Murhder went over to the door and opened the way out, and Nate reminded himself that this was one of the goodbyes he’d been dreading most—so yeah, it was good to get it behind him. Hell, arguably it covered his adoptive mother as well.
God… he hated that he’d hurt her so badly.
Just as the door was shutting, he said roughly, “What do I have to do to get back in?”
Murhder looked over his shoulder, his red-and-black hair shifting across his strong back, the leather of his jacket creaking.
“Start caring about someone other than yourself and then maybe we’ll talk. Until then, you have what you’ve wanted. We’re all leaving you alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Resolve to evolve. Be your own reason for change. Anything that is given to you by someone else—motivation, purpose, esteem, well-being—can be taken away from you…
As Bitty sat at her desk at Safe Place, she was processing intake forms, updating patient files in the database, and typing in her own session notes—and the strong female voice piping into her ear was nearly as familiar as her own after the last month.
But the message was hitting different tonight.
Well-being is like territory in a battle. You must fortify and surround it with high walls of self-regard. You must protect it with your army of healthy habits…
Usually, she just sucked the words in and held them tight in her consciousness, repeating them, applying them to her own life, trying to go as deep as she could with whatever the message was.
Tonight, there was a parallel processing thing going on. As she typed on her keyboard, and double-checked the words she was using, and took pulls off her insulated Starbucks traveler, her brain was sifting through the content and probing for bullshit. She’d watched the videos so much that as the presentation(s) rolled out, she could picture the woman on her trademark red and purple stage, striding up and down, being the end result she was promising, everything that she wore and all that she looked like proof that her program of reinvention, self-determination, and empowerment worked.
Bitty reached up and readjusted the pod in her left ear. Then she flipped the page on the legal pad next to her.
God, she had bad handwriting.
And good job she was just transcribing. There were only so many things her brain could do at once.
As an ad interrupted the flow, she glanced at her phone screen and waited for the five secs to pass so she could hit skip. The little break provided her with an opportunity to take her own internal temperature on the merits of the material.
Her conclusion? After three hours of listening with a critical mindset instead of an acolyte’s one?
Nalla was just wrong. All parts of the message tracked: If a person wanted to change, they could. Change required discipline and the ability to withstand being uncomfortable. Evolution was always the goal if you wanted to be better in any part of your life. Anything that you didn’t directly control, whether it was thoughts about yourself, your goals and ambitions, your finances, your house, your decisions, was subject to a third-party tax that could wipe you out if they collected on their due.
Yes, it was on social media. Sure, there was a glitzy side to it, an aspirational oh-so-shiny of beauty and success. But none of it was wrong, and all of it was better than hiding at home and pretending you were being forced to be a shut-in.
Skip.
The woman resumed her talk, Bitty resumed her typing, and when she came to the last of her notes, she checked on how much longer she had to go on the video. A good twenty minutes. She was getting ready for a proper break—and as she stretched in her office chair and felt her back crack in a dozen places, she grimaced.
Not that kind of break.
Putting the video on pause, she got to her feet, took out her pods, and had to turn around in the tight spot between her desk and the back wall. She loved her micro-sized space. The old broom closet was on the second floor of Safe Place, just down from her mother, Mary’s, office—and she’d been allowed to decorate it any way she wanted because nobody else would claim the nook. But come on, it had a window with a view out the side of the house.
And okay, fine, she’d gone a little girlie with things—and by “girlie,” she had antique patterned wallpaper made up of pink roses, and pretty cream and yellow drapes on that one little window. The carpet was a needlepoint project she’d stitched herself from a Victorian design, and the sketches on the walls were Dior fashion prints from the nineteen fifties with ladies in perched hats and teacup skirts. There was barely enough room to roll her chair around, and if she wanted to meet with someone, she needed to do it elsewhere. But it was a cozy nest that she enjoyed coming to when it was time to be quietly productive.
Or… when she was engaging in a heated, one-sided argument with a friend who she was not really speaking to anymore—
A wink of red light caught her eye and she glanced to the window.
Down below, in the cheerful illumination from the living room, a dark figure was standing underneath her office and pointing a little laser up at her.
Frowning, she peered out her open door—but like the hall could help her?—and then she scooted around her office chair and bent over the sash. When she got nowhere with the lifting, she realized she’d forgotten to flip the lock.
The cold air curled in, and she shivered as she… leaned… out. “Are you—ah, are you looking for me?”
Down on the ground, L.W. nodded. “You got a minute.”
“Um, yes. Sure. Hold on.”
She tripped over her chair on the way to the door—then doubled back to shut the window and hit the rollers again. As she spilled out into the second-story corridor, she pulled her sweater down and her jeans up and fluffed her hair. Then on the way down the stairs, she found herself tiptoeing and told herself to get over it and lose the fluster while she was at it. She wasn’t a prisoner, and even though males weren’t allowed in the house, it was perfectly fine to meet one on the lawn.
Her adoptive sire did that a lot when he came by to see his Mary.
Down at the base of the stairs, she smoothed her sweater again and patted at her hair—and told herself that she wasn’t doing it for any particular reason—
“Oh, Bitty!” someone called out from the back of the house. “Hey, can you—”
“I’llberightbackjustgimmeaminute—”
“What about your—”
