The Wolf, page 29
“They’re in the cellar bedroom. I made sure there was food and… Pete already left when the first signs of the fertile time started showing. I only stayed to get the house in order and make sure they’d have what they need.”
What a mess, V thought.
Vampire females were only fertile about once a decade—and good fucking thing. The hormones released were incredibly powerful and painful, and his mahmen, creator of the species, had set it up such that only constant mating with a male could make the agony bearable. Still, the sex act soothed the cravings only for a short time, so the orgasms had to be constant, for hours and hours. It was either that or drugs. All things considering, the cycle was a brutal system, but considering how high the mortality rate was for females on the birthing bed? It would take something that overwhelming to make them want to run the risks of getting pregnant.
He was really glad his Jane was infertile in her hybrid state—not because he wouldn’t have helped during her time, but because the pregnancy stats terrified him.
“Where are you going?” Rhage asked Posie.
“To our grandfather’s new place. That’s where Pete is. I’ll come back right before dawn and double-check they’re okay. But Jack has a phone, and… things to protect them with.”
Things = weapons, given the female’s squeamishness.
“Let us know if you or they need anything?” Rhage nodded to the house. “The Jackal’s a good male, and I wish my half-brother all the best.”
V kept his mouth shut because he thought the pair of them were nuts. If the pregnancy took? The Jackal got to enjoy eighteen months of worrying whether the love of his life, the female he’d bonded with, was going to bleed out trying to bring his fragile progeny into the cold, hard world.
“You know how to reach us,” Vishous muttered. Because he didn’t want the depths of his douchebagness to be apparent.
Fine, that apparent.
“Thank you,” the female said.
Relieved to get the hell out of there, V dematerialized off the lawn and traveled north and a little east, knowing Rhage would be right behind him. The needing was not a place for any males to hang around because they couldn’t help but be affected and nobody had time for that drama.
The good news? The whole issue of the Jackal tangling up with finding the prison camp was now a moot point, at least for the foreseeable future. If the couple was doing this the old-fashioned way, the male was going to need a waterpark’s worth of hydration after it was over, and then he’d have to wait to see if things took. He wasn’t going to want to leave his female.
Just as well.
One less cook in the kitchen.
The Audience House was located in Caldwell proper, in a zip code where people had gates across their driveways, access codes to every nook and cranny, and the inflated sense of self-importance that came when you could get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it.
As he re-formed around back by the garage, the Federal sprawl was a beaut, even from the rear. Darius, the brother who had built the Brotherhood mansion on the mountain, had constructed this abode as well, and it had been his primary residence—up until he’d been taken out by a car bomb.
After sitting vacant for a little while, the place was now used as a neutral ground for Wrath to meet his civilians to adjudicate disputes, bless matings and young, and generally keep his finger on the pulse of the species.
Opening the back door, V walked into a full-swing kitchen. Uniformed doggen were working to prepare a steady stream of fresh-baked goods for the waiting room and the initial wave of appointments. In a couple of hours, the menu would switch to tea sandwiches and cookies.
Lifting his hand to the staff, he turned them down for coffee, tea, soda, water, muffins, Danish, and homemade cake donuts. All in the space of twelve feet. Rhage, on the other hand, was going to get trapped in the calorie net, and come out the far side with a silver tray full of nosh.
At least the chefs would know their wares were appreciated.
Out in the hallway, V kept going and got a clear shot down to the front entrance. The double doors into the dining room were closed, which meant Wrath was in session, and he was not going to interrupt because the news flash he was here to deliver—hopefully without too much noticeable self-satisfaction—was not an emergency—
“Hey, roomie.”
V backtracked and leaned into the newly redecorated little sitting room. Butch was parked on the sofa facing the TV, the soft murmur of the newscaster oddly soothing even though it was just a human talking about human shit.
Then again maybe that was why it was soothing. Didn’t affect him.
“Check this out.” Butch palmed the remote and turned up the volume. “Isn’t that your target from downtown?”
Coming over and sitting next to the cop, V looked for an ashtray to put his cig out—
Oh, Fritz, you are a gentlemale and a sailor, he thought as he found one right by his elbow.
And then he wasn’t thinking about butlers who anticipated every need before you even knew you had ’em.
To the left of the newscaster’s head, there was a black-and-white photograph of a woman who—yup, looked exactly like the one V had been trailing in the alleys in search of more of that iron-cross-stamped poison. From the short dark hair to the intense eyes that seemed haunted, she was—
“Turn it up a little louder,” he said, even though he could hear shit just fine.
“—to the CPD undercover officer who had been shot, execution-style, and thrown into the Hudson River, there are rumors that another undercover officer has gone missing. Sources tell us that—”
Butch glanced over. “I mean, that’s her, right?”
“Yeah, for real.” Well, this was—surprise!—actually a news flash that he cared about. “Goddamn it, we’re going to have to start all over again if someone killed her for being a cop.”
“The leaks in the department to the press were always for shit. Don’t these reporters have any common decency?” Butch’s Boston accent thickened with all his pissed-off. “If that woman’s in the hands of any of the dealers she was going after, they’re going to see this and kill her. Assuming she’s not frickin’ dead anyway.”
The newscaster continued to drone on. “One of our reporters caught up with CPD Chief Stanley Carmichael, while he attended a gala event at the home of—”
“Pause it, wouldja?” V asked. “I want her picture.”
As Butch hit the remote, V took out his Samsung and snapped a close-up of the screen. The image of the missing officer was shitty, all pixelated, but he could sharpen it up later. Besides, he never forgot a face.
He never forgot anything.
“Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Butch hit the button again, and V zoned out as things cut to a female reporter in a red suit shoving a microphone into an older guy’s face. As a stream of tuxedos and gowns parted around the confrontation, the police chief lifted his palms and shook his head, all no-comment. And then there was a close-up of the reporter as she summed it up for viewers who had just seen exactly what had happened.
Back to the studio, and now there was another cut. To a news brief where—
Homicide Detective José de la Cruz—according to the scrawl at the bottom—was standing at a microphoned lectern making a statement about the male officer who’d been found in the Hudson River.
A reporter cut through the scrum of questions as he concluded his remarks. “What about the female officer who is missing?”
José looked at the woman. “I’m not prepared to comment on—”
“So you’re not denying there is another missing officer—”
“No,” the guy said firmly. “I’m not commenting on rumors. Any other questions.”
As the news desk reappeared on-screen, the anchor stoked the flames of conspiracy theories and Butch muted it all with a look of disgust.
While V lit up another hand-rolled, his roommate eased back and got pensive. Then he looked over and—
“No,” V muttered. “The answer is no.”
“How do you know what I’m going to ask?”
Vishous exhaled a stream of smoke. “Because I’m your fucking roommate, that’s how.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lucan woke up in the Executioner’s bed. As his eyes struggled to focus, he nonetheless located Rio immediately. She was sitting about ten feet away, her back to him as she bent over the table and scribbled on something.
Before he could say her name, she seemed to sense his stare.
Straightening, she looked over her shoulder. “Hi.”
Getting up from a meal that had been brought in by someone, her brows were drawn and her hands fidgety as she came across to him. For a moment, he took her in as if it had been weeks since he’d seen her, noting her pale face, her determined jawline, her strong body in the wrinkled clothes she’d had on for how long now?
She was beautiful to him, in a way that had nothing to do with her physical appearance.
Clearing her throat, she said, “How are you—”
“Hungry.”
“Oh, I got this.” She seemed excited, like helping his recovery was a test she wanted to pass. “Here.”
She moved so fast as she reached for the tray that she spilled some Coke he assumed she’d been nursing, swiping the can with the back of her hand. With a curse, she mopped things up with a shirt that was draped on the back of a chair—and then she got the tray and brought it over, setting it on the floor by the bed.
Kneeling down, she took a can of Sprite and popped the top.
“How did you know?” Damn, his voice was rough. “That I’m not a Coke fan.”
“I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. It’s all we got.”
He struggled to sit up, and when he did, she gave him the soda and started plumping the flat pillows he’d been resting on—although she didn’t get very far with pouffing, and not because the bedding was for shit.
“Are you…”
Lucan finished the sentence for her. “I’m okay now.”
Her eyes ducked like she didn’t want him to know she’d been worried about him. “I guess the gas or whatever it was backfired on you.”
“Gas? What are you talking—oh, right.” Jesus, he forgot that she didn’t know his true nature. “Yeah. Flames.”
Fuck. What a mess this all was.
“That was so scary,” she murmured. “I thought… well, it doesn’t matter. It worked out.”
Time to change the subject. “Where are Apex and Mayhem?”
“Just outside the door.”
Thank God, he thought as he took the Sprite to his lips—with surprisingly sturdy, steady hands, as it turned out. Guess he hadn’t lied to her about being better. And when the test sip went down just fine, he gulped the whole thing on a oner.
“Is there another?” he asked with an ahhhhhh.
“Absolutely.” She went back to the table. “Here, I’ll open it for you.”
There was a schhht, and then he was on to number two. More than food, the sugar and the liquid were exactly what he needed, and his eyes finally came back online fully when he was halfway done with the second.
“You look tired,” he said—then caught himself. “Good. I mean. You look good.”
Her smile was wry as she sat down next to the tray on the bald floor. Pushing at her hair, which was standing up at odd angles, she looked… well, he could only describe it as “adorable,” even though that was not a word he associated with her strength, her directness, her sexiness.
Shaking her head, she murmured, “I can only guess what I’m like right now—”
“You’re perfect.” As she glanced at him sharply, he took another drink. “We’re more than even after what you did, Rio. You saved me out there.”
“Nah, Mayhem was the one with the code. He opened the door.”
“You picked me up off the ground and carried me inside. I don’t know how you did it.”
“It was more like a drag, and I was motivated, what can I say—”
“Thank you.” As emotion came over him, he looked away from her. “Hey, there’s a shower. And I don’t mind if I do.”
Putting down what was left of the Sprite, he got to his feet, and gave his body a chance to collapse. When his balance held, he zeroed in on the tiled corner of the room. There was a partition to stand behind, and after he started the water, he stripped his sweatshirt off—carefully. His skin was still red across his chest, and especially on that one hand.
Good thing it wasn’t his dagger—
Rio stepped into view down at the other end of the room. She was by the gun rack, her head lowered, her hand hesitating by the rifles that were lined up, soldiers ready for their shooting orders.
“You can look at me,” he said in a deep voice. “I don’t mind it.”
Not in the slightest.
Her head came up and around. Then she ducked her eyes again. “I’m just worried that you’ll slip and fall.”
“There’s an easy solution. Join me.”
What the fuck was he saying here?
As the silence stretched out, he felt like his body had reinflated with strength—and it was not coming from the calories in that soda. Amazing how the mating instinct could kick the crap out of all kinds of minor aches and pains.
And with Mayhem and Apex right outside? And things still momentarily quiet…
When she didn’t reply, he smiled sadly. “I’ll be okay in here. You can just take a load off and relax a little—I won’t be long.”
“I wish we were different,” she said with a defeat he did not associate with her.
We are, he thought. More than you’ll ever know—so you’re making the right decision here.
And yet that didn’t stop him from wanting her.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I wouldn’t change a thing about you. Even in this god-awful light, with everything we’ve been through… you’re still the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen.”
Her brows went up high as if she thought he was insane. And then her fingertips traced her own face.
“I feel so old,” she whispered.
“That’s life, not how many calendar years you’ve lived.”
When she put her palms to her cheeks and tears glossed her eyes, he stepped away from the falling water and went to her.
“I’m not very good when things are okay,” she croaked out. “I’m better when they’re bad.”
Well, they were still in the prison camp. And not on vacation. But why fly the reminder?
Lucan reached out and brushed her hair. “Unfortunately, I can promise you that this quiet is not going to last. This… moment… is not going to last long at all.”
As he stared at her, he wanted to hold her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to touch her body so he knew he really was back from the dead and so was she.
“We’re like cockroaches,” she said as she dropped her hands. “You and me. We just keep going.”
Following her lead, he lowered his arm as well. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but considering you included yourself in it and you have a healthy ego, I’m thinking there has to be a positive spin on the cockroach thing.”
“We can’t be killed.”
He remembered the sunlight on his skin—and did not agree with that. But again, he wasn’t going to inject reality into her insect optimism.
When she refocused on him, her eyes were full of shadows.
Lucan waited for—ohhh, maybe a split second. Then he went back into the shower stall and canned the water routine.
As he returned to her, she laughed awkwardly. “How is it that you always smell so good?”
I’ve bonded with you, he thought.
“Give me your hand,” he commanded.
The fact that she didn’t fight him made him realize how exhausted she was. And as the contact was locked in by their grips, he drew her over to the bed.
“I’m not tired,” she said as she sat down. “I feel like I’m never going to sleep again.”
Lucan parked it next to her. “Tell me the story.”
Her eyes flared. “What story?”
He had to touch her hair again, he couldn’t help it. “The story of your pain.”
* * *
As Rio sat next to Luke on the bed, it seemed absolute bonkers fricking insane that she was having trouble holding it together. Considering everything that had gone down in the last—how long had it been? Five years? Twenty-five? A century? And now, after getting hit by a car, kidnapped, assaulted, and taken in by the drug dealers she was trying to bust, now she was losing it?
But something had happened when Luke had woken up and really looked at her properly. And then held his own can of soda. And then asked for another. The humanity of his suffering and recovery had made her forget all about the cop/criminal thing. They were just two people in a shitstorm, trying to survive, and she was so glad he had not—
“I thought you were going to die,” she blurted.
When she slapped her palm over her mouth, it was a relief when he laughed. “So did I.”
Nodding, she relowered her arm and looked at his… rather extraordinary… naked chest. And his shoulders. And his…
Okay, those abs were sculptured.
“Let me in, Rio,” he whispered. Then he shrugged. “And listen, if you’re worried about your privacy, where’s it going to go, right? I’m just a fucking drug dealer, trapped in this life, going nowhere fast. I have no one, no family, no friends, so I don’t talk to anybody about anything. I don’t count. I’m a black hole that doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t say that.” She wiped eyes that were going blurry again. “How can you say that—”
“It’s the truth, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting the truth. It’ll set you free even when you’re in Hell.” He held up a forefinger. “Trust me on this.”
“What is your truth?” she asked.
“I just told you it.”
Rio shook her head. “You’re not a black hole. And I can prove it.”
He chuckled a little. “If it’s a long math equation, you’re going to lose me. Numbers are not my bag.”
