Blood Truth, page 17
When Butch went to re-cover the face, the female shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
She leaned down, and as her hair swung free, she had to tuck the loose part behind her ear. With a shaking hand, she reached out and touched the short, dyed black hair at the temple. Then she stroked the cold, gray cheek.
Tears fell from her eyes, landing on the sheet at the arm. The first two slid off the dry cotton. The others that followed were absorbed.
“What happened to her?” The female looked up in desperation. “Who did this to my Mai?”
* * *
On the other side of the Hudson River, deep in the field of conflict in downtown, Syn stalked through an alley in search of the enemy, his instincts way out in front of him, then to the side, now to the back . . . and again trained on what was before him. It was another cold, clear night, no wind to ruffle the loose flakes of snow that had fallen during the day, nothing to disturb the dense, dry, deep freeze that had stalled over Caldwell.
“—down at that club. Vishous got the body over to Havers’s and now they’re trying to figure out who she is and who killed—”
Ordinarily, Syn didn’t mind being paired with Balthazar. The Bastard was a vicious killer and rarely said much, two of the highest compliments Syn could pay any living thing.
Unfortunately, that blessed silent streak was being cut short tonight. Apparently, all it took to end Balthazar’s winning-personality batting average was a dead female down at that human club.
Although, to be fair, it wasn’t just the chatter that was doing Syn’s nut in.
Beneath his skin, his talhman was surging, prowling . . . triggered by the conversation about the female who had been found, strung up on the lower level of Pyre, naked.
Unbidden, one of his hands went to the steel daggers that were mounted, handles down, on his chest. Was it possible, he wondered, that those cuts to that female’s throat, the slices to her wrists, the other damage to her body . . . had been made by his knives? His hands? He had a distinct memory of going down those damp, cold stairs with a female’s legs wrapped around his hips. And he could remember vividly the pair of them up against one of those doors down there, hasty, rough sex taking them into a storage area. Had he shut them in together after its lock had sprung open?
Had he done other things to her besides penetrate her core?
He couldn’t recall. And for the first time in a long time, warnings prickled up the back of his neck.
In fact, he could not remember when the sex had ended. He knew he hadn’t orgasmed, of course. And he was sure she had, a number of times. But other than that? The next thing he’d been aware of was departing the club. Alone.
Syn glanced down at his hands and tried to force his brain to recall if they’d had blood on them when he’d taken his leave of Pyre. The fact that he pulled yet another blank made him curse under his breath. Where had he been headed after he’d left? Home, he thought. To the Brotherhood mansion, where he and the Band of Bastards now lived—
No, that wasn’t right. Just as he’d been about to dematerialize, he’d scented a lesser. Following the sweet stench, he’d tracked his prey a couple of blocks away from the club.
So, yes, when he had finally gotten back to the Brotherhood mansion, he’d been covered with the black, oily mess that had flowed through that slayer’s veins: His hands and forearms. His clothes. His shitkickers. And he could remember checking in at the vestibule’s security camera, one of the doggen letting him in. He hadn’t paid much attention to which it had been. Had anyone else seen him come in?
Even with the stench of the enemy all over him, surely someone would have commented on the fact that he’d had a female’s blood on him, too. Right?
“—surprised you weren’t at the meeting.”
Syn glanced over. “What?”
“The meeting Wrath called tonight. About the dead female at that club.”
“I was busy.”
Balthazar stopped in the middle of the alley. “Doing what?”
Syn narrowed his eyes. “The same thing I do every night. Stare at my reflection and rue the day I was born.”
“Seriously.”
“Fine, let’s go with something cheerful. How about yoga. Pilates. No, wait, I was ordering shit I do not need off of Amazon—”
“What were you doing when you should have been at the meeting, Syn?”
The question was put out there calmly and evenly. Which was also characteristic of Balthazar. The guy was a straight shooter—and to be fair, he had reason to be suspicious. He knew about . . . things . . . that had happened back in the Old Country. Things that had involved females and blood and bodies being found.
“It wasn’t me,” Syn said dryly. “I didn’t kill whoever it was.”
The lie sounded convincing, at least to his own ears. Unfortunately, that was a table, party of one.
“Syn, I don’t judge you.” Balthazar shook his head. “You know I never have.”
“Oh, fuck this, I’m not wasting time—”
“I have always left you to your business. No questions asked. I know that things are . . . different . . . for you.” Balthazar shook his head again. “But let me be very clear. You cannot be doing that shit over here. We’re in the New World now. It’s going to get noticed, and then we’ve got problems because we’re not just on our own anymore. We’re aligned with the King, and Wrath is not going to stand for anybody in his household doing what you do. People miss their dead over here.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it under control.”
As Syn started walking again, Balthazar didn’t budge. “I don’t think you do.”
Syn stopped and refused to turn back around. Addressing the empty alley in front of him, he said, “In the Old World, I did what I did for a good goddamn purpose. I channeled it properly.”
“True enough, but there are rules on this side of the ocean.”
Staring straight ahead, Syn saw trash cans that were knocked over and a stray cat pawing through a torn-open Hefty bag. As he watched the animal search for dinner, he thought about the female from the other night. There had been no justification that he was aware of for him killing her. Even if she had been a criminal, a murderer, a thief—which were his targeted prey—he hadn’t known it when he’d taken her down into that lower level. Where she had been found not just dead, but defiled as well.
So maybe she was an innocent. And he had done a very, very bad thing.
He didn’t want to hear what Balthazar was saying.
He didn’t want the holes in his memory.
He didn’t want . . . to be dealing with this bullshit any longer.
“Do me a favor,” he said softly.
“No,” Balthazar shot back. “I’m not going there. Don’t you fucking ask me to.”
Syn twisted around. As his eyes changed color, the alley was flooded with a red glow, his cousin spotlit by the color of blood. Behind him, the cat screeched and tore off, sending a glass bottle rolling.
His voice was warped as he spoke. “Then you need to stop talking to me about dead females.”
Balthazar cursed under his breath. “There has to be another way.”
“I told you a century ago. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to put a bullet through my head. Or find someone who will.”
It would be a public service, at this point. And a relief to him.
God knew he would have done it himself years ago, if suicide didn’t mean you were locked out of the Fade. Although given what he had gotten up to over the years?
He was going to end up in Dhunhd anyway.
“You know there’s only one way to stop me,” he said with a growl.
“And if you don’t do it, the blood of the females I hurt is on your hands, too.”
Boone made it back to his father’s house with about two hours to go before the Fade ceremony he’d convened. As he entered through the front door, he was rank pissed. Leaving Helania had been the last thing he wanted to do, and the fact that he’d had to go because of something connected to Altamere?
He wasn’t happy about sacrificing even a second of his life to memorialize the male, much less anything as important as spending time with his female.
Not that she was technically his. She just felt that way.
Closing out the cold, he put his hands on his hips and glared at the marble floor. Which, granted, hadn’t done anything wrong. It was just there to be walked on, like it had been for his whole life.
“I have got to relax,” he muttered.
Of course, that would be easier if he didn’t have the biggest set of blue balls this side of a hot air balloon convention. Fuuuuuuuuuck. And he thought his bad ankle was making him walk with a limp? Every step he took, he felt like someone had tied kettlebells to his groin.
Looking around the staircase, he eyed the door to the males’ guest bathroom. He could go in there, unbutton his fly and palm things up. At the rate he was going, it would take him two strokes and he would come all over the place.
But he still couldn’t shake the idea that he was being somehow disrespectful to Helania. She was so much more than YouPorn. Than some random female body to jerk off to. Than a two-dimensional fantasy tailor-made to his tastes just so he could rub one out.
She was a living, breathing, incredibly beautiful and smart young female who—
He had not kissed goodbye.
God, he had wanted to. On the dance floor. Back at their table. When they were walking out through the Remington’s courtyard and then after they’d snuck around to the shadows next to the hotel’s tall side so they could ghost out.
The feel of her body moving against his own as they’d danced close and slow had flipped all of his levers to the Hell-Yeah position. The Right-Fucking-NOW. The OMG-I-Will-Beg. He wanted her to distraction, his blood running hot and thick with a lust that he’d never come close to feeling before. And she had been right there with him. He had scented her arousal and stared down into her glowing eyes and known that she wanted him, too.
What had stopped him? Two things. He wasn’t going to stop things with just a single kiss . . . and neither was she. Unless he was grossly misreading her—and he did not think he was—lip-to-lip would be but a beginning for them, a precursor to bare skin and a whole lot more, and he wanted the space and time to take the “yes” on both sides to its natural conclusion.
And what do you know, Oh, hey, sorry, I’ve got to go Fade my father was a total buzzkill.
The other set of brakes on the situation had been the fact that he didn’t want her to think it was just sex on his end. It had been a relief to find they had so much in common other than grief, and he wanted the chance to be around her again as much as he wanted all the horizontal stuff. But he knew his aristocratic station spoke for itself: Males of his class had a tendency to use civilian females for casual sex, taking them to bed and tossing them aside. The last thing he ever wanted was for Helania to think he was disrespecting her like that. And though they had never outright discussed his lineage, he hadn’t exactly tried to hide his accent or his background.
So he had gentlemale’d it in that alley: Hugging her. Kissing her chastely on the cheek. Making sure she dematerialized out safely first.
And now he was here. In this damn house. Waiting for people he didn’t really care about to arrive for a ceremony that felt like a lie so he could close the door on a death that had rocked him and yet didn’t matter much at all.
On that note, he should probably go check on preparations.
At least duking it out with Marquist would allow him to channel some of this going-nowhere frustration.
As Boone strode down to the dining room, and then pushed his way through the flap door that the staff used, the idea he was behaving as his father would have rankled. God, Altamere and Marquist had been consumed by proper preparations and accommodations for guests of the house, whether they were people coming for a cocktail party, a dinner party, an event, or an overday.
Those two would spend hours in Marquist’s office, poring over seating charts, menus, wine and liquor orders.
Crazy.
On the far side of that flap door, there was the staging area for meal service, the silver polishing room, and then the enormous pantry. Also the closed door to Marquist’s office and private accommodations—which, as it turned out, did not have an I-quit letter taped to its jamb. Or U-Haul moving boxes stacked beside it. Or a gun target with Boone’s photograph in the center and bullet holes in a smiley face on his forehead anywhere in its vicinity.
Guess the male hadn’t resigned yet. And it was hard to know whether that was a good or a bad thing.
The answer to the question “Where’s Marquist?” was sorted in the kitchen proper: The butler was at the counter in front of the stove, his pressed jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up. His attention was focused on trimming the fat off a roast beef the size of a golf cart, that Henckels knife flying around the piece of meat, expert hands doing an expert job.
The butler did not look up. “Yes.”
“Are we ready?”
“Yes.” The knife flashed as Marquist changed the angle of the slice. “Everything is in hand.”
“Where are the other doggen?”
“I am completing the preparations myself. It is the last thing I shall do in service unto my master, and no one is welcome into this sacred space.”
“The others will want to participate. My sire was their master as well.”
“Not as he was mine.”
Boone frowned. “So how long were you two sleeping together anyway. Did it start right after he brought you here, or did he hire you because it was already happening.”
Marquist hissed and looked up. And what do you know, a knife unattended was a lot like a pot on the stove—it did its job even better without being watched.
Of course, the caveat was that the blade sliced into the butler rather than the fat layer on all that beef.
The butler dropped the Henckels and raced for the sink. And as Boone watched the hot water rinsing and the wrap-up with the dish towel, he couldn’t decide whether his dislike for the male was what precluded him from apologizing . . . or the fact that after all these years of monitoring his own social manners, he had totally ceased to give a shit.
He did not care that the butler was hurt. And he was not going to pretend he did.
Marquist squared his shoulders before turning back around, and as he pivoted, Boone met the male’s eyes straight on.
“Don’t bother denying it,” Boone said. “And FYI, it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. Just like it apparently wasn’t an issue for my stepmahmen. Maybe she felt like you were doing her a favor.”
As the butler’s eyes narrowed like he was mulling over his responses, Boone considered what it would be like to get left out of the will in favor of the other male. Well . . . what do you know. The idea of letting this unhappy house, and all its boatload of crap, go seemed like a liberating event as opposed to an alienating one.
Marquist’s expression turned haughty, like he was above any accusations. Especially those of a poke-and-tickle variety—even though they both knew what had gone on with Altamere behind closed doors.
“I would do anything in service to your father. Anything.”
“I’m thinking that was very true,” Boone muttered.
“Is true. I have served him in ways you cannot fathom, protecting him and his household, ensuring all is well. And death has not changed my devotion to him.”
You want an obelisk? Boone thought. A commemorative stamp. No, wait, a billboard in Times Square to all the blow jobs.
Okay, that was crass. But come on.
“I will not dignify this with a response to anything further.” Marquist’s eyes narrowed again. “Except to say that your sire and I were excellent partners. In the running of this house.”
Boone crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against one of the counters. “Kind of convenient my blood mahmen died so soon after you came under this roof.”
“What exactly are you suggesting.”
It was not a question. And not for the first time, Boone wondered exactly what Marquist’s background was. His motives, on the other hand, seemed clear. Ordinarily, no male civilian would choose to be a kept servant in the household of their lover. Talk about demeaning. But there were perks to being with a member of the glymera—and God knew the only way Marquist could ever have nightly contact with someone of Altamere’s stature was if he moved in under the guise of employment.
In the aristocracy? There was no tolerance for overt male homosexuality. Social propriety dictated that no matter how miserable it made you, you were to mate a member of the opposite sex and procreate at least once—preferably twice if your lawful shellan survived the first birthing bed. If you were, as they called it, of a “secondary persuasion,” you could take male lovers discreetly. But the relationships were never to interfere with your mate, your family, or your bloodline—and the Scribe Virgin save you if anyone ever found out about your extracurricular activities.
Oh, and as for females in the aristocracy? They weren’t allowed lesbian lovers. Ever. Under any circumstances.
Just one more example of the patriarchy of the glymera. The intolerance. The injustice. All of it was so unfair.
“My parents were never happy together,” Boone stated. “But neither of them had been brought up to expect anything more or anything less. That being said, I always wondered if my mahmen committed suicide, or whether it was something else, something sinister that killed her. Exactly how did she die? No one ever told me because no one ever talked about it.”
“That is because the veil of privacy continues to be appropriate after death. Your mahmen was a fine female of worth who did her duty as was appropriate.”
“Wow. You used ‘appropriate’ twice there. Good work. No wonder my father trusted you to plan his parties.” Boone nodded at the butler’s feet. “Watch it. You’re dripping. Better go to Havers’s and get that stitched up.”
The butler glanced at the roast beef as if he were contemplating going back to his work.
