Blood Truth, page 35
All things being equal—and they weren’t—he’d bet on Thomat.
Leading the way out into the garages, Boone flipped on the caged lights that hung over the lineup of half a dozen cars. As Helania inhaled sharply, he was reminded that he should be impressed by the display of wealth. But it was what he was used to.
“The Bentley’s mine,” he said, pointing down the row.
“Which one is that?”
“The gold one. Four down. It has all-wheel drive.”
The Continental GT Speed was owned by him, and as he got behind the wheel and double-checked that the keys were still in the center console, he realized he could sell it and get some money out of the thing. It had to be worth over a hundred thousand, which was enough to put a down payment on something small on the outskirts of town.
Of course, in this fantasy, he had Helania moving her stuff in with his, and the two of them waiting out the eighteen months before their young arrived in the kind of mating bliss that books were written about.
Ah, fiction. So much better than reality.
Helania got in next to him and shut her door. “Wow.”
As she ran her fingertips over the burl ash panels on the dash, he wondered why he’d never particularly paid attention to them. It was really nice wood, and it should be noted.
Instead, he’d only gotten the car ’cuz he’d needed wheels and his cousin knew a guy down in Manhattan who could get him one delivered in twenty-four hours.
The color hadn’t mattered. Nor the interior. Nothing about it had seemed particularly significant . . . when in reality, it was a beautiful car, expensively made.
Rich people had a knack for ignoring the wealth that surrounded them, didn’t they.
Hitting the garage door opener, Boone craned around and reversed out into the snow. “So where should we start?”
Helania stared out the window at the mansion as they K-turned in the courtyard and he headed them out to the road.
“It’s just a house,” he muttered. “And I don’t mean that like I’m criticizing you for looking at it like that. It’s more a case of my not liking what the place represents.”
“I don’t mean to be . . . agog, I think the word is. I’ve just never seen anything like this outside of the movies. I mean, it’s way bigger than Jake Ryan’s parents’ place.”
“Whose?”
“Sixteen Candles. The movie. He’s the love interest.”
“We need to watch that together someday.”
“Yes, someday,” she murmured as she bent forward to keep looking at the house.
Out on the road, he took them down to the little center of ritzy, locally owned shops where he imagined all the ladies of the houses on his street went to get their nails done, buy presents for each other, and see their decorators and hairstylists.
“Can you recall which neighborhood the house was in?” he asked. Seeming to shake herself into focus, Helania eased back in her seat.
“I wish I had paid more attention that night. But I distinctly remember us passing by Temple Beth Shalom. Do you know where that is?”
“You mean out toward the satellite municipal library? On Sheffield?”
“That’s the one.”
“I know exactly where that is,” he said as he hit his directional signal.
* * *
About an hour later, Helania looked out the car window beside her, and stopped measuring the streets, the houses, the neighborhoods, against an eight-month-old memory of hers. Instead, she assessed the snowflakes that were starting to fall.
“A storm’s here,” she said.
As the Bentley’s wipers started moving back and forth, Boone cursed. “Is this the blizzard they were talking about?”
“Who was?”
“I don’t know.”
He sounded tired, but not as if he were ready to pack in the towel yet. She wasn’t sure she had much more of this endless circling in her, however. As important as it was to find the house, they were just driving around, following a series of her whims, wasting gas—and now with a storm coming?
God, she wished she could make her brain work better.
The Bentley slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road, and Boone leaned forward, squinting at a street marker. “Manchester Avenue? Ring any bells?”
Helania glanced around and didn’t recognize a thing about the area they were in. “None. And these houses . . . all I recall is that it was a white house with a lot of bushes in front. Tall bushes, so you couldn’t see much. I don’t know. I think I’ve wasted our time.”
“It’s not a waste. Let’s keep going.”
Fifteen minutes later, the wipers were going back and forth much faster, and the snow falling in the headlights was slashing down.
“I think we should head back,” she said. “The storm’s getting worse.”
“Yeah. But there’s always tomorrow night.”
Boone turned them around, and as the tires of the powerful car gripped the accumulation that was already inching up, she was glad about the four-wheel-drive thing. “Thank you for this.”
“It was my pleasure to serve you.”
The words he spoke were offhand, but they made her think about the doggen, that house . . . the world he had grown up in.
“Are you sure you’re okay giving all of that up?” she asked. “The money, that mansion . . .”
“I’ve thought a lot about it in the last twenty-four hours, and I can say, hand on heart, that I am. I was never happy there anyway. It’s like what you said, you didn’t know any different and you’re content where you are? Well, I’ve been on the other side, and I hated it a lot of the time, so I feel lighter and freer.”
“I’m really sorry about your mahmen. You’ve had a lot of death in your life.”
“No more than anyone else over time—”
As a phone started to ring all around the car’s interior, she shot upright. “What the—”
“Sorry, Bluetooth.” He frowned. “You mind if I take this?”
“Oh, no, please do.”
Boone accepted the call and spoke into the air. “Hello, Rochelle?”
A disembodied voice flooded the cockpit. “Boone?”
“Hey,” he said as he braked at a stop sign and then kept going straight ahead. “I meant to call you back last night. Things have been . . . a little hectic on my end. You okay?”
“Are you in the car?” The voice went in and out. “The connection’s bad.”
“Must be the storm. And yes, I am.” His brows went low. “Is everything all right?”
Helania shifted in her seat. So . . . this was the female he’d almost mated. The one who had wanted to back out of the arrangement that he otherwise would have followed through on. The one who was supposedly in love with someone else.
It was hard to deny that she was preternaturally interested in hearing the voice properly. But really, being territorial made no damned sense given everything Boone had told her about the female and their relationship.
“—come see?” Rochelle was saying. “—to talk—to you.”
“You want to come see me? Sure, but—”
“Come to—your . . . -se?”
“My house?”
“Yes?” was the reedy reply. “Now?”
Boone looked at the dash. “I’m half an hour away from there. See you in thirty minutes?”
“—minutes?”
“Thirty,” he said loudly. “Thirty minutes.”
“Yes . . . thirty.”
As the call ended, he looked over. “You mind if we go back to my place? I want to fill the car up with clothes and some of my books, anyway.”
“Yes, sure.” She found herself putting her hand on her belly. “I’d like to meet Rochelle.”
“You’re really going to like her. She’s a female of worth.”
Helania forced a smile and then went back to measuring the swirling pixelation of the flakes in the bright headlights.
Given everything that was going on, she did not have the energy or composure necessary to get through meeting Boone’s aristocratic almost-shellan. But she would do it just to prove to herself that she could stand on her own two feet.
She was all about independence, she reminded herself.
Time to put her money where her mouth was.
“And listen,” Boone said, “I just want you to know. I don’t have to go to your apartment, you know, after these fourteen nights are up. I figure I’ll get some of my stuff now and keep it with me. Marquist is not going to lock me out again, not after the smackdown Wrath put on him. But you never know how things are going to go, and I might as well start the migration earlier rather than later.”
Helania pictured him moving in with her, his male clothes in her closet, his big boots taken off just inside the door on her mat, two coffee cups in the sink after First Meal instead of only one.
“You’re welcome to stay with me.”
As Butch got a load of Wrath stalking down the training center’s corridor, he had to admit the King was still the kind of thing that could make a grown male’s ass pucker. Especially given the pissed-off cloud of aggression that floated around him like an evil aura. Vishous was on one side of him, Tohr on the other, Xcor riding the six—and oh, shit.
Wrath had left the golden retriever behind.
So he was getting ready to yell a lot.
Butch straightened from his lean against the concrete wall. “What’s doin’.”
“Where is he?” Wrath demanded.
“Over here.”
Butch led the procession of doom to the patient room they’d been keeping Syn in, like the Bastard was a wild animal with a communicable disease. Knocking on the door, Vishous popped things wide open before there was an answer.
As Wrath crashed through the bodies between him and the room, it was clear that blindness wasn’t completely dispositive when it came to his spatial orientation. But there were limits.
“Someone point me in the Bastard’s direction,” he barked.
Tohr stepped up and pivoted the King without saying a word. And then he backed the fuck off like he didn’t want to be knocked out by shrapnel.
Syn, who had been vacillating between not-giving-a-shit and fucking-everyone-and-his-mother-off, straightened on the bed and for once didn’t pull the smirk routine. Not that Wrath technically would have noticed—although, given the King’s ability to scent things, he might well have picked up on any disrespect. And in his current frame of mind, he was clearly inclined to bitch-slap the stoopid right out of anybody.
“Talk to me, Butch,” the King snapped as he glared down at the Bastard.
Butch had been preparing for this ever since he’d pulled the trigger on getting the King down here. The case was bizarrely stalled; there weren’t many more rocks to look under when it came to the Bastard, and they couldn’t keep the guy down here forever if there wasn’t a valid reason for the lock-and-key routine.
Syn deserved to be released or rifled in the skull. Or at least given some kind of idea as to when either of those two eventualities were going to fall on his head. It was only fair—and the kind of call only Wrath could make.
Clearing his throat, Butch kept shit efficient: Helania’s accusation and ID. Syn’s confession. The shit about the laundry. The count of the leathers. The fact that, contrary to what he’d assumed would be the case, the locker Syn used down here in the training center not holding anything relevant to the case. The failure to ejaculate.
The last thing that he spelled out was Balthazar’s report on the past, minus the Tiny Tim details about the family situation and the traumatic brain injury.
Now, technically, that last part, about the other killings in the Old Country, as well as the brutal one three nights ago of a human assailant, were prejudicial. Evidence of previous crimes was never admissible in human courts. But this was the vampire world, so the rules were different and Wrath was so much more levelheaded than human juries—
“So did you fucking do it or not,” the King snapped.
Okay. Fine. Maybe “levelheaded” wasn’t exactly the right word.
“You heard Butch,” Syn said.
Wrath leaned down to the Bastard, his long hair falling off his heavy shoulder and swinging loose like a shroud. “Well, I want to hear you say it.”
Syn shrugged. “No reason to duplicate efforts. And he did such a good job—”
As something rushed forward, Butch caught the movement out of the corner of his eye—and had to quickly hell-no that shit. Vishous, apparently coming to the conclusion that his status as resident smart-ass was being challenged by Syn’s show of attitude, had decided to bumrush the hospital bed.
Butch lunged forward and caught his best friend before shit went total chaos.
“Not helpful,” Butch hissed in V’s ear as he dragged his roomie back. “You’ve got to chill.”
“Listen to your bestie, V,” Wrath muttered. “And stay out of this.”
There was a long period of quiet, during which Syn refused to meet his King’s blind eyes—and Butch passed the time making sure his tight hold around V’s chest didn’t lose tension. Knowing V, the brother was in danger of trying to beat a confession out of the Bastard.
And not only was that coercive, Butch had the sense it was what Syn wanted.
“I’m going to be perfectly clear here,” Wrath said in a sharp voice. “We are not going to play suicide-by-cop with you. If you want off this planet on a technicality, that’s fine, but I am not going to let my males help you do it. You’re either going to have to kill yourself or wait for the Grim Reaper to serve you your walking papers. But what you are not going to do is use us and that situation down at Pyre to help you get into the Fade.”
Syn crossed his arms over his naked chest and clenched his jaw.
“So,” Wrath continued, “I’m going to ask you again. Did you kill those two females at Pyre?”
The silence that followed was so dense and so long-lasting that Butch nearly screamed. Except then Syn opened his mouth.
“Yes, I killed them. Both of them.”
The King’s nostrils flared, and nobody in the room moved. In fact, Butch was pretty sure everything in Caldwell stopped dead.
“Why are you lying to me,” the King said grimly.
* * *
Given the blizzard-like conditions, Boone made better time getting back to the house than he thought he would, although even the Bentley’s all-wheel drive struggled to get them up the hill to his former neighborhood. When they pulled into the drive, he went right to the front door so that bringing his things out would be easier.
As he shut off the engine, he looked over at Helania. “We’ll go out again. Tomorrow night.”
She nodded. “Yes, please.”
They both got out of the car, and she waited for him to come around, the heavy falling snow making a picture out of her as it collected in her beautiful hair. Stepping up to her, he captured her face in his hands and stared down into her eyes. There were things he wanted to say, but he kept them to himself, mindful of the news they were waiting to hear. Whether or not she was pregnant didn’t change anything for him, and to prove that, he felt as though he had to wait until they knew one way or the other before he could tell her he loved her.
If she wasn’t with his young, he would be disappointed, but it would be his best shot at reassuring her his feelings and commitment were real. And if she was?
Well, as Doc Jane had said, they’d just have to cross that bridge if they got to it.
Boone brushed his thumb over her cheek. “I want you to know that the fact you’re here makes it easier for me to be here.”
Helania linked her hands over his forearms. “I’m really glad.” Dropping his head, he kissed a snowflake off her lower lip. “Come on, it’s cold.”
Approaching the front door, a gust pushed at their backs and he had to catch her and help her up the steps. Entering the foyer, it was a relief to get out of the storm, but when the lights dimmed and then flickered, he shook his head.
“I think it’s getting worse,” he said as he muscled the heavy door closed against the wind. “If that’s possible.”
Helania looked down at her boots. “I’m covered in snow.”
“This carpet can take it.” He stomped his feet to make her feel better. “Not to worry.”
She insisted on taking her footwear off, and then she was careful with her parka. “Do you have a ladies’ room? And maybe a cup of tea—”
“Welcome home, my Lord.” Thomat came out from the back. “Would you all care for some coffee? Hot chocolate?”
“Oh, hot cocoa, please.” Helania smiled at the chef. “And I’ll help you get it ready.”
As the chef recoiled, she cursed. “Oh, no. I did it again. I’m not supposed to help, am I?”
Thomat smiled slowly at her. Then he glanced at Boone. “If my Lord would permit his gracious guest to aid us in preparing hot cocoa and perhaps a small plate of sandwiches for tea, we would be most welcoming of her participation. With my Lord’s permission.”
Boone smiled back at the chef. Then he mouthed, You’re the best.
“Hey.” Helania nudged him in the side. “I can read lips, remember.”
“Yes, you can.” Boone swooped in for a quick kiss. Against her mouth, he whispered, “Do you want to translate what’s on my mind all of a sudden?”
As she blushed, she said, “Not in mixed company, no, I don’t. But I am so ready for something warm.”
Thomat hid a laugh, and then he bowed and indicated the way to the kitchen. “Follow me, mistress, and I believe you inquired after a water closet. I shall be pleased to show you to our formal one for the females.”
“Wonderful. Oh, and I’ll make sure we have something for Rochelle, too.”
“Thank you,” Boone said as a warm feeling filled him that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the furnaces in the house.
Helania gave him a little wave, and then the chef in his formal white coat, and the female in her jeans and sweater, went off together through the elegant dining room.
The door knocker sounded.
Hurrying over, he opened things. “Oh, Rochelle, come in—this storm is rank.”
