Lover Mine (21 page)

Glancing down in the direction of the stove, he saw some tomatoes. And a loaf of French bread in a paper wrapper.

Straightening, he walked over to the Sub- Zero and cracked the thing open. Organic milk. Takeout from Whole Foods. A fresh turkey ready to be cooked. Smoked Canadian bacon.

Not exactly prisoner food.

Blay looked up at the ceiling, where heavy footsteps sounded out as V went from room to room. Then his eyes traced the kitchen as a whole, from the cashmere dress coat draped over a stool to the copper pans stacked in the open shelving to the coffeepot that had a brew in its belly.

Everything was name-brand and new and neater than a picture out of a catalog.

This was up to Lash’s standards for real . . . but
lessers
weren’t supposed to be able to eat. So unless he was treating Xhex like a queen, which was highly unlikely . . . someone was chowing down on a regular basis in this house.

The butler’s pantry was right off the kitchen and Blay stepped through the wet remains of the slayer to give the shelved room a quick once-over: enough canned foods to keep a household going for a year.

He was on his way out when his eyes caught something on the floor: There was a subtle series of scratches across the otherwise mirror-perfect surface of the hardwood . . . and they were arranged in a half-moon shape.

Blay’s knees cracked as he got down on his haunches and shoved aside a canister vacuum cleaner. The beadboard wall looked flush and uninterrupted by any seams that shouldn’t have been there, but a quick rapping trip around with his knuckles and he found a hollow space. Taking out his knife, he used the hilt as a sonar device to determine the precise dimensions of the hidden tuck hole; then he flipped the weapon around and penetrated the tongue-and-groove pattern with the tip of the blade.

Forcing open the cover, he took a penlight and flashed it inside.

Trash bag. The Hefty kind that was the color of
lesser
blood.

Dragging it out, he pulled open the drawstring. “Holy . . . shit.”

Rhage appeared behind him. “What you got?”

He shoved his hand in and pulled out a palmful of wrinkled bills. “Cash. Lotta cash.”

“Grab it. V found a laptop and a broken window upstairs that was not there before. I closed the front door just so no humans get nosy.” He checked his watch. “We need to blow before the sun gets rolling.”

“Roger that.”

Blay grabbed the sack and left the space all open and violated, figuring the more evidence of a break-in, the merrier. Although it wasn’t like the bits and pieces of
lesser
could be ignored.

If only he could see Lash’s face when the motherfucker came home.

The bunch of them headed out the back into the garden, and he and Rhage dematerialized while Vishous hot-wired the Lexus in the garage so they could confiscate it.

It went without saying that they’d rather stay and wait to see what showed up. But there was no negotiating with the dawn.

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, Blay walked into the foyer with Hollywood and there was a receiving line of people waiting for them. All of the booty got handed over to Butch for processing at the Pit, and as soon as Blay could break away, he went upstairs to John’s bedroom.

His knock was answered by a grunt, and as he opened up and walked in, he saw Qhuinn seated in a wing chair by the bed. The lamp on the table next to him cast a yellow pool within the darkness, illuminating both him and the recumbent mountain underneath the duvet.

John was out cold.

Qhuinn, on the other hand, was laying into the Herradura, the bottle of Seleccion Suprema at his elbow, his crystal glass full of the outstanding tequila that had recently become his drink of choice.

Christ, with him sucking back that and John into Jack, Blay was thinking he needed to upgrade his own tipple. Beer abruptly seemed sophomoric.

“How’s he doing?” Blay asked softly.

Qhuinn took a sip and swallowed. “Pretty rough. I called Layla. He needs to feed.”

Blay approached the bed. John’s eyes were not so much closed as on lockdown, his brows drawn so tightly it looked like he was trying to solve a law of physics in his sleep. His face was preternaturally pale, his hair appearing darker in contrast, and his breathing was too shallow. His clothes had been removed and most of the
lesser
blood had been washed off him.

“Tequila?” Qhuinn asked.

Blay held his hand out to the guy without looking, still focused on their buddy. What hit his palm was the glass instead of the bottle, but he didn’t care and he drank hard.

Well, at least he knew why Qhuinn liked the stuff.

As he gave the glass back, he crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the quiet, glugging refill. For some reason, the loose, charming sound of that expensive booze hitting cut crystal eased him.

“I can’t believe he cried,” Blay murmured. “I mean . . . I can, but it was a surprise.”

“She’d obviously been held in that room.” The Herradura was put back on the side table with a subtle thump. “And we’d just missed her.”

“Did he talk at all?”

“Nope. Not even when I shoved him in the shower and got in with him.”

Okay, that was a visual Blay could do without. Good thing John didn’t flip that way—

There was a soft knock at the door and then a waft of cinnamon and spice. Blay walked over and let Layla in, bowing to her in deference.

“How may I be of . . .” The Chosen frowned and glanced toward the bed. “Oh, no . . . he is injured?”

As she went over to John Matthew, Blay thought, Yeah, but mostly on the inside.

“Thanks for coming,” Qhuinn said as he got up out of his chair. Leaning down over John, he gently pushed on the guy’s shoulder. “Hey, my man, can you wake up for a sec.”

John roused like he was fighting against a tidal wave, his head lifting slowly, his eyelids flipping up and down like there was a rush of water on his puss.

“Time to feed.” Without glancing over his shoulder, Qhuinn motioned for Layla by holding out his hand. “We need you to focus for just a little longer and then we’ll leave you alone.”

The Chosen paused . . . then stepped forward. She took the outstretched palm slowly, sliding her skin against Qhuinn’s and stepping in with a kind of shy beauty that made Blay feel sorry for her.

Going by the blush that suddenly flared in her cheeks, he had a feeling she, like everyone else, it seemed, had a spark for Qhuinn.

“John . . . my man? Come on, I need you to pay attention here.” Qhuinn tugged at Layla so that the Chosen took a seat on the bed, and the instant she got a good look at John, she was all about him.

“Sire . . .” Her voice was quiet and impossibly kind as she pulled up the sleeve of her robe. “Sire, rouse thyself and take what I may give you. Verily, you are in need.”

John started to shake his head, but Qhuinn was on it. “You want to go after Lash? Ain’t going to be in this shape. You can’t lift your fucking head—’scuse the language, Chosen. You need some strength. . . . Come on, don’t be an asshole, John.”

Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes shot to Layla as he mouthed,
Sorry
. And she must have smiled at him because for a moment, he tilted his head as if he were struck by her.

Or maybe she’d just mouthed something back.

Had to be it.

Really.

And then both their heads snapped downward and Layla let out a gasp as John’s fangs struck deep and he started to take what she offered. Evidently satisfied, Qhuinn returned to where he’d been sitting and refilled his glass. After he’d drunk half, he held it out toward Blay.

Best idea anyone had had in ages. Blay positioned himself against the high back of the wing chair, running one arm along the top of the thing as he took a deep sip, and then another, before passing the tequila back.

They stayed like that, sharing the drink while John fed from Layla . . . and sometime into the process of both nourishments, Blay became aware that he was putting his lips on the very rim Qhuinn was taking from.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the glass. Maybe it was the fact that from where he stood, with every breath Blay took he smelled Qhuinn’s dark scent. . . .

He knew he had to leave.

He wanted to support John, but with each passing minute, he was leaning closer and closer and . . . closer to Qhuinn. To the point that as his hand hung over the chair, he was nearly stroking that thick black hair.

“I have to go,” he said roughly, returning the glass one last time and heading for the door.

“You okay?” Qhuinn called out.

“Yup. Sleep well and take care, Layla.”

“Don’t you need to feed?” Qhuinn demanded.

“Tomorrow.”

The Chosen said something lovely and pleasant, but there was no turning around. Nope. Couldn’t turn around.

And please God, let him not run into anyone out in the hall.

He hadn’t checked to see how bad it was, but he knew when he was aroused . . . and that was one thing that, no matter how polite a male was, he couldn’t hide in tight leather.

O
ver on the Far Side, Payne paced around in her mother’s fountain, her feet making circles in the pool that caught the falling water. As she splashed, she held her robing aloft and she listened to the colorful birds that sat in the white tree over in the corner. The little ones chirped and carried on, flitting from branch to branch, pecking at each other, fussing with their feathers.

How in the hell they found such limited activity worth waking up for she hadn’t a clue.

In the sanctuary there was no conception of time, and yet she wished she had a pocket watch or a chiming clock to figure out how late the Blind King was. They had a standing sparring session every afternoon.

Well, afternoon for him. For her, stuck here on this side, everything was perpetually daytime.

She wondered exactly how long it had been since her mother had sprung her from that deep freeze and allowed her some freedom. No way to know. Wrath had started to show up regularly about. . . fifteen times ago and she’d been reanimated maybe . . . well, long before that. So maybe over six months?

The real question was how long she’d been kept under frosted lock and key—but it wasn’t like she was going to ask her mother about that. They weren’t talking at all. Until that “divine” female who’d birthed her was prepared to let her out of here, Payne didn’t have anything to say.

For truth, the silent treatment didn’t seem to be making a difference at all, but she hadn’t expected it to. When your mother- mare was the creator of the race and answerable to no one, even the king . . .

It was rather easy to become trapped in your own life.

As her pace through the fountain intensified and her robing started to get soaked, she leaped out of the pool and jogged around, her fists up in front of her, the punches she threw out pumping the air.

Being the good, dutiful Chosen was not in her hardwiring, and that was the root of all of the problems between her and her mother. Oh, the waste. Oh, the disappointment.

Oh, do get over it, mother dear.

Those standards of behavior and belief were for someone else. And if the Scribe Virgin had been looking for another robed ghost to drift around like a silent draft through a temperate room, she should have picked another sire for her young.

The Bloodletter’s vital makeup was in Payne, the traits of the father carrying through to the next generation—

Payne wheeled around and met Wrath’s falling fist with a forearm block and a scissor kick to his liver. The king was quick to retaliate and the hammering elbow that returned at her was a concussion waiting to happen.

Fast duck had her barely out of the way. Another kick from her sent the king jumping back—though he was blind, he had an unerring ability to know precisely where she was in space.

Which meant he would guess she would come at his flank. Indeed, he was already spinning his weight around, ready to punch her with the sole of his boot around the back.

Payne changed her mind, hit the ground, and swept both of her legs out, catching him at the ankle and throwing him off balance. A quick jog to her right and she was out of the way of his huge, lurching body; another leap and she was latched onto his back as he landed hard, his neck caught in a choke hold within the crook of her elbow. To gain extra leverage, she grabbed onto her own wrist and used her other biceps as she pulled against his throat.

The king’s way of dealing with it? He turtled on her.

His incredible brute strength gave him the power to get his feet under both their weight and rise up. Then it was a jump in the air that had them landing with her underneath, flattened on the marble.

Hell of a bedding platform—she could practically feel her bones bending.

The king was first and foremost a male of worth, however, and in deference to her inferior muscularity, he never kept her down for long. Which irked her. She’d have preferred a no-holds-barred contest of skill, but there were differences in the sexes that were not negotiable and males were simply bigger and therefore stronger.

As much as she resented the fact of biology, there was nothing to be done about it.

And anytime her superior speed got him a good one, it was extra sweet.

The king was nimble as he popped back to his feet and swung around, his long black hair fanning out in a circle before resettling on his white
judogi
. With the set of dark lenses over his eyes, and that tremendous spread of muscles, he was magnificent, the very best of the vampire bloodlines undiluted with anything human or otherwise.

Although that was part of his problem. She had heard that that blindness of his was the result of all that pure blood.

As Payne went to get up, her back let out a spasm, but she ignored the sharp shooting strike and faced off with her opponent once again. This time, she was the one who came out swinging and chopping, and for a blind male, Wrath’s ability to parry her was downright amazing.