Lover Mine (56 page)

Feed?
Feed?

Qhuinn didn’t appreciate being out of the loop, even when it came to little shit like what was being served for dinner. Saxton, the mansion, Blay, and someone’s vein? Yeah, not knowing what was doing with the likes of all that made the tips of his fangs tingle.

Saxton bowed once again. “Indeed, you are a very kind host.”

“Fritz, get the male some chow. The Chosen should be arriving very soon.”

A Chosen’s vein?

Christ, what exactly had Saxton done for the king? Whose ass had he saved?

“And our physician will see you.” Wrath held his palm up. “Nope. I smell the pain you’re feeling—it’s a combo of kerosene and raw peppers in my sinuses. Now get moving. Take care of yourself and we’ll talk later.”

As Wrath and George did a wheel-around up on the balcony, Qhuinn fell into the wake of Fritz’s hospitality, walking behind the butler as the guy led a slow ascension of the grand staircase. At the top, the elderly
doggen
paused in favor of Saxton’s limp, whipping out his handkerchief to polish the carved brass curlicues.

With nothing to do but wait as well, Qhuinn popped open the aspirin and took a handful, noting that through the open doors of the king’s study, John and Xhex were talking to V and Wrath, the four of them standing over a map that was stretched flat on the desk.

“This is a spectacular manse,” Saxton said while he stopped to regain his breath. Leaning on Blay’s strength, he fit under the guy’s arm . . . fucking perfectly.

The miserable bastard.

“My master, Darius, built it.” Fritz’s ancient watery eyes drifted around before focusing on the apple tree that was depicted in mosaic tile down below. “He had always wanted the Brotherhood herein . . . had constructed the facility for their every purpose. He would be so pleased.”

“Let us continue then,” Saxton said. “I am eager to see more.”

Down the hall of statues. Past Tohr’s room. Past Qhuinn’s and John Matthew’s. Past Blay’s . . . and right next door.

Why not farther down, Qhuinn thought. Like in the basement.

“I shall bring you a tray of various and sundry.” Fritz went inside and double-checked that everything was in order. “Dial star-one if you should need anything before I return or at any other time.”

With a bow, the butler took off, leaving a whole lot of awkward behind. Which didn’t smooth out in the slightest as Blay took Saxton over to the bed and helped the male get horizontal.

SOB was in a gorgeous gray suit. With a waistcoat. Which made Qhuinn in his clothes-as-sleeping-bag feel like he was dressed in some of Hefty’s best.

Standing a little taller, so at least he clearly beat Sax on the vertical front, he said, “It was those guys at the cigar bar. Those fucking assholes. Wasn’t it.”

As Blay stiffened, Saxton laughed a little. “So our mutual friend Blaylock here told you about our date? I wondered what he was doing on my phone in my bathroom.”

Uh-huh, whatever. Deduction not daytime minutes had led him to that conclusion. Hell, he’d only gotten that one text from the guy. One measely, short text that didn’t offer so much as a hi- how’re-ya—

Holy. Shit. Was he actually bitching about phone etiquette? Was he really chicking out like that?

Um . . . short of wearing panties under his jeans, he guessed that would be a big yuppity-yup-yup.

Getting back in the game, he snapped, “Was it them?”

When Blay said nothing, Saxton sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid they felt the need to express themselves—well, the head ape in the group did.” The male’s lids lowered and he glanced over at Blay. “And I’m a lover not a fighter, you see.”

Blay hurried to fill the silence after that little bomb. “Selena will be here shortly. You’ll like her.”

Thank God it wasn’t Layla, Qhuinn thought for absolutely no good reason. . . .

The silence that followed had the consistency of tar and the smell of guilty conscience.

“Can I talk to you,” Qhuinn said to Blay abruptly. “Out in the hall.”

Not a request.

As Fritz arrived with the tray, Qhuinn stepped from the room and waited in the corridor, facing off at one of the muscular statues. Which made him think about what Blay looked like naked.

Cracking the thermos lid, he took a swig from his coffee, burned his throat, and drank more anyway.

After Fritz left, Blay emerged and shut the door. “What is it?”

“I can’t believe you brought him here.”

Blay recoiled with a frown. “You’ve seen his face. How could I not? He’s hurt and not healing well and he needs to feed. And Phury would never allow one of his Chosen to just show up in the world somewhere. This is the only safe way to do it.”

“Why didn’t you just find him someone else? It doesn’t have to be a Chosen.”

“Excuse me?” That frown got even deeper. “He’s your
cousin
, Qhuinn.”

“I’m well aware of the relation.” And of how petty he sounded. “I just don’t get why you pulled all these strings for the guy.”

Bullshit. He knew exactly why.

Blay turned away. “I’m going back in now—”

“Is he your lover.”

That stopped the male dead . . . just froze him like he was one of the Greek statues, his hand halting on its reach for the doorknob.

Blay glanced over his shoulder, his face hard. “That is none of your business.”

Not a blush in sight, and Qhuinn exhaled slowly in relief. “He isn’t, is he. You haven’t been with him.”

“Leave me alone, Qhuinn. Just . . . leave me alone.”

As the door shut behind the guy, Qhuinn cursed under his breath and wondered if he would ever be able to do that.

Not anytime soon, a voice said in his head. Maybe not ever.

L
ash woke up with his face in the dirt and someone going through his pockets. As he tried to turn over, something hard cupped the back of his skull and held him in place.

A palm. A human palm.

“Get the car keys!” somebody hissed from the left.

There were two of them. A pair of humans, both of whom smelled like crack smoke and old sweat.

Just as the rummaging hand went to the other side of him, Lash caught the man’s wrist and, with a twist and a jump, traded places with the looting bastard.

As the guy went fish-mouth in shock, Lash bared his fangs and swept down from above, catching the ruddy skin of a cheek and ripping it free of the bone. A quick spit and he ripped the cocksucker’s throat wide-open.

Yelling. Serious yelling from the guy who’d given the order about the keys—

Which was quickly extinguished as Lash withdrew his knife and pitched it at the running back of Mr. Grand Theft Auto, catching the fucker right between the shoulder blades. As the son of a bitch yard-saled into the dirt, Lash curled up a fist and punched the temple of the man who’d mounted him.

With the threat now neutralized, Lash went wobbly again, his body falling to the side as he briefly considered another round of throwing up. Not a great condition to be in—especially as the human he’d nailed on the fly began to grunt and claw at the ground like he was determined to get away.

Lash forced himself to his feet and shuffled over. Standing above the crackhead, he braced a foot on the guy’s ass and yanked his knife out of that back. Then he kicked his target over and lifted his arm—

He was about to do the plunge-into-the-chest thing when he realized the bastard was built strong, his frame packed with muscle. Given his wild eyes, he was clearly into the pipe, but he was young enough so that the ravages of the addiction had yet to eat away at his body mass.

Well, wasn’t this the SOB’s lucky night. Thanks to a whim and a good body, he’d just gone from corpse to lab rat.

Instead of stabbing him in the heart, Lash slashed the human’s wrists and nicked his jugular. As red blood flowed into the earth, and the man started in with the moans, Lash looked to the car and felt like the thing was a hundred miles away.

He needed energy. He needed . . .

Bingo.

While those veins drained, Lash dragged himself to the Mercedes, popped the trunk, and lifted the carpet section up. The panel that covered where the spare would normally go pulled out easily.

Hello, wakey-wakey.

The kilo of cocaine was supposed to have been cut down and repackaged for street sale days ago, but then the world had exploded and it had been left right where Mr. D had stashed it.

Wiping his knife off on his pants, Lash punctured a corner of the cellophaned block and dipped in the tip of the blade. He snorted the shit right off the stainless steel, loading up first his right then his left nonexistent nostril.

For good measure, he did another round.

Annnnnd . . . one more.

As he rocked some keep-it-in-there sniffing, the rush that thundered through him saved his ass, perking him up so that he could keep going even after his vomiting and passing-out routine. Why he’d had those problems was a mystery. . . . Maybe that ’hood rat’s blood had been tainted, or maybe it wasn’t only Lash’s body but his internal chemistry that was changing. Either way, he was going to need that powder in the back until things stabilized.

Shit worked, too. He felt
great
.

After rehiding his stash, he returned to the crackhead. The cold didn’t help the draining process, and waiting around here while the fucker bled out wasn’t the brightest idea, no matter how well hidden they were under the bridge. Riding his considerable buzz, he strode over to the dead guy he’d done a Hannibal Lecter on; he ripped open the man’s filthy jacket and tore the undershirt beneath into bandage-size strips.

Fuck his father.

Fuck that little Shit.

He was going to make his own army. Starting with that bulldog addict.

It didn’t take long to wrap up the seeping wounds on the human, and then Lash picked him up and threw him in the trunk with all the regard a cabdriver would pay to cheap luggage.

Driving out from under the bridge, his eyes were bouncing around. But shit . . . every car he saw, from the ones on the surface roads to the traffic that whizzed by on the highway, every single one of them was a Caldwell PD unmarked.

He was sure of it. They were police. Humans with badges looking into his car. The police, the CPD, the police, the CPD . . .

As he headed for the ranch, he hit every single red light in Caldwell, and as he was forced to brake it, he stared straight ahead, praying that all the police behind and in front of him didn’t sense he had a dying man and a fuckload of drugs in the car.

It would take too much effort to deal with being pulled over. Besides, talk about buzz kill. He was finally feeling like himself, every single heartbeat drumming through his veins, the steel-shod hooves of all that cocaine trampling through his brain, creating a cacophony of creative inspiration—

Wait. What had he been thinking of?

Aw, hell, what did it matter. Half-formed ideas winged around his mind, plans forming and disintegrating, every single one of them brilliant.

Benloise, he had to get to Benloise and reestablish the connection. Make more
lessers
of his own. Find the little Shit and stab him back to the Omega.

Fuck his father like the guy fucked him.

Fuck Xhex again.

Go back to the farmhouse and fight with the Brothers.

Money, money, money—he needed money.

As he passed by one of Caldwell’s parks, his foot eased off the accelerator. At first, he wasn’t sure whether he was actually seeing what he thought he was . . . or whether his coked head was warping reality.

But no . . .

What was going down in the shadows by the fountain presented the opportunity he’d planned on manufacturing for himself. Or infiltrating if need be.

Pulling the Mercedes into one of the metered parking spaces, he turned off the car and got his knife out. As he went around the hood of the AMG, he was vaguely aware he wasn’t thinking straight, but as he rode the cocaine rush, that felt just fine.

 

 

John Matthew took form in a stand of pines and bushes along with Xhex and Qhuinn, and Butch, V and Rhage. Up ahead, the ratty farmhouse with the yellow crime scene tape around it looked like something out of
Law & Order
.

Although if that were true, without Smell-o-Vision, you wouldn’t get an accurate pic even with great camera work. Despite the acres of fresh air around, the scent of blood was strong enough to make you clear your throat.

To properly cover Lash’s intel dump, the Brotherhood had split in half, with the others staking out the address which had been tied to the license plate on that souped-up Civic. Trez and iAm had just taken off to handle their own biz for the night, but they were ready to come back at the drop of a text. And according to the Shadows, there was nothing too special to report since Xhex had left them except for the fact that Detective de la Cruz had returned, spent an hour, and left again.

John searched the scene before him, focusing on the shadows more than what the risen moon illuminated. Then he closed his eyes and let his instincts bleed out from him, giving that indefinable, invisible sensor in the center of his chest free rein.

In moments like this, he didn’t know why he did what he did; the urge just came upon him, the conviction that he had done this before—to good effect—so strong it was undeniable.

Yeah . . . he could feel something was off. . . . There were ghosts in there. And the certainty reminded him of what he’d felt when he’d been in that dreaded bedroom where Xhex had been so close and so far away. He had sensed her too, but been blocked from making the connection.

“The bodies are in there,” Xhex said. “We just can’t see or get to them. But I’m telling you . . . they’re in inside.”

“Well, let’s not fuck around out here then,” V said, dematerializing.