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Mr. D calmly walked up behind the slayer and nailed him in the side of the head with the butt of his Magnum. The force of impact sent the slayer spinning like a beer cap and slamming into the wall, a black smudge staining the linen-white paint as he slid down onto the cheap tan rug.
Grady let out a bark of surprise, like a terrier who'd gotten smacked with a newspaper.
And then the doorbell rang. Everyone looked to the sound, then at Lash.
He pointed to Grady. "You stay right where you are." When the bell came again, he nodded at Mr. D. "Answer it."
As the little Texan stepped over the downed slayer, he tucked his heat into his waistband at the small of his back. He opened the door only a crack.
"Domino's," a male voice said as a blast of wind blew in. "Oh-crap, watch it!"
It was a comedy of f**king errors, the kind of thing you'd see in a movie full of slapstick cock-ups. The stiff wind caught hold of the pizza box as the delivery guy took it out of his red insulated box-bag, and the pepperoni-and-something went flying toward Mr. D. Ever the good employee, flyboy with the Dom cap lunged forward to catch the thing-and ended up plowing over Mr. D and busting into the apartment.
Which Lash was willing to bet employees of Domino's were specifically instructed never to do, and with good reason. You cracked into someone's house, even if you were being a hero, and you could find all kinds of bad shit: Perverted p**n on a TV. Fat hausfrau in her granny panties and no bra. A nasty-ass hovel with more cockroaches than people.
Or a member of the undead bleeding black blood from a head wound.
There was no way Pizza Guy wasn't going to see what was doing across the way. And that meant he would have to be dealt with.
After having spent what was left of the night roaming around downtown Caldwell looking for a lesser to fight, John took form in the courtyard at the Brotherhood's mansion, next to all the cars that were parked in an orderly row. Bitter wind shoved at his shoulders, a bully wanting to knock him down, but he stood tall against the onslaught.
A symphath. Xhex was a symphath.
As his mind churned over the revelation, Qhuinn and Blay materialized beside him. To their credit, neither had asked him what the hell had happened back at ZeroSum. Both, however, continued to look at him like he was a beaker in a science lab, as if they were waiting for him to change colors or froth up all over himself or something.
I need some space, he signed without meeting either of their stares.
"No problem," Qhuinn replied.
There was a pause as John waited for them to go in the house. Qhuinn cleared his throat once. Twice.
Then in a choked voice, he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you again. I-"
John shook his head and signed, It's not related to sex. So don't worry, k?
Qhuinn frowned. "Okay. Yeah, cool. Ah...you need us, we're around. Come on, Blay."
Blay followed, the two of them walking up the shallow stone steps and going into the mansion.
Standing alone, finally, John had no idea what to do or where to go, but dawn was coming soon, so short of a quick jog through the gardens, he had few outdoor options.
Although, God, he wondered whether he could even go inside. He felt contaminated by what he'd learned.
Xhex was a symphath.
Did Rehvenge know? Did anyone else?
He was well aware of what the law required him to do. He'd learned that in training: When it came to symphaths, you reported them for deportation or you were deemed an accomplice. Pretty damn clear-cut.
Except what happened then?
Yeah, no guessing at that. Xhex would be shipped off like trash to a dump-and things would not go well for her. It was clear she was a half-breed. He'd seen photographs of symphaths, and she looked nothing like those tall, thin, creepy-ass SOBs. So chances were very good she'd be killed up in the colony, because from what he knew, symphaths were like the glymera when it came to discrimination.
Save for the fact that they liked to torture what they derided. And not in the verbal sense.
What the f**k did he do...
When the cold had him shivering under his leather jacket, he went into the house and directly up the grand staircase. The doors of the study were open, and he could hear Wrath's voice, but he didn't stop to see the king. He kept walking, going around the corner to the hall of statues.
He wasn't heading for his room, though.
John pulled up in front of Tohr's door and paused to stroke his hair flat. There was only one person he wanted to talk this through with, and he prayed that for once there would be something coming back to him.
He needed help. Badly.
John knocked softly.
No answer. He knocked again.
As he waited and waited, he stared at the panels of the door and considered the last two times he'd burst into rooms uninvited. The first had been over the summer when he'd barged into Cormia's bedroom and found her naked and curled on her side with blood on her thighs. Result? He'd pummeled the holy hell out of Phury for no reason, as the sex had been consensual.
The second had been Xhex, tonight. And look at the situation that had put him in.
John knocked harder, his knuckles banging loud enough to wake the dead.
No answer. Worse, no sounds at all. No TV, no shower, no voices.
He stepped back to see if there was a glow coming from under the door. Nope. So Lassiter wasn't in there.
Dread made him swallow hard, as he slowly opened the door wide. His eyes went first to the bed, and when Tohr wasn't lying there, John flat-out panicked. Racing across the Oriental rug, he shot through into the bath, fully expecting to find the Brother sprawled out in the Jacuzzi with his wrists cut.
There was no one in either room.
A strange, giddy hope flared in his chest as he went back into the hall. Looking left and right, he decided to start with Lassiter's bedroom.
No answer, and, looking inside, he found a whole lot of neat and tidy along with the dimming scent of fresh air.
This was good. The angel had to be with Tohr.
John hot-stepped it down to Wrath's study and, after he knocked on the jamb, he put his head in, doing a quick review of the spindly sofa and the armchairs and the mantel by the fireplace that the Brothers liked to lean against.
Wrath looked up from the desk. "Hey, son. What's doing?"
Oh, nothing. You know. Just...excuse me.
John headed down the grand staircase at a jog, knowing that if Tohr was having his first foray back into the world, he wouldn't want to make a big deal out of it. He'd probably start simple, just going into the kitchen for food with the angel.
Downstairs, John hit the foyer's mosaic floor, and when he heard male voices to the right, he looked inside the billiards room. Butch was bent over the pool table about to take a shot, and Vishous was behind him, heckling. The wide-screen was showing a whole lot of ESPN, and only two squat glasses were out, one with amber liquid in it, the other with crystal-clear stuff that was not water.
Tohr wasn't there, but he'd never been big into games. Besides, with the way Butch and V went after each other, they were not the kind of company you'd want if you were just dipping your feet in social waters again.
Turning away, John hurried through the dining room, which had been set for Last Meal, and went into the kitchen, where he found...doggen preparing three different kinds of pasta sauces and taking homemade Italian bread out of the oven and tossing salads and opening bottles of red wine to breathe and...no Tohr.
Hope decanted out of John's chest, leaving behind a sour tightness.
He went up to Fritz, butler extraordinaire, who greeted him with a brilliant smile on his old, wrinkled face. "Hello, sire, how fare thee?"
John signed in front of his chest so no one else could see. Listen, have you seen...
Shit, he didn't want to make a panic in the household for no reason other than that he was jumping to conclusions. The mansion was huge and Tohr could be anywhere.
...anyone? he finished.
Fritz's fuzzy white eyebrows pulled together. "Anyone, sire? Do you refer to the ladies of the house or-"
Males, he signed. Have you seen any of the Brothers?
"Well, I have been here preparing dinner for much of the last hour, but I know that several have come home from the field. Rhage had his sandwiches as soon as he returned, Wrath is in the study, and Zsadist is with the young one in the bath. Let's see...oh, and I believe Butch and Vishous are playing pool, as one of my staff served them drinks in the billiards room just a moment ago."
Right, John thought. If a Brother who no one had seen out and about for, oh, say, four months had shown up, surely his name would have been at the top of the list.
