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So Xhex took care of her tracks beforehand. Probably because she knew that V would get the feed.
“You did the right thing turning the body over to us,” V continued. “We were able to ID him, get in touch with his family. We kept the remains at the garage, in the morgue there.”
Rehv lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you had one at that site.”
“Sad necessity.” V frowned as his diamond eyes went back to the door of the OR. There was a pause; then he spoke quick, like he wanted a distraction. “Was there a scent at the scene when you got there? We did the cleanup just before dawn, and I couldn’t track anything of significance.”
Rehv shook his head. “Nothing. Whoever did it was wearing gloves and was fucking tidy about the work. Hell, maybe they were in a hazmat suit.”
He refocused on Xhex. She was nodding at hermahmenand drawing a hand through her shortdark hair while she shifted her weight back and forth, a metronome of anxiety. Getting into her grid required no concentration. The damn thing was lit up like a Christmas tree, her emotions neon bright in their superstructure, their thought balloon hovering off to the side of her body.
The defect was still there, the graph-like squares collapsing in so that some of them, many of them, were no longer three-dimensional.
And this tragedy was going to finish the job.
“So you think it’s her,” V said softly as he exhaled. “You think Xhex took out one of Basque’s illustrious patrons.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, that’s a yes.” More silence. “But if she did, she had her reasons. You know how shit goes down at clubs better than anyone else. Problems need to be dealt with.”
If only he thought she did it to keep the peace. “Yeah.”
And now if John died? If she lost her mate, it would be a tragedy that was going to wipe out everyone, especially her. If John survived? Then she was going to get caught up in the stress of helping the male recover.
Then again, at least he’d know where she was.
On that note, no one was leaving the mountain tonight—when it came to the Brotherhood and the fighters, that was.
In the back of his mind, he pictured himself going down to Caldwell and finding the drug dealers who had gone lead shower on each other and caught a couple of vampires in the crosshairs. All he’d need was the address of that corner Tohr and John had come around. The territories in Caldie were delineated with precision and defended like the gold mines they were, so he’d just have to show up, search the memories of whoever was there—and take care of business thesymphathway.
The problem? And it was a biggie: John Matthew was a Brother, and the Black Dagger Brotherhood would be the ones doing theahvenging. It wasn’t just a matter of deference to their relationship to the victim; it was law, as in codified.
As a kindling fury nonetheless took root in Rehv’s blood, and the large muscles in his body spasmed like he was about to do something, he had to walk away from V and the others. The next thing he knew, he was in one of the vacant patient rooms. After pacing around, he went over to the hospital bed. With an exhale of disgust, he shoved his hand into the pocket of his double-breasted suit and took out a syringe and a little glass bottle with a rubber top. After he tossed his jacket onto the short stack of pillows, he unsheathed the needle, drew up a serving of self-control, and put the belly of the syringe between his front teeth. Rolling up his sleeve, he exposed the blue veins at thecrook of his elbow, and he didn’t waste any time. He injected the dopamine directly into his body’s highway system.
The effect was quick, a whoosh of numbness going through him, his balance taking a knock such that he had to sit down next to his jacket. As the pads of his fingers went numb along with his feet, the tide continued up his limbs and spread throughout his torso.
Goddamn, he was cold already. He needed to go back and get his mink so his lips and nail beds didn’t turn blue.
This wasnothow he’d envisioned the evening going.
And he was not the only one.
TWELVE
AT 7:01 THEfollowing morning, C.P. Phalen was shown into a conference room on the seventy-fifth floor of a skyscraper in Houston, Texas. Unlike most of the business environments she’d been to in the Lone Star State, the decor was sleek, the furniture modern and simple, the palette a blend of soft grays and cream. There was no art on the walls, no crystal dangling from ceiling fixtures, no gold leaf, marble, or mirrors.
“Would you care for coffee while you wait?” a voice inquired in a European accent.
She glanced back at the executive assistant. The dark-haired young man was probably mid-twenties, his suit was definitely Italian, and that accent was the result of a German being taught English by a Brit. Cologne was French. So were the shoes.
“No, thank you.”
The kid bowed at the waist and exited by backing up. The door was shut quiet as a whisper.
C.P. went over to the bank of floor-to-ceilingwindows. The morning traffic was still moving pretty well on the highway, lines of cars paring off at exits to funnel out onto the surface roads, the parking lots and garages just starting to fill up. The urban landscape could have been that of any city, the skyscrapers and office buildings gleaming in the early sunlight, the strips of asphalt dull tracks that formed boxes around the real estate.
C.P. checked her watch.
