THIRTY

Up in the Sanctuary, Jane had no idea how much time had passed, was passing, whatever. It could have been ten minutes or a thousand years, and she had the sense she would feel the same. In this respect, minutes in this sacred place seemed to be like its horizon, having no beginning and no ending: No matter how far she walked, she never seemed to be able to get to the forest ring that encompassed the landscape. Every time she thought she was finally going to go into it, everything double-backed on itself and spit her out at the opposite side with the trees to her back. It was enough to make her crazy.

Well, that and the fact that there was no one around.

And the other irritating thing? She had been wandering for how long, and yet her feet weren’t tired, she wasn’t thirsty or hungry, and she didn’t have to pee.

Yes, okay, fine, she realized it was insane to bitch about the fact that she wasn’t uncomfortable—or having to squat in one of the Scribe Virgin’s flower beds like a camper in the woods, for godsakes. But it seemed further confirmation that she didn’t exist, and that made her feel lost and alone more than her lack of company.

To that point, she kept herself fully corporeal. Kind of like she was middle-fingering the whole I’m-not-really-alive thing.

Oh, God, she prayed Vishous wasn’t doing anything to hurt himself.

To keep from losing her mind with worry, she set a route out for herself, her need to make order of her situation and her surroundings asserting itself even though it was hardly necessary. What, like somebody from the afterlife was going to show up here with a clipboard and be all, Wait, you missed the Baths, and your speed of ambulation past the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes was .2 mph slower on your third lap.

When had she gotten to be so tightly wound?

Discipline, always her friend, had morphed into a brittle hold attaching itself indiscriminately to everything, and its invasion had clearly been incremental, the sort of thing she hadn’t noticed as it had taken over.

Until what should have been a virtue had strangled her.

She’d always had a healthy confidence in herself and her skills. And she’d earned that self-esteem, damn it. But now that she thought about the focus she’d been bringing to her work, she saw, thanks to this involuntary, but kind of critical, time of reflection, that she’d equated her obsessive-compulsive efforts with her patients’ salvation.

Hell, with the security and safety for all the Brothers and fighters in the war.

As if she were the only thing that stood between them and death.

Rhage had been right to challenge her on how long it had been since she’d attended a First or a Last Meal, and now she knew why she hadn’t been going to them: That long dining room table with all of its males and females, families and children, were no longer friends to enjoy.

They were disasters waiting to happen.

She didn’t see Z smiling with his family. Instead, she pictured him getting shot in the gut on the field and bleeding out, with her going there to treat him and having to open him up. But what if, instead of finding both of the bleeders—which in that case, she had—she fucked up, missed the secondary nick in the inferior vena cava, and he died right there?

Well, then, he wasn’t at that table anymore, was he. And Bella and Nalla? Their lives were over. Because Jane hadn’t done her job well enough. Nalla literally had no father for the rest of her nights and days and Bella was brokenhearted forever. Family ruined.

Or hey, how about when Beth went into labor. Placenta previa. Came to the clinic on a stretcher, and instead of Jane getting L.W. out and doing that emergency hysterectomy successfully, she botched the removal of the uterus so the patient bled to death.

In that case, Wrath’s life is over, he fucks off the throne, and the entire species loses its leader. The Brotherhood is never the same, and courtesy of the trauma, they go out the next evening and several of them are killed in the field because they’re suffering and in mourning.

There were too many examples to count. Layla with her babies. Peyton, the trainee, shot in the head. Xcor. Rhage.

Every one of them had ended up in her care in the last year. Or had it been two years?

The problem was, she wasn’t working on arm’s-length patients, ones who had no relationship whatsoever to her own family: Fucking up under normal clinical circumstances was horrible enough—hell, she knew doctors who made honest mistakes on the job and never, ever got over it. But to have that happen to someone you loved? Saw every night? Laughed and cried with, lived your life with?

There was a reason people did not treat their nearest and dearest. And yet for her it was the very definition of her job.

No wonder she was going nuts.

She stopped, looked around—and decided maybe all that was just a moot point now. Did she even have a future? Or was she going to be stuck in this dimension forever?

And what about Vishous? He was going to blame himself. Somehow, he would find a way to feel responsible for her choice to shield Phury, and that was going to lead to disaster.

As Jane’s heart began to pound with all the things she didn’t know and couldn’t control, she focused on what was in front of her so she didn’t lose her damn mind.

It was a while before the temple’s contours and dimensions properly registered. The white marble structure was the smallest on the campus that she had seen, taller than it was wide with, unusually, no open windows. Actually, it looked like a vault…or a tomb—

Without a sound, the one side of the panels that served as a door opened outward.

“Hello?” she said. “Amalya?”

As she went over and mounted the steps, she was so ready for some help, some answers…some relief—and in the back of her mind, she recognized that this was what her patients had to feel like as she came to them.

“Hello?” She pulled the heavy panel wider and peered in. “Oh…my God.”

It was Ali Baba’s cave, she thought with wonder as she entered the thirty-by-thirty square. Everywhere she looked there were gemstones—and not in a Jared Jewelers or a Shane Co. kind of way, the sparklers one-offs with plenty of space around them. No, this was The Goonies…this was some straight-up One-Eyed Willy right here, with dozens of bins filled with what certainly appeared to be gem-quality sapphires, rubies, emeralds…diamonds. There were also amethysts, opals, citrines, and aquamarines—pearls as well. And all of them were the size of thumbnails or larger.

The wealth represented was incalculable, and so incomprehensible, she just went from bin to bin, staring down at the largesse with marvel. She didn’t dare touch any of it, although she wondered how the stones would feel, sliding cool and smooth, through her hot hands.

And there were other things in the vault, too—although it was a while before she paid them any attention. In a series of marble and glass display cases and shelves, there was a strange assortment of non sequiturs, from revolvers that looked as if they were from the Revolutionary War period to fossils to—was that a meteorite? There was also a bowl that was encrusted with gems. A scepter—

Jane stopped in front of one of the last cases she came to and frowned. Whatever object had been there was gone now, although the glass wasn’t broken. But you could definitely tell there had been something in there because the outline of a large square had been singed into the red velvet underneath.

Like it had been radioactive.

Or claimed by an evil hand.

---

Down on Earth, on the shores of the Hudson, Assail slipped free of his bed and pulled a robe on in utter silence. Marisol was naked in his sheets, her body tucked in tight, her now-blond hair on his pillow. She would only be able to stay another hour or so before he had to wake her and send her down to the basement in order that her grandmother would find her in the morning where she should be. But he didn’t want her to leave. He preferred her right where she was.

As he stood over her and watched her breathe, he began to feel like something out of Mr. Stoker’s universe, the vampire hovering, soulless and hungry, above the fragile human life he intended to suck dry.

That was what she was going to think of him if she ever found out what he really was. Indeed, he despised lying to her—which was ironic considering he had quite comfortably uttered falsehoods to both fools and family his entire life—but he feared her reaction to the truth even more.

Troubled by much, he forced himself away and went down the stairs to the first floor, shutting the doors behind himself.

There was another reason for that, apart from wanting to keep things quiet.

As he faced off at his office, ripples of unease tingled through his torso, and it was a while before he entered and crossed the distance to his desk. Sitting down in his padded chair, he placed his hands on the blotter. If he were to turn on the PC—which he did not—he could access his accounts, check his portfolios, look at the rising level of his fortune, and perhaps feel a concomitant buoyancy.

Or perhaps not. His wealth didn’t seem as important to him as it had been.

Bracing himself, he swiveled the chair with his feet and opened the top drawer on the left. Inside was a dark brown glass vial about the size of a Life Savers roll.

He’d had smaller ones at first. Then larger ones had become needed. Toward the end, it nearly had been necessary to pack a suitcase.

Assail’s hand shook as he reached out and picked the vial up. It was empty of cocaine, nothing but a fine residue inside. Not a surprise. During that last week or so, he’d been hitting the coke so hard, he’d put a hole in his septum.

Rolling the circular container back and forth on his palm, he marveled at how an inanimate object with almost no intrinsic value could strip him down to his bones like a grenade going off at the end of his wrist.

He waited…waited…to see if the urge came upon him.

When it did not, he had a moment of euphoric freedom, a soaring sense of victory that he had bested his foe, vanquished the demon—and yes, his beautiful damsel was, in fact, upstairs in his quarters. But then a cautionary sense bettered that delusion. It was easy to resist the temptation when he was at peace and relaxed. The trick was going to be when he was not.

He put the vial back in the drawer and closed it up. He wasn’t sure why he was keeping the thing, and didn’t want to look too closely at that. Was it as a grim reminder of all that he had put himself through to keep things on track? Or as a placeholder for when he fell back into his addiction?

Assail could not bear the answer because he did not trust himself.

And it was upon that realization that he turned on his computer, the blue glow coming up on the monitor like illumination from a fire. His passwords came back to him with ease—which was a relief—and thanks to the bull market, he supposed he was pleased at where things were.

Whilst going insane, he had made money.

Sitting back, he tried to ascertain if he was tired. There was soreness in his muscles, which had grown unaccustomed to movement. He was vaguely hungry, but disinclined to the effort required for a remedy. He was also a little cold.

The silence in the house washed over him, and for some reason, all the quiet seemed oppressive, robbing him of the happy relief he had been feeling ever since he had had the restraints removed from his wrists and ankles.

Ever since he had come back to inhabit his body.

Was this all there was to life now? he wondered. Sitting passively in front of his computer, watching numbers change due to forces he had no participation in nor control over?

He did not want to return to the chaos and mania of his addiction or his illegal business. But with no other options for how to spend his time, he felt an existential version of color-blindness, the world lacking a certain vividness and depth. Of course, as a bonded male, he would live for his female, it was true. But there had to be more than him becoming another piece of furniture in this sleek room.

Marisol would not find much to respect about her hellren in that case.

Assail opened the drawer again. Next to the vial was an untraceable cell phone, and as he went to turn it on, he thought, but of course, the battery had gone dead.

Maybe it was a sign, he thought. After all, if he was out of the business, why would he need to access the phone he had used for it?

An unsettling sense of void caused him to proceed. The charger was plugged into the outlet under the desk, and as he got the cord and gave the phone some juice, he cradled the Samsung flip phone in his hands. It was a while until the thing woke up. And whilst he waited, he considered putting the cell back in the drawer or maybe throwing it away. In the end, however, he opened its lid, and found there were four voicemails.

Putting in the password, the oldest message came up first, and it was one he had long saved.

“I received your message. I am prepared to see you for coffee. Be well, my friend.”

Eduardo Benloise. Responding to the directive to meet in a code previously agreed upon. And when Assail and his cousins had intercepted the man at the appointed location? The assumption on Eduardo’s side had been that it was for the delivery of a million dollars in cash—and as the man was greedy and liked to hide things from his older brother, he had been more than happy to come unaccompanied and without any in his organization knowing.

Except no money had changed hands. Instead, Eduardo had been o’ertaken against his will and placed, with little more consideration than one would use on a parcel post, in the back of Assail’s Range Rover, a lever to be pulled at the right time.

Assail had kept the message as a reminder that he had done Marisol right.

It had been a sad tie to her and their relationship.

The second message was a hang-up from two weeks ago, a misdial. The third as well.

The fourth, however, had been left earlier in the current day, some twelve hours before. And it was a female voice with only the hint of an accent.

“Good afternoon, sir. I am calling from the Benloise Gallery in reference to your purchase dated December twentieth. Our records show that there has been a delay in fulfillment, and we would like the opportunity to discuss this matter at your convenience. If you have already been in contact with us, please disregard this phone call. Thank you.”

Assail frowned and replayed the message. Twice.

Yes, she did indeed have an accent, and was covering it up very well. Her “r”s and the lilt were not quite right.

She was South American.

And to what purchase was she referring?

No number had been provided on the message, but that was unnecessary. It was in the phone’s call log.

“Assail?”

At the sound of Marisol’s voice, he looked up. She’d come down the stairs and was heading in the direction of the kitchen.

He put the phone back in the drawer and shut things as far as he could with the charger still plugged in. Then he got to his feet.

“In here, my love.”

Her footsteps were quick but soft on the turnaround, and as she came up to the open doorway, she hesitated. “Why are you in the dark?”

“I was just checking my accounts.” He indicated the monitor. “I am pleased to report that I can afford to pay for gas and electricity for at least the next year. Maybe the year after.”

“Oh…good.” Marisol coughed a little. “Ah, I was worried when I woke up and you were gone.”

As he held his arms out, she came forward. She had put the shirt he had worn to church on and her bare legs were beautiful.

“You mustn’t worry about me.” He pulled her in close and kissed her sternum, right over her heart. “I am well indeed.”

“Do you want to come back to bed?”

“Hmm…yes.” His hands traveled down to her hips, and before he knew it, he was under the hem of his shirt, her bare skin warm and smooth.

“Should we go back upstairs?” she said huskily.

“I want you here.”

He eased her back against the desk and then urged her to sit upon it, pushing his keyboard and an ashtray out of the way. When his monitor almost went off the far side, he didn’t care.

Willing the door to the office shut, the light from the hall was cut off and darkness took ownership of the room except for that pool of blue light—

Shit, he thought. The door. He shouldn’t have closed it with his mind. However, at least Marisol, in her state of increasing arousal, didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re going to have to be quiet,” he drawled as he rested both sets of fingertips on her thighs. “You mustn’t disturb anyone.”

“How do you know you’re not the one who’ll be gasping?” she countered.

“Because this is not going to be about me.”

With that, he jerked out the second drawers on both sides of the desk and spread her legs, putting her feet on the ledges he had made for her. Then he sank down onto his knees.

She started to pant before he even began stroking up the inside of her thighs.

“Remember,” he said as he brushed his lips on one of her knees. “You wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.”

Sweeping his hands toward her core, he did not touch her. Yet. He unfastened the lowest button of his shirt. And then the one on top of that. And then the next…

He wanted to go all the way, but in the unlikely event someone knocked, or worse—and unheard of—walked in, he needed to spare her modesty.

The shirttails were terribly accommodating as he parted them and moved them out of the way, the twin swaths content to stay back on either side of her hips.

And there she was, bare and wide to him.

“Mmm,” he purred as kissed his way from her knee to the edge of what was becoming so very aroused for him.

Looking up, he smiled. She had braced her hands on the blotter and was leaning her body back, but keeping her head forward so she could watch him.

Assail extended his tongue and was done with any preamble. He licked up the center of her, flicking the top of her sex. Then he sealed her with a kiss.

The groan she tried to stifle made him smile, but then he had work to do. Sucking her in, then licking at her, he took his time, enjoying the feel and taste of her, the warmth and the rush—and greedy for even more, he spread her knees farther apart, his hands locking on, squeezing.

The lapping sounds were loud in the silence of the room—and so was her breathing. And both got their volume turned up as he started flicking at her, his tongue a darting, dancing tease that had her hips jerking back and forth as she rode his face.

When she came, her palms squeaked on the blotter and she went into an arch that banged the monitor into the wall.

He gave her no time for recovery, though.

Such a cruel taskmaster he was.