Lover Avenged

Chapter NINE



Caldwell's outskirts were either farm or forest, and the farms likewise came in two varieties, being either dairy or corn-with dairy predominating, given the short growing season. The forests were also binary, with a choice between the pines that led up the flanks of mountains or the oaks that led into the spun-off swamps of the Hudson River.



No matter what the landscape, naturalis or industrialis, you had roads that were less traveled and houses spaced by miles and neighbors who were just as reclusive and trigger-happy as someone reclusive and trigger-happy himself could want.



Lash, son of the Omega, sat at a beat-up kitchen table in a single-room hunting cabin in one of the stretches of forest. Across the weathered pine surface in front of him he'd spread every Lessening Society financial record he'd been able to find or print out or call up on his laptop.



This was such bullshit.



He reached over and picked up an Evergreen Bank statement that he'd read a dozen times. The Society's largest account had one hundred twenty-seven thousand five hundred forty-two dollars and fifteen cents in it. The others, which were housed among six other banks, including Glens Falls National and Farrell Bank amp; Trust, had balances of between twenty bucks and twenty thousand.



If this was all the Society had, they were teetering on the crumbling ledge of bankruptcy.



The raids over the summer had yielded some good resellables in the form of looted antiques and silver, but realizing those funds was proving complicated, because it involved a lot of human contact. And there had been some financial accounts that had been seized, but again, siphoning off money from human banks was a complicated mess. As he'd learned the hard way.



"Y'all want some more coffee?"



Lash looked up at his number two and thought it was a miracle Mr. D was still around. When Lash had first entered this world, reborn by his true father, the Omega, he had been lost, the enemy now his family. Mr. D had been his guide, although like all tourist maps, Lash had assumed the bastard would wear out his usefulness as the new locale was internalized by the driver.



Not so. The little Texan who had been Lash's entr¨¦e was now his disciple.



"Yeah," Lash said, "and how about food?"



"Y'sir. Got you some good ol' fatback bacon, right chere, and that cheese you like."



The coffee was poured nice and slow into Lash's mug. Sugar was next, and the spoon used to stir made a soft clinking sound. Mr. D would have cheerfully wiped Lash's ass if asked, but he wasn't a pussy. The little fucker could kill like no one's business, the Chucky doll of slayers. Great short-order cook, too. Made pancakes that were a mile high and fluffy as a pillow.



Lash checked his watch. The Jacob amp; Co. had diamonds all over it, and in the dim light from the computer screen they were a thousand points of light. But the thing was a replacement faker he'd gotten off eBay. He wanted another real one except...holy Christ...he couldn't afford it. Sure, he'd kept all the accounts of his "parents" after he'd killed the pair of vampires who'd raised him as their own, but though there was a good load of green in those baskets, he was leery of spending any of it on frivolous shit.



He had bills to pay. Like for mortgages and weapons and ammo and clothes and rent and car leases. Lessers didn't eat, but they consumed a lot of resources, and the Omega didn't care about cash. But then, he lived in hell and had the ability to conjure out of thin air anything from a hot meal to the Liberace cloaks he liked to jack his black shadow body into.



Lash hated to admit it, but he had the feeling his true father was a little light in the loafers. No real man would be caught dead in that sparkly shit.



As he lifted his coffee cup, his watch glimmered and he frowned.



Whatever, that was a status symbol.



"Your boys are late," he bitched.



"They be comin'." Mr. D went over and opened the seventies-era refrigerator. Which not only had a squeaking door and was the color of a rotten olive, but drooled like a dog.



This was ri-fucking-diculous. They needed to upgrade their cribs. Or if not all, at least one for his HQ.



At least the coffee was perfect, although he kept that to himself. "I don't like waiting."



"They be comin', don'tchu worry. Three eggs in your omelet?"



"Four."



As a series of crack and splits radiated through the cabin, Lash tapped the tip of his Waterman on the Evergreen statement. Expenses for the Society, including cell phone bills, Internet hookups, rent/mortgages, weapons, clothes, and cars ran easily fifty grand a month.



When he'd first been getting a feel for his new role, he'd been damn sure someone in the ranks was peeling skin off the apple. But he'd been watching things carefully for months, and there was no Kenneth Lay going on that he could find. It was a simple matter of accounting, not fudging the books or embezzlement: Costs were higher than revenues. Period.



He was doing his best to arm his troops, even stooping so low as to buy four crates of guns from bikers he'd met in jail over the summer. But it wasn't enough. His men needed better than rehabbed Red Ryders to take out the Brotherhood.



And while he was at the wish list, he had to have more men. He'd thought the bikers would be a good pool to recruit from, but they were proving too cohesive. Based on his dealings with them, his intuition told him he had to bring them all on or none-because sure as shit if he cherry-picked, the ones chosen would return to their clubhouse and tell their buddies about their fun new job killing vampires. And if he took them all, then he was running the risk of their splitting off from his authority.



One-by-one recruiting was going to be the best strategy, but it wasn't like he'd had time to do any of it. Between the training sessions with his father-which, in spite of his issues with Daddy-o's wardrobe, were proving monstrously helpful-and his monitoring the persuasion camps and looting repositories, and trying to get his men to focus on the job at hand, he had not even an hour left in the day.



So shit was getting critical: To be a successful military leader required three things, and resources and recruits were two of them. And although being the son of the Omega gave him loads of benes, time was time, stopping for no man, no vampire, and no scion of evil.



Considering the state of the accounts, he knew he had to start with resources first. Then he could go about getting the other two.



The sound of a car pulling up to the cabin had him palming a forty and Mr. D going for his.357 Magnum. Lash kept his heat under the table, but Mr. D was all Times Square about his, holding the piece straight out, his arm extended in a line directly from his shoulder.



When there was a knock, Lash said sharply: "You'd better be who I think you are."



The lesser's answer was the right one. "It's me 'n' Mr. A 'n' your pickup."



"Come on in," Mr. D said, ever the good host, even though his.357 was still up and ready for action.



The two slayers who walked through the door were the last of the pale ones, the final pair of old-timers who had been in the Society long enough to have lost their individual hair and eye coloring.



The human who was dragged in with them was a six-foot stretch of nothing particularly interesting, a twenty-something white boy with an average face and a hairline that would be giving up the ghost in another couple years. The guy's Wonder-bread, who-cares looks no doubt explained why he dressed the way he did: He had a leather jacket with an eagle embossed on the back, a Fender Rock amp; Roll Religion shirt, chains hanging from his jeans, and kicks by Ed Hardy.



Sad. Truly sad. Like putting twenty-fours on a Toyota Camry. And if the boy was armed? No doubt it was with a Swiss Army knife that got used mostly for the toothpick.



But he didn't have to be a fighter to be useful. Lash had those. From this POS he needed something else.



The guy looked at Mr. D's welcome Magnum and glanced back at the door as if he were wondering if he could outrun a bullet. Mr. A solved the issue by closing them all in together and staying right in front of the exit.



The human looked at Lash and frowned. "Hey...I know you. From jail."



"Yeah, you do." Lash stayed seated and smiled a little. "So you want to know what the good and bad thing is about this meeting?"



The human swallowed and went back to focusing on Mr. D's muzzle. "Yeah. Sure."



"You were easy to find. All my men had to do was go to Screamer's and stand around and...there you were." Lash eased back in his chair, the cane seat creaking. As the human's stare flicked over, there was a temptation to tell the guy to forget about the sound and worry about the forty under the table that was aimed at his family jewels. "You been staying out of trouble since I saw you in jail?"



The human shook his head and said, "Yes."



Lash laughed. "You want to try that again? You're not in sync."



"I mean, I'm still keeping up my business, but I haven't been cuffed."



"Well, good." As the guy's eyes flipped back to Mr. D, Lash laughed. "If I were you, I'd want to know why I was brought here."



"Ah...yeah. That would be cool."



"My troops have been watching you."



"Troops?"



"You do steady business downtown."



"I make paper okay."



"How'd you like to make more?"



Now the human stared at Lash, a smarmy, greedy look narrowing his eyes. "How much more."



Money really was the great motivator, wasn't it.



"You do okay for a retailer, but you're small-time right now. Fortunately for you, I'm in the mood to make an investment in someone like yourself, someone who needs backing to take him to the next level. I want to make you not just a retailer, but a middleman with the big boys."



The human brought a hand up to his chin and ran it down his neck as if he had to jump-start his brain by massaging his throat. In the quiet, Lash frowned. The guy's knuckles were skinned and his cheapo Caldwell High School ring was missing the stone.



"That sounds interesting," the human murmured. "But...I need to chill a little."



"How so." Man, if this was a negotiating tactic, Lash was more than ready to point out that there were a hundred other dime-bagger dealers who'd jump at this kind of deal.



Then he was going to nod at Mr. D and the slayer was going to cap Eagle Jacket right under that receding hairline.



"I, ah, I need to lie low in Caldie. For a little bit."



"Why."



"It's not related to the drug dealing."



"Have anything to do with your roughed-up knuckles?" The human quickly tucked his arm behind his back. "Thought so. Question. If you need to keep on the DL, what the hell were you doing in Screamer's tonight?"



"Let's just say I wanted to make a purchase of my own."



"You're an idiot if you do what you sell." And not a good candidate for what Lash had in mind. He didn't want to try to do business with a junkie.



"Wasn't drugs."



"Was it a new ID?"



"Maybe."



"Did you get what you were looking for? At the club?"



"No."



"I can help you with that." The Society had its own laminating machine, for fuck's sake. "And here's what I propose. My men, the ones to your left and behind you, will work with you. If you can't be the front man on the street, you can get the merchandise and they can move it after you show them the ropes." Lash glanced over at Mr. D. "My breakfast?"



Mr. D put his gun down next to the cowboy hat he took off only when indoors and then he popped up a flame under a pan on the little stove.



"What kind of money are we talking about?" the human asked.



"Hundred grand for the first investment."



The guy's eyes made like slot machines, all ding-ding-ding excited. "Well...shit, that's enough to play ball. But what's in it for me?"



"Profit sharing. Seventy for me. Thirty for you. Of all sales."



"How do I know I can trust you?"



"You don't."



As Mr. D laid some bacon out on the heat, the sizzle and hiss filled the room and Lash smiled at the sound.



The human looked around, and you could practically read his thoughts: cabin out in the middle of nowhere, four guys facing off at him, at least one of whom had a gun capable of blowing a cow into hamburger patties.



"Okay. Yeah. All right."



Which was, of course, the only answer.



Lash put the safety back on his weapon, and when he put his autoloader on the table, the human's eyes bugged. "Come on, like you didn't think I had you covered? Please."



"Yeah. Okay. Right."



Lash stood up and came around to the guy. As he stuck his hand out, he said, "What's your name, Eagle Jacket?"



"Nick Carter."



Lash laughed hard. "Try again, dickhead. I want your real one."



"Bob Grady. They call me Bobby G."



They shook and Lash squeezed hard, crunching those bruised knuckles together. "Glad to do business with you, Bobby. I'm Lash. But you can call me God."



John Matthew scanned the people in ZeroSum's VIP section not because he was looking for tail, as Qhuinn was, and not because he was wondering who Qhuinn was going to want to get with, as Blay was.



No, John had his own fixations.



Xhex usually came around every half hour, but after her bouncer had approached her and she'd left in a hurry a while ago, she'd been missing.



As a redhead eased on by, Qhuinn shifted in the banquette, his combat boot tapping it out under the table. The human woman was about five-ten and had the legs of a gazelle, long and fragile and lovely. And she wasn't a professional-she was on the arm of a business-type guy.



Didn't mean she wasn't giving it up for money, but it was in a more legal fashion called a relationship.



"Shit," Qhuinn muttered, his mismatched eyes predatory.



John tapped his buddy on the leg and in American Sign Language said, Look, why don't you just go back with someone. You're driving me crazy with the twitching.



Qhuinn pointed to the tear that was tattooed under his eye. "I'm not supposed to leave you. Ever. That's the point of having an ahstrux nohstrum."



And if you don't have some sex soon, you're going to be useless.



Qhuinn watched as the redhead arranged her short skirt so she could sit down without flashing what was no doubt nothing but a Brazilian wax.



The woman looked around without interest...until she got to Qhuinn. The moment she saw him, her eyes lit up like she'd found a good deal at Neiman Marcus. This was not a surprise. Most women and females did the same, and it was understandable. Qhuinn dressed simply, but with plenty of the hard-core: black button-down tucked into dark blue Z-Brands. Those black combat boots. Black metal studs running all the way up one ear. Hair set in black spikes. And he'd recently pierced his lower lip in the center with a black hoop.



Qhuinn looked like the kind of guy who kept his leather jacket in his lap because he carried his guns in it.



Which he did.



"Nah, I'm cool," Qhuinn muttered before finishing off his Corona. "I'm not into redheads."



Blay looked away sharply, taking an abrupt, feigned interest in a brunette woman. Truth was, he was into only one person, and that person had shut him down as kindly and solidly as a best friend could.



Qhuinn evidently really, truly didn't do redheads.



When was the last time you were with anyone? John signed.



"I dunno." Qhuinn signaled for another round of beers. "A while."



John tried to think back and realized it hadn't been since...Christ, back in the summer, with that chick at Abercrombie amp; Fitch. Considering Qhuinn was usually good for at least three people a night, it was a hell of a dry spell, and it was hard to imagine that a steady diet of one-handed get-offs was going to hold the guy. Shit, even when he fed from the Chosen, he'd been keeping his hands to himself, in spite of the fact that his erections strained until he cold-sweated it. Then again, the three of them fed from the same female at the same time, and as much as Qhuinn had no problem whatsoever with an audience, his pants stayed on in deference to Blay and John.



Seriously, Qhuinn, what the hell is going to happen to me? Blay's here.



"Wrath said always with you. So I need to be. Always. With. You."



I think you're taking that too seriously. Like, way too seriously.



Across the VIP section, the redheaded gazelle moved around in her seat so that her below-the-waist assets were on full display, her smooth legs out from under the table and in full view of Qhuinn.



This time when the guy shifted, it was pretty obvious he was rearranging something hard in his lap. And it wasn't one of his weapons.



For fuck's sake, Qhuinn, I'm not saying it should be her. But we have to get you taken care of-



"He said he's tight," Blay interjected. "Just leave him be."



"There is one way." Qhuinn's mismatched eyes shifted over to John. "You could come with me. Not that we would do anything, 'cuz I know you don't fly like that. But you could have someone, too. If you wanted. We could do it in one of the private bathrooms, and you could have the stall so I wouldn't be able to see you. You just say the word, 'kay? I won't bring it up again."



As Qhuinn looked away all casual and shit, it was hard not to like the guy. Consideration, like rudeness, came in a lot of different variations, and the gentle offer of a cozy double sex session was a sort of kindness: Qhuinn and Blay both knew why, even eight months past John's transition, he hadn't been with a female. Knew why and still wanted to hang with him.



Dropping the bomb John had been hiding had been Lash's final fuck-you before he died.



Had been the reason Qhuinn had killed the guy.



When the waitress brought freshies, John glanced over at the redhead and, to his surprise, she smiled at him when she caught him looking.



Qhuinn laughed quietly. "Maybe I'm not the only one she likes."



John brought his Corona up to his mouth and took a drink to hide his blush. Thing was, he wanted sex and, like Blay, wanted it with someone in particular. But having already lost an erection in front of a naked, willing female, he was in no hurry to do that again, especially not with the person he was interested in.



Hell. No. Xhex wasn't the kind of female you wanted to choke on a hot wing around. Going limp because you were chicken to do the deed? His ego would never be the same-



Unrest in the crowd had him ditching the poor-mes and straightening in the banquette.



A wild-eyed guy was being escorted through the VIP section by two enormous Moors, each with a hand on his upper arm. He was tap-dancing with his expensive shoes, his feet barely touching the ground, and his mouth was likewise pulling some kind of Fred Astaire, although John couldn't hear what he was saying over the music.



The trio went into the private office in the back.



John tipped his Corona and stared at the door as it closed. Bad things happened to people who were taken in there. Especially if they were being hover-crafted by that pair of private guards.



Abruptly, a hush dimmed all the talk in the VIP section, making the music seem very loud.



John knew who it was before he turned his head.



Rehvenge walked in through a side door, his entrance quiet but as obvious as a grenade going off: In the midst of all the sharp-dressed patrons with their arm candy and the working girls with their assets out for hire and the waitresses hustling trays, the guy shrank the size of the space, not just because he was a huge male dressed in a sable duster, but because of the way he looked around.



His glowing amethyst eyes saw everyone and cared about no one.



Rehv-or the Reverend, as the human clientele called him-was a drug lord and a pimp who didn't give a shit about the vast majority of people. Which meant he was capable of, and frequently did, anything the fuck he wanted to.



Especially to types like that tap dancer.



Man, the night was going to end badly for that guy.



As Rehv passed by, he nodded to John and the boys, and they all nodded back, raising their Coronas in deference. Thing was, Rehv was an ally of sorts with the Brotherhood, having been made leahdyre of the glymera's council after the raids-because he was the only one of those aristocrats with the balls to stand his ground in Caldwell.



So the guy who cared about very little was in charge of a hell of a lot.



John turned toward the velvet rope, not even bothering to be smooth about it. Surely this meant Xhex had to be...



She appeared at the head of the VIP section, looking like a billion bucks, as far as he was concerned: As she leaned into one of her bouncers so the guy could whisper in her ear, her body was so tight her stomach muscles showed through the second skin of her muscle shirt.



Talk about shifting in the seat. Now he was the one with the rearrangement issues.



As she marched through to Rehv's private office, though, his libido went on ice. She was never the type who smiled much, but as she went by, she was grim. Just as Rehv had been.



Clearly, something was doing, and John couldn't help the knight-in-shining-armor impulse that lit up in his chest. But come on, Xhex didn't need a savior. If anything, she was the type who would be on the horse, fighting the dragon.



"You look a little tight there," Qhuinn said quietly as Xhex went into the office. "Keep my offer in mind, John. I'm not the only one hurting, am I."



"Will you excuse me," Blay said, getting to his feet and taking out his red Dunhills and his gold lighter. "I need some fresh air."



The male had started smoking recently, a habit Qhuinn despised in spite of the fact that vampires didn't get cancer. John understood it, though. Frustration had to be worked out, and there was only so much you could do alone in your bedroom or with your boys in the weight room.



Hell, they'd all gained muscle weight over the last three months, their shoulders and arms and thighs outpacing their clothes. Made a guy think fighters had a point about no sex before matches. They kept adding hard pounds like this, they were going to look like a pack of pro wrestlers.



Qhuinn stared down into his Corona. "You want to get out of here? Please tell me you want to get out of here."



John glanced at the door to Rehv's office.



"Stay it is," Qhuinn muttered as he signaled to a waitress, who came right over. "I'm going to need another of these. Or maybe a case."



Chapter TEN



Rehvenge shut the door to his office and smiled tightly, to keep his fangs from making an appearance. Even without the show of canines, though, the bookie hanging between Trez and iAm was smart enough to know he was in deep shit.



"Reverend, what's this all about? Why you calling me in like this?" the guy said in a staccato rush. "I was just working my business for you and suddenly these two-"



"I heard something interesting about you," Rehv said, going around behind his desk.



As he sat down, Xhex came into the office, her gray eyes sharp. After she closed the door, she leaned back against it, better than any Master Lock when it came to keeping cheating sports bookies inside and prying eyes outside.



"It was a lie, a total lie-"



"You don't like to sing?" Rehv leaned back in his chair, his numbed-out body finding a familiar position behind his black desk. "That wasn't you popping a little Tony B for the crowd at Sal's the other night?"



The bookie frowned. "Well, yeah...I got me some pipes."



Rehv nodded at iAm, who was, as always, stone-faced. Guy never showed emotion, except when it came to a perfect cappuccino. Then you got a little bit of the bliss out of him. "My partner over here...he said you sang real well. Real crowd-pleaser. What did he sing, iAm." iAm's voice was all James Earl Jones, low and gorgeous. "'Three Coins in the Fountain.'"



The bookie did a well-you-know jack-up of his slacks. "I got range. I got rhythm."



"So you're a tenor like good ol' Mr. Bennett, huh?" Rehv shrugged out of his sable. "Tenors are my favorite."



"Yeah." The bookie glanced at the Moors. "Look, you mind telling me what this is about?"



"I want you to sing for me."



"You mean, like, for a party? 'Cuz I'd do anything for you, you know that, boss. All you had to do was ask...I mean, this weren't necessary."



"Not for a party, although all four of us will enjoy hearing the performance. It's to repay me for what you skinned off last month."



The bookie's face drooped. "I didn't skin-"



"Yeah, you did. See, iAm is a fantastic accountant. Every week, you give him your reports. How much in on what teams and which spreads. Do you think no one does the math? Based on the games last month, you should have paid in-what was the figure, iAm?"



"One hundred seventy-eight thousand four hundred eighty-two."



"What he said." Rehv nodded a quick thanks to iAm. "But instead you came in at...What was it?"



"One hundred thirty thousand nine eighty-two," iAm shot back.



The bookie started in immediately. "He's wrong. He's added-"



Rehv shook his head. "Guess what the difference is-not that you don't already know. iAm?"



"Forty-seven thousand five hundred."



"Which happens to be twenty-five grand on a ninety percent vig. Isn't that right, iAm?" As the Moor nodded once, Rehv punched his cane into the floor and got to his feet. "Which in turn is the courtesy rate charged by the Caldie mob. Trez then went and did a little digging, and what did you find?"



"My boy Mike says he loaned twenty-five large to this guy right before the Rose Bowl."



Rehv left his cane on the chair and came around the desk, keeping one hand on the surface to steady himself. The Moors stepped back into position, crowding the bookie, holding his upper arms again.



Rehv stopped right in front of the guy. "And so I ask you once more, did you think no one was going to double-check the math?"



"Reverend, boss...please, I was going to pay you back-"



"Yeah, you are going to make good on it. And you're paying my vig for fucktards who try to play me. One hundred and fifty percent due at the end of this month or your wife's going to see you mailed back to her in pieces. Oh, and you're fired."



The guy burst into tears, and they weren't the crocodile kind. These were real, the sort that made the man's nose run and his eyes puff up. "Please...they were going to hurt me-"



Rehv snapped his hand out and clamped on between the guy's legs. The poodle yelp told him that even though he couldn't feel anything, the bookie could, and the pressure was in the right spot.



"I don't like being stolen from," Rehv said into the man's ear. "Cranks my shit right out. And if you think what the mob was going to do to you was bad, I will guarantee you that I am capable of worse. Now...I want you to sing for me, motherfucker."



Rehv twisted hard and the guy screamed for all he was worth, the sound loud and high, echoing in the low-ceilinged room. When the shriek began to trail off because the bookie had exhausted his air supply, Rehv relented and gave him a chance to refresh those pipes with some gasping. And then it was-



The second scream was louder and higher than the first, proving that vocalists did do better after a little warm-up.



The bookie jerked and jangled in the hold of the Moors, and Rehv kept at it, his symphath side watching raptly, like this was the best show on television.



It took about nine minutes until the guy lost consciousness.



After it was lights-out, Rehv let go and returned to his chair. One nod and Trez and iAm took the human through the back way, into the alley, where the cold would revive him eventually.



As they left, Rehv had a sudden image of Ehlena balancing all those boxes of dopamine in her arms as she came into the exam room. What would she think of him if she knew what he did to keep his business running? What would she say if she knew that, when he told a bookie he either paid up or his wife got FedEx packages that leaked blood on her doorstep, it wasn't a threat? What would she do if she knew that he was fully prepared to do the slice-and-dice himself or order Xhex, Trez, or iAm to do it for him?



Well, he already had the answer, didn't he.



Her voice, that clear, lovely voice, replayed in his mind: You'd better keep that. For someone who might ever use it.



Sure, she didn't know the particulars, but she was smart enough to turn down his business card.



Rehv focused on Xhex, who hadn't moved from her position against the front door. As silence stretched out, she stared down at the short-napped black carpet, her boot heel making a circle around herself.



"What," he said. When she didn't look up at him, he sensed her struggling to collect herself. "What the fuck happened?"



Trez and iAm came back into the office and settled against the black wall across from Rehv's desk. As they crossed their arms in front of their huge chests, they kept their mouths shut.



Silence was characteristic of Shadows...but coupled with Xhex's tight expression and the protractor routine she was pulling with that boot, shit had gone down.



"Talk. Now."



Xhex's eyes flipped up to his. "Chrissy Andrews is dead."



"How." Even though he knew.



"Beaten and strangled to death in her apartment. I had to go down to the morgue and ID the body."



"Son of a bitch."



"I'm going to take care of it." Xhex wasn't asking permission, and no matter what he said, she was going to go after that piece-of-shit boyfriend. "And I'm going to do it fast."



Generally speaking, Rehv was in charge, but he wasn't standing in her way on this. To him, his working girls weren't just a revenue center... They were employees who he cared about and identified with intimately. So if one got hurt, whether it was by a john or a boyfriend or a husband, he took a personal interest in payback.



Whores deserved respect, and his were going to get it.



"Teach him a lesson first," Rehv growled.



"Don't you worry about that."



"Shit...I blame myself," Rehv murmured as he reached forward and picked up his envelope opener. The thing was in the shape of a dagger and as sharp as a weapon, too. "We should have killed him sooner."



"She seemed as if she was better."



"Maybe she was just hiding it better."



The four of them sat in the quiet for a bit. There were a lot of losses in their profession-people turning up dead was hardly a news flash-but for the most part, he and his crew were the minus signs in the equations: They did the taking out. A loss of their own by someone else sat badly.



"You want the update on tonight?" Xhex asked.



"Not yet. Got a little news of my own to share." Forcing his head into gear, he looked at Trez and iAm. "What I'm about to say will make things very messy, and I want to give you both a chance to leave. Xhex, you don't get that option. Sorry."



Trez and iAm stayed put, which did not surprise him in the slightest. Trez also popped a middle finger at him. Not a shocker either.



"I went to Connecticut," Rehv said.



"You also went to the clinic," Xhex added. "Why?"



GPS sucked sometimes. Hard to have any privacy. "Forget the fucking clinic. Listen, I need you to do a job for me."



"Job as in...?"



"Think of Chrissy's boyfriend as a cocktail before dinner."



This got a cold smile out of her. "Tell me."



He stared at the point of the envelope opener, thinking that he and Wrath had laughed because they both had one: The king had come in to visit after the raids during the summer, to discuss council business, and had seen the thing out on the desk. Wrath had joked that in their day jobs they both led by the blade, even if they had a pen in their hands.



Wasn't that the truth. Although Wrath had morality on his side and Rehv had only self-interest.



So it was not with virtue that he'd made his decision and chosen the course. It was, as usual, what benefited him most.



"It's not going to be easy," he murmured.



"The fun ones never are."



Rehv focused on the sharp point of the opener. "This one...is not for fun."



With the night closing down and her shift ending, Ehlena was antsy. Date time. Decision time. The male was supposed to come and pick her up at the clinic in twenty minutes.



God, she was back to waffling again.



His name was Stephan. Stephan, son of Tehm, although she didn't know him or his family. He was a civilian, not an aristocrat, and he'd come in with his cousin, who'd cut his hand splitting logs for firewood. While she'd been doing the discharge paperwork, she'd talked to Stephan about the kinds of things single people talked about: He liked Radiohead; she did, too. She liked Indonesian food; he did, too. He worked in the human world, doing computer programming, thanks to virtual commuting. She was a nurse, duh. He lived at home with his parents, the only son in a solidly civilian family-or at least they'd sounded solidly civilian, his father doing construction for vampire contractors, his mother teaching the Old Language freelance.



Nice, normal. Trustworthy.



Considering what the aristocrats had done to her father's sanity, she figured that all seemed like a good bet, and when Stephan had asked her out for a coffee, she'd said yes, they'd agreed on tonight, and exchanged cell phone numbers.



But what was she going to do? Call him and say she couldn't because of a family situation? Go anyway, and worry about her father?



A quick call to Lusie from the locker room, though, and the news from home was favorable: Ehlena's father had had a long rest and was now calmly working on his papers at his desk.



Half an hour at an all-night diner. Maybe a shared scone. What was the harm?



As she decided to go once and for all, she didn't appreciate the image that flashed through her mind. Rehv's bare chest with those red star tattoos on it was not what she needed to be thinking about as she resolved to go on a date with another male.



What she needed to concentrate on was getting out of her uniform and at least nominally improving her appearance.



With the overday staff funneling in and those who had been on during the night leaving, she changed from her uniform into the skirt and sweater she'd brought with her-



She'd forgotten her shoes.



Great. White crepe soles were so sexy.



"What's wrong?" Catya said.



She turned around. "Any chance these two white boats on my feet don't totally ruin this outfit?"



"Er...honestly? They're not that bad."



"You so don't lie well."



"I gave it a shot."



Ehlena packed her uniform into her bag, redid her hair, and checked the makeup situation. Of course, she'd forgotten her eyeliner and mascara as well, so the cavalry was out of horses on that front, so to speak.



"I'm glad you're going," Catya said as she erased the night roster from the whiteboard.



"Considering you're my boss, that makes me nervous. I'd rather have you happy to see me coming into the clinic."



"No, it's not about work. I'm glad you're going out tonight."



Ehlena frowned and looked around. By some miracle, they were alone. "Who says I'm going anywhere but home?"



"A female going home doesn't change out of her uniform here. And she doesn't worry about how her footwear goes with her skirt. I'll spare you the who-is-he."



"That's a relief."



"Unless you want to volunteer?"



Ehlena laughed out loud. "No, I'd rather keep it private. But if it goes anywhere...I'll spill."



"And I'll keep you to that." Catya went over to her locker and just stared at it.



"You okay?" Ehlena said.



"I hate this damn war. I hate having the dead come in here, and seeing the pain they went through on their faces." Catya opened the locker and got busy getting her parka out. "Sorry, don't mean to be a downer."



Ehlena went over and put her hand on the female's shoulder. "I know just how you feel."



There was a moment between them as their eyes clung to each other's. And then Catya cleared her throat.



"Right, off you go. Your male awaits."



"He's picking me up here."



"Ohhh, maybe I'll just hang around and have a cigarette outside."



"You don't smoke."



"Drat, foiled again."



On her way to the exit, Ehlena checked in at the registration desk to make sure there was nothing else she needed to do with the handoff to the new shift. Satisfied everything was in order, she went through the doors and up the stairs until she was finally free of the clinic.



The night was out of the cool zip code and into chill city, the air smelling blue to her, if the color did indeed have a scent: There was just something so fresh and icy and clear as she breathed deep and exhaled in soft clouds. With each inhale, she felt as if she were taking the sapphire sprawl of the heavens above into her lungs and that the stars were sparks skipping through her body.



As the last of the nurses departed, dematerializing or driving off, depending on what they had planned, she said good-bye to the stragglers. Then Catya came and went.



Ehlena stamped her feet and checked her watch. The male was ten minutes late. No big deal.



Leaning back against the aluminum siding, she felt her blood sing in her veins, an odd freedom swelling in her chest as she thought about going out somewhere with a male on her own-



Blood. Veins.



Rehvenge hadn't had his arm treated.



The thought slammed into her head and lingered like the echo of a big noise. He hadn't dealt with that arm. There had been nothing in the record about the infection, and Havers was as scrupulous about his notes as he was about the staff uniforms and the cleanliness of the patient rooms and the organization of the supply closets.



When she'd come back from the pharmacy with the drugs, Rehvenge had had his shirt on and done up at the cuffs, but she'd assumed that was because the examination had been finished. Now she was willing to bet he'd put it on right after she'd finished taking the blood.



Except...it was none of her business, was it. Rehvenge was an adult male well within his rights to make poor decisions about his health. Just like that drug overdose who had barely survived the night, and just like the any number of patients who nodded a lot when the doctor was in front of them, but who went home and were noncompliant about their prescriptions or their aftercare.



There was nothing she could do to save someone who didn't want to be rescued. Nothing. And that was among the biggest tragedies in her work. All she could do was present options and consequences and hope the patient chose wisely.



A breeze rolled in, shooting right up her skirt and making her envy Rehvenge's fur coat. Leaning out from the side of the clinic, she tried to see down the drive, looking for headlights.



Ten minutes later, she checked her watch again.



And ten minutes after that, she lifted her wrist once more.



She'd been stood up.



It wasn't a surprise. The date had been so hastily thrown together, and they didn't really know each other, did they.



As another cold breeze tackled her, she took out her cell phone and texted: Hi, Stephan-sorry to have missed you tonight. Maybe some other time. E.



She put her phone back in her pocket and dematerialized home. Instead of going right in, she burrowed into her cloth coat and paced up and back on the cracked sidewalk that ran down the side of the house to the rear door. As the frigid wind kicked up again, a blast hit her face.



Her eyes stung.



Turning her back to the gust, wisps of her hair feathered forward as if they were trying to flee the chill, and she shivered.



Great. Now when her vision got watery, she didn't have the excuse of the stiff breeze.



God, was she crying? Over what could just be some misunderstanding? With a guy she barely knew? Why did it matter so much to her?



Ah, but it wasn't him at all. The problem was her. She hated that she was where she had been when she'd left the house: alone.



Trying to get a grip, literally, she reached out for the handle of the back door, but couldn't bring herself to go in. The image of that crappy, too-ordered kitchen, and the remembered sound of those creaky stairs going to the cellar, and the dusty, papery smell of her father's room were as familiar as her reflection in any mirror. Tonight it was all too clear, a brilliant flashlight nailing her in both eyes, a roaring sound in her ears, an overwhelming stench bombarding her nose.



She dropped her arm. The date had been a get-out-of-jail-free card. A raft off the island. A hand reached over the cliff she was hanging off of.



The desperation snapped her into focus like nothing else could. She had no business going out with anyone if that was her attitude. It wasn't fair to the guy or healthy for her. When Stephan hit her up again, if he did, she was just going to say she was too busy-



"Ehlena? You okay?"



Ehlena jumped back from the door that had evidently just opened wide. "Lusie! Sorry, just...just thinking too much. How's Father doing?"



"Fine, honestly fine. He's sleeping again now."



Lusie stepped out of the house and closed off the escaping heat from the kitchen. After two years, she was an achingly familiar figure, her boho clothes and her long salt-and-pepper hair comforting. As usual, she had her medicine bag in one hand and her big purse hanging off her opposite shoulder. Inside the medicine bag there was a standard-issue blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope, and some low-level medications-all of which Ehlena had seen put to use. Inside the purse there was the New York Times crossword puzzle, some Wrigley's spearmint gum she liked to chew, a wallet, and the peach lipstick she slipped across her lips on a regular basis. Ehlena knew about the crossword puzzle because Lusie and her dad did them together, the gum because of the wrappers that went into the trash, and the lipstick was self-evident. She was guessing on the wallet.



"How are you?" Lusie waited, her gray eyes clear and focused. "You're back a little early."



"He stood me up."



The way Lusie's hand landed on Ehlena's shoulder was what made the female a great nurse: With one touch she conveyed comfort and warmth and empathy, all of which worked to reduce blood pressure and heart rate and agitation.



All of which helped the mind unscramble.



"I'm sorry," Lusie said.



"Oh, no, it's better this way. I mean, I'm looking for too much."



"Really? You sounded pretty levelheaded to me when you told me about it. You were just going for coffee-"



For some reason she spoke the truth: "Nope. I was looking for a way out. Which won't ever happen, because I will never leave him." Ehlena shook her head. "Anyway, thank you so much for coming-"



"It doesn't have to be an either-or situation. Your father and you-"



"I really appreciate your coming early tonight. It was good of you."



Lusie smiled in the way Catya had earlier in the evening, tightly, sadly. "Okay, I'll drop it, but I'm right on this. You can have a relationship and still be a good daughter to your father." Lusie glanced over at the door. "Listen, you're going to have to watch that sore on his leg. The one he did on that nail? I put a new dressing on, but I'm worried about it. I think it's getting infected."



"I will, and thank you."



After Lusie dematerialized, Ehlena went into the kitchen, locked the door and bolted it, and headed down to the basement.



In his room, her father was asleep in his huge Victorian bed, the massive carved headboard like the framing arch of a tomb. His head was against a stack of white silk pillows, and the bloodred velvet duvet was folded precisely halfway down his chest.



He looked like a king in repose.



When the mental illness had really grabbed hold of him, his hair and beard had gone white, causing Ehlena to worry that the end-of-life changes were going to start in on him. But after fifty years, he still looked the same, his face unwrinkled, his hands strong and steady.



It was so hard. She couldn't imagine life without him. And she couldn't imagine having a life with him.



Ehlena closed his door partway and went into her own room, where she showered and changed and stretched out on her bed. All she had was a twin with no headboard, one pillow, and cotton sheets, but she didn't care about the luxury stuff. She needed a place to lay her tired bones each day and that was it.



Usually she read a little before falling asleep, but not today. She just didn't have the energy. Reaching to the side, she turned off the lamp, crossed her feet at the ankles, and laid her arms out straight.



With a smile, she realized she and her father slept in exactly the same position, didn't they.



In the dark, she thought about Lusie and the way she followed through about her father's cut. Good nursing was about being concerned for the welfare of patients, even after they left. It was about coaching family members as to what follow-up care was needed, and being a resource.



It wasn't the kind of job you just dumped because your shift was over.



She turned the lamp back on with a click.



Getting up, she went over to the desktop she'd gotten for free from the clinic when the IT systems had been upgraded. The Internet was slow to connect, as always, but eventually she was able to access the clinic's medical files database.



She signed in with her password, performed one search...then another. The first was a compulsion, the second a curiosity.



Saving them both, she shut down the laptop and picked up her phone.