The Beast

If she had had a body, he would have grabbed her and forced her to pay attention. There were no arms for him to drag her out of bed with or shoulders to shake.

He was about to yell again when words were spoken throughout the quarters as if they were piped in through Surround Sound.

What shall be will be.

Like that explained everything. Like he was a cocksucker for coming and bothering her. Like he was wasting her time. “Why did you create us if you don’t give a shit.”

Exactly what are you concerned with. His future, or yours.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Oh, and yeah, he knew you weren’t supposed to question her, but fuck that for a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Is translation truly necessary?

As V locked his jaws, he reminded himself that Rhage was beasting out and dying in that incarnation down on the field: Trading bitch slaps with mommy dearest wasn’t the critical path here.

“Just save him, all right. Move him out of the theater of conflict so we can operate on him and I’ll leave you to rot in peace.”

And that would solve his destiny how.

Okay, now he knew why humans with mother issues went on Lassiter’s talk shows. Every time V got around this female, he came down with a case of womb-induced psychosis.

“He’ll keep fucking breathing, that’s what’ll be solved.”

Destiny will simply be served by other means.

V pictured Hollywood pulling a bath-mat slip-and-fall that killed him at home. Or a choke job on a turkey leg. Or God only knew what else that could carry a brother off.

“So change it. You’re so fucking powerful. Change his destiny right now.”

There was a long pause, and he wondered whether or not she’d fallen asleep or some shit—and, man, did he hate her. She was such a goddamn quitter, pulling out of the world, sequestering herself up here as a recluse in a sulk because no one was kissing her ass like she wanted.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

Meanwhile, one of the best fighters in the war, who was an absolute mission-critical part of the King’s private guard, was about to go poof! off the planet. And V was the last person to want somebody else to wipe his butthurt away, but he had to give saving Rhage his best shot, and who the fuck else had this kind of pull?

“He’s important,” V snapped. “His life matters.”

To you.

“Fuck that, this isn’t about me. He matters to the King, the Brotherhood, the war. We lose him? We’ve got a problem.”

Does it not occur to you to be honest.

“You think I’m worried about him and Mary? Fine. I’ll throw that shit in, too—’cuz right now, you don’t look like you could stand up much less escort a non-entity who you took off the mortal continuum across the divide unto the Fade at a determined time of that female’s choosing.”

Fuck. Now that he said that out loud, he really had to wonder whether this limp thing on the bedding platform could actually perform on that promise she’d made back in what felt like the old days, even though it was only three years ago.

So much had changed.

Except for the fact that he still hated weakness of any kind. And continued to want to be anywhere but in his mother’s presence.

Leave me. You tire me.

“I tire you. Yeah, ’cuz you got so many fucking things to do up here. Jesus Christ.”

Fine, fuck her. He’d figure something else out. Some other . . . something.

Shit, what else was there?

Vishous turned away for the door he’d busted open. With each step he took, he expected her to call him back, say something else, put a stinger into his chest that would be almost as lethal as what Rhage had been taken down with. When she didn’t, and the door shut directly behind him, nearly catching him in the ass, he thought he should have fucking known.

She didn’t even care enough to shit on him.

Back in the courtyard, the blood trail that he’d left on the marble pavers was like the destiny he’d followed in his life, jagged and messy, providing evidence of pain he largely failed to acknowledge. And yeah, he wanted the stain to seep into the stone, like maybe that would get her attention.

On that note, why didn’t he just throw himself on the goddamn ground and pull a temper tantrum like he was in the aisles at fucking Target and pissed off over a Tonka toy.

As he stood there, the silence registered as a sound in and of itself. Which was both illogical and precisely the experience he had as he realized how truly quiet it was up here now. The Chosen were all on Earth, learning about themselves, separating into individuals, turning away from their traditional roles of service to his mother. The race was just the same, existing in modern times where the old cycles of festivals and observances were mostly ignored, and traditions that had once been respected were now at risk of being forgotten.

Good, he thought. He hoped she was lonely and felt disrespected. He wanted her nice and isolated, with even her most faithful turning their backs on her.

He wanted her to hurt.

He wanted her to die.

His eyes went to the birds he had brought her, and the flock cowered from him, shuffling to a set of branches in the back of the white tree, huddling together as if he were going to snap their necks one by one.

Those finches had been an olive branch from a son who had never been truly wanted, but also hadn’t behaved all that well. His mother probably hadn’t spared them much more than a glance—and what do you know, he had moved beyond that brief flare of conciliatory weakness, too, back to the shores of his enmity. How could he not?