The Beast

Vishous turned around a couple of times, as if the act of pivoting would somehow prove or disprove this reality. Then he just stopped and became one more statue in the cemetery, his eyes fixed, but seeing nothing, his body frozen where he stood.

He couldn’t decide whether what he was feeling was relief or grief or . . . hell, he didn’t know what the fuck it was. And yes, he had a sudden impulse to go get Butch and have his best friend stretch him out on a rack and whip him until the blood spilled cleaned out the mess inside of his head.

The Bloodletter was dead, V’s sire long since having been killed by his sister, the fucker passing on to Dhund if there was any justice in the world.

Now, his mahmen was gone.

Neither of them had been much in the way of parents, and that had been fine. That had been his normal, such that people who had had a mahmen and a father who were functioning properly in those roles had always seemed like the weird ones.

So it seemed utterly fucking bizarre to feel rootless now considering he’d never actually had a family.

He thought back to Rhage’s survival on that battlefield. And then considered that tiny little infant pulling through when she really shouldn’t have.

“Fuck,” he exhaled.

Just like his mother. The last thing she did before she kicked it, if you could call her disappearance by the mortal sobriquet death, was grant him his prayer—and save Qhuinn’s daughter’s life.

A final fuck you, as it were.

Or, shit, maybe that was just his nasty filter twisting everything into a bad light.

Whatever. She was gone. . . and that was that. Except . . .

Jesus Christ, he thought as he rubbed his face. The Scribe Virgin was gone.

SIXTY-FIVE

As night fell, Assail was still down in the Brotherhood’s training center complex, sitting in the chair opposite Markcus, who had been asleep the entire day.

Given the length of time Assail had been gone, and his plans for the evening, he took his phone out, his fingers flying over the screen as he texted his cousins—

“Whate’er is that?” came a hoarse inquiry.

Whipping his head around, he was surprised to see that Markcus was awake. “An iPhone.” He held the device up. “It’s . . . a cell phone.”

“I am afraid . . .” The male pushed himself up a bit higher on the pillows. “I am afraid that tells me nothing.”

For a moment, Assail tried to imagine all that stringy hair being gone, some pounds on that frame, the face filled out so it didn’t look so skeletal. Markcus was going to prove to be rather . . . comely, as it were.

Shaking himself, Assail murmured, “It’s a phone? You know, you can call people? Or text them?”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what a phone is?”

Markcus nodded. “But they were on tables, not in pockets.”

Assail sat forward. “How long did she hold you down there?”

The male’s entire body reacted to the question, tensing up. But he did not turn away from the inquiry. “What year is it?” When Assail answered, that pale face seemed to crumble. “Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe . . .”

“How long.”

“Thirty-two years. What . . . what month is this?”

“October. Almost November.”

Markcus nodded. “It felt cold. When you carried me out of the house . . . it felt cold, but I was not sure whether that was me or . . .”

“It was not you.”

Jesus, Naasha must have abducted him very close to when she’d first mated her hellren. She must have known what she was in for with the old male. But why hadn’t she taken better care of Markcus? Morality issues aside, blood sources were, after all, only as good as the health of the flesh they inhabited.

Except then Assail thought of the way Naasha had used him, and others. She had clearly found many outlets for feeding.

Neglect had obviously occurred when the necessity decreased.

There was a silence. And then Markcus said, “How did you know I was in there?”

“I was exploring the house in search of . . .” Assail waved the explanation away for its lack of importance. What mattered more was . . . “We have all wondered where your kin are? Who may we call on your behalf?”

“My blood are all back in the Old Country. I left them to come here because I wanted . . .” Markcus’s voice trailed off. “I wanted an adventure. I came unto that house to apply for a workmale’s position. The mistress passed by my quarters one evening, and then she summoned me unto her presence down in the cellar. She gave me some wine and . . .”

The male’s eyes seemed to cloud over, as if his memories were so dark and heavy they were capable of robbing him of consciousness.

“How may we contact your kin?” Assail prompted.

“I know not. I . . .” Markcus focused abruptly. “No, do not contact them. Not now. I cannot see them like this.”

As the male lifted his wrists with their tattoos, he seemed as helpless as he had been when chained in that cell. “What shall I e’er tell them? We are naught but commoners—I had to work for my passage on the ship to New York harbor. But all bloodlines have pride. And there is no . . . pride in this.”

Assail scrubbed his face so hard that his poor, fucked-up nose hummed. Which reminded him. He had to get more coke before he performed his duties at nightfall.

“You may stay with myself and my cousins,” he announced. “You will be safe there.”