The Thief

Back when he had been healthy and she had been centered, when time had seemed like a river without beginning or end, it had been so important to keep herself from saying those words. Now? Impending death wiped out all that self-protection and that illusion of choice and free will, giving her a courage she had lacked.

Forcing herself to go around to him, she reached out to take his hand—

Frowning, she looked back. “Why is he restrained?”

“It was for his safety and ours—”

Without warning, Assail’s lids popped open and he looked at her—and Sola gasped. His silvery eyes were dilated so wide, there was no color around the pupils, and the sclera was red, as if his skull had filled up with blood and drowned out the white.

As he stared through the pain of his suffering, he began to pant, his hollow chest pumping up and down and his arms rising against the binds that kept them in place.

Sola took his hand and squeezed his cold fingers. “Assail? I’ve missed you.”

His mouth moved as if he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, his response was a single crystalline tear that formed in the corner of his eye…and dropped silently onto the pillow.

“Assail,” she begged. “Can you stay with me? Don’t go now. Stay here with me for a little while?”

She had no idea whether he could see out of those eyes, but the doctor was right. He knew it was her. He absolutely knew she had come.

THIRTEEN

“You’re hurt, my man.”

Instead of responding to Butch’s co-dependency, V leaned forward between the front seats of the Hummer. “Yo, Q, this piece of shit go any faster?”

Qhuinn shot a glare over his shoulder. “We’re doing seventy in a forty-five. And I just blew through two red lights. This is not the Millennium Falcon—what else do you want.”

“Cut through the park up here. Just punch over the curb and plow through the bitch—”

“Next time, you drive. Until then, shut up.”

Sitting back, V crossed his arms over his chest and refused to meet the cop’s annoyingly steady stare—which was being beamed across the backseat like a laser. Instead, he glared out at the small, chic shops they were tooling by. When his upper arm burned, he repositioned the damn thing, and then had to move it yet again.

So yeah, fine, the cop might have a point, but V wasn’t going to see what was doing with his biceps, that was for damn sure.

At least not in front of witnesses. Besides, there was no blood—and the sleeve on his leather jacket wasn’t even broken. So what could possibly be wrong under there?

As his cell phone went off, he checked the text and hid a grimace as that arm of his let out another holler. “Wrath is ready for us.”

“Everyone’s coming in?” Blay asked from the passenger seat up front.

“Yeah, even the Bastards.” V put his phone away. “So can you drive faster there, Grandma?”

Qhuinn bared his fangs in the rearview mirror. “Put a patch on, asshole, if you can’t handle being without your nicotine.”

As Qhuinn turned up the Guns N’ Roses, V wanted to lob a fuck-off with plenty of spin on it at the brother, but it was hard to argue with the logic. He was, in fact, pissy because he was jonesing for a cigarette, and by the way, he couldn’t wait until Qhuinn got off this rock kick he was on. How about some Bryson Tiller, FFS.

Butch elbowed him in the wound, making him hide a groan. “Take this,” the cop said.

As V’s vision checkerboarded on him, he grabbed whatever the cop was offering. Wait, Nicorette?

“When did you start this?” V asked as he popped a piece of gum out of its plastic tile.

“About a month ago. I won’t smoke in front of Marissa, it’s too nasty. But you know, old habits die hard, and lately, I’ve been stressed the hell out.”

V put the square in his mouth and gave his molars a workout. The taste wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t Wrigley’s, either. What mattered was that after a little bit, he did feel considerably less like playing target practice with their driver, true? And yeah, sure, he could have dematerialized to the Audience House, but Butch, as a half-breed, couldn’t ghost out, and V never felt right about deserting the guy during transports.

“You got any more of that?” he asked.

“Sure. Take another if you want.”

As Butch sent a flat of the things in his direction, V popped every piece out and put it all in his mouth.

“Pay you back,” he said around the basketball-sized wad in his mouth.

When Butch didn’t reply, he glanced over at his roommate. The guy was staring at him in utter disbelief.

“What.”

Butch shook his head slowly. “You are about to fly off the face of this planet, my friend. There’s enough nicotine in that to take down an elephant.”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered as they turned onto a street with mansions on both sides.

Wrath’s Audience House was halfway down, the yellow Federal set back on its snowy yard like something out of a catalog for fine china and crystal.

Qhuinn pulled into the drive and went all the way back to the detached, two-story garage. As V got out, he looked at those windows on its second floor and remembered taking the three humans who had tried to kill Ruhn up there. Saxton, the King’s solicitor, had more than adequately ahvenged his love, something that had been a surprise. Lawyers tended to be better with the pen-across-the-page than the dagger-across-the-throat, but motivation was the key to everything—and thanks to Saxton, those humans had not come down for breakfast, as the cop liked to say.

V had enjoyed his job that night, for real.

Approaching the mansion’s rear door, he jumped ahead and held things open for the cop, and Qhuinn and Blay, then the four of them passed through the kitchen and went out to the front of the grand house. Except for some doggen vacuuming upstairs, the place had emptied out at the King’s command, the civilians rescheduled, the receptionist dismissed.

For what was going to be discussed, there could be no witnesses.

Just as they came into the open foyer, V pared off and hit the loo that males used, locking himself in the one-stall room and stripping off his jacket to see what his arm looked like—

Oh…fuck.

No reason to lean into the mirror for a closer look. The snake-shaped wound that ran from the top of his left shoulder down past his elbow was the color of a neon bar sign, glowing ruby red in his tan skin.

Naturally, his first impulse was to poke it—okay, ow. There was no blood, though, the epidermis not so much broken as singed—like he’d been lashed with a hot chain and gotten a third-degree burn.

Jane should take a look at—

Nope, he corrected himself. Not an option. Besides, he was a medic, he could take care of himself.

Starting the faucet, he grabbed a hand towel and wiped the wound off with some soap and hot water. When he was done, he pulled his jacket back on and checked the sleeve again. The leather was truly intact. So damned weird.

He thought about the interaction with that shadow entity, reviewing its approach, the altercation, the extermination. It was bad that he didn’t know what the thing was, but there was something so much worse than the no-familiar.

Much, much worse.

Leaving the bathroom, he went down to where all the conversating was, entering the dining room and picking a place out of the way for a couple of reasons: No, he didn’t want to talk about the attack until everyone was here—he was going to do it once and only once. More than that, no, he didn’t want to explain to anyone else who might have noticed why he and Jane were not holding hands and skipping together wherever they went. And NO, he didn’t want any commentary on this bulging wad in his cheek.

So yeah, he far-cornered it and kept to himself.

The dining room was typical Darius, elegant, old school, classy. It was also essentially empty now. Its handmade table, which had been long as a bowling alley and glossy as a mirror, had been moved out, along with dozens of chairs and two sideboards the size of SUVs. The only things left of the former way the house had functioned were the big-as-a-lawn rug and the chandelier, which hung, like a galaxy, in the center of the space.

A couple of armchairs had been angled toward each other in front of the marble fireplace and the desk of the King’s solicitor was off to the left. Every night, civilians came and went, taking their time with their leader, seeking blessings for matings and young, judgments on disputes, and guidance about matters small and large. It was the Old Ways in the modern world, Wrath stepping into his father’s practice after so many eons of not having any contact at all with those he ruled.