The Thief

Hard to read where the brother was with this sitch. Maybe he was pissed off. Maybe he had gas. More likely, he was waiting to see what happened next.

But yeah, no, there wasn’t any V-beat-his-ass-for-me vibe coming off him.

Goddamn it.

Refocusing on Lassiter, V drawled, “Come on, angel, tell us what you know.”

Lassiter shook his head, his bizarrely beautiful eyes steady as an anchor at the bottom of the sea. “I cannot interfere in this. It is not my business to change any course before you.”

V chewed harder and recognized that yes, a monster buzz was coming on. Either that or he was stroking out from frustration. “Why are you trying to sound like fucking Morpheus. Flo from Progressive is more your style.”

“Enough,” Wrath snapped. “V, tell us what happened.”

As V started talking, he narrowed his eyes on the angel, challenging him to step in. “Butch and I were working our territory. An entity came from out of nowhere and attacked us. It was a black form, elastic, capable of extending portions of itself like it was rubber, but hard as steel when it hit you. It was also armed with a pair of conventional knives.”

“Were you injured?” Wrath asked.

“Nope. Not at all.” As Butch coughed at the lie, V kept right on going. “I killed it—or destroyed it, whatever—by shooting point-blank at the entity. The thing squealed like a motherfucker—then it was gone. No residue. No smell. No…nothing.” He paused. “Anything you’d like to add, angel?”

Lassiter showed no reaction at all. He just stood there in the corner, away from all the fighters, the glow of the gold on him giving him a halo that made V uneasy.

Something was going on here.

“If you’re not going to contribute anything,” V snapped at the SOB, “then why are you here.”

“Shut up, Vishous.” Wrath’s black sunglasses swung around the room. “I’m not going to ask if anyone else has seen this shit. I’m damn sure it would have come up in conversation. Clearly, the Omega has a new weapon.”

“I don’t know that it’s the Omega.” V winced as he got a hand-rolled out of his pocket and his biceps bitched about it. “Maybe something else is at play here.”

“Based on what?”

As V lit the end with his Bic, it was hard to inhale around the Nicorette, but he managed. “Didn’t smell like a lesser. Didn’t read like the Omega—I can sense that evil. Butch can, too. The telltales just weren’t there.”

“I don’t know what it was,” the cop said. “But at least you could shoot it.”

“I say we double up on guns,” Tohr interjected from next to Wrath. “We need to load everyone up with extra munitions.”

“Too bad Assail’s down for the count,” someone muttered. “That shit he got us was sweet.”

“Can we find out who his contacts were?” somebody else asked.

“Those cousins of his must know—”

“There was one other thing.” As all eyes returned to him, V exhaled. “There was someone in the area right before the attack. Ain’t that right, Xcor.”

Xcor, who was standing with his boys, bowed to the King. “My former second in command, Throe. He was there.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Wrath demanded.

“I smelled cologne in the alley the thing came from.” V shrugged. “And the scent of a male. Xcor came when I called and ID’d him.”

There was a bunch of frickin’ chatter at that point, which Wrath put to rest by whistling through his two front teeth loud enough to make the chandelier twinkle.

“Xcor,” the King said, “your boy have any access to special tricks? Anything we need to know about him?”

“He was, and I believe will remain, an aristocrat,” the Bastard replied. “So other than social manners he did not require during his tenure with us, he has no special skills that we did not teach him.”

“So it was a coincidence,” Tohr said. “Throe just happened to be in that part of town?”

“Maybe he’s doing drugs,” someone said.

V just kept on staring at Lassiter. Something wasn’t adding up.

And not just about Xcor’s little friend and that dark shadow.

As a wave of trippy dizziness hit him, he shook his head to clear it—and then looked down at the hand-rolled. Chewed a little more on the basketball between his molars.

And wondered exactly how much nicotine he had in his system.

Time to add some alcohol, he decided. The second this meeting was over he was going to tamp down this head rush with some Goose and enjoy some good-night-Gracie.

What he wasn’t going to do was go back to the Pit and see how much Jane was not there.

Nope. That simply didn’t bear thinking about.

* * *

—

The patient room Jane had been using as a crash pad was a generic one for non-criticals. The bed was standard-issue hospital stuff, with an inclinable head and liftable foot, and every time she laid down on it, she was reminded that they probably should upgrade their sheets and pillows.

As she closed herself in, she ran out of gas and stood there like a dummy, staring at the wrinkled covers. All things considered, she had worked this perfectly, her exhaustion such that the instant she got prone, she should pass out. There was only one problem. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sola and Assail’s love for each other, and she had a feeling those memories might just win over passing out.

Heading into the bathroom, she didn’t turn the light on because she did not want to see herself in the mirror. Hot water, not her reflection, was what she was after, and she leaned into the narrow shower stall and got the spray rolling.

Her Crocs were happy to be kicked off. Socks were stripped. Then her scrubs hit the floor. Even though all of that took a minute and a half, it felt like an hour until she was under the warm rush, tilting her head back and getting her hair wet.

So yes, ghosts did take showers. If they wanted to—and sometimes it felt good to pretend she was normal…to make like she had to wash her hair for it to look good, had to clean her body, had to exfoliate, for godsakes.

There was a reason for rituals. When you were lost in your own life, they provided a false structure, like paper walls for your house of cards, the illusion that things were predictable and safe sometimes the only thing that got you through.

Grabbing the Biolage, she got too aggressive with her squeeze and ended up with a palmful of shampoo, but she wasn’t going to waste it.

Not like doing this at all wasn’t a waste in the first place—

As she slapped the load on the top of her head, the knock on the outside door was loud enough so she could hear it over the falling water. “Yes?” she called out.

“He’s awake again,” Ehlena answered.

Jane pulled the curtain back and stuck her head around. “Assail is back?”

The nurse leaned into the room and smiled. “He is! And he’s not having a seizure. He’s taking water.”

Jane pushed dripping suds back into her hairline. “I’m sorry…what?”

“You heard me. Through a straw.”

“Oh, my God, that’s fantastic—but do not remove the restraints. We’ve got a long way to go. I’m coming right out—”

“No, it’s fine.” Ehlena swept a chill-out hand through the air. “Take your time, I’ll let you know if there’s an emergency—”

“They need me—”

“Jane. It’s fine. I’ll come and get you if anything happens. Enjoy your shower.”

Jane closed the curtain sharply and started to rinse the shampoo. “I just need a minute!”

Jumping back out, she rushed to dry off and get her clothes on again, nearly leaving without putting on her socks-and-Crocs. Running down the hall, she—

Pulled up short.

Manny was standing outside of Assail’s patient room with Ehlena. But he wasn’t smiling.

“What’s wrong?” Jane asked. “Is he arresting? Let me see—”

“No.” Manny stepped into her way. “You don’t need to go in there right now.”