Chapter Twelve
The Sun CrestTM Neighborhood
Off Rollins Field Road
Suburbs of Caldwell
Allhan never felt at ease arriving at the Sun Crest real estate development, and after tonight and everything that had happened, he nearly vibrated out of his own skin as he re-formed inside the gates.
Standing at the center of the plowed circle from which six middle-class-America houses fanned out, he had so much guilt and dread curdling his stomach, he felt like he’d sucked back a sandwich made of bad mayo and surstromming.
Glancing around, he interviewed the various snowbanks for places to throw up, and didn’t all the Suzy-homemaker, cozy-cozy crap make his nausea worse.
Still, he had to give the Black Dagger Brotherhood credit.
As ruses to fool humans went, the neighborhood was perfect.
Everything from the architecture to the landscaping, from the curtains in the windows to the lazy smoke curling up from a couple of the chimneys, gave off the impression of happy, no-drama, family living.
And like all the best illusions, it was a soup-to-nuts kind of thing.
There had been Christmas lights and red-and-green decorations draped all over the roofs and the porches in December, and Thanksgiving had been punctuated with cornucopias and turkeys on the doors and the lawns.
October 1st had brought blow-up ghosties and ghouls along with a raft of pumpkins, and though he hadn’t been here in July, he could guess that red-white-and-blue wreaths had been hung for Independence Day, and Easter bunnies had been out in April.
It was all a lie, though. No unaffiliated humans had ever or would ever live here.
From what he understood, the neighborhood had been built up some three decades ago as cover for the subterranean facility the First Family and the Black Dagger Brotherhood lived in.
These aboveground houses were occupied by doggen to keep appearances going, and technically he could enter any of the front doors.
He always went to the yellow Colonial. Fritz Perlmutter, the First Family’s butler, lived there, and whenever Allhan went in, he got to be greeted with a warm welcome, and offers of food or services, and a pledge that anything he required would be provided immediately.
He was always glad to see that doggen, he thought as he walked up the steps onto the shallow porch. Something about that wrinkled smile made him feel less alone. At least for a moment.
As he got to the door, he looked up into the security camera, and a second later, the lock was sprung for him.
No Fritz tonight, and he was disappointed while he made his way to the pantry.
Finding the latch that was hidden under the shelves that held the preserved peaches, he sprung the secret release, and then went through all the checkpoints necessary to gain access to the stairwell.
On the descent underground, he thought back to those snowy woods, and that female who had smelled so good, looked so good, sounded so good.
The memories of her were so consuming, the next thing he knew, he was down at the bottom and being cleared to enter the circular promenade that linked all the residences.
Thus why it was called the Wheel—
Deep voices down the way stopped him short. Closing his eyes, he straightened his spine and withdrew into himself. When he started walking forward, he told himself he was behind the bunker he’d built, safely hidden. Camouflaged in the environment.
God, he felt even sicker. This was wrong. All wrong—
“V?” The King’s voice was like thunder, rumbling through the air. “What the fuck are you doing out of bed—”
“Six civilians,” came the rough reply. “Attacked right off Market, in an alley behind that club, Bathe. Two were abducted, three killed outright, one was mortally wounded and survived long enough to tell what had happened. No human involvement. No calls into our emergency response number. No IDs.”
Allhan hurried up, his nose parsing out the scents. The Brother Rhage was with them, too—and he caught the overhang of fresh blood, which was alarming.
“Who found them,” the King demanded.
Coming around the turn, Allhan answered: “I d-did.”
An entire crowd turned toward him, but he stared only at the Brother Vishous.
The fighter was dressed in a set of loose scrubs and standing lopsided on one leg like his hip or knee hurt.
With a bandage wrapped around his nose and scrapes all over his face, it was clear he’d been in an accident or had some hand-to-hand go very wrong.
Had to be an accident. Hand-to-hand didn’t go wrong with that fighter.
“Tell me, son,” the King ordered in a level tone. “I want to know everything.”
Swallowing through a tight throat, Allhan glanced at Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath—and wanted to shit himself.
The King was nothing to be toyed with, not that any of them were.
But that hard, cruel visage, and those blind eyes that still seemed as if they focused on you, made him feel like the front he’d been putting on was transparent.
Before he could find his voice, even more people arrived, coming from both directions in the corridor.
The faces and scents were as familiar as his own by now, and all he could think of as the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the other fighters stood around him was that he needed to remain in control of himself.
The reality of the grim game he was playing was never more clear than when he was surrounded. By them… or the enemy.
Locking his eyes on the floor, Allhan cleared his throat. “When I left the club through the emergency exit we use, I f-found them in the passageway… on the east side. The smell… of their blood was so strong. I called for help, just like we’re supposed to do—”
Vishous cut in. “Xcor and Payne were covering the territory and came right away.”
“R-right away,” Allhan echoed with a nod. “Th-the males who were attacked had been with Shuli, but he left early. They are—were—his f-friends.”
“When you found them, one of them was alive,” Wrath nudged.
“Yes, he d-died in my arms… and before he went unto the F-fade, he told me when they got outside… they smelled slayers, and then heard a clicking sound? They were tasered. Dragged farther down the alley. T-two were taken. I don’t know any of their names, not even his.
He didn’t give it to me before he… I would recognize their p-pictures, though. Every one of them.”
“I know you would,” Vishous said immediately. “You did everything right.”
No, he hadn’t. No, he wasn’t.
Oh, God, he was going to throw up.
The King’s head rotated from side to side, taking in the assembled as if the male could see through the black wraparounds that always hid his eyes.
“And no one’s called anything in?” Wrath demanded. “On our emergency response line.”
“Not yet,” the Brother Tohrment wheezed.
“I d-did try to find out who the males were.” Allhan spoke faster and faster to get through the lies. “As soon as I could, I went b-back into the club to see if any one of their group were still in there, but everybody was gone? Shuli will know—”
“Who’s called that male?” Wrath interrupted.
“He’s not answering.” Vishous’s nasally voice spoke up. “I can go over—”
“I’ll go,” Tohrment interjected between coughs.
“Oh, fuck that,” someone said. “You two can barely stand—”
“I’m going—”
“—no, I’ll go—”
“You guys are fucking staying home—”
There was an eruption of talk, all the Brothers and fighters in the corridor speaking at once, everybody volunteering to head over to L.W.’s ahstrux nohtrum’s home. And as Allhan didn’t want to field any more questions about the evening, he snuck through the big bodies.
If he didn’t find a bathroom quick, things were going to get messy.
The residence in which Vishous and Jane lived was close by, and as he ducked inside and was greeted by the collection of colorful Crocs right by the door, he felt the walls close in on him. Next were all the duffle bags on the floor, and then it was the hallway hung with medical diplomas…
Everything felt like home to him now.
Although that had more to do with who lived here than what was on the floor or the walls.
As his stomach heaved, he clapped a hand over his mouth and started running. When he got to the spare room he’d been given, he skidded around the corner and bolted for the en suite.
He made it. Barely.
Landing on his hands and knees in front of the toilet, he grabbed on to the porcelain tank and held hard as his torso cranked into a fist and he tossed up yellow bile into the bowl. After a couple of rounds of nothing much, he lifted his head and used some Kleenex to wipe his mouth.
God, he hated the taste.
Hitting the flusher, he rested his head on his arm and stared out into the bedroom.
The bed he’d been sleeping on for the last couple of months was just a twin, and the little side table next to it had a lamp with one of those charger plug-in bases.
The bureau across the way was utilitarian as well—which was fine because he just had three pairs of jeans, two sweatshirts, and a collection of Hanes undershirts to fill out the narrow drawers.
Nothing hanging in the closet, only Vans and some Crocs on the floor in there.
Well, Jane had just gotten him some snow boots. They were still in their box on top of the bureau.
As he remembered her knocking gently on the door, and offering the gift with a hopeful, almost apologetic, look on her face, a fresh wave of nausea tackled him. Lurching forward, he dry-heaved on repeat so many times he felt like the inside of his esophagus was on fire—
“How you doin’, son.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he told himself that his eyes were watering because of the straining. But that lie didn’t hold, not in his head. Not in his heart.
So many plans. He’d had so many plans about the way the second half of this was all going to go.
He’d just never thought that he’d find what he’d always been looking for in the midst of his deceptions:
A father who loved him. A mahmen who truly cared.