Chapter Forty-One
Well, wasn’t this fucking cozy.
Paul Bunyan meets Architectural Digest.
As L.W. limped into the living room of Shuli’s rustic safe house, he wondered how many properties the aristocrat owned. At least all the splotchy paintings had disappeared. Then again, it was hard to hang things on logs.
Naturally, the “cabin” wasn’t a shitty hunter’s reject from a hundred years ago.
It was easily ten thousand square feet in size, had thermopaned windows with daylight shades, and a full HVAC system.
Decorated with a professional eye—he assumed some glymera-approved designer had done the magic—the place was filled with all kinds of Adirondack crap: Furniture made out of logs and sticks, rugs that were braided and in deep reds, blues, and greens, landscapes in old gilded frames.
The floors were huge planed boards, and the staircases up and down had steps made of the same.
Overhead, thick beams that had been hand-cut some eon ago were the kind of thing you’d have to burn down to get to buckle.
“Where’d you find this place,” Rhamp asked as he brought in the last of the duffles from the Range Rover. “Logs’R’Us?”
Because of the amount of munitions and ammunitions they had to transport, they’d driven over in one of Shuli’s fleet of cars, and L.W. had been cool with being in the back. He’d spent the half hour or so staring out the window.
And creating from the blurriness what the side of the road looked like: The wintry blankets of snow. The skeletal trees. The occasional human house.
His eyes were only giving him outlines and color blocks, flashes of texture, and hints of details.
The lack of acuity made him panic if he thought too much about it, a strange sense of being trapped when he wasn’t restrained at all choking him.
To combat the anxiety, he’d distracted himself by using his mind to fill in the blanks.
He was doing that mental coloring book shit now.
As he went from room to room and then found a hall to another wing of the place, he wanted to blame his bad vision on that flash. Like if he’d only avoided whatever the hell it was, then everything would have stayed nice and goddamn normal.
That was a fucking lie, though. He’d been inching toward this destination and fighting it like hell for a while now. And the blindness was only part of the sense that some kind of countdown was happening, that some kind of inevitable tick-tock of fate was stalking him.
“—and then we can head out into the field.”
“Yeah, I’m down.”
Rhamp and Shuli were talking by the front door, their muffled voices so familiar, they’d become a kind of family he wasn’t interested in having.
He didn’t even want the family he had.
On that note, if he could get away from this navel-gazing bullshit, that’d be great.
“This crib is mine,” he called over his shoulder.
“Whatever you want,” Shuli returned from the distance.
L.W. went over and sat on the bed. There was a red and black wool blanket spread across the foot of the thick mattress, and as he put his palm on it, he felt the scratchy softness.
Then he looked over to the lamp on the little table by all the pillows, and he realized he hadn’t turned it on.
He wasn’t going to. His eyes weren’t keener in the dark.
They were just getting more and more sensitive to light.
Footsteps came down the hall, and going by the Gucci cologne, he knew who it was, and you know, when you were a houseguest, it was considered in bad taste to tell your host to go fuck themselves. Especially when they hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.
“I’m coming,” he said as Shuli appeared in the jambs, a dark shape backlit by the hall light.
“Just checking,” the fighter said. “But if you want to chill here, that’s cool.”
“No.” He frowned at the wall of logs and mortar next to him. “This is a nice place, by the way.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that other house of yours was a total dump.” As Shuli let a crack of laughter fly, L.W. found himself smiling a little. “Too bright, and the art was awful.”
“I thought you liked the Rothkos.”
“I knew what they were. That’s different.”
“Ah—”
“We got company, boys.”
Down at the other end of the place, Rhamp’s voice rippled out, and L.W.’s nose turned his head. The instant he took a deep breath, it was like every cell in his body came alive.
“What the fuck is Bitty doing here?” he demanded as he punched to his feet. “Did you invite her?”
“I just told her where we’d moved to.”
“Can’t you keep your mouth shut about anything?”
“Are you kidding me right now?” His host muttered a curse. “Then again, considering what we’re doing on a nightly basis in the field, that’s a rhetorical I shouldn’t dignify with an answer.”
“I don’t understand why anybody needs to know anything.”
“And I’m not asking you for your opinion.” Shuli pivoted on his shitkicker. “If you don’t want to see her, stay here and sulk.”
“I’m not sulking,” L.W. shot back.
“Fine, linger in your brooding darkness. How ’bout that.”
Left to his own morose devices, L.W. glared at the floorboards. And listened to the pattern of talk redouble as Bitty greeted Mr. News Flash.
Planting his hands on his hips, he closed his useless eyes. Rhage’s adopted daughter was his fucking Kryptonite, but more than that, she couldn’t stand him and for very good reason. So yes, he was going to stay the fuck here.
“And I’m not fucking brooding.”
Fuck.
Following a very, very nice break with his shellan at the training center, V dematerialized south and east and re-formed in the Audience House’s plowed driveway.
With a whistle under his breath and a spring in his goddamn shitkickers, he swung through the security checks at the back, and as he stepped out into the kitchen, Rhage twisted around like he’d been caught stealing.
Then again, the brother had a cherry Danish in his mouth, and one in each hand.
Hollywood put his arms to the ceiling like it was a stickup. “DontcomeformeImstarving—”
“What a great night.” V walked over and hugged the big, blond asshole. “Good to see ya. Lookin’ fine there, my brother.”
As the pastry chefs came back in with empty trays from the waiting room, V put his palms up to the doggen for high-fiving. When they didn’t respond out of shock and confusion, he went across and lifted their hands for a sturdy slap.
“How we doing? Great night, huh.” V snagged the Danish out of Rhage’s piehole and took a bite of it. “Fan-fucking-tastic. You guys are the best.”
As the chefs looked at the other brother with bug eyes, Rhage murmured, “I don’t know. I think that concussion messed him up maybe?”
V shoved the pastry in his piehole—sorry, Danish-hole—and nodded at the exit. “Come on, we be late, bitch. Can’t keep the King waiting.”
He was chewing and then whistling as he entered the core, and when he ran into Butch, he gave the cop a big smacker on the cheek. “Let’s go get it.”
The Dhestroyer did a double take. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Like what?”
“As if you won Powerball.” Still, his best friend threw an arm over his shoulders. “What’s doin’.”
Oh, nothing. Just the son that he shouldn’t have wasn’t involved in shady shit, but was dating a beautiful female. Simple as that.
“High on life, cop.” He opened the way into the Audience Room. “Nothing all that mysterious.”
As they entered, Wrath was in his armchair with George, his golden, in his lap.
On a little folding table next to them, a flattened McDonald’s bag was being used as a plate for two plain hamburgers.
The dog was taking gentle bites from a third burger held by his master, and the soft encouragement that the King was offering was nothing you’d hear coming out of that stern mouth under any other circumstance.
“So what we got going on tonight, huh?” V sauntered over and shook Tohr’s hand. “We good? What’s up, hey, Phury, my man. Z? ’Sup.”
He worked his way around the room, and when he got back to Tohr, the King’s second-in-command cleared his throat.
“Look, no offense, but who died and made you a politician?”
“Ha-ha, good one.” He clapped the brother on the shoulder. “You’re a funny guy, true? What a good night this is, don’t ya think?”
“It’s so cold my nuts frosted over as I walked from the car to the door,” Butch offered. “But no one’s woken up dead, so, yeah, it’s better than most.”
“Amen, brother.” V repositioned his Sox hat and lit up a hand-rolled. “But for reals, what we got on the docket. I’m ready for some fun.”
As he exhaled and looked up, everybody was staring at him. Even Wrath. And no doubt George would have been, too, if it hadn’t been for the next hamburger.
“I think we’ve entered a parallel dimension,” someone said.
“Fuck, this means Lassiter has stopped watching TV and taken up fucking with us.”
Vishous laughed. “Damn, you guys are killin’ it tonight. Killin’ it.”
It was hard to describe the feeling he had, and he guessed it was what he’d overheard parents say from time to time about how their young’s happiness hit different.
He didn’t understand what the fuck business of his it was that Allhan had someone he was hanging out with, but it was incandescent good news.
And it felt like a long, long time since there had been any of that.
So much death. Destruction. War. Stress.
But somehow, that awkward pretrans, who had come out of his transition tall and strong and good looking, had connected with another carbon-based life-form. And that gave a father faith that sometimes, some things worked out.
“So tell me who we’re seeing?” V asked before he went too far and started explaining exactly why he was laughing-gas happy.
The knock on the door was quintessential Saxton, loud enough to be heard, not too loud in case there was something that the King didn’t want to be interrupted.
“Come in,” Wrath announced.
The solicitor leaned inside the room, his perfectly sculpted blond hair and natty, Saville Row style making him look like the English monarchy had dropped an eighteenth-century earl into present-day Caldwell.
“They’re here, if you’re ready?”
“Yeah, send ’em in.” Wrath refocused on his dog and grabbed for the remaining burger. “They won’t care if George is finishing his dinner.”
“One moment, my Lord.”
Saxton bowed and ducked out, and V went over to the corner he and Butch usually hung in.
When he needed an ashtray, he tapped things in the crystal one Fritz kept on the windowsill just for his use.
Undoubtedly, the butler, with all his standards, would not have chosen that spot to be where the heavy crystal basin lived, but that was how that head doggen rolled. Whatever anybody needed, that was what—
Saxton reopened the door. “Her Serene Highness Queen Catra, and His Sublime Highness the Prince Consort iAm.”
There was an immediate cheer from the brothers, and after a moment of holy-hell-are-these-my-future-in-laws, V was right there with the greeting, putting his cigarette between his front teeth and clapping—
A couple of walleyed glances had him cutting the weirdo applause.
But hey, wouldn’t it be great if the kids got together, true?
As Wrath put the dog down and rose to his full height, that harsh face relaxed into an honest affection, and V set himself at the end of the receiving line because he wanted to read their faces. Did they know?
Man, it would be a stinger if they did and he and Jane didn’t.
What a good family, though. He’d always respected Trez and iAm.
He hadn’t seen the former in about a decade, but the latter had come and asked for help with IT and security consult stuff for the s’Hisbe from time to time.
In return, the Shadow was always comping them dinners at Sal’s, and letting them use the place after hours or for parties. Sometimes, he even came in and cooked.
V wasn’t particularly a foodie, but the male was a goddamn maestro at the stove.
And his shellan? If only there were more of her in this world.
She was a calm, steady, wise ruler who didn’t take shit.
Couldn’t ask for better leadership, and that was why V knew that just last week, Wrath had reached out and asked her for advice in his dealings with the aristocracy here.
Beth had certainly consulted with the Shadow Queen when she’d been ruling during her thirty-three years on the throne.
Holy fuck. Could these two eventually be his in-laws?
Please and thank you?
That was what was going through his mind as iAm came up to him, and they clapped palms.
“How you,” the Shadow asked.
“Good, yeah. How’s your daughter?”
What the fuck was coming out of his mouth?
“Oh, she’s okay.” The male’s black eyes flashed with an emotion quickly covered up. “It’s all good. How’s Jane?”
“Good.” V frowned and released that dark palm. “FYI, that ‘okay’ has complication written all over it.”
“It’s a long story.” iAm drew his shellan into his side. “Isn’t that right?”
V inclined his head with honest regard to the Queen. “Your Majesty.”
“Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, how are you.” Catra smiled, her beauty resplendent as she looked around. “And thank you all for letting us come here.”
Wrath spoke up. “Yeah, absolutely. What’s going on?”
“We need some expert opinions on a situation with the humans.”
“You got problems?” someone asked.
“What can we do to help?” somebody echoed.
The story came out in a steady stream of not-so-hot: Data centers. Land grab. Humans being humans and doing human things.
The bastards.
V kept track of the fact pattern because that was what his brain did.
It recorded pertinent things and put them in order for a coordinated response.
Except as Wrath and the brothers talked to the Shadows to tease out details, and Saxton discussed things about lawsuits and negotiations, he retreated not just to his corner, but in his consciousness.
As he smoked his cigarette down and immediately lit another one, he focused on iAm’s face. He just didn’t like the tension in it, and he really hadn’t liked that response.
Okay? Dennesha was “okay.”
Fucking Caldwell.
Always something.