Chapter Three
Nothing like Uber’ing a bomb through a Nor’easter.
As Tohrment, son of Hharm, sat shotgun in the Brotherhood’s armored Suburban, he was half-torqued turned around, one shitkicker keeping the beat of the windshield wipers in the wheel well, the other planted like something was about to detonate.
Which was actually not hyperbole. Vishous was driving through the snowstorm, Rhage and Butch were squeezed into the back-back like too much cargo in a crate, and the IEV—improvised explosive vampire—a.k.a, the great Blind King, was sitting in the captain’s chair in the middle on the left.
The other one had an open bag of grenades and hand cannons on it.
All things considered, Tohr would rather deal with that duffel with all its pins out and the triggers pulled at the same time.
Yup, you knew it was going to be a great night when the King told you he couldn’t dematerialize to the Audience House and offered no further explanation.
Was any needed, though? Wrath had come out of his mated quarters looking like someone had hammered nails into his nuts.
He’d also been limping, and given the glower and lack of chatter, clearly somewhere deep inside his head.
A quick glance at Beth’s equally grim expression had given Tohr a clue: Whestmorel-gate was obviously still a big topic of conversation in the First Family’s residence.
Made sense. What a fucking mess that had been.
Except Wrath hadn’t given anybody a choice, and it was hard to argue the trip hadn’t been worth at least some of the risk.
Sure enough, he was the one who’d found that male who’d been beaten and left to die in that hidden room.
Nobody else had, and God knew the rest of them had been through the place with a fine-toothed comb.
Still, the Brotherhood had been wearing their brown pants the whole time.
They’d also been very aware that whatever had been said to Beth about the field trip beforehand was none of their damn business. And of course, that night she’d gone looking for her hellren at the Audience House on a whim and hadn’t been able to find him.
The aftermath wasn’t their business, either.
“Snow’s so fucking bad,” V muttered as he sped up the wipers.
“We could always move to Florida,” Rhage piped in from the rear. “I would totally live at Disney World.”
“I didn’t know you’re a mouse fan,” Butch remarked.
“It’s about the food. Did you know there are over two hundred places to eat there? Magic Kingdom has forty-three alone.”
“Why am I not surprised you know this.”
“How many bars are there in Southie,” Rhage countered.
“Touché.”
As the pair went quiet, Tohr released the breath he’d sucked in. The usual ball-slapping banter was not the kind of background music they needed for this commute.
“I can’t see a goddamn thing, true.”
He glanced over at V’s goatee’d profile. “Slow down. We got time.”
Given the King’s tight-lipped tension, he wasn’t looking to prolong the travel, but the only thing that could make this worse was if they got into an accident and he ended up with a frostbite chaser to his pounding headache.
As V sat forward, he did the same, but it wasn’t like pushing their noses into the windshield was going to help with the whiteout.
The flakes were coming down so hard and fast, it was like the Suburban was going through a solid barrier, and the bright headlights weren’t helping, all that brilliance sent right back into the interior.
He glanced over his shoulder again.
The King’s cruel, aristocratic face was angled to the window next to him like the male could see outside.
In the ambient light from the running boards, the male’s jaw joint was pulsing as he chewed his molars, and down on his leather-clad thigh, his fist was cranked so tight, the veins on the back of his hand were popping.
Beside him, on the floor between the captain’s chairs, Wrath’s service dog had his head on his master’s shitkicker, the golden’s eyebrows drawn together as if he, too, felt the stress.
George was no dummy.
Another blond-headed, perfectly handsome face entered the periphery of Tohr’s vision. As Rhage’s Bahamas blues shifted to the King and peeled wide, horror-movie style, the brother mimed a couple of stabs to his own throat.
Shut. Up, Tohr mouthed.
The brother put his palms out, all WTF.
“So, how ’bout the weather?” Butch said on a long exhale.
“It sucks.” Rhage made another set of bug eyes, even as he kept his voice casual. “And we still have the Februaries to get through.”
Just let it go, Tohr sent back.
“When was the last time we watched Frozen.” Rhage resettled with a grunt. “Over a decade, right? Maybe longer. I think we all need a re-screen.”
“If anybody starts singing,” V said, “I will open this door and jump the fuck out.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” came the rebound.
“Okay, okay.” Tohr felt like escaping himself, and you know what? Sometimes, it sucked to be the only levelheaded one. “We’re almost there.”
The hell they were. Still, distance was being made, and sooner or later—fine, definitely later—they’d get out of this vehicle, and maybe seeing some civilians would help.
Or nah, probably not. That’d likely make the vibe worse.
And then there was always the wild card of the war and the glymera, which never, ever came up with good news.
Who the fuck knew what was going to happen next.
“Watch out!” Wrath barked as he shot down and grabbed his dog’s halter.
Tohr retwisted toward the front windshield— “Take cover!”
The municipal plow was as big as the whole horizon, orange as a Cheetos, and as immobile as a rock face.
He only had the briefest glimpse of its evil-eyed red brake lights and its towering height before his forearms jacked up over his face and wrapped around his head.
Just as he locked onto his skull, the impact exploded throughout the SUV, his airbag bursting free, his seat belt carving into his chest, his lungs inflating with powder and gas.
His own forearm punched him in the nose as he was pelted with shattered safety glass, and then weapons from that open duffel bag went airborne in the cockpit, all kinds of gunmetal taking flight and shooting forward like bats flushed from a cave.
After that…silence.
No, not total quiet. Weaving through the gusts of the snowstorm entering the cockpit, there was a hissing as the bags deflated, and the engine got its death rattle on—not that Tohr could really track any of it.
His head was ringing, and clearly he was stroking out. Why else would he be tasting salt?
Also, blood. He tasted his own blood. Smelled the blood of another—Vishous?
Just before his eyes rolled back, he dropped his arms and got a quick shot of the black protrusion that was somehow half into the Suburban’s cockpit.
Then he lost consciousness.
Back at the Wheel, Beth sank the nonstick pan she’d used into a basin full of suds, and then she went for her mate’s plate. The thing was full of eggs and bacon, and she eyed George’s bowl. Maybe she’d save it for her dog—
Wrath’s dog.
Stretching some tin foil over the meal that hadn’t been touched, she put the rejected breakfast into the refrigerator and then leaned back against the thing.
As a replay of the most current round of going-nowhere between her and Wrath banged through her brain, the water bowl on George’s eating mat caught her attention.
She was fussy about making sure that what was in there was super clean—she couldn’t bear the thought of him lapping up all kinds of bacteria, even if it was his own.
As she went across, she wondered how many times she’d done this since she’d moved in here. Jesus…had to be in the thousands? And never once had she felt like a maid.
She did now.
Back over at the sink, she emptied his bowl, rinsed it out, and filled the thing up again.
Returning to where he ate, she kneeled down and looked things over like she was an inspector from the health department.
Maybe she needed to take a rag to the mat?
There wasn’t any debris or even water droplets, but it couldn’t hurt to…
“Really. This is what you’re reduced to.”
A month ago, she was running the species. Now, she was a dog butler. And she didn’t even have the dog anymore. George’s master was back so she was chopped liver—
The knock on the door was just the kind of interruption she needed.
It was probably Fritz, summoned by her merely entertaining the thought that she was about to fill a bucket with some soap and water.
It certainly wasn’t going to be Wrath. He’d taken the dog so he had everything he needed. And anything else could be found at the Audience House.
Assuming that was where he ended up.
“Coming,” she called out as she got to her feet.
It wasn’t going to be L.W., either. He’d rather have an arm sawed off than come home, and God knew his new roommate, Shuli, could afford anything either of them required.
She’d never been to that male’s house, but she’d heard about the exploits.
The fighter had inherited all his parents’ money, and even though he was highly effective in the field, he loved the good life.
Not that luxury was something L.W. had ever cared about.
No, he just wanted to be anywhere but here, and his side hustle was killing things.
Great combination for a mother’s worry bone.
Opening things up, she— “Oh.”
The female on her proverbial doorstep had long, silver hair and perfect, Victorian-doll-like features.
Dressed in blue jeans and an Irish knit sweater the color of a latte, you might be fooled into thinking Rahvyn was just a regular ol’ vampire.
But all you had to do was look in her strangely colored eyes and you immediately had the sense something was different.
And if you were in her presence for longer than two heartbeats, you knew she was not like everybody else.
Lassiter’s mate lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Um, hi…?”