Perfect place for a mating ceremony, he thought for no particular reason.
"Blay. Come on. Nothing has changed."
He glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn's pierced brows were tight, his eyes fierce. But as much as it was clear the guy wanted to keep talking, Blay was so done.
He started down the steps, moving fast.
And was not at all surprised when Qhuinn stuck with him--and the conversation. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Oh, right, like they needed to do this in front of the people in the dining room. Qhuinn was fine with audiences for all sorts of things, but Blay did not find peanut galleries helpful in the slightest.
He marched back up two steps, until they were face-to-face. "What was her name?"
Qhuinn recoiled. "Excuse me?"
"The receptionist's name."
"What receptionist?"
"From last night. At the tat shop."
Qhuinn rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on--"
"Her name."
"God, I have no f**king clue." Qhuinn went palms-up, the universal language for whatever. "Why does it matter?"
Blay opened his mouth, on the verge of spelling out that what had meant nothing to Qhuinn had been hell to watch. But then he knew it would sound possessive and stupid.
Instead of talking, he reached into his pocket, took out his Dunhills, and fingered one up. Popping it into his mouth, he lit the thing while staring into those mismatched eyes.
"I hate that you smoke," Qhuinn muttered.
"Get over it," Blay said, turning away and heading downward.
Chapter Eleven
"Where you going, John?"
Down in the mudroom at the back of the mansion, John froze with his hand on one of the doors that led into the garage. Goddamn it... a house this big, you'd think you could leave without an audience. But no... eyes everywhere. Opinions... everywhere.
It was like the orphanage in that respect.
He turned and faced Zsadist. The Brother had a napkin in one hand and a baby bottle in the other, having obviously just gotten up from the dining room table and come in through the kitchen. And gee, guess what... next person through the door was Qhuinn, and he had a half-eaten turkey leg with him as if it were his last hope of food for, like, the next ten hours.
Blay's arrival turned it into a f**king convention.
Z nodded at the grip John's hand had on the knob, somehow managing to look like a serial killer in spite of the baby paraphernalia. Probably the facial scar. More likely the eyes that were flashing black.
"I asked you a question, boy."
I'm taking the frickin' garbage out.
"So where's your Rubbermaid."
Qhuinn polished off his dinner and then deliberately walked over to the trash bins to toss the cleaned-off bone. "Yeah, John. You wanna answer that."
No, he f**king didn't.
I'm out of here, he signed.
Z leaned forward and planted a palm on the door panels, the napkin hanging loose like a flag. "You've been taking off a little earlier and a little earlier every night, but you've reached the cutoff. I'm not letting you go this early. You'll be burned to a crisp. And P.S., if you ever think of leaving without your private guard again, Wrath's going use your face as a hammer, feel me?"
"Jesus f**king Christ, John." Qhuinn's voice was a growl of disgust and he had an expression on his puss like someone had cleaned a bathroom with his bedsheets. "I've never stopped you. Ever. But you f**k me like this?"
John stared at a place somewhere over Z's left ear. There was a temptation to sign that he'd heard when the Brother had been looking for Bella, he'd gone shit wild and done all kinds of crazy things. Except bringing up that shellan 's abduction was a red cape in front of a bull and John was already doing the cloven-hoof thing about a female. Two would be overkill.
Z's voice dropped. "What's doing, John?"
He stayed quiet.
"John." Z leaned in further. "I will beat an answer out of you if I have to."
Just got the time wrong. The lie sucked ass, because if that were true, he'd have made a move to go out the front door and not covered his tracks with the trash story. But he honestly didn't care whether the bucket that carried his bullshit had a hole in the bottom.
"I'm not buying it." Z straightened and checked his watch. "And you're not leaving for another ten minutes."
John crossed his arms over his chest to keep from commenting on the lockdown, and as the Jeopardy! theme played in his head, he felt like he was going to explode.
Z's hard stare sure as hell didn't help.
Ten minutes later, the sound of those shutters lifting all around the mansion broke up the standoff and Z nodded at the door. "Okay, go now if you want. At least you won't fry out." John turned away. "I catch you without your ahstrux nohtrum again, I'm turning you in."
Qhuinn cursed. "Yeah, and then I'll get fired. Which means V'll Donald Trump my ass with a dagger. You're welcome."
John gripped the knob and yanked his way out of the house, his skin feeling too tight. He didn't want trouble with Z because he respected the guy, but he was pretty damned volatile and the trend suggested that was only going to get more true.
In the garage, he hung a louie and headed for the outside door that was on the back wall. As he went along, he refused to look at the coffins that were stacked across the way. Nope. Didn't need the image of even one in his head right now. Sixteen? Whatever.
Opening the steel door, he stepped onto the long rolling lawn that stretched out around the drained swimming pool and eased down to the forest edge and the retaining wall. He knew that Qhuinn was right on his ass because the scent of disapproval contaminated the fresh air sure as mold in a basement. And Blay was with them as well, going by the cologne.
Just as he was about to dematerialize, his arm was grabbed hard. As he wheeled around to tell Qhuinn to f**k himself, he stopped.
Blay was the one doing the holding and the redhead's blue eyes were burning.
The guy signed as opposed to spoke, probably because it forced John to pay attention.
You want to get yourself killed, fine. At this point, I'm resigning myself to that possibility. But you don't endanger others. I won't stand for that. Don't leave without telling Qhuinn again.
John glanced over the guy's shoulder at Qhuinn, who was looking as if he wanted to hit something he was so frustrated. Ah, so that was why Blay was doing the signing thing. Didn't want the third wheel in this dysfunctional triumvirate to see what was being said.
We clear? Blay signed.
It was a rarity that Blay ever punched a hole in the wall of opinion. And that made John explain himself.
I can't promise I won't need to bolt, John signed. Just can't do it. But I will swear that I will tell him. At least that way he can get out of the house.
John--
He shook his head and squeezed Blay's arm. I just can't promise anyone that. Not with where my head's at. But I won't leave without telling him where I'm going or when I'll be back.
Blay's jaw worked, clenching and releasing. He wasn't stupid, however. He knew when there was a nonnegotiable on the table. Okay. I can live with that.
"You two want to share some love?" Qhuinn demanded.
John stepped back and signed, We're going to the Xtreme Park until ten. Then we go to St. Francis Avenue. Trez texted me.
He dematerialized, traveling south and west, taking form behind the shed they'd hung around the night before. As his crew appeared behind him, he ignored the tension that clouded and weighted down the air.
Staring across the concrete, he traced the various players. That young gun with the busy pockets was still smack in the center of it all, leaning against one of the ramps, flicking a lighter so that it sparked but didn't catch. There were about a half dozen skaters riding the hard stone and another dozen talking and spinning the wheels on their boards. Seven cars of various meh description were parked in the lot, and as the police rolled by slowly and kept going, John was feeling like this was a colossal waste of time.
Maybe if they headed deeper into downtown and trolled the alleys they'd have more--
The Lexus that wheeled up into the lot didn't park in one of the spaces. It stopped perpendicular to those seven rear bumpers... and what got out from behind the wheel looked like a high school kid, what with the baggy jeans and the cowboy hat.
But the breeze that floated over smelled like a morgue with no central AC.
And also of... Old Spice?
John straightened, his heart going all hi-how're-ya. His first thought was to lunge out and tackle the bastard, but Qhuinn caught him with an arm bar.