As opposed to a date with an embalmer.
Benloise dragged in a breath. "Enzo, the new Joshua Tree pastels are due to arrive early this evening. When they do, you will pack up one of them and--"
"I want it now."
"You will have to wait. I cannot give you that which I don't possess. Kill me at this moment and you shall have none of it."
Fucker. Motherfucker.
Lash thought back to how much was left in the trunk of the Mercedes--and considered the fact that even now, the coke buzz was draining from him, leaving a whole lot of snooze in its wake. "When. Where."
"Same time and place as always."
"Fine. But I'll be taking a taste with me now." He dug the knife into that neck. "And don't tell me that you're totally dry. That's going to make me cranky... and twitchy. Twitchy is bad for you--FYI."
After a moment, the guy murmured, "Enzo, go get him a sample of the artist's new work, will you."
The meat across the way seemed to be having trouble processing everything, but then seeing someone disappear into thin air was no doubt a new one for him.
"Enzo. Go now."
Lash smiled underneath his mummy wraps. "Yeah, beat some feet there, Enzo. I'll take excellent care of your boss until you come back."
The bodyguard backed out and then there was the retreating sound of his boots clapping down the stairwell.
"And so you are the worthy successor to the Reverend," Benloise said with a strain.
Ah, Rehvenge's former nomenclature in the human world. "Yeah, I'm right up his alley."
"There was always something different about him."
"You think that shit was special?" Lash whispered. "Wait'll you get a load of me."
Back at the Brotherhood mansion, Qhuinn was sitting up in his bed, leaning against the headboard. He had the cable remote balanced on one thigh, yet another short-and-squat full of Herradura on the other side, and next to him, hanging tight?
Good ol' Captain Insomnia.
In front of him, the television glowed in the darkness, the morning news droning on. Turned out the police had found the homophobe Qhuinn had worked over in the alley next to the cigar bar and taken him to St. Francis Hospital. Guy was refusing to identify his attacker or comment on what had happened, but it wouldn't have mattered if he opened his piehole. There were hundreds of pierced, leather-wearing, tatted up sons of bitches in town and the CPD could kiss Qhuinn's ass.
But whatever, that motherfucker wasn't going to say shit to nobody-- and Qhuinn was willing to bet his left nut he never g*y-bashed again either.
Next came an update on what the humans were calling "the Farmhouse Massacre"--said report basically amounting to a whole lot of no new information, but plenty of hysteria-inducing hyperbole. Cults! Ritual sacrifices! Stay indoors after dark!
All of which was, of course, based on circumstantial evidence, because the blue-uni-and-badge brigade had nothing but aftermath to go on-- no bodies. And although the identities of a rash of missing lowlifes were starting to percolate to the surface, the dead end was going to stick: Those few slayers who had escaped the Brotherhood's infiltration were now firmly entrenched in the Lessening Society, never to be seen or heard from again by their former friends and families.
So, yeah, basically, the humans were left with a ServiceMaster cleanup job out there and not much else: Fuck the CSI types; what they really needed was a carpet steamer, a shitload of mops, and a bathtub of Formula 409. If they thought they were ever going to "solve" the crime, those cops were just masturbating the soles of their shoes and the nibs on their pens.
What actually had happened was just a ghost they could sense, but never capture.
As if on cue, a promo for the all-new Paranormal Investigators prime-time special aired, the camera panning around some Southern mansion with trees that looked as if they needed a beard trimmer.
Qhuinn swung his feet off the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. Layla had wanted to come over again, but when she'd called out to him, he'd sent her back a thought that he was exhausted and needed to sleep.
It wasn't that he didn't want to be with her, it was just...
Goddamn it, she liked him, she wanted him, and he clearly was into her body. So why didn't he just call her over here, mate her, and put a check mark next to the biggest goal in life he had?
As he thought about the plan, an image of Blay's face came to mind and forced him to take a cold, hard look at the shaggy fabric of his life: The shit wasn't pretty and all the threads he'd started and could neither clip free nor stitch together suddenly became more than he could bear.
Getting up, he went out into the hall of statues and looked down to the right. To Blay's room.
With a curse, he walked over to the door he'd been in and out of as much as he had his own. When he knocked, the contact was a soft one, not his usual bang-bang-bang.
No answer. He tried again.
Turning the knob, he pushed inside barely an inch--and wished he hadn't had cause to be discreet. But maybe Saxton was in there with the guy.
"Blay? You up?" he whispered into the darkness.
No reply... and the lack of running water suggested the pair of them weren't taking a pneumatic shower together. Stepping in, Qhuinn flicked on the lights....
The bed was made up, neat as a pin, totally undisturbed. Fucking thing looked like an ad in a magazine, with all its pillows arranged and the extra duvet folded up like a cloth taco at the foot of the mattress.
Bathroom had dry towels, no condensation on the glass shower, and a Jacuzzi without a bubble bath ring.
His body went numb as he went back out into the hall and walked farther on.
At the door to the crib Saxton had been given, he stopped and stared at the panels. Excellent carpentry work, the pieces put together seamlessly. Paint job was perfect as well, with no brushstrokes marring the smooth surface. Nice brass knob, too, that was as shiny as a newly minted gold coin--
His acute hearing picked up on a soft sound and he frowned--until he realized what he was listening to. Only one thing made that kind of rhythmic ...
Staggering back, he got goosed in the ass by the Greek statue directly behind him.
With stumbling feet, he blindly walked somewhere, anywhere. When he got to the king's study, he looked over his shoulder and checked the carpet over which he'd trodden.
No trail of his blood. Which, considering the way his chest was hurting, was a surprise.
Sure as shit felt like he'd been shot in the heart.
Chapter Sixty-three
Xhex woke up screaming.
Fortunately, John had left the bathroom light on, so she had at least half a chance at convincing her brain where her body was: in fact, she was not back in that human clinic, being worked on like a lab rat. She was here in the Brotherhood mansion with John.
Who had leaped out of bed, and pointed a gun at the door to the hall like he was prepared to blow a hole right through the frickin' thing.
Slapping a hand over her mouth, she prayed she'd shut herself up in time, before she woke the entire house. The last thing she needed was a bunch of Brothers showing up at the doorstep with a whole lot of what's- doing.
In a silent shift, John swung the forty's muzzle around to the shuttered windows, and then he swept it over to the walk- in closet. As he finally lowered his weapon, he whistled an inquiry.
"I'm... okay," she answered, finding her voice. "Just a bad--"
The knock that cut her off was about as subtle as a curse in a quiet room. Or the scream she'd just let rip.
As she pulled the sheets up to her collarbones, John opened the door a crack and Z's voice drifted in. "Everything all right in here?"
Nope. Not even close.
Xhex rubbed her face and tried to replug into reality. Tough assignment. Her body felt weightless and disconnected, and man, that floaty thing was so not helping her on the get-grounded front.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why her subconscious had burped up that shit about her first trip through the abduction park. Staying in the OR while John had had his lead-ectomy had obviously been like a hot, spicy meal for her brain, with the nightmare being the cranial version of acid reflux.
Christ, she had a case of the fop sweats, her upper lip beading, her palms wringing damp.
In desperation, she focused on what she could see through the partially open door to the bathroom.
Turned out the toothbrushes on the marble counter saved her. The pair were standing up in the silver cup between the two sinks, looking like a couple of kibitzers who'd tilted their heads together to swap gossip. Both were John's, she was guessing, because guests were on the whole not welcome in this house.