The image he regarded was exactly as it had appeared the night before and the night before that, and yet as familiar as his reflection was, he felt like it was of a different, separate person.
His insides had changed so much, it seemed only reasonable to assume the transformation would be echoed in his appearance. Alas, it was not.
Turning away and walking out to his closet, he supposed he should not be surprised, either by his inner upset, or his outer, false composure.
After he and Blay had spoken, it had taken him an hour to move everything from the bedroom he had stayed in with his former lover back to this suite down the hall. He'd been given these accommodations when he'd initially come to stay within the household, but as things had progressed with Blay, his belongings had gradually made their way into that other room.
The process of migration had been incremental, just as his love had been: a case of one shirt here and a pair of shoes there, a hairbrush one night, and socks the next...a conversation of shared values followed by a seven-hour sexual marathon chased with a tub of Breyers coffee ice cream and only one spoon.
He had been unaware of the distance traveled by his heart, similar to the way a hiker became lost in the wilderness. A half mile out and you could still see where you had started, could easily find the way back home. But ten miles and a number of forks in your trail later and there was no going back. At that point, you had no choice but to marshal the resources to build yourself a shelter and put down fresh roots.
He had assumed he would be constructing this new personal place with Blay.
Yes, he had. After all, how long could unrequited love truly survive? As fire required oxygen to kindle, so too did emotion.
Not when it came to Qhuinn, apparently. Not for Blay.
Saxton was resolved about not leaving the royal household, however. Blay had been right about that - Wrath, the king, did need him, and moreover, he enjoyed his work here. It was fast-paced, challenging...and the egoist in him wanted to be the lawyer who reformed the law the proper way.
Assuming the throne didn't get overturned and he didn't lose his head under a new regime.
But you couldn't live your life worried about things like that.
Withdrawing a houndstooth wool suit from the closet, he picked a button-down and a vest out, and laid everything on the bed.
It was a sad, rather unattractive cliche to go looking for something nubile and pneumatic to self-medicate emotional pain with, but he much preferred having an orgasm over getting sloppy drunk. Also, the pretend-until-you-find-purpose-again maxim did hold water.
And was especially true as he looked at himself all dressed up in the bathroom's full-length mirror. He certainly appeared to have it together, and that helped.
Before he left, he double-checked his phone. The Old Laws had been recast per Wrath's orders, and now he was on standby - awaiting his next assignment.
He would find out what it was soon enough, he imagined.
Wrath was notoriously demanding, but never unreasonable.
In the meantime, he was going to drown his sorrow in the only kind of six-pack that appealed - something twentyish, six-foot-ish, athletic....
And preferably dark haired. Or blond.
Chapter Sixteen
"Someone's already been by here."
As Rhage spoke, Qhuinn got out his penlight and shone the discreet beam down onto the ground. Sure enough, the prints through the snow were fresh, not airbrushed with loose flakes...and they went directly out into the clearing in the forest. Clicking the light off, he focused on the hunting cabin up ahead that seemed to be abandoned to the cold weather: no stream of smoke curling out of its stone chimney, no glow of illumination - and most important, no scents of anything.
The five of them closed in, circling the clearing and sidling up with a wide-angle approach. When there was no defensive reaction from anything, they all mounted the shallow porch and scoped out the interior through the single-paned windows.
"Nada," Rhage muttered as he went to the door.
A quick test of the handle - and it was locked.
With a thrust, the Brother slammed his massive shoulder into the panels and set the thing flying, fragments of the locking mechanism falling in a scatter along with splinters of wood.
"Hi, honey, I'm home," Hollywood shouted as he marched inside.
Qhuinn and John followed protocol and stayed on the porch as Blay and Z filed in and searched.
The woods were quiet around them, but his keen eyes traced those footprints...which, after a sojourn to the cabin, headed off in a northwesterly direction.
Damn well suggested someone was out here with them, searching the property at the same time.
Human? Lesser?
He was thinking the latter, given all the shit in that hangar - and the fact that this whole property was remote, and relatively secure because of that.
Although they were gonna want to bring Stanley Steemer into that building for a cleanup first.
Blay's voice drifted out the open door. "I got something."
It took all of Qhuinn's training not to break covenant with surveying the landscape and turn to look inside - and not because he particularly cared about whatever had been found. Throughout their searching, he'd been constantly checking on Blay, measuring to see if that mood had changed.
If anything, it had only gotten worse.
Soft voices went back and forth in the cabin, and then the three of them emerged.
"We found a lockbox," Rhage announced as he unzipped his jacket and slid the long, thin metal container in against his chest. "We'll open it later. Let's find the owner of those boots, boys."
Dematerializing at fifty- to sixty-foot clips, they fanned out through the trees, tracking the prints in the snow, following silently.
They came across the lesser about a half mile later.
The lone slayer was marching through the snow-covered forest at a clip that only a human with Olympic training could have sustained for more than a couple hundred yards. Clothes were dark, a pack was on the back, and the fact that he was navigating by sight alone was another clue that it was the enemy: Most Homo sapiens would not have been able to move that fast in such little light without battery-powered illumination.
Using hand signals, Rhage orientated the group into a reverse triangle formation that cupped around the lesser's trail. Continuing to advance along with him, they observed for about a football field's length and then, all at once, they closed in, surrounded the slayer, and blocked him at contrasting compass points with gun muzzles.
The lesser stopped moving.
He was a newer recruit, his dark hair and olive coloring suggesting that he was of Mexican or perhaps Italian descent, and he got points for showing no fear. Even though he was looking at a hurting, he merely calmly glanced over his shoulder, as if to confirm that he had in fact been ambushed.