“Butch?” he said. “Hey, buddy—whatchup to? Uh-huh. Yeah. Right.” He eyeballed the slayer and thought the sluggish machinations of the arms and legs were totally fly-on-a-windowsill. “Well, I got a friend I’d like you to meet. Nah, not the kind you’d want to bring home for dinner. Yeah, he’s going nowhere. Take your time.”
After he hung up, he looked at the packets in his palm. They were marked with the death symbol—in the Old Language.
Someone in the race was dealing, big-time. And they were working with the enemy to do it.
Next question? Who the f**k was it.
FORTY-SIX
It was getting close to dawn when Beth decided she just had to leave her and Wrath’s set of rooms. He hadn’t come back yet, and the prospect of spending another minute with the chaos in her mind was enough to make her want to take a bridge.
First stop? Layla’s room, but the Chosen wasn’t there. Probably a good thing as she supposed all she would have done was bug the poor female about early pregnancy symptoms—which was nuts on two accounts: One, if she had conceived, she was what, like twenty-four hours into it, tops? And two, Layla had had that horrible near-miscarriage.
Not exactly a good comp—if Beth didn’t want to drive herself completely insane.
Walking back down the hall of statues, she figured … kitchen. Yeah, the kitchen was a good next stop—assuming she didn’t want to bug Wrath down in the training center’s weight room.
He clearly needed some space.
As she hit the grand staircase, she was finding it impossible not to parallel-process reality. The first layer was what was in front of her: Wrath and the dethroning, the sad quietness in the house, the stress over what the race’s future held. The second level was wholly internal and completely physical: a twinge in her pelvis—was it implantation … or the coming of her period, which would mean no-go?; an ache in her br**sts—symptom of conception … or the result of all that sex?; hot flashes—the residual of the hormonal imbalance … or flannel?
Only the severity of the situation they were in thanks to the Council’s actions kept her from devolving completely into her body’s minutiae. And meanwhile, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t know whether she hoped she was pregnant … or hoped she wasn’t.
Actually, that was a lie.
Putting her hand over her lower belly, she found herself praying that it hadn’t worked. The only thing worse than Wrath losing the throne … was him finding out he was going to be a father right afterward.
If he was already feeling like he’d lost his parents’ legacy, that was going to be like throwing him a boulder to catch while he was barely treading water: Undoubtedly, he was going to feel like he cheated his child, too.
Down at the foyer level, she crossed over into the dining room, and then pushed into the kitchen. God, the eerie emptiness—the galley was usually such an active place, even during the lulls between large household meals. To walk in as the shutters were coming down and have nothing on the stove, in the oven, or on the counters scared her.
Damn … what was going to happen now?
Was the Brotherhood going to split apart? Where would she and Wrath go? Technically, they shouldn’t be staying in those overdone quarters on the third floor if they weren’t the First Family anymore.
Actually … it would be a relief to get out of there.
Although the cause for the relo sucked.
Opening up the Sub-Zero, she saw … a whole lot of shit she didn’t want to eat. But she should be hungry, shouldn’t she? She’d only snacked on the stuff Fritz had brought her how many hours ago? And she certainly hadn’t eaten anything during the needing.
She needed to pee.
Disappearing into the loo off the kitchen, she took care of business, washed her hands, and gave the refrigerator another try.
Someone had just put a big vat of something on the lower level. A quick peek under the lid and … cacciatore. Normally an entrée well worth tackling, especially because iAm must have been the one who made it. However, a quick whiff got her a big fat no-thanks from her stomach. Same thing when it came to the leftover ham. A plate’s worth of Bolognese with linguini in a Tupperware container. Tomato soup …
Giving the freezer a try, she took out a box of plain Eggos … then put them back. “Meh.”
Ice cream was a total no-go. Just the thought of that heavy-cream stuff made her want to throw up—
She hesitated as she looked down at herself. “Somebody in there?” she said to her pelvis.
Okay, it was official. She’d totally lost it.
After a trip through the pantry, which proved to be like trying to find something edible in the laundry room, for chrissakes, she doubled back to the fridge and made herself take out a Vlasic jar of butter chips.
“It’s pickles, people,” she muttered. “Pickles. Total cliché here.”
Except when she twisted off the lid and looked at the slices dancing in their little pool of sweet brine, she grimaced and had to put them back.
As a last resort, she hit the vegetable drawer—
“Yes,” she said in a rush as her hand snapped out for a grab. “Oh, yes yes yes…”
As she carried the bunch of organic carrots over to the knife drawer, she couldn’t believe she was about to get it on with all that beta carotene.
She hated carrots. Okay, not completely—if they were in salads, it wasn’t like she’d eat around them. But she had never in her life volunteered them out of the fridge.
Standing over the sink, she cut one free, got out a peeler, and made a neat little pile of bright orange strips in the stainless-steel belly. Quick rinse. Cut in the middle. Slice length-wise twice. And voilà, crudités.
Crunch. Munch. Swallow.
They were so fresh, they cracked every time she took a bite out of them, and the sweet, earthy taste was better than chocolate.
One more, she thought as she finished her last quarter. Except when she got to the end of number two, she thought … how about another.
As she worked her way through her third, she thought back to the Council’s proclamation. Her motivation for trying to do something was such a no-brainer. Even though her mother’s racial identity was not her fault, she still felt responsible for bringing the shit cart to Wrath’s front door.
If she could only figure out a way around this …
On the Council’s side, things were evidently moving ahead. An official swearing in of that Ichan guy had been scheduled—and Rehv had found out because, like an idiot, the Council’s secretary had failed to take him off their blast e-mail list.