J. Ward - Lover Enshrined

“What.”

“I think we gonna need to wait ’til the money comes in from the looting.”

“What the fuck?”

“I gots me the bank statements, you know, from the last Fore-lesser ? That Mr. X? They was in his cabin. And there’s not a ton in there.”

“Define ‘not a ton.’ ”

“Well, it’s all gone, basically. I don’t know where and I don’t know who. But there’s about five thousand left.”

“Five? Are you fucking kidding me?” Lash let the car decelerate. Which was like taking a vegetable off life support.

Out of money? What the hell? He was like the Prince of Darkness or some shit. And his army’s net worth was five grand?

Sure, he had his dead family’s money, but as much as that was, he couldn’t wage an entire war with it.

“Man, fuck this… and I’m going back to my old house. I’m not driving this tin-can piss box anymore.” Yeah, he was so over the whole mommy/daddy thing all of a sudden. He needed a new car ASAP, and there was a spank Mercedes parked in that Tudor’s garage. He was going to get in the damn thing and drive it around, and he wasn’t going to feel guilty.

Fuck the whole vampire thing.

As he hung a rightie and shot over toward his neighborhood, though, he started to feel sick to his stomach. Except he wasn’t going inside the house, so he wouldn’t have to see the bodies, assuming they were still where he’d left them-

Shit, he was going to have to go in for the keys.

Whatever. He needed to grow the fuck up.

Ten minutes later, Lash pulled up by the garages in back and got out of the car. “Take this to the farmhouse. I’ll meet you there.”

“You sure I shouldn’t wait?”

Lash frowned and looked down at his hand. The ring the Omega had given him the night before was warming up on his finger and starting to glow.

“Looks like your sire done wants ya,” Mr. D said, getting out of the passenger seat.

“Yeah.” Shit. “How does this work?”

“You need somewheres private. You gets quiet and he will come to you or take you to him.”

Lash looked up at the Tudor and figured that it would do. “I’ll see you at the farmhouse. And then I want you to take me to that cabin where all the records are.”

“Yes, suh.” Mr. D touched the brim of his cowboy hat and slid behind the wheel.

As the Focus wheezed its way back down the drive, Lash went inside through the kitchen. The house smelled really bad, the fruity-nauseating stench of death and decay nearly a solid, it was so strong.

He had done this, he thought. He was responsible for what was stinking up the fine house.

He took out his phone to call Mr. D back, but then hesitated, focusing on his ring. The gold was burning to such a degree, he was surprised it didn’t take his finger off.

His sire. His sire .

The dead people here were not his.

He had done the right thing.

Lash walked through the butler’s door and into the dining room. With his ring glowing, he stared at the people he’d thought were his parents. The truth was in the lies, was it not. All through his life, he’d had to cover up his real nature, camouflage the evil in him. Minor flashes of his true self had come out, sure, but the core that was his engine had been kept hidden.

Now he was free.

Staring at the murdered male and female before him, he abruptly felt nothing. It was as if he were looking at ghoulish posters hanging off a cinema lobby wall, and his mind accorded them with appropriate weight.

Which was no weight at all.

He touched the dog chain at his neck and felt stupid for the silly feelings that had made him take it. He was tempted to whip it off, but no…The animal it reminded him of had been strong and cruel and powerful.

So it was as a symbol, not from sentiment, that he left it around his neck.

Man, the dead smelled bad.

Lash walked into the foyer and figured the marble floor was as good a place as any to see his true father. Copping a seat, he pulled his legs into himself and felt like an idiot just sitting there. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t wait to get this over with and cop the keys to the-

A humming started to displace the silence in the house, the sound emanating from no particular direction.

Lash flipped his eyes open. Was his father coming here? Or taking him somewhere else?

From out of nowhere, a current began to swirl about him, warping his vision. Or perhaps it warped what was around him. In the middle of the maelstrom, though, he was rock steady, struck by an odd confidence. The father would never harm the son. Evil was as evil did, but the blood tie between him and his sire meant he was the Omega.

And, if for self-interest only, the Omega wouldn’t hurt itself.

Just as Lash was about to be carried away, when the rush had nearly consumed his corporeal form, he looked up.

John Matthew was on the stairs before him.

"My sister,” came the hiss from the other side of the temple’s door. "My sister.”

Cormia looked up from the parchment on which she had been recording the scenes she’d watched of the Primale saving those civilians. “Layla?”

“The Primale is ill. He is calling for you.”

Cormia let the quill fall from her hands and flew to the door. Sweeping it open, she stared at her sister’s pale, frantic face. “Ill?”

“He is abed, shivering in coldness. Verily, he is unwell. He wouldn’t let me help him for the longest time, I dragged him from the vestibule when he lost consciousness.”

Cormia put the hood of her robe up. “Are the others-”

“Our sisters are at meal. They are all at the meal. There is no one who will see you.”

Cormia hurried out of the sequestered temple, but was blinded by the brilliant light of the Sanctuary. She took Layla’s hand until her eyes adjusted, and the two of them raced for the Primale’s temple.

Cormia slipped in through the golden door and swept aside the drapery.

The Primale was lying on the bed with nothing but the silken bottoms of his Sanctuary dress on him. His skin had an unhealthy glow to it and a sheen of sweat. Racked with the shakes, his big body seemed horridly frail.

“Cormia?” he said, reaching out with a palsied hand.

She went over to him, shucking her hood. “I’m here.” He strained at the sound of her voice, but then she touched his fingertips and he calmed.

Good God, he was on fire.

“What’s wrong?” she said, sitting by him.

“I th-th-th-think th-this is d-detox.”

“Detox?”

“N-n-no… d-drugs… n-n-nnno mo-mo… d-d-d-drugsss…”

She could barely make out what he was saying, but knew on some level the last thing she should do was offer to get him any of the hand-rolled he’d always smoked.

“Is there anything I can do to ease you?” When he began to lick his dry lips, she said, “Would you like some water?”

“I shall get it,” Layla said, heading for the bath.

“Thank you, my sister.” Cormia looked over her shoulder. “Bring cloths as well?”

“Yes.”

As Layla disappeared behind a curtain across the way, Phury closed his eyes and started turning his head back and forth on the pillow, his speech abruptly evening out. “The garden… the garden is full of weeds…oh, God, the ivy… it’s everywhere… the statues are covered in it.”

When Layla returned with a pitcher and a bowl and some white cloths, Cormia said to her, “Thank you. Now please leave us, my sister.”

She had a feeling things were going to get much worse, and that Phury wouldn’t want to be seen by others in his delusional state.

Layla bowed. “What shall I speak unto the Chosen when I appear at the meal?”