J. Ward - Lover Enshrined

All down the back wall of the theater were thousands of DVDs, and there were eats, too. Along with a popcorn machine, which hadn’t been turned on, as they hadn’t told Fritz they were coming, there was a Coke fountain and a real candy counter.

He stopped and looked over the Milk Duds, Raisinets, Swedish Fish, M amp;M’s, and Twizzlers. He was both hungry and nauseated, and had to vote with the greasy feeling in his stomach, but he thought maybe Cormia would like some. As she was busy looking around with wide eyes, he took out M amp;M’s, because they were a staple, and a bag of the Swedish Fish in case she wasn’t into chocolate. He popped two Coke cups free, stocked them with a ton of ice, and fired up two dark and lovelies.

Whistling softly to get her attention, he nodded down toward the front. Cormia followed, seemingly fascinated by the inset lights that went down the low stairs. Once he got her situated in one of the loungers, he jogged up the stairs and tried to figure out what the hell to put on.

Okay, straight horror was out, both because of her delicate sensibilities and because of the real-life nightmare he’d been in earlier. Of course… that eliminated about fifty percent of the collection, because Rhage was usually the one who put in movie requests to Fritz.

John bypassed the Godzilla section because it reminded him of Tohr. Raunchy comedies like American Pie and Wedding Crashers weren’t classy enough for her. Mary’s collection of deep, meaningful foreign films was… yeah, way too valid for John to sit through even on a good night. He was looking for escapism, not a different kind of grinding torture. Action flicks? Somehow he didn’t think Cormia would grasp the subtleties of Bruce Willis, Sly Stallone, or Ahnold.

That left chick flicks. But which one? There were the John Hughes classics: Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club . The Julia Roberts section with Mystic Pizza, Pretty Woman, Steel Magnolias, My Best Friend’s Wedding … Jennifer Aniston’s layer upon layer of forget-table. All the Meg Ryans from the nineties…

He slid a case free.

As he turned the thing over in his hand, he thought of Cormia dancing over the grass. Bingo.

John was just turning around when his phone went off. The group text was from Zsadist, who was evidently still at Havers’s clinic: Lash doesn’t luk gud. Treatment ongoing. Will keep all posted.

The message was a blast to everyone in the house, and as John reread it, he wondered if he should forward it to Blay and Qhuinn. In the end, he put the phone back in his pocket, figuring the two of them had enough to deal with without flip-flopping reports about Lash’s condition. If the guy died, then John would get in touch with his friends.

He paused and looked around. It was utterly surreal to be doing something as normal as copping a movie, and it felt vaguely inappropriate. But right now was all about waiting. He and everyone else involved were in neutral.

As he went over to the DVD player and put the disk on the machine’s black tongue, all he could see was Lash down on that tile, fear in his eyes, blood running out of his neck.

He started to pray that Lash would make it.

Even if it meant he had to live in fear of his secret being exposed, better that than having Qhuinn condemned as a murderer, and a death on John’s conscience.

Please, God, let Lash live.

Downtown at zerosum, Rehv was having a bad fucking night, and his chief of security was making it worse. Xhex was standing in front of his desk with her arms crossed, looking down her nose at him like he was dog shit on a hot night.

He rubbed his eyes, then glared back at her. “And why are you telling me to stay in here?”

“Because you’re toxic and the staff are scared of you.”

Which proved they had half a brain, he thought.

“What happened last night?” she asked softly.

“Did I tell you I bought that lot four blocks down?”

“Yes. Yesterday. What happened with the Princess.”

“This town needs a Goth club. I think I’ll call it the Iron Mask.” He leaned in toward the glowing screen of his laptop. “Cash flow here is more than strong enough for me to cover a construction loan. Or I could just cut a check, although that would get us audited again. Dirty money is so fucking complicated, and if you ask me about last night one more time, I’m going to kick you the fuck out of here.”

“Well, aren’t we feeling precious.”

His upper lip twitched as his fangs shot out into his mouth. “Don’t push me, Xhex. I’m so not in the mood.”

“Look, you can keep your yap shut, that’s fine, but don’t take your head fuck out on the staff. I’m not interested in cleaning up the interpersonal debris- Why are you rubbing your eyes again?”

Wincing, he gave his watch a look-see. In the midst of his vision’s flat plane of red, he realized that it had been only three hours since his last hit of dopamine.

“Do you need another dose already?” Xhex asked.

He didn’t bother nodding, just opened his drawer and took out a glass vial and a syringe. Peeling his suit jacket off, he rolled up his sleeve, tourniqueted his upper arm, and then tried to push the needle’s fine head through the red seal on the drug’s container.

He couldn’t quite manage to hit the bull’s-eye. With no depth perception, he was fishing through empty space, trying to match the point of the needle with the top of the little bottle and getting a whole lot of skipping misses.

Symphaths saw only shades of red, and in two dimensions. When his drug didn’t work, either because he was stressed or had missed a dosage, his vision change was the first sign of trouble.

“Here, let me.”

As a wave of ill swept through him, he found he couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head at her and kept at it with the syringe. In the meantime, his body started to wake up from its deep freeze, sensation flooding into his arms and his legs on a fleet of tingles.

“Okay, enough with your ego.” Xhex came around the desk in all-purpose mode. “Just let me-”

He tried to get his shirtsleeve down in time. Didn’t make it.

“Jesus Christ ,” she hissed.

He shuffled his forearm away from her, but it was too late. Way too late.

“Let me do it,” Xhex said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Just ease up, boss… and let me take care of you.”

With surprisingly gentle hands, she took the syringe and vial, then extended his wretched black-and-blue forearm straight out on the desk. He’d been shooting up so much lately that even with how fast he healed, his veins were decimated, all swollen and full of holes, pitted like roads too heavily traveled.

“We’re going to use your other arm.”

As he stretched out his right one, Xhex managed the whole needle-in-the-lid thing with no problem, drawing out what should have been his normal dose. He shook his head and held up two fingers so she’d double it.

“That’s way too much,” she said.

He lurched for the syringe, but she moved it out of reach.

He slammed his fist into the desk, and his eyes shot to hers, all stark demand.

With a couple of choice words, she drew more of the drug out of the vial, and he watched as she hunted around his drawer for an alcohol towelette, tore the thing open, and scrubbed a patch on the crook of his elbow. After she shot him up, she snapped free the tourney, and put his hit kit back in the desk.

Easing into his chair, he shut his eyes. The red persisted even with his lids down.

“How long’s this been going on?” she asked quietly. “The double dosing? The shooting up without disinfecting the injection site? How many times are you doing this every day?”