J. Ward - Lover Enshrined

He thought of Bella hanging in the balance with that pregnancy, and worried about whether the curse was through working its hell yet.

At least he’d gotten Cormia free of his legacy.

The wizard nodded. Good work, mate. You’ve saved her. It’s the first worthwhile thing you’ve ever done.

She will be much, much better without you.

Mr. D PULLED UP BEHIND the farmhouse and turned off the Focus. The bags from Target were in the passenger seat, and he grabbed them as he got out. The receipt in his wallet read $147.73.

His credit card had been rejected, so he’d written a check that he wasn’t sure was going to clear, and wasn’t that just like old times? His daddy’d been a master at bouncing, and not because he played basketball in high school.

As Mr. D kicked shut the driver’s-side door, he wondered if the reason lessers drove shit boxes wasn’t because the Society was just keeping a low profile, but because it was out of money. Used to be you never worried if your credit card worked or whether you could get new weapons ASAP. Dang it, under that there Mr. R as Fore-lesser ? Back in the eighties? The company ran good-like.

Not so much anymore. And now that was his problem. He should probably find out where all the accounts were, but he didn’t have no idea where to start. There had been so much turnover in Fore-lessers . When had the last one with any organiz-

Mr. X.

Mr. X had been good in the saddle, and he’d had that cabin in the woods-Mr. D had gone there once or twice. Chances were good that if there was account information around, it would be there in some form or another.

Thing was, if his credit cards were failing, others’ were. Which meant slayers were probably foraging on their own for cash, stealing from humans or keeping stuff they’d looted.

Maybe when he got there, he’d luck out and find that the piggy bank was fulled up, just lost in the shuffle. But he had a feeling that weren’t going to be the case.

As rain started falling again, he propped open the farm-house ’s back screen door with his hip, unlocked the place, and went into the kitchen. He held his breath at the stench of the two bodies. The man and the woman, as they turned out to be, were still doing their best impression of gruesome throw rugs, but one good thing about being a lesser was you came with your own air freshener. Within moments he didn’t smell them at all.

As he put the bull’s-eye bags down on the counter, there was the oddest sound drifting around the house, a humming… like a lullaby.

“Master?” Either that or someone was playing Radio Disney.

He came around into the dining room and stopped dead.

The Omega was standing beside the ratty table, leaning over the naked body of a blond male vampire that was stretched out flat. The vampire had had its throat slashed right up close to the chin, but the injury had been stitched up, and not in an autopsy way. That was some pretty little threading right chere.

Was the thing alive or dead? He couldn’t tell-no, wait, that big chest was going up and down a little.

“He is so beautiful, is he not.” The Omega’s black translucent hand drifted over the male’s facial planes. “Blond as well. The mother was a blond. Hah! I was told I could not create. Not like her . But our father was wrong. Look at my son. Flesh of my flesh.”

Mr. D felt like he had to say something, kind of like he’d been presented with a baby for the praising. “He’s a good-looking one, yes, suh.”

“Do you have what I asked for?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Bring me the knives.”

When Mr. D came back in with the Target bags, the Omega put one hand over the male’s nose and another over its mouth. The vampire’s eyes popped open, but the thing was too weak to do more than paw at the Omega’s white robes.

“My son, do not fight,” the evil breathed with satisfaction. “The time for your second birth has arrived.”

The jerky struggling crescendoed until the vampire’s heels were banging on the table and its palms squeaked on the wood. It flopped about like a puppet, all flailing, uncoordinated limbs and useless panic. And then it was done and the male stared upward with blank eyes and a lax mouth.

As rain lashed the windows, the Omega swooped the white hood off his head and unclasped his robe. With an elegant toss, he cast the vestment from himself, sending the satin weight sailing across the room. The thing settled upright in the corner, as if draped over a mannequin.

The Omega stretched up, growing long and thin, rubber-man -ing it toward the cheapie chandelier that hung above the table. He grasped its chain at the point where it entered the ceiling, and with a quick yank pulled the fixture free and pitched it into the corner. Unlike the robe, it did not land neatly, but ended its useful life, if it hadn’t already, in a tangled heap of broken bulbs and twisted brass arms.

In its place, exposed wires hung like swamp vines from the stained ceiling, dangling over the vampire’s body.

“Knife, please,” the Omega said.

“Which one?”

“The short bladed.”

Mr. D rummaged through the bags, found the right knife, then struggled to bust through a consumer-proof plastic wrapping that was so strong it made him want to stab himself in frustration.

“Enough,” the Omega snapped, and held out his hand.

“I can get me some scissors-”

“Give it to me.”

The instant the packaging hit the master’s shadowy palm, the plastic burned away, curling free of the blade and dropping to the floor in a twisted brown snakeskin.

As the Omega turned to the vampire, he tested the sharpness on his own shadowy forearm, smiling as black oil rose out of the slice he made.

It was like gutting a pig, and it happened just as fast.While thunder prowled around the house as if it were searching for a way to get in, the Omega drew the blade down the center of the male’s body from the wound at the guy’s throat to his belly button. The smell of blood and meat rose up, winning out over the baby-fresh scent of the master.

“Bring me the capped vase.” The Omega pronounced the word vahz , not vase .

Mr. D brought over a blue ceramic jar what he’d found in the housewares section. As it changed hands, he was tempted to point out to the master that it was too soon to remove the heart, because the Omega’s blood had to be circulated through the body first. ’Cept then he remembered the male was dead anyway, so what did it matter?

Clearly this was not your everyday induction to the Society.

The Omega took his fingertip and burned open the vampire ’s sternum, the smell of bone on fire sending Mr. D’s nose to wrinkles. The ribs were then split open by unseen hands at the will of the master and the still heart exposed.

The Omega’s translucent palm went in and penetrated the sac around the heart, forming a new nest for the organ. With an expression of annoyance, he plucked the knot of muscle free from its chains of arteries and veins, red blood falling in a stream onto the pale skin of the male’s chest.

Mr. D got the vase ready, uncapping it and holding it under the Omega’s hand. Flames burst up from the heart, and a stream of ash fell into the vessel.

“Get the buckets,” the Omega said.

Mr. D capped the vase and put it in the corner, then went into a bag and pulled out four red Rubbermaid buckets, the kind his mama had called sloppers. He positioned one under each of the vampire’s arms and legs as the Omega went around and opened cuts in the wrists and ankles to drain the body of blood. It was amazing how fast the vampire’s skin lost its color, moving through the spectrum past white into a bluish gray.