J. Ward - Lover Avenged

The security system let out a beep as the mansion’s outer door was opened. There was a pause and then another beep was followed by a gonging sound.

As Fritz raced to answer the summons, Tohr sat up straighter, which was pathetic, considering the shape his body was in. Torso height was not going to magically improve the fact that he weighed little more than the chair his nonexistent butt was parked in.

Qhuinn was the first to stride in, the kid dressed in black, the gunmetal piercings that ran up his left ear and marked his lower lip catching the light. Blaylock was next, dressed all Mr. Preppy in his high-necked cashmere sweater and his slacks. As the pair headed for the stairs, the expressions on them were as different as their clothes. Qhuinn had evidently had a really good night, going by the I-got-laid-and-then-some grin on his piehole. Blay, on the other hand, looked like he’d been to the dentist, his mouth set grimly, his eyes down on the mosaic floor.

Maybe John wasn’t coming back. But where would he stay-

When John came into the foyer, Tohr couldn’t help it: He rose from his seat, catching himself on the high back of the chair as he wobbled.

John’s face had no expression on it at all. His hair was tousled, but not by the wind, and there was a series of scratches on the side of his neck, the kind made by a female’s nails. The scent coming off him was of Jack Daniel’s, multiple perfumes, and sex.

He looked about a hundred years older than when he’d been sitting by Tohr’s bed doing The Thinker mere nights ago. This was not a kid. This was a full-grown male working off a hard edge in the time-tested ways most guys did.

Tohr sank back into the chair, expecting to be ignored, but when John reached the bottom step, he put his boot up and turned his head as if he knew someone was watching him. His expression didn’t change at all as he met Tohr’s stare. He just lifted his hand in a half-assed way and kept on going.

“I was worried you weren’t coming home,” Tohr said loudly.

Qhuinn and Blay halted. Rhage and Lassiter shut up. Mary’s and Rhoda’s voices filled the void.

John barely paused as he signed, This isn’t home. It’s a house. And I need a place to stay.

John didn’t wait for a response, and the set of his shoulders suggested he wasn’t interested in one. Clearly, Tohr could have talked until his tongue was worn to a stump about how the people here cared about John, but nothing would register.

As the three of them disappeared up the stairs, Tohr finished his milk shake, took the tall glass into the kitchen, and got the thing into the dishwasher without a doggen asking him if he wanted anything else to eat or drink. Beth, however, was stirring a pot of stew and looking as if she were hoping to slip him a bowl so he didn’t stick around.

The trip up to the second floor was long and hard, but not because he was feeling weak physically. He’d fucked John up but good, and now he was reaping that crop of all the shutout he’d been laying, wasn’t he. Damn it-

The crash and holler that came through the study’s closed doors sounded like someone had been attacked, and Tohr’s body, frail though it was, responded on instinct, hitting the door hard and throwing it open.

Wrath was crouched behind the desk, arms out in front of him, the computer and phone and paperwork scattered as if he’d pushed them away, his chair on its side. The wraparounds the king always wore were in one of his hands, his eyes staring straight ahead.

“My lord-”

“Are the lights on.” Wrath was breathing hard. “Are the fucking lights on.”

Tohr rushed around and grabbed onto one of his king’s arms. “Out in the hall, yeah. And there’s the fire. What’s-”

Wrath’s powerful body started to shake so badly, Tohr had to jack the Brother up. Which required more muscle than he had. Fuck, they were both going down if he didn’t get help. Locking his mouth on his front teeth, he whistled loud and long and then got back with the job of trying not to lose hold of his king.

Rhage and Lassiter were the first to come running, and they burst through the door. “What the hell-”

“Turn the lights on,” Wrath hollered again. “Someone turn on the fucking lights!”

As Lash sat in front of the granite counter at the brownstone’s empty kitchen, his disposition improved greatly. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about the Brotherhood walking off with crates of guns and slayer jars. Or that the Hunterbred apartments had been compromised. Or that Grady had escaped. Or that he had a symphath waiting for him up north who was no doubt cranking out because Lash hadn’t gone up there to murder someone yet.

It was just that cash was distracting. And a lot of cash was very distracting.

He watched as Mr. D brought over another Hannaford paper bag. More stacks of bills came out, each bundle secured by a cheapy tan rubber band. When the lesser was finished, not a lot of granite showed.

Hell of a way to get him to calm his shit down, Lash thought as he looked up when Mr. D was finished hauling bags in.

“How much in total?”

“Seventy-two thousand, seven hundred forty. I done bundled it in hun’red-dollar lots.”

Lash took one of the banded sets. This was not the neat and tidy currency that came from banks. This was dirty, wrinkled money, liberated from jeans pockets and mostly empty wallets and stained coats. He could practically smell the desperation wafting up from the bills.

“How much product do we have left?”

“Enough for another two nights like tonight, but no more. And there be only two more dealers left. ’Cept for the big one.”

“Don’t worry about Rehvenge. I’ll take care of him. In the meantime, don’t kill the other retailers-bring them to a persuasion center. We need their contacts. I want to know where and how they buy.” Of course, likely as not they transacted with Rehvenge, but maybe there was someone else. A human who was more malleable. “First thing this morning, you go and get us a safety-deposit box and put this in there. This is seed money, and we’re not losing it.”

“Yessuh.”

“Who sold the shit with you?”

“Mr. N and Mr. I.”

Great. The fucktards who had let Grady bolt. Still, they had performed on the streets, and Grady had met a creative and uncomfortable end. Plus Lash had gotten to see Xhex in action. So all wasn’t lost.

He was so going to be paying ZeroSum a visit.

And as for N and I, killing them was better than they deserved, but right now he needed those assholes out making paper. “At nightfall, I want those two lessers pushing product.”

“I thought you’d want to-”

“First of all, you don’t think. And secondly, we need more of this.” He tossed the scrubby bills back amid the piles. “I have plans that cost money.”

“Yessuh.”

Abruptly reconsidering things, Lash leaned forward and picked up the bundle he’d thrown back. The shit was hard to let go of, even though all of it was his, and somehow, the war seemed less interesting all of a sudden.

Bending down, he grabbed one of the paper bags and filled it up. “You know that Lexus.”

“Yessuh.”

“Take care of it.” He reached into his pockets and tossed Mr. D the keys to the thing. “That’s your new ride. If you’re going to be my street man, you have to look like you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

“Yessuh!”

Lash rolled his eyes, thinking that it took so little to motivate the stupid. “Don’t fuck up anything while I’m gone, will you?”

“Where you be off to?”

“Manhattan. I’ll be reachable on my cell. Later.”

As a cold day dawned and clouds dappled across a milky blue sky, José de la Cruz drove through Pine Grove Cemetery’s gates and wound around rows and rows of headstones. The tight, curving lanes reminded him of Life, that old board game his brother and he had played when they were kids. Each player got a little car with six holes and started with one peg to represent himself. As the game rolled on, you moved around the road track, picking up more pegs to represent a wife and kids. The goal was to acquire people and money and opportunity, to plug the holes in your car, to fill those voids you started out with.