The Blind King dematerialized right on the motherfucker, striking from above with fangs bared to lock into the back of the slayers neck. The stinging sweetness of the lessers blood was the taste of triumph, and the chorus of victory was not long in coming either as Wrath grabbed onto both of the bastards upper arms.
Payback was a snap. Or two, as it were.
The thing screamed as both bones popped out of their sockets, but the howl didnt travel far after Wrath clapped his palm over its mouth.
Thats just a warm-up, Wrath hissed. Its important to get loose before youre worked out.
The king flipped the slayer over and stared down at the thing. From behind Wraths wraparounds, his weak eyes were sharper than usual, the adrenaline cruising along his highway of veins giving him a shot at visual acuity. Which was good. He needed to see what he killed in a way that had nothing to do with ensuring the accuracy of a mortal blow.
As the lesser strained for breath, the skin of its face sported an unreal, plastic sheen-as if the bone structure had been upholstered in the shit you made grain sacks out of-and the eyes were popping wide, the sweet stench of the thing like the sweat of roadkill on a hot night.
Wrath unclipped the steel chain that hung from the shoulder of his biker jacket and unwound the shiny links from under his arm. Holding the heavy weight in his right hand, he wrapped his fist, widening the spread of his knuckles, adding to their hard contours.
Say cheese.
Wrath struck the thing in the eye. Once. Twice. Three times. His fist was a battering ram, the eye socket below giving way like it was nothing more than a pocket door. With every cracking impact, black blood burst up and out, hitting Wraths face and jacket and sunglasses. He felt all the spray, even through the leather he wore, and wanted more.
He was a glutton for this kind of meal.
With a hard smile, he let the chain uncoil from his fist, and it hit the dirty asphalt on a seething, metallic laugh, as if it had enjoyed that as much as he had. Below him, the lesser wasnt dead. Even though the thing was no doubt developing massive subdural hematomas on the front and back of its brain, it would still live, because there were only two ways to kill a slayer.
One was to stab it in the chest with the black daggers the Brothers wore strapped to their chests. This sent the POS back to its maker, the Omega, but was only a temporary fix, because the evil would just use that essence to turn another human into a killing machine. It was not death, but delay.
The other way was permanent.
Wrath got out his cell phone and dialed. When a deep male voice with a Boston accent answered, he said, Eighth and Trade. Three down.
Butch ONeal, a.k.a. the Dhestroyer, descended of Wrath, son of Wrath, was characteristically phlegmatic in his response. Real middle-of-the-road. Easygoing. Leaving so much room for interpretation in his words:
Oh, for fucks sake. Are you kidding me? Wrath, you have got to stop this moonlighting shit. Youre the king now. Youre not a Brother any-
Wrath clipped the phone shut.
Yup. The other way to get rid of these sonsabitches, the permanent way, was going to be here in about five minutes. With his mouth riding shotgun. Unfortunately.
Wrath sat back on his heels, re-coiled the chain on his shoulder, and looked up at the squat box of night sky that was visible above the rooftops. As his adrenaline ebbed, he could only slightly differentiate the rising dark torsos of the buildings against the flat plane of the galaxy, and he squinted hard.
Youre not a Brother anymore.
The hell he wasnt. He didnt care what the law said. His race needed him to be more than a bureaucrat.
With a curse in the Old Language, he got back with the program, going through the slayers jacket and pants, looking for ID. In an ass pocket, he found a thin wallet with a drivers license and two dollars in it-
You thoughthe was one of yours
The slayers voice was both reedy and malicious, and the horror-movie sound triggered Wraths aggression once more. In a rush, his vision sharpened, bringing his enemy into semifocus.
What did you say to me?
The lesser smiled a little, seeming not to notice that half its face had the consistency of a runny omelet. He was alwaysone of ours.
What the fuck are you talking about?
Howdo you think-the lesser took a shuddering breath-we foundall those houses this summer-
A vehicles arrival cut off the words, and Wraths head shot around. Thank fuck it was the black Escalade he was hoping for and not some human with a cell phone cocked and loaded with a 911 call.
Butch ONeal stepped out from behind the wheel, his gum-flapping in full swing. Have you lost your damn mind? What are we going to do with you? Youre gonna give
As the cop kept riding the Holy Hell Trail, Wrath looked back at the slayer. How did you find them? The houses?
The slayer started laughing, the weak wheeze the kind of thing you heard out of the deranged. Because hed been in them allthats how.
The bastard passed out, and shaking him didnt help bring him back. Neither did a palm slam or two.
Wrath got to his feet, frustration triggering the rise. Do your business, cop. The other two are back behind the Dumpster on the next block.
The cop just stared at him. Youre not supposed to fight.
Im the king. I can do whatever the fuck I want.
Wrath started to walk away, but Butch grabbed onto his arm. Does Beth know where you are? What youre doing? You tell her? Or is it only me youre asking to keep this secret?
Worry about that. Wrath pointed to the slayer. Not me and my shellan.
As he pulled free, Butch barked, Where are you going?
Wrath marched up into the cops grille. I thought I would pick up a civilians dead body and carry it to the Escalade. You got a problem with that, son?
Butch held his ground. Just one more way their shared blood showed. We lose you as king and the whole race is fucked.
And we got four Brothers left in the field. You like that math? I dont.
But-
Do your business, Butch. And stay out of mine.
Wrath stalked the three hundred yards back to where the fighting had started. The beaten slayers were right where hed left them: moaning on the ground, their limbs at wrong angles, their black blood seeping out into filthy slush puddles beneath their bodies. They were no longer his concern, though. Going around behind the Dumpster he looked at his dead civilian and found it hard to breathe.
The king knelt down and carefully brushed the hair back from the males beaten-to-shit face. Clearly, the guy had fought back, taking a number of hits before getting stabbed through the heart. Brave kid.
Wrath cupped the nape of the males neck, slid his other arm under the knees, and slowly rose. The weight of the dead was heavier than the pounds of the body. As he stepped away from the Dumpster and started for the Escalade, Wrath felt as though he held his whole race aloft in his arms, and he was glad he had to wear sunglasses to protect his weak eyes.
His wraparounds hid the sheen of tears.
He passed Butch as the cop jogged off toward the broken slayers to do his thing. After the guys footfalls halted, Wrath heard a long, deep inhale that sounded like the hiss of a balloon slowly deflating. The retching that followed was much louder.
As the suck and gag was repeated, Wrath laid the dead out in the back of the Escalade and went through the pockets. There was nothingno wallet, no phone, not even a gum wrapper.
Fuck. Wrath pivoted around and sat on the SUVs back bumper. One of the lessers had cleaned him out already in the course of the fightingand that meant that as all the slayers had just been inhaled, the civilians ID was ashed.
As Butch came weaving down the alley toward the Escalade, he was like an alkie on a bender and the cop didnt smell like Acqua di Parma anymore. He stank of lesser, as if hed lined his clothes in Downy dryer sheets, taped a pair of fake-vanilla car fresheners under his armpits, and done a dog roll in some dead fish.
Wrath got up and shut the Escalades back.
You sure you can drive? he asked as Butch carefully eased himself behind the wheel, looking like he was about to throw up.
Yeah. Good to go.
Wrath shook his head at the hoarse voice and glanced around the alley. There were no windows going up the buildings, and having Vishous come right away to heal the cop wouldnt take a lot of time, but between the fights and the cleanup there had been a lot going on here for the last half hour. They needed to get out of the area.
Originally, Wraths plan had been to take a picture of the slayers ID with his camera phone, enlarge it enough so he could read the address, and go after the jar of that fucker. He couldnt leave Butch on his own, though.
The cop seemed surprised when Wrath got into the Escalades shotgun seat. What are you-
Well take the body to the clinic. V can meet you there and take care of you.
Wrath-
Lets fight on the way, shall we, cousin mine?
Butch put the SUV in gear, reversed out of the alley, and turned around at the first cross street they came to. When he hit Trade, he took a left and headed for the bridges that stretched over the Hudson River. As he drove, he white-knuckled the steering wheel-not because he was scared, but because he was no doubt trying to hold down the bile in his gut.
I cant keep lying like this, Butch mumbled as they got to the other side of Caldwell. A little gag was followed by a cough.
Yeah, you can.
The cop looked over. Its killing me. Beth needs to know.
I dont want her to worry.
I get that- Butch made a choking sound. Hold on.
The cop pulled over onto the iced-up shoulder, popped open the door, and dry-heaved like his liver had received evacuation orders from his colon.
Wrath let his head fall back, an ache setting up shop behind both his eyes. The pain was so not a surprise. Lately he had migraines the way allergy sufferers had sneezes.
Butch reached back and patted around the center console, his upper body still arched out of the Escalade.
You want the water? Wrath asked.
Ye- Retching cut off the rest of the word.
Wrath picked up a Poland Spring bottle, cracked it open, and put the thing in Butchs hand.
When there was a break in the throwing up, the cop glugged some water, but the shit didnt stay down.
Wrath took out his phone. Im calling V now.
Just give me a minute.
It took more like ten, but eventually the cop got himself back in the car and put them on the road again. They both were silent for a couple miles, Wraths brain racing while his headache got worse.
Youre not a Brother anymore.
Youre not a Brother anymore.
But he had to be. His race needed him.
He cleared his throat. When V shows up at the morgue, youre going to say you found the civilians body and did the nasty with the lessers.
Hell want to know why youre there.
Well tell him that I was on the next block meeting with Rehvenge at ZeroSum and I sensed that you needed help. Wrath leaned across the front seat and locked a hand on the guys forearm. No one is going to find out, understand?
This is not a good idea. This is so not a good idea.
The fuck it isnt.
As they fell silent, the lights from cars on the other side of the highway made Wrath wince, even though his lids were down and his wraparounds in place. To cut the glare, he turned his face to the side, making like he was staring out his window.
V knows something is up, Butch muttered after a while.
And he can keep wondering. I need to be out in the field.
What if you get hurt?
Wrath put his forearm over his face in hopes of blocking out those goddamn headlights. Man, now he was getting nauseated.
I wont get hurt. Dont worry.
THREE
You ready for your juice, Father?
When there was no response, Ehlena, blooded daughter of Alyne, paused in the process of buttoning her uniform. Father?
From down the hall, she heard over the dulcet strings of Chopin a pair of slippers moving across bare floorboards and a soft waterfall of tumbling words, like a deck of cards being shuffled together.
This was good. He was up on his own.
Ehlena pulled her hair back, twisted it, and put a white scrunchie on to hold the knot in place. Halfway through her shift, she was going to have to redo the bun. Havers, the races physician, required his nurses to be as pressed and starched and well-ordered as everything in his clinic.
Standards, he always said, were critical.
On the way out of her bedroom, she picked up a black shoulder bag shed gotten from Target. Nineteen bucks. A steal. In it was the shortish skirt and the knockoff Polo sweater she was going to change into about two hours before dawn.
A date. She was actually going on a date.
The trip upstairs to the kitchen involved only one flight of stairs, and the first thing she did when she emerged from the basement was head over to the old-fashioned Frigidaire. Inside, there were eighteen small bottles of Ocean Spray CranRaspberry in three rows of six. She took one from the front, then carefully moved the others forward so that they were all lined up.
The pills were located behind the dusty stack of cookbooks. She took out one trifluoperazine and two loxapine and put them in a white mug. The stainless-steel spoon she used to crush them up was bent at a slight angle, and so were all the others.
Shed been crushing pills like this for close to two years now.
The CranRas hit the fine white powder and swirled it away, and to make sure the taste was adequately hidden, she put two ice cubes in the mug. The colder the better.
Father, your juice is ready. She put the mug down on the small table, right on top of a circle of tape that delineated where it needed to be placed.
The six cupboards across the way were as orderly and relatively empty as the fridge, and out of one she grabbed a box of Wheaties, and from another she got a bowl. After pouring herself some flakes she grabbed the milk carton, and as soon as she was finished using it, she put the thing right back where it went: next to two more of its kind, the Hood labels facing out.