She went for his belt at the same time she showed him her knife.
Men were funny. No matter how out of it they were, you got something long, sharp, and shiny anywhere near their primary brain and you got fireworks.
“No…!”
“Oh, yes.” She brought the blade close to his face. “Very much yes.”
He fought hard even with the pick-apart wounds she’d given, and she paused to enjoy the show.
“You’re going to be dead before I leave you,” she said as he flopped around. “But you and me are going to spend some quality time together before I take off. Not a lot, mind you. I have to go back to work. Good thing I’m quick.”
She put her boot on his sternum to immobilize him, popped his button and fly, and yanked his pants down his thighs. “How long did it take for you to kill her, Grady? How long?”
In full panic, he moaned and thrashed, his blood staining the white snow red.
“How long, motherfucker?” She sliced through the waistband of his Emporio Armani boxers. “How long did she suffer?”
A moment later, Grady screamed so loudly, the sound wasn’t even human; it was more the pealing cry of a black crow.
Xhex paused and looked over at the statue of the robed woman she’d spent so much time staring at during Chrissy’s service. For a moment, the stone face seemed to have changed position, the lovely female looking not up to God, but across at Xhex.
Except that just wasn’t possible, was it.
As Wrath stood behind his wall of Brothers, his ears tracked the distant sounds of the front door to Sal’s opening and closing, isolating the subtle turn of hinges in between Sinatra’s scooby-dooby-doos. Whatever they were waiting for had just shown up, and his body, his senses, his heart all downshifted like he was approaching a tight curve and preparing to power through.
His eyes cranked into better focus, the red room and the white table and the backs of his brothers’ heads becoming slightly clearer as iAm reappeared in the archway.
An extremely well-dressed male was with him.
Right, that guy had glymera stamped all over his natty ass. With his wavy blond hair parted on the side, he was rocking The Great Gatsby, his face so perfectly proportioned and balanced that he was downright beautiful. His black wool coat was tailored to fit a lean body, and in his hand, he carried a thin document case.
Wrath had never seen him before, but he seemed young for the situation he’d just walked into. Very young.
Nothing but a very expensive sacrificial lamb with a lot of style.
Rehvenge stalked over to the kid, the symphath palming his cane as if he might unsheathe the sword inside of it if Gatsby so much as took a deep breath. “You better start talking. Now.”
Wrath stepped forward, shouldering between Rhage and Z, neither of whom was too happy about the position change. A quick slash of the hand stopped them from trying to maneuver in front of him.
“What’s your name, son?” Last thing they needed was a dead body, and with Rehv nothing was ever certain.
The Gatsby lamb bowed somberly and straightened. When he spoke, it was in a voice that was surprisingly deep and sure, considering the number of auto-loaders trained on his chest. “I am Saxton, son of Tyhm.”
“I’ve seen your name before. You prepare bloodline reports.”
“I do.”
So, the council was really reaching down the bloodlines, weren’t they? Not even the son of a council member.
“Who sent you, Saxton?”
“A dead man’s lieutenant.”
Wrath had no clue how the glymera had taken Montrag’s death and he didn’t care. As long as the message was out to anyone else in on the plot, that was all that mattered. “Why don’t you say your piece.”
The male put his case on the table and released the gold clip. The instant he did, Rehv pulled his red sword free and placed the point right against a pale throat. Saxton froze and looked around without moving his head.
“You might want to move slowly, son,” Wrath murmured. “Lot of trigger-happy boys in this room, and you’re everyone’s favorite bull’s-eye tonight.”
That oddly deep and even voice spoke in measured words. “That’s why I told him we had to do this.”
“Do what.” This came from Rhage, always the hothead-Rehv’s sword notwithstanding, Hollywood was ready to jump on Gatsby whether or not any kind of weapon came out of those leather folds.
Saxton glanced at Rhage, then went back to focusing on Wrath. “The day after Montrag was assassinated-”
“Interesting word choice,” Wrath drawled, wondering how much this guy knew, exactly.
“Of course it was an assassination. When you’re murdered, usually you still have your eyes left in your skull.”
Rehv smiled, revealing a matched set of oral daggers. “That depends on your murderer.”
“Go on,” Wrath prompted. “And, Rehv, relax with that sharpie of yours, if you don’t mind.”
The symphath backed off a little, but kept his weapon out, and Saxton eyed the guy before continuing. “The night Montrag was assassinated, this was delivered to my boss.” Saxton opened his document case and took out a manila envelope. “It was from Montrag.”
He put the thing facedown on the table to show that the wax seal had not been broken and stepped away.
Wrath looked at the envelope. “V, you mind doing the honors?”
V came forward and picked the thing up with his gloved hand. There was a soft tear and then a quiet whisper of papers sliding out.
Silence.
V replaced the documents, tucked the envelope into his waistband at the small of his back, and stared at Gatsby. “We supposed to think you didn’t read this?”
“I didn’t. My boss didn’t. No one has since the chain of custody fell to him and me.”
“Chain of custody? You a lawyer and not just a paralegal?”
“I’m apprenticing to be an attorney in the Old Law.”
V leaned in and bared his fangs. “You are certain you did not read this, true?”
Saxton stared back at the Brother as if he were momentarily fascinated by the tattoos on V’s temple. After a moment, he shook his head and spoke in that low voice. “I’m not interested in joining a list of people who’ve been found dead and eyeless on their carpets. Neither is my boss. The seal on that was made by Montrag’s hand. Whatever he put in there hasn’t been read since he let that hot wax drip.”
“How you know it was Montrag who stuffed this?”
“It’s his handwriting on the front. I know because I’ve seen a lot of his notes on documents. Plus it was brought to us by his personal doggen at his request.”
As Saxton talked, Wrath read the male’s emotions carefully, breathing through his nose. No deceit. Conscience was clean. Flyboy was attracted to V, but other than that? There was nothing. Not even fear. He was cautious, but calm.
“If you’re lying,” V said softly, “we will find out and find you.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second.”
“What do you know, the lawyer has a brain.” Vishous stepped back in line, palm returning to the butt of his gun.
Wrath wanted to know what was in the envelope, but he gathered that whatever was in there wasn’t suitable for mixed company. “So where are your boss and his buddies, Saxton.”
“None of them are coming.” Saxton looked at the empty chairs. “They’re all terrified. After what happened to Montrag, they are locked in their houses and staying there.”
Good, Wrath thought. With the glymera displaying their talent for being cowards, he had one less thing to worry about.
