shutters were coming down over the windows, the panels unfurling and covering the leaded glass panes like the lids of many eyes closing for sleep.
He dreaded going inside. Even though there must be upward of fifty rooms to wander through, the fact that he was going to have to stay put until sundown made the mansion feel like a shoe box.
As Qhuinn and Blay materialized on either side of him, he walked up the steps to the huge double doors and pushed his way into the vestibule.
Inside, he presented his mug for viewing in the security camera. Instantly, the lock was popped and he walked into a foyer that was right out of czarist Russia. Malachite and claret marble columns supported a three- story-high painted ceiling. Gold-leafed sconces and mirrors generated and reflected buttery light that further enriched the colors. And that staircase... the thing was like a carpeted landing strip that stretched up to the heavens, its golden balustrade splitting at the top to form the anchors of the second floor’s open balcony.
His father had spared no expense and obviously had a flair for the dramatic. All you needed was orchestral backup and you could imagine a king floating down in robes—
Wrath appeared at the top, his huge body clothed in black leather, his long black hair falling around his tremendous shoulders. His wraparound sunglasses were in place, and although he was at the head of a vast expanse of fall-on-your-ass, he didn’t look down. No reason to. His eyes were now utterly blind.
But he was not sightless. At his side, George had things covered. The Seeing Eye dog was in control of the king, the two united through the harness that went around the golden retriever’s chest and haunches. They were the ultimate Mutt and Jeff, a canine Good Samaritan with beauty-contestant looks and a brutal warrior who was obviously capable of tearing your throat open on a whim. But they worked well together and Wrath was pretty much in love with his animal: The dog was treated like the royal pet he was—to hell with even Iams; George ate whatever his master did, which meant prime cuts of beef and lamb. And word was that the retriever slept in bed with Beth and Wrath—although that had yet to be independently verified, as no one was allowed in the First Family’s quarters.
As Wrath started down for the foyer, he walked with a limp, the result of something he did over on the Far Side at the Scribe Virgin’s. No one knew who he saw or why he sported a black eye or a split lip on a regular basis, but everyone, even John, was glad for the sessions. They kept Wrath on an even keel and away from the field.
With the king descending, and some of the other Brothers coming through the door John had just used, he had to make his escape. If those Shadows had sensed he had fresh ink, the people gathering for last meal would pick up on it in a heartbeat if they got close enough.
Fortunately, there was a wet bar in the library and John went there and helped himself to a shot of Jack Daniel’s. The first of many.
While he started to make deposits into his buzz account, he braced himself against the marble slab and wished like hell he had a time machine—although it was hard to know whether he’d choose to go forward or backward with it.
“You want any food?” Qhuinn said from the doorway.
John didn’t look in the guy’s direction, just shook his head and poured some more liquid relief into his squat glass.
“Okay, I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
With a curse, John pivoted around and signed,
“Roast beef? Good. And I’ll hitch you some carrot cake. Tray’ll be left in your room.” Qhuinn turned away. “If you wait about five more minutes in here, everyone will be seated at the table, so you’ll have a clear shot up the stairs.”
The guy took off, which meant short of braining him with the glass, there was no other way of expressing his I-am-an-island opinion.
Although really, that would just be a waste of good booze—Qhuinn was so hardheaded, you could have hit his frontal lobe with a crowbar and made no impression on him whatsoever.
Fortunately, the alcohol began to take effect, its numb blanket settling on John’s shoulders first before sweeping up and down his body. The shit did nothing to quiet his mind, but his bones and muscles did ease out.
After waiting the suggested five minutes, John took his drink and his bottle and hit the stairs two at a time. As he ascended, the subdued voices from the dining room followed him, but that’s all there was. Lately, there hadn’t been much to laugh about over meals.
When he got to his room, he opened the door and walked into a jungle. There were clothes draped on every conceivable surface—the dresser, the wing chair, the bed, the plasma-screen TV. Kind of like his closet had thrown up all over everything. Empty bottles of Jack cluttered up the two side tables by the headboard, and the dead soldiers spread out from there, clustering on the floor and nesting in the twisted sheets and duvet.
Fritz and his cleaning crew hadn’t been let in for two weeks, and at the rate things were going, they were going to need a backhoe when he finally threw the doors open to them.
Undressing, he let his leathers and shirt fall where they did, but his jacket he was careful with. At least until he took his weapons out—then he dumped the thing on the corner of the bed. In the bathroom, he double-checked his two blades and then he swiftly cleaned his guns with the kit that he just left out by the second sink.
Yeah, he’d let his standards slide lower than even frat-boy levels, but his weapons were different. Utility had to be maintained.
His shower was quick, and as he worked the soap over his chest and abs, he thought back to the time when even the brush of warm water over his cock was enough to make him hard. No more. He hadn’t had an erection... since the last time he’d been with Xhex.
He just didn’t have the interest—even in his dreams, which was a new one. Hell, before his transition, when he wasn’t supposed to have any awareness of his sexuality, his subconscious had kicked up all sorts of hot and heavy. And those sex-fests had been so real, so detailed, it was as if they were memory and not REM-induced fabrications.
Now? All that played on his internal screen was
When he came out of the bathroom, he found a tray with a roast beef sandwich and a big-as-your-head wedge of carrot cake on it. Nothing to drink, but Qhuinn knew that he was taking his liquid refreshment from Mr. Daniel alone.
John ate standing up in front of the bureau, naked as the day he was born, and when the food hit his stomach, it sucked the energy from him, draining everything from his head. Wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, he put the tray out in the hall and then headed for the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth only from habit.
Lights off in the bath. Lights off in the room.
Him and the Jack sitting on the bed.
As exhausted as he was, he was not looking forward to lying down. There was an inverse relationship between his energy level and the distance between his ears and the floor: Even though he was cross-eyed, the second his head hit the pillow, his thoughts were going to start spinning and he was going to end up wide awake and staring at the ceiling, counting hours and aches.
He polished off what was in his glass and propped his elbows on his knees. Within moments, his head was bobbing, his lids slamming down. When he started to list to the side, he let himself go even though he was unsure which direction he was going in, toward the pillows or the wadded-up duvet.
Pillows.
Shifting his feet up on the bed, he dragged the covers over his hips and had a moment of blissful collapse. Maybe tonight the cycle would break. Maybe this glorious sinking relief would suck him down into the black hole he was hoping for. Maybe he’d...
His eyes popped open and he stared into the thick darkness.
Nope. He was exhausted to the point of being jittery, not just wide awake... but goosed-in-the-ass alert. As he rubbed his face, he figured this contradictory state of things was the cognitive equivalent to bumblebees being able to fly: Physicists maintained it wasn’t possible, and yet it happened all the time.
Rolling over onto his back, he crossed his arms over his chest and yawned so hard his jaw cracked. Tough to know whether to turn on the light. The darkness amplified the whirling in his skull, but the lamp stung his eyes until
