“Hey, my man, how you be,” the male said as they embraced and clapped each other on the shoulder. “Come in.”
As iAm entered the Reverend’s private space for the first time in a good year or so, he found that nothing had changed, and for some reason, that was a relief.
Rehvenge went over to a leather sofa and sat down, propping his cane up next to him and crossing his legs at the knees. “What do you need?”
As iAm tried to put together the right words, Rehv swore a little. “Man, I knew this wasn’t a social call—but I didn’t expect your emotions to be a fucking mess.”
Ah, yes, the sin-eater way meant that there was no hiding anything from the male.
Still, it was difficult to speak of it all. “I’m not sure you’re aware of what’s been going on with Trez?”
Rehv frowned, his dark brows narrowing that intense, violet stare. “I thought the Iron Mask was doing good business. You boys in trouble? I’ve got plenty of cash if you need—”
“Business is great. We’ve got more money than we can spend. The issue is my brother’s extracurricular activities.”
“He’s not into drugs, is he,” Rehv said darkly.
“Women.”
Rehv laughed and brushed that off with the flick of a dagger hand. “Oh, if that’s all it is—”
“He’s completely out of control—and one of them magically appeared in his bed tonight. We got home and there she was.”
Rehv went back to the frowning. “In your apartment? How the fuck did she get in?”
“The lowest common denominator with a security guard.” iAm paced around the modern room, dimly noting that the view was, in fact, better from this height. “Trez has been fucking anything that moves for years, but lately he’s been so reckless—not wiping memories, hitting ’em more than once, not worrying about consequences.”
“What the hell is wrong with him?”
iAm turned and faced the half-breed who was the closest thing to family he had outside of his flesh and blood. Matter of fact, he trusted the guy more than ninety-nine percent of his own bloodline.
“Trez is mated.”
Long silence. “Excuse me?”
iAm nodded. “He’s mated.”
Rehv got up off that couch. “Since when?”
“Birth.”
“Ohhhhhh.” Rehv whistled softly. “So it’s a s’Hisbe thing.”
“He was promised to the queen’s first daughter.”
Rehv was silent for a while. Then he shook his head. “That would make him the future king, would it not.”
“That’s right. And even though we are a matriarchal society, that is not an irrelevancy.”
“Check us out,” the male murmured. “He and I and Wrath. Quite the trifecta.”
“Well, it’s different for the s’Hisbe, of course. The queen is the one who dictates everything for us.”
“So what’s he still doing on the outside. With all us UnKnowables?”
“He doesn’t want anything to do with the s’Hisbe.”
“Has he got a choice?”
“No.” iAm glanced over at the wet bar in the corner. “Mind if I have a drink?”
“Are you kidding me? I’d be getting hammered if I were you.”
iAm wandered over, considered his options, and ended up picking a decanter that had a little necklace reading Bourbon around its throat. He went straight up, and as he took a pull off the rim of a cut-crystal glass, he savored the burn over his tongue. “Nice.”
“Parker’s Heritage Collection, Small Batch. The best.”
“I didn’t think you were a big drinker.”
“That’s no excuse for not knowing what you serve your guests.”
“Ah.”
“So what’s the plan?”
iAm tilted his head back, emptied the glass into his mouth and swallowed hard. “We need somewhere safe to stay. And not just because of the women thing. We had a visit by the high priest this past week—and given we’re on the outside, that means they’re getting serious back home. They’re looking for him—and if they find him? I’m afraid he’s going to kill the s’Hisbe’s representative. Then we’ve really got a problem.”
“You think he’d take it that far?”
“Yes, I do.” iAm poured a refill. “He’s not going back there, and I need time to figure out how to resolve the conflict before something disastrous happens.”
“You guys want to move into my house up north?”
iAm downed his second bourbon on a oner. “No.” He leveled his eyes. “I want us to move into the Brotherhood compound.”
As Rehv cursed long and low, iAm poured himself a third. “It’s the safest place for us.”
Xcor was covered in lesser blood and sweat as he returned to his new lair. His fighters were still downtown, engaging with the enemy, but he had had to pare off and seek shelter.
Damn cut on his arm.
The house that Throe had found them was located in a modest neighborhood full of modest homes with two-car garages and swing sets in their backyards. Among its advantages was that it was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, and there was an empty building lot on one side and a Caldwell Sewer Department processing unit on the other.
They had it for three months, with an option to buy.
As he dematerialized through the heavily draped windows of the family room, he scoffed at the padded sofa that formed an L, its tufted cushions like rolls of fat, its color akin to beef stew.
Although he appreciated working heat, the fact that the facility had come “furnished” was annoying to him. He feared he was alone in this, however: Over the past few days, he’d oft caught one or another of his soldiers reclining on that godforsaken monster, their heads lying back, their legs stretched out in comfort.
What was next? Throw blankets?
Stalking up the narrow staircase, he missed the doom and gloom of the castle they still owned back in the Old Country. Longed for the heft of the stone that had surrounded them, and the impregnable nature of the layout, with its moat and high walls. Mourned, too, the fun they had had spooking the villagers, giving physical presence to the stuff of myth.
Good times, as they said here in the New World.
On the second floor, he refused to look into the bedrooms. The pink of the one in front burned his eyes, and the sea foam green of the other was another assault on the senses as well. And there was no relief to be had as he walked into the master bedroom. Flowered wallpaper, everywhere. Even on the bed, and across the windows, and all over that chair in the corner.
At least his combat boots crushed the thick carpet, leaving tread prints like bruises on his way to the bath.
For godsakes, he was not even sure what color to call the scheme in here.
Raspberry?
Shuddering, he wanted to keep the lights over the sink off, but with the rosebud curtains drawn, the illumination from the streetlamps below was drowned out completely, and he needed to see what he was doing—
Oh, dearest Fates.
He’d forgotten about the lace shades on the sconces.
Indeed, in any other environment, the twin red glows might have suggested something of a sexual nature. But not in this land of nicey-nicey. Here, they were a set of gumdrops glowing on the wall.
He nearly choked from the estrogen.
In a fit of self-preservation, he popped both of the offenders free of their lightbulbs and put them under the sink. The glare was offensive to his retinas, but it was the difference between cursing and hand-wringing: Always, he would choose the former.
Removing his scythe first, he placed her on the counter between the twin sinks. Next, he took off her halter, then stripped his coat, his daggers and his guns from his body. The undershirt he wore was stained from long nights of fighting, but it was cleaned regularly—and would be used again. Clothes, after all, were naught but the hides vampires had not been given at birth.
They were not for personal decoration—at least, not for him.
Turning to the mirror, he muttered at the sight of himself.