“That sounds very fair. And I really want to make sure we do this right. It’s too important to cut any corners on.”
“I’m glad you agree—and I’m not surprised.” Rhym sat back. “So tell me about your relationship with Bitty. I’ve seen glimpses of it, but I’d like to get a sense from you not as a professional, but as a person.”
Mary picked up a pen and wove it in and out between her fingers, the way she had when she’d been in college. “I’ve known her ever since she came to the house. I’ve been her primary caseworker the entire time, as you know, and honestly, she was so reserved and self-protective, I thought I was never going to get through to her. I’m aware that this whole adoption thing seems to have just come up since her mother died, but the truth of it is that Bitty’s been on my mind and in my heart for the last two years. I refused to look too close at the opportunity, though. I just … as you know, I can’t have children, and when that’s your reality? You don’t want to touch that closed door. All there is, on the other side, are flames that will burn your house down.”
“Are you prepared to let the girl go if a relation surfaces? Can you do that?”
This time, there was no keeping the grimace off her face. Then again, when someone got your bare foot even close to an alligator’s mouth, you did tend to flinch.
“Whatever is good for Bitty.” She shook her head. “And I honestly mean that. If we have to let her go, we will.”
“Well, the truth is, I’ve also looked for that uncle. Looked for anybody tied to her. No one fits any of the information. We lost so many in the raids, it’s possible that he died at that time along with others of her kin. Or perhaps in some other way.”
“Can I just say … I’m really not a big fan of death.”
For a moment, she thought back to dancing with Rhage in the gym. They’d had to be close to each other in the wake of their agreement, that future separation they’d had the luxury of not worrying about suddenly looming over them as it did for all other couples.
“Neither am I,” Rhym said. And then the female cleared her throat. “And on that note, can we talk about your situation”
“You mean with the Scribe Virgin?”
“Yes, please.” There was an awkward pause. “I don’t really understand the … quasi-immortality, I guess you’d call it—not that it isn’t possible. With the Scribe Virgin, anything can happen. And then I need to ask you about the beast. I have to confess, that’s the only red flag for me in any of this.”
Mary chuckled. “That thing is just a big purple teddy bear. I promise you, it couldn’t hurt a fly—or at least not a female one, and certainly never me. But I digress. My story starts back a couple of years ago, when I was diagnosed with…”
SIXTY-SEVEN
His mistake had been the unmuffled gunshot.
As Assail proceeded from Naasha’s suite to Throe’s, and then broke down the male’s locked door, he was greeted with an empty bedroom and an open window, the traitor having obviously dematerialized out when he heard the forty go off.
“Goddamn it,” Assail muttered as he wheeled around and checked the bathroom. And the closet.
Nothing was particularly out of place, and the true telltale of quick departure was the open wall safe across the way, that landscape that had been ever so slightly cockeyed upon its hook before now sitting on the seat of a chair, the metal belly of the keep-all exposed, the light inside illustrating that its contents had been removed.
But whate’er did it matter? Naasha had been the true target.
Throe could be pursued at leisure on another night.
Assail doubled back to Naasha’s, and strode through her bedroom, going to the window that he had seen her in from down below. Willing the lights off in the bath, he peered out of the glass as the sweet chemical stink of gasoline now reached even the second floor.
Down below at the foot of the drive, as prescribed, was a group of eight standing beside the lamppost, the illumination detailing that the seven servants and that butler had arranged themselves in a line and were staring up at the mansion.
“Good male,” Assail muttered as he turned away.
He was about to leave when something caught his eye—a gleam over on one of the counters. Reigniting the lighting, he stepped over her dead body and picked up the diamond necklace. The thing was modest, by Naasha’s standards, naught but a rivere of two-and three-carat stones.
Below where it sat, there was a series of thin drawers, each with a pair of brass key locks that were engaged.
Mayhap it was nostalgia for his cat burglar, or perhaps a final fuck-you to Naasha, but he extended his gun arm and pumped off a number of rounds into the fucking things, splintering the wood, scattering the locks, ruining the pristine bank of cabinets.
When he had emptied his clip, the top drawer lolled open like a cartoon character’s tongue. Inside, in a jumbled mess, were all kinds of things that sparkled, and he grabbed handfuls, stuffing the rings and earrings and necklaces and bracelets into his pockets.
His jacket was near full to bursting when Zsadist came in.
The Brother had ready his flamethrower, the tip of the discharge nozzle spitting blue fire, the wand in those oh, so capable hands like the head of a dragon who was ready to roar.
“Time to go,” the fighter said.
One had to admire his disinterest in the thievery. Then again, Assail had just committed murder right over there in that swivel chair, and the Brother seemed unbothered by that as well.
With a last look at Naasha’s sprawled, motionless form, Assail walked out with the Brother. In the hall, the fumes were strong enough to water the eye, and that became even more prevalent as they descended.
Ehric and Evale had gathered in the foyer, and, ever thoughtful, they had retrieved his pack from where he had laid it down outside.
After he strapped it on and lit his pilot, so to speak, he pumped off several bursts of orange flame.
“Shall we?” he said.
Splitting up, they went to the four corners of the grand mansion. The gasoline, which his cousins had liberally doused all manner of textiles and wood in, was perhaps overkill, however, the flamethrowers’ kisses would thereby be capable of igniting whole walls of fabric and expanses of pine, oak and mahogany with naught but a burst.
As the arson was initiated with efficiency, Assail moved through the dining room, setting ablaze the antiques and the Zuber wallpaper, the Aubusson rug, the Federal table that was twenty-five feet long and two centuries old. He had a momentary pause before he went on his way into the kitchen, a spark of grief for the Waterford chandelier that was in the midst of the now e’er-expanding bonfire making him wish he had removed it first.
But sacrifices had to be made.
He did not bother with the pantry. It would be consumed soon enough. Instead, he set about lighting afire the fine professional kitchen, starting with the drapes on either side of the banks of windows and continuing on to all the wooden cabinetry that his cousins had so competently covered with accelerant.
The great whoosh! as things caught and flames held was a rush every time it happened, and he felt himself get hard, some primal part of him expressing dominance and demanding submission from this static environment of inanimate objects. Indeed, with each explosion of power, it seemed as though he were reclaiming some part of himself that he had lost along the way.
Sure as if he had been the one chained down below.
Soon, the re-doubling heat became unbearable, his hair curling up at the ends, the skin of his face tightening to the point of pain.
As he rounded the circuit back to the foyer, he realized that he was surrounded by the fire he had sought to create, trapped in the inferno. Smoke, billowing and toxic, needled his eyes and stung his nose and sinuses, whilst undulating walls of fire blocked every exit.