Then again, getting tortured by lessers had cost him more than just a finger or two.
When he had cleared the jambs, Layla allowed the panel to shut on its own and once more returned to the bed. Getting up on it, she straightened her nightgown, and smoothed her hair. As a Chosen, it would have been far more appropriate for her to receive a visitor in one of the traditional white robes of her station, but she no longer fit in any of them, for one thing. For another, Qhuinn’s brother and she had long past dispensed with any formality.
“I find it rather impressive that I made it down this far anew,” he said in a voice that was a monotone.
“I’m glad for the company.” Although she would not be telling him why. “I feel … rather caged in here.”
“How fare you this eve?”
As the question was posed, he did not meet her eyes—but he never did. His gray stare remained pinned four feet off the floor, its direction changing only when he turned his frail body this way or that in his chair.
She had never before been so grateful for another’s dysfunction, for his reticence provided her some privacy as she attempted to control her emotions—although she supposed that didn’t reflect well on her character.
What did, though, lately.
“I am well. And you?”
“Well, indeed. I must needs attend to my physical therapy in fifteen minutes.”
“I know you shall do well.”
“How fare my brother’s young?”
“Very well, thank you. They are bigger every night.”
“You have been much blessed, as has he. For that, I am most grateful.”
It was the same conversation every evening. Then again, what else did the two of them have that was worthy of any kind of polite discourse?
Too many secrets on her side.
Too much suffering on his.
In a way, they were one of a kind.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Tomb was the Brotherhood’s sanctum sanctorum, a place where new members were inducted, and old members went after they died—and as such, it was protected from intruders through mechanisms both ancient and modern.
The sturdiest of these, after you breached the cave’s mouth, further traveled into the earth some distance and proceeded behind a nine-foot-high slab of granite, was a set of iron gates that nobody was going to get through even with an industrial blowtorch.
Unless, of course, you had the key to the lock.
As Rhage and his brothers came up to the fortification with Xcor on the gurney, Z did the honors with the unlocking and Rhage monitored the interior of the cave, his eyes searching through what was revealed by V’s glowing palm.
It was against protocol for anyone to enter the space who was not a Brother, but that was his point about beggars and choosers and all that shit. This was the safest, most isolated place to lock up a seriously wounded, treasonous motherfucker until such time as either he came to and was ready to be tortured, or the bastard kicked it and could be burned on the altar as a sacrifice worthy of all the carved names on the marble wall.
Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.
Besides, Rhage thought as he began pulling the gurney ahead again, Xcor wasn’t going any farther than the ante-chamber.
At least, not while he was still breathing.
Now there was no need for V’s portable glow light. Iron-handled torches came alive with a nod from the brother and shadows started to chase one another over the stone floor and up the rows and rows of shelves, the flickering light darting in and about the countless jars, both those which were centuries old and those that had come from Amazon.com.
It was a display of the Brotherhood’s triumphs over the Lessening Society, a collection of souvenirs from kills in the Old World and the New.
In that way, it was appropriate to bring Xcor here.
He was yet another spoil of war.
“This is far enough,” Vishous announced.
Rhage stopped and locked the wheels with their foot brake as V shifted a massive duffel bag off his shoulder.
“This battery pack is only going to last ten hours,” the brother said.
“Won’t be a problem.” As Lassiter spoke, his entire body lit up from the inside out, the energy replacing the contours of his flesh. “I can recharge it.”
“You’re sure you’re good alone here during the day?” V demanded.
“I can always step out into the sunlight and top myself off. And before you bitch that that dead fish on the table will be momentarily left unattended, I have ways of keeping track of him.”
V shook his head. “I’m surprised you’re willing to do this. No Time Warner.”
“That’s what they make phones for.”
“I can almost respect you.”
“Don’t get emotional on me, Vishous. I left the Kleenex at home. Besides, I have the night off now that the hot potato is safely here. Plenty of time to get busy with the whacker.”
“Okay, that sounds dirty,” someone said.
“No one but his left hand would have him, are you kidding me?” came a counter.
“Hey, Lass, when was the last time you were out on a date?” somebody else drawled. “Was it before the Punic Wars, or right after?”
“And how much did you have to pay her?”
Lassiter went silent, his strangely white eyes growing distant. But then he smiled. “Whatever. My standards are too high for you bunch of assholes.”
As a fresh round of joking flared up, nobody actually relaxed. It was as if Xcor were a bomb with an unknown detonator and a debatable length of time before the boom party started.
“Z and I are on first shift,” Phury cut in. “And you guys have work to do downtown.”
“Call us and we’re back here in a fucking instant.” V punched himself in the chest. “Especially if he wakes up.”
On that note, Rhage stared down at that ugly-ass face, and imagined those lids lifting. Was the Bastard awake in there? And not as in jump-out-and-attack, but as in conscious in the midst of the coma.
Did the SOB know what kind of trouble he was in? Or was the lack of consciousness the last bit of mercy his fate was ever going to give him?
Not my problem, Rhage thought as he took one last look around, seeking out the jars he had brought here and placed on the shelves, the representations of his own kills. So many. He had been at this war for such a long time—so long that he remembered back when Wrath refused to lead, and the only time the Brotherhood came to this mountain was to deliver these containers to the shelves.
So much had changed, he thought.
Now, not only were they all living in Darius’s fancy mansion, but they had new members of the Brotherhood. John Matthew and Blay as soldiers. A medical staff and great facilities. Everyone under the same roof—
“—sides, that way I can polish my nails.”
Rhage shook himself back into focus as Lassiter’s voice registered. “Wait, what?”
“JK.” The angel laughed. “I could tell we’d lost you. Dreaming of what you’re going to have at Last Meal? I know I am. Three guesses, and the first two that don’t have meat in them don’t count.”
“You’re insane,” Rhage said. “But I like that in a friend.”
Lassiter put his arm around Rhage’s shoulders and led him to the gate. “You have such good taste. Have I mentioned that lately?”
After everyone but Z and Phury filed out, Vishous closed the bars and relocked everything. Then they all stood still for a moment. The fine steel mesh that was wrapped around the barrier and soldered into place would prevent Phury and Z from getting free. And wasn’t that a ball shriveler.
If something went wrong in there, they couldn’t get out.
But Rhage told himself, as probably the rest of his brothers were, that there was no way Xcor was going to be anything other than an inanimate object for the foreseeable future—and even if he did come around, he’d be too weak to go on the offensive.
Still, Rhage didn’t like this.
But that was the nature of war. It put you in places you hated.
As a subtle vibration went off in Rhage’s pocket, he frowned and took out his phone. When he saw who it was, he accepted the call.