Blood Kiss (25 page)

And what do you know, it was probably the loose, relaxed, post-gasm float that made him actually answer her instead of hanging up, which was what he should have done.

“How many people did you lose in the raids?” he whispered.

“Seven cousins,” she intoned with sadness. “It's just my father and me left, and the two of us were very lucky.”

“I lost my immediate family. My mother and sister were at home with me. My dad was at work. They found our house address on his falsified human driver's license after they killed him. That was how they got us.” He took another drag. “So that's why I don't smile.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Me, too.” Which was something else he wouldn't have said under other circumstances. “I couldn't save them. My mother and sister, that is.”

“Oh, God . . .”

He shrugged. “I lost too much blood. The
lessers
broke the door in and I came down the stairs when I heard the noise. They attacked me, thought I was dead, so they left me. To this night, I don't know why I lived. They used machetes. I stayed conscious long enough to hear my mother scream for my sister to run—and then
both of them died . . . horrible deaths.” When she made a choking sound, he shook his head. “TMI. Sorry.”

“I'm really . . . it doesn't feel like enough, but it's all I can say. I'm
so
sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“How did you survive? What . . . did someone come save you?”

“I woke up in a pool of my own blood just before dawn. I was so weak . . . I barely managed to shut the front door before the sun burned me to shreds. I crawled . . . through the house, you know, and found their . . . yeah. It was bizarre, the sight of them both laying on the linoleum, red blood everywhere, skin white—they had reached for each other, my mom had one hand—” He had to stop and clear his throat. “My mom was holding her hand out for my sister and my sister was trying to get to her. Both of their sets of eyes were open . . . I don't know. After seeing that? Something in me woke up. That's all I can say—and that's when it started. That's when I decided that sometime, somehow, I was going to find a way into the war with the Lessening Society. It's the only way I can walk the earth without wanting to blow my own brains out.” He laughed harshly. “Well, I also decided that I hate aristocrats—although that didn't come for two more nights after that.”

“Why . . .” She hesitated. “Why do you hate the
glymera
?”

A
s Paradise waited for something to come back to her over the phone, her heart was beating fast again, and she had to turn on the light. Wrapping her coral-colored duvet up around her bare legs and pulling her shirt closed, she tucked her knees in tight and waited.

It was a while longer before Craeg answered her. “The first thing I did when I had any strength was try to find my father where he was working at that mansion—when I got there, it was pretty much the same as my house. Blood and bodies everywhere, but there had also been a lot of looting of paintings and silver and that kind of shit. Some of the corpses had burned up because they had been in patches of sunlight. The ones deeper in the house were still intact. I found my father . . . in the room where he had been laying a new mahogany floor. And what else did I find? The fucking open door to the safe room that the family hadn't let him or any of the other servants and workers into.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

“The family who lived there, the
aristocrats
who lived there, went to take shelter in a steel-clad safe room—and they wouldn't let any of the workers in. They locked them out so they got slaughtered—I saw the open door, and their footsteps through the blood of my father and his class as they went for the exit and escaped either right before the dawn came or the following evening.”
There was another pause. And then in a low voice, he said, “I buried everyone but my father there. Him, I took back home. I just couldn't . . . leave the others like that. A
doggen
came back while I was taking care of the bodies and told me that they'd been trying to find kin, but everyone had been killed at all of the workers' houses—just like mine. There were . . . literally no survivors to tend to the dead. Oh, and that classy family? They ran. I've tried to find them—and I will not rest until I do. They lived on an estate called Endelview.”

He cleared his throat roughly. “I mean, how do you do that to someone else? How do you live with yourself knowing that you could have helped somebody and didn't? The staff, the servants, they had served that family for generations. And there were a lot of those commoners in that parlor. They came there, from what I was told by that
doggen
, because the construction guys knew about the passage and herded people in the direction of that room. They were pounding on the panels to be let in while the house was sacked—I know because so many of the bodies were grouped together against the wall. But nope. They weren't good enough, important enough, worthy enough.”

Oh . . . God.

That was the only thing going through her mind—because she knew that story, too. Peyton had shared the terrible tale with her during one of their long, all-day phone calls about a month after she and her father had left for their safe house. The first son, a middle daughter, the mother and two cousins, had claimed to come back from out of town to discover the carnage . . . but maybe they had been there all along?

And they had disappeared. Likely to a new safe house far away from Caldwell.

“Anyway, I got plans for them. When I find out where they are.”

Paradise closed her eyes. “Not all aristocrats are evil.”

“When you had to listen to your father come home
every night with stories about how they treated him like shit while he was trying to make an honest living? Tough to find any sympathy for them—and that was before they were directly responsible not only for my sire's death, but my mother's and sister's.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

No, it wasn't.

And she wasn't at all surprised when he said abruptly, “I should go. We gotta sleep.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She held on to the phone hard, trying to think of something to say. “I, ah—”

“See you tomorrow.”

Click
.

Taking her cell away from her ear, she stared at the thing. Naturally, there was no record of the number, because the lines out of the training center, like those from the audience house, were restricted and private.

But she wouldn't have called him back even if she could have.

Placing her phone aside, she stared across her room, her pretty, fancy room with its coral and pink tones, and silk drapery with tassels and needlepoint rugs. She couldn't blame Craeg for the way he thought or what he felt. She'd be exactly the same. But the answer wasn't him stalking some guy and murdering him to
ahvenge
those deaths. Or murdering females over all that, too.

Well, at least she hoped that wasn't the answer.

There was just so much death already within the species. Surely there was another way to atone for such a wrong?

As her phone started to vibrate, she jumped and picked it up. No number. Him? Again?

Accepting the call, she whispered, “Hello?”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Just like before.

“I'm sorry,” Craeg blurted. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm shit with emotions. It's not your fault all that stuff happened before.”

She exhaled in relief. “I'm so glad you called back. I didn't expect you to.”

“Neither did I.”

“Do you think you'll be able to sleep at all?”

“Now that I've heard your voice again? Maybe. I'll give it a shot.”

“Craeg . . .”

“What?”

She fiddled with the lace edge of her duvet cover as she chose her words carefully. “That night of the raids . . . I'm not saying that the male or whoever it was who locked everyone out was right. Not at all. But eye for an eye is . . . barbaric.”

“That's the way it's always been in the Old Country.”

“We don't live there anymore. Times have changed. Think of all the progress that's been made, blood slavery outlawed, equality beginning to happen for females and commoners alike. You don't have to forget what happened, you don't have to forgive . . . but your response doesn't have to be murder.”

“It wouldn't be murder. I would be
ahvenging
my own dead.”

“But if you kill someone in cold blood, what else would you call it?” She kept her voice soft and low. “I don't want to fight with you, honestly, I don't. And I would never presume to know what that would be like, having your family . . .” As her voice caught, she cleared her throat. “I can't imagine. But if you follow through on this, you'd just be a murderer, too. You'd be no different from the
lessers
.”

There was a long silence. But she knew by the lack of a
click
that he hadn't hung up on her.

“You are one of the most empathetic people I've ever met,” he said finally.

“Not really.”

“Yes, really. You're a good person, Paradise.”

“Don't put me on a pedestal. All I'll do is fall from grace.”

“Doubt it.” There was a pause. “Sleep well, okay? And if you wake up in the middle of the day with the feel of someone's hands on your body, it's me. At least, it'll be me in my dreams.”

“You're making me blush.”

“Good. And when we're back in class, I'll try not to stare at you the whole time.”

“Don't try too hard.”

Now, his tone got more serious. “You've got your virtue to protect.”

“My virtue, my problem. Not yours.”

Craeg let out a
hrrumph
. “I'm calling you at seven again tomorrow. Answer your damn phone.”

Paradise had to laugh. “Has anyone ever told you you're dominant.”

“No, because I never listen to what people say to me.”

“So if I mention that you're pretty amazing, too, are you going to hang up on me again?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, well, then good day, and you're amazing—” Abruptly she sat up higher and pushed the phone against her ear. “Wait a minute, did I just hear a little laugh there?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Liar.” She smiled so big, her cheeks hurt. “You laughed. Right then and there.”

“It was
not
a laugh.”

“Oh, because a chuckle is so much more manly? Fine, you
chuckled
, Craeg. I caught you.”

“You got to stop.” Now he really let out something that sounded like . . .

“You just giggled.”

“No!”

“Yes, you did.” As she continued to needle him, she
figured it was the conversational equivalent of tickling him in the ribs. “You just giiiiiigggggled—”

“I got to go! Bye!”

“You're ammmmmmmmmmmaaaaaaaazing—”

Click
.

This time when she put her cell phone back down, she felt as light and frothy as the bubbles in a champagne flute.

And a little drunk, too.

A
s night fell, Marissa cracked the bedroom door and put her head out into the hall. There were no sounds from the Pit's front room, so she padded down in her silk nightgown, her bare feet getting cold fast on the hardwood. Rounding the corner to look at the couch, she expected to find her mate asleep with his head at the kitchen end and his feet closer to her. He always slept like that, so he could see the TV better around the Foosball table.

The black leather sofa was vacant. More to the point, the Red Sox throw blanket she'd gotten him for his human Christmas holiday the year before was still folded across the back.

So he hadn't even tried to sleep at home.

The blanket was the clue. She loved her
hellren
with all her heart, but the male was constitutionally incapable of pulling that thing over his legs and putting it back when he was done. It was a running joke between them, along the lines of his not returning bottle openers to their proper place in the kitchen and never, ever starting the dishwasher.

Exhaling, she closed her eyes and leaned against the jamb.

“He didn't come back here last night.”

At the sound of V's low voice, she glanced over at his bank of computers. The Brother had tilted his head around the various screens, his super-intelligent, diamond eyes staring at her without blinking—or judgment. And there was no reason to hide her heartbreak from the guy. For one, he was Butch's brother for all intents
and purposes; and two, Vishous knew her so well, he'd see through any I'm-fine lie she tried to float.

“We got into a big fight last night.”

V took a drag off his hand-rolled. “About what?”

Padding over to the couch, she sat down and arranged her nightie over her knees, smoothing, smoothing. “A sex club.”

The coughing fit would have been absolutely hysterical to watch if she'd been in a better mood—there was something incredibly satisfying that for once she was able to shock the unshockable Brother. Unfortunately, it was because she was such a lame straight arrow.

“I beg your pardon?” His eyebrows were up so high, they distorted the tattoos at his temple. “Sex club?”

The explanation was quick and to the point, and when she was done, V's sardonic normal had returned to his expression.

“Yeah. He'd told me he was going. Asked me to come with him.”

She couldn't hide her wince. She trusted Butch never to cheat on her—for godsakes, as a fully bonded male, he never noticed females on any level; they might as well be toasters on legs for all the sexual response he had to them. But there was something intimidating about getting V involved, maybe because it made her feel . . . excluded, even though that was crazy.

And then also inadequate because her mate needed Vishous there, but didn't want her.

Plus it was true, V's lifestyle had always shocked her a little—not because she thought he was a degenerate, but because it was so sexually extreme . . . and diverse.

“You know he loves you,” V muttered. “Come on.”

“I know.”

“And I won't get weird with him or anything.”

“I don't mean to offend you.”

“You didn't.”

“Yes, I did.” When the Brother fell silent, she knew she was right. “I just . . . sometimes I don't want to be
protected, if that makes sense. I mean, this issue with that female, who died in front of me—it's mine. Does that make sense? It's my . . . responsibility. And I'm grateful for his help, I want his help—but getting pushed aside because I'm a ‘good girl' and I can't handle certain things makes me feel like he thinks I'm weak or frivolous.”

“Look, I can't get in the middle of this.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

As she went to stand up, he cut in: “But he cherishes you. You're like . . . you're like that Virgin Mary, that female he prays to. To him, you're the most perfect female who has ever or will ever walk the earth. Taking you to a place like that would be like him watching porn in church. He thinks of you as pure and virtuous and good, and he wants—brace yourself, I'm about to use the P-word—to protect that in a world that is cruel and filthy and disgusting.”

She shook her head and thought about Butch and the whole blow-job thing. “I just don't want it to be so black-and-white. I don't want to be in a box even if he's put me there because he loves certain parts of me.”

V's chair let out a creak as he sat back and exhaled a steady stream of smoke. Funny, she had hated the smell of it when she'd first moved in here. Now? It was like incense, and it meant safety and home—and she didn't even notice it most of the time.

Heck, V's presence, as chilly and intellectual as he could be sometimes, meant comfort to her now, too.

“I don't have an easy answer for that one.” His brows tightened. “I mean, ya boy's kind of a right-and-wrong, black-and-white kind of guy. It's a hardwiring thing. But
there're good sides of it, too. He'd never disrespect you. Never treat you badly. Never not focus on you.”

“Oh, I know all that. But with where he's at now, he's getting in the way of something that is not only very important to me, but something that is within my right to do. And when you love someone that isn't cool, even if your motivations are good hearted and loving.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“Lemme talk to him.”

“I'd appreciate that.” She cursed quietly. “We've been having some problems this last little bit. It's breaking my heart.”

“Relationships are like that. Even the best ones.”

“I guess so.”

“Look, he doesn't want to be with anyone but you.” The Brother put his palm out. “Yeah, I know you know that, but I gotta say it again. And for better or worse, your grace and elegance and, yes, good-girlness is part of what attracts him to you. I mean, for instance, he had a shot with Xhex, but that was just sex—and all it was ever going to be. You're his type, not her.”

Marissa jerked upright sure as if a bucket of ice water had just been poured over her head.
“He had sex with her?”

•   •   •

Down in the training center's office, Butch sat behind Tohr's desk and stared at the shooting patterns of colorful lines that gyrated their way around the computer screen.

What he kept chewing on, what he had been chewing on all through the day, was what the hell was wrong with him. After Marissa had left him in the dust in the billiards room, he'd proceeded to get drunk, like, saturated drunk—but it hadn't done the job. Yeah, sure, his body had gotten sloppy as fuck, to the point that making it back to the Pit to crash had become an absolute impossibility.

Hell, dragging himself over to one of the sofas by the pool tables so he could pass out on the vertical had been enough of a challenge.

His brain had remained tragically clear, however.

And the worst part? For some reason, the last image he'd had of his sister—of her looking at him through the back window of that car as she'd gone off to her rape and murder—kept popping up, like his mind was a slot machine that spit out mismatched losers over and over again.

Ah, screw the “for some reason.” It was Marissa's dead girl, of course. And he guessed, if he were to go sit down with Mary and get all shrinked out, that the Brotherhood's favorite therapist would tell him that the past was being kicked off by the present and he was rocking some PTSD—

The door into the supply closet was thrown wide. And he had enough alcohol in him to not jerk around and squeak like a pussy.

“V?” he said as his bestie stumbled in.

Okay, talk about your PTSD: Vishous was as disheveled as Butch had ever seen the brother, breathing hard, icy eyes wide as saucers, black hair all this way and that—and he was panting like he'd run the tunnel, not walked it.

“What?” Butch demanded. “Is Doc Jane okay? Is the Pit? Christ, what happened?”

V just marched around a little and then threw himself into Tohr's green, ugly-ass, beloved chair on the far side of the desk. Propping his head on his gloved fist, he muttered, “One of my old dreams just came true.”

As Butch's panic deflated, he rolled his eyes. “And what was that.”

“I just fucked you in the ass.”

Blink. Blink. And then Butch started laughing. “Yeah, yeah, good joke. Okay, what did Lass do now?”

“No, I'm serious. I just screwed you. Badly. I'm really fucking sorry.”

Leaning onto his forearms, Butch exhaled a curse. “No offense, there is nothing you could do that's this bad.”

“I told Marissa that you fucked Xhex.”

Butch's jaw unhinged, and he felt his mouth pop open. “How . . . why . . . what . . .”

V threw his hands up. “I thought she knew, true! I didn't know you hadn't told her! What the fuck, didn't you guys do that whole ‘who'd you sleep with before me' shit? What the fuck!”

If Butch hadn't gone straight back into panic mode, he would have had to laugh at the guy again. V was the ultimate in unflappable, the kind of composed bastard who would sit on a gasoline can in the middle of a house fire just to take a load off.

Guess they'd figured out the criteria for his adrenal gland finally waking up. Good to know.

Bad news for Butch, though.

Putting his head in his hands, he rubbed his face. “What did she say?”

“Not much. She went down to your room, got dressed, and left for work, calm as could be. Which was what really made me shit in my pants, true?”

Butch wanted to say that it would be fine, it was going to be okay. But with the way he and his mate kept missing each other lately . . .

“How did the subject come up?” he asked.

V put both palms forward. “Look, she started talking about you guys.”

“The club thing?”

“Yeah. She feels like you've got her typecast in the virgin/whore duality and you're smothering her. And listen, not that you have any interest in taking advice from me, but you gotta cut that shit out. Just because she sees a couple of humans banging in a public place doesn't
mean she's going to change in any way. What do you think is going to happen? She's suddenly going to turn into the likes of me? First of all, she'd need a sex change, and second, she'd have to get a fuck of a lot more uglier—and more stupid, too, evidently.”

In the silence that followed, half of Butch's brain went on overload with the Xhex thing; the other half came to a sudden realization.

Marissa was right. He felt more uncomfortable with her being in a place like that than she did.

Damn it.

“Anyway,” V muttered, “you two need to talk now. And I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“I thought I was helping. I just wanted to point out to her that she's your type. She's your girl. You don't need anything more or less from her.”

“That is true.” He patted around for his cell phone. “She was going to work, yeah?”

“Yeah. That's what she said when she left.”

“I'll call her.” As V punched up out of the chair, Butch offered his palm. “We're good, my man. It's my own damn fault. I should have told her, I guess. It's just anything that was before her doesn't matter, you know?”

V slapped palms. “I feel like fucking shit about this. If you want a
rythe
, let me know.”

“Nah, but you may have to pick up my dry cleaning for a month.”

“Doesn't Fritz do that already?”

“It's a human joke.”

“Ah, which is why it wasn't funny.” V walked over to the glass door. “When do you want that night off again so you can go to that club?”

“Might as well be tomorrow. What the hell.”

“Okay. I'm taking the class to spar in the gym. Then Z is going to talk about poisoning people—you sure I don't need to get a food taster?”

“You're good. But if Z needs someone to practice on, let's get Lassiter to be the guinea pig.”

“Done. So fucking done.”

As Vishous walked off and the door shut silently, Butch called his mate and prayed she picked up. When things just went to voice mail, he cursed and hoped that it was because she was in a meeting and not because she was so pissed off she'd blocked him.

She wouldn't do that. Surely, she wouldn't.

Then again . . .

“Shit.”