Lover Enshrined (56 page)

Against the far wall, there were three double-layered bunks, each set with a single pristine pillow and made up with sheets that were precisely folded. No blankets were bundled at the feet of the beds, as the temperature was too perfect for extra covers to be required. Off to one side, there was a curtain that led into the private bath.

Over to the right there was an ornate silver door that led into the Scribe Virgin’s private library. The sequestered scribes were the only ones to whom Her Holiness dictated her private diary, and when they were summoned, they used that door to take the audience they were granted.

The slot in the center of the portal was used to slip parchments generated by both recording and sequestured scribes back and forth during the editing process. The Scribe Virgin read and approved or edited all history until she found it appropriate. Once accepted, a scroll was either cut to size and bound with other pages to become one of the volumes in the library, or it was rolled and placed in the Scribe Virgin ’s sacred archives.

Cormia went over to one of the desks and sat down on the backless stool.

The silence and the isolation were as agitating as a teeming crowd, and she had no idea how long she sat there, struggling to get control of herself.

She’d assumed she could do this—that the sequestering solution was the only one that would work. Now she was screaming to get out.

Maybe she just needed something else to focus on.

Taking the white-plumed quill into her hand, she opened the pot of ink to her right. To warm up, she began by composing some of the simpler characters of the Old Language.

She couldn’t keep it up, though.

The letters became geometric designs. The designs turned into rows of boxes. The boxes turned . . . into building plans.

Back in the Brotherhood’s mansion, John’s head lifted from his pillow as he heard a knock on his door. Shifting off his bed, he went over and answered the knuckle-rap. Out in the hall, Qhuinn and Blay were standing side by side, shoulder-to-shoulder, just like they always did.

At least one thing had apparently gone right.

“We need to find Blay a room,” Qhuinn said. “You got any idea where we should stuff him?”

“And I should get some of my things at nightfall,” Blaylock tacked on. “Which would mean a trip back to my house.”

No problem
, John signed.

Qhuinn was in the room that adjoined his, so he went down one farther and opened the door into a pale lavender guest room.

We can change the decor
, John signed,
if it’s too girlie
.

Blay laughed. “Yeah, I’m not sure I can rock this.”

As the guy went over and tested out the bed, John walked to the bathroom’s double doors and pushed them open—

Phury was passed out with his head next to the toilet, his huge body lax, his face the color of candle wax. At his feet were a needle and a spoon and a belt.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Qhuinn’s curse echoed around all the creamy marble.

John wheeled around.
Get Doc Jane. Right now. She’s probably in the Pit with Vishous.

Qhuinn tore off as John rushed over and rolled Phury onto his back. The Brother’s lips were blue, but not because of all the bruising John’s fists had done. The male wasn’t breathing. Hadn’t been for a while.

Against all odds, Doc Jane came in with Qhuinn literally a split second later. “I was on my way to see Bella— Oh . . . shit.”

She came over and did the fastest vitals check John had ever seen. Then she popped open her doctor’s bag and took out a needle and a vial.

“Is he alive.”

All four of them looked toward the bathroom’s doorway. Zsadist was standing there, feet planted, scarred face pale.

"Is he . . .” Z’s eyes drifted over to what was on the floor next to the Jacuzzi. “Alive.”

Doc Jane looked at John and hissed, “Get him the fuck out of here. Now. He doesn’t need to see this.”

John’s blood went cold from what he saw in her face: She wasn’t sure she could bring Phury back.

With shock rolling through him, he stood up and went over to Z.

“I’m not leaving,” Zsadist said.

“Yes, you are.” Doc Jane held up the syringe she’d filled and pressed the plunger. As a hair-width stream of something shot out the tip, she turned back to Phury’s body. “Qhuinn, you stay with me. Blaylock, go with them and shut the door.”

Zsadist opened up his mouth, but John just shook his head.

It was with the oddest calm that he stepped to the Brother ’s face, put his hands on both the guy’s arms and pushed backward.

And it was in stunned silence that Z let himself get walked out of the room.

Blay shut the doors and stood in front of them, blocking the way.

Z’s bleak eyes held on to John’s.

All John could do was stare right back into them.

"He can’t be gone,” Zsadist said hoarsely. “He just can’t be. . . .”

Chapter Forty-four

"What do you mean, work?” the guy with the prison tats said.

Lash put his elbows on his knees and looked his new best friend in the eyes. How the two of them had gone from loudmouth loggerheads to cozy as kittens was a testament to the powers of seduction. First you hit head-on to establish equality. Then you showed respect. Then you talked about money.

The other two, the ’banger with,
Diego RIP
, around his collarbones, and Mr. Clean with the chrome dome and the combats, had inched in and were listening, too. Which was another part of Lash’s strategy: Draw the toughest one in and the others will follow.

Lash smiled. “I’m looking for help with enforcement.”

Prison Tat’s stare was full of dirty deeds done dirt cheap. “You run a bar?”

“Nope.” He glanced at RIP. “Guess you could say it’s territorial.”

The ’banger nodded like he knew all the rules of that board game.

Prison Tat flexed his arms. “What makes you think I’d carry on anything wichu? I don’t know you.”

Lash leaned back so his shoulders were against the cinder blocks. “Just thought you’d like to make some green. My bad.”

As he closed his eyes like he was going to sleep, he heard voices that popped open his lids. An officer was bringing another offender down to the holding cell.

Well, what do you know.
The guy with the eagle jacket from Screamer’s.

The newbie was let in, and the three hard-asses pulled their glaring, watch-yer-ass welcome wagon. One of the junkies looked up and offered a watery smile like he knew the guy in a business capacity.

Interesting. So the guy was a dealer.

Eagle Man sized up the crowd and nodded to Lash in recognition before taking a seat on the other end of the bench. He looked more annoyed than scared.

Prison Tat leaned into Lash. “Didn’t say I weren’t interested.”

Lash shifted his eyes over. “How do I find you to talk terms?”

“You know Buss’s Bikes?”

“It’s that Harley rehab place on Tremont, right?”

“Yeah. Me and my bro own it. We ride.”

“Then you know more people who could help me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What’s your name?”

Prison Tat’s eyes narrowed. Then he pointed to a depiction of a Harley low-rider that was inked on his arm. “You call me Low.”

Diego RIP’s foot started tapping, like he was holding something in, but Lash wasn’t ready to tango with the gangs or the skinheads. Not yet. Starting small was safer. He’d see if he could add a couple of bikers to the Lessening Society mix. If that worked out, then he’d go trolling. Maybe even get his ass arrested again as an entrée.

“Owens,” a cop called out at the door.

“Laters,” Lash said to Low. He nodded at Diego, the skinhead, and the dealer and left the druggies to their conversations with the floor.

Out in central processing, he waited while an officer explained page after page of “here are the charges against you,” “this is the public defender’s office number—you need to call them if you want to get assigned an attorney,” “your court date is in six weeks,” “if you fail to show, your bail will be forfeited and an arrest warrant will be issued,” blah, blah, blah . . .

He signed the name Larry Owens a couple of times, and then he was let out into the hall he’d been led down while handcuffed eight hours ago. At the end of the linoleum stretch, Mr. D was sitting in a grotty plastic chair, and as he got to his feet he seemed relieved.

“We’re going for food,” Lash said as they headed toward the exit.

“Yes, suh.”

Lash walked out of the front of the CPD’s building, too distracted by the things he needed to do to think about the time. When the sunshine hit him square in the face, he reared back with a scream and slammed into Mr. D.

Covering his face, he scrambled back for the building.

Mr. D caught him by the upper arms. “What—”

“The sun!” Lash was almost back through the doors when he realized . . . nothing was happening. There was nothing up in flames, no great ball of fire, no horrible burning demise.

He stopped . . . and turned around to face the sun for the first time in his life. “It’s so bright.” He shielded his eyes with his forearm.

“You’re not supposed to look straight into it.”

“It’s . . . warm.”

Falling back against the building’s stone facade, he couldn’t believe the warmth. As the rays beat into him, they radiated through his skin into his muscles.

He’d never envied humans before. But, God, if he’d known how this felt, he would have all along.

“You okay?” Mr. D asked.

“Yeah . . . yeah, I am.” He closed his eyes and just breathed in and out. “My parents . . . they never let me go out. Pretrans are supposed to be able to handle sunlight up until the change, but my mom and dad never wanted to risk it.”

“Can’t imagine not havin’ no sun.”

After this, neither could Lash.

Tilting his chin up, he closed his eyes for a moment . . . and vowed to thank his father the next time he saw him.

This was . . . magnificent.

Phury woke up with a burning, foul taste in his mouth. Actually it was all over, like someone had sprayed the inside of his skin with oven cleaner.

Eyes were glued shut. Stomach was a lead ball. Lungs were inflating and deflating with all the enthusiasm of a pair of stoners the day after a Grateful Dead binge. And leading the charge on going absolutely nowhere was his brain, which evidently had flatlined and not been resuscitated along with the rest of his body.

Actually, his chest was pretty much a closed shop as well. Or . . .no, his heart must have still been beating, because . . . well, it had to be, didn’t it? Or he wouldn’t have thoughts, right?

An image of the gray wasteland came to him, the wizard silhouetted against that vast gray horizon.

Welcome back, sunshine,
the wizard said.
That was such bloody fun. When can we do it again?

Do what again,
Phury wondered.

The wizard laughed.
Oh, how easily they forget the fun times.

Phury groaned and heard someone move.

“Cormia,” he croaked.

“No.”

That voice, that deep, male voice. So like the one that came out of his own mouth. In fact, it was identical.

Zsadist was with him.

As Phury turned his head, his brain sloshed in his skull, his bone dome nothing but a fish tank that had water and plants and a little treasure chest with bubbles, but nothing with fins in it. Nothing that actually lived.

Z looked as bad as Phury had ever seen him, with dark shadows under his eyes and his lips drawn tight and that scar more visible than ever.

“I dreamed of you,” Phury said. God, his voice was just a rasp. “You were singing to me.”

Z’s head slowly went back and forth. “That wasn’t me. Not up for singing anymore.”

“Where is she?” Phury asked.

“Cormia? The Sanctuary.”

“Oh . . .”
That’s right.
He’d driven her there after having sex with her. And then he’d . . . Shot. Up. With. Heroin. “Oh, God.”

That happy little realization brought his eyes into proper focus and had him looking around.

All he saw, everywhere, was pale lavender, and he thought of Cormia coming through the closet in the office in her white robe with that rose in her hand. The rose was still there, he thought. She’d left it behind.

“You want something to drink?”

Phury turned back to his twin. Across the way, the guy looked like he felt, worn-out and empty.

“I’m tired,” Phury murmured.

Z stood and brought over a glass. “Lift your head up.”

Phury did what he was told, even though it made the water level in his tank shift and threaten to spill over. As Zsadist held the glass to his lips, he took one pull, then another, and then he was gulping with desperate thirst.

When it was gone, he let his head fall back down on the pillow. “Thank you.”

“More?”

“No.”

Zsadist put the glass back on the bedside table and then settled once more in the pale lavender chair, his arms crossing, chin resting almost on his chest.

He’d been losing weight, Phury thought. His cheeks were beginning to stand out again.

“I had no memory,” Z said softly.

“Of what?”

“You. Them. You know, where I came from before I was stolen, then bought.”

Whether it was the water or what Z had just said, one of the two brought Phury into full consciousness. “You wouldn’t have remembered our parents . . . our house. You were just an infant.”

“I recall the nursemaid. Well, I have one memory. It was of her putting jam on her thumb and letting me nurse on it. That’s about all I have. Next thing . . . I was up on the block with all these folks looking at me.” Z frowned. “I grew up as a kitchen boy. I washed a lot of dishes, cleaned a lot of vegetables, fetched ale for the soldiers. They were good to me. That part of it was . . . okay.” Z rubbed his eyes. “Tell me something. What was it like for you? The growing-up part.”

“Lonely.” Okay, that sounded selfish. “No, I mean—”

“I was lonely, too. I felt like I was missing something, but didn’t know what it was. I was half of a whole, except there was only me.”