Lover Avenged

TWENTY-THREE

Wrath frowned as he spoke into his cell phone. “Now? You want me to come upstate now?”

Rehv’s voice was all about the I’m-not-fucking-around. “This has to be done in person, and I’m immobile.”

Across the study, Vishous, who had been about to report on the work he’d been doing tracking those crates of guns, mouthed, What the fuck?

Which was exactly what Wrath was thinking. A symphath calls you two hours before dawn and asks you to come upstate because he has “something he needs to give you.” Yeah, okay, the bastard was Bella’s brother, but his nature was what it was and sure as shit, the “something” was not a fruit basket.

“Wrath, this is important,” the guy said.

“Okay, I’m coming right now.” Wrath clipped his phone shut and looked at Vishous. “I’m-”

“Phury’s out hunting tonight. You can’t go there alone.”

“The Chosen are in the house.” And had been staying off and on at Rehv’s Great Camp since Phury had taken the reins as Primale.

“Not exactly the kind of protection I had in mind.”

“I can handle myself, fuck you very much.”

V crossed his arms over his chest, his diamond eyes flashing. “Are we going now? Or after you waste time trying to change my mind?”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll meet you in the foyer in five.”

As they left the study together, V said, “About those guns? I’m still working on the trace. Right now, I’ve got nothing, but you know me. That ain’t going to last, true. I don’t care if the serial numbers are scrubbed, I’m going to find out where the hell they got them.”

“Confidence is high, my brother. Confidence is very high.”

After they were fully armed, the two of them traveled in a loose dance of molecules up north, zeroing in on Rehv’s Great Camp in the Adirondacks and materializing on the shores of a quiet lake. Up ahead, the house was a huge rambler of a Victorian, shingled and diamond paned, with cedar-post porches on both stories.

Lot of corners. Lot of shadows. And a lot of those windows looked like eyes.

The mansion was spooky enough on its own, but with it surrounded by a force field of the symphath equivalent of mhis, a guy could credibly believe that Freddy, Jason, Michael Myers, and that redneck crew with all the chain saws lived inside: All around the place, dread was an intangible fence made of mental barbed wire, and even Wrath, who knew what was doing, was glad to get on the other side of the barrier.

As he forced his eyes to focus better, Trez, one of Rehv’s personal guard, opened the double doors on the porch that faced the lake and raised his palm in greeting.

Wrath and V walked up the frosty, crunchy lawn and though they kept their weapons holstered, V took the glove off his glowing right hand. Trez was the kind of male you respected, and not just because he was a Shadow. The Moor had the muscled body of a fighter and the smart stare of a strategist, and his allegiance was to Rehv and Rehv only. To protect the guy? Trez would level a city block in the blink of an eye.

“So how you doing, big man,” Wrath said he mounted the porch steps.

Trez came forward and they clapped palms. “I’m solid. You?”

“Tight as always.” Wrath knocked the guy in the shoulder. “Hey, you ever want a real job, come soldier with us.”

“I’m happy where I am, but thanks.” The Moor grinned and turned to V, his dark eyes flicking down to V’s exposed hand. “No offense, but I’m not shaking that thing.”

“Wise of you,” Vishous said as he offered his lefty. “You understand, though.”

“Abso, and I’d do the same for Rehv.” Trez led the way to the doors. “He’s in his bedroom waiting for you.”

“He sick?” Wrath asked as they entered the house.

“You want anything to drink? Eat?” Trez said as they headed to the right.

As the question remained unanswered, Wrath glanced at V. “We’re okay, thanks.”

The place was decorated right out of Victoria and Albert’s back pocket, with heavy Empire furniture and garnet and gold everywhere. True to the Victorian period’s affection for collection, each room had a different theme to it. One sitting parlor was full of antique clocks ticking away, from grandfathers to brass windups to pocket watches in display cases. Another had shells and coral and centuries-old driftwood. In the library, there were stunning Oriental vases and platters, and the dining room was kitted out in medieval icons.

“I’m surprised there aren’t more Chosen here,” Wrath said as they went through empty room after empty room.

“The first Tuesday of the month, Rehv has to come up. He makes the females a little nervous, so most of them go back over to the Other Side. Selena and Cormia always stay, though.” There was no small measure of pride in his voice as he tacked on, “They’re very strong, those two.”

They took a grand set of stairs up to the second floor and went down a long hall to a pair of carved doors that positively screamed master of the house.

Trez paused. “Listen, he is a little ill, okay. Nothing contagious. It’s just…I want you both to be prepared. We’ve given him everything he needs and he’s going to be fine.”

As Trez knocked and opened both doors, Wrath frowned, his vision sharpening on its own as his instincts pricked.

In the midst of a carved bed, Rehvenge was lying still as a corpse, a red velvet duvet pulled up to his chin and sable folds draped over his body. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, his skin pasty and tinged with yellow. His close-cropped mohawk was the only thing that looked remotely normal…that and the fact that standing at his right hand was Xhex, that half-breed symphath female who looked like she performed castrations for fun and profit.

Rehv’s eyes opened, and the amethyst color was dulled to a murky bruised purple. “It’s the king.”

“S’up.”

Trez shut the doors, parking it to the side and not in the middle to block the way as a measure of respect. “I already offered them libations and eats.”

“Thanks, Trez.” Rehv grimaced and made a move to push himself off the pillows. When he just sagged, Xhex leaned in to help him, and he shot her a glare that smacked of don’t-even-think-about-it. Which she ignored.

After he was settled upright, he pulled the duvet up to his neck, covering the red stars tatted on his chest. “So I have something for you, Wrath.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Rehv nodded at Xhex, who reached into the leather jacket she was wearing. The instant she moved, V’s gun muzzle flipped up quick as a blink, aimed square at the female’s heart.

“You want to slow that roll?” she snapped to V.

“Not in the slightest. Sorry.” V sounded about as sorry as a wrecking ball in midswing.

“Okay, let’s just relax,” Wrath said, and inclined his head toward Xhex. “Go ahead.”

The female pulled free a velvet bag and tossed it in Wrath’s direction. As it came at him, he heard the soft whistle of its flight and caught the thing not by sight, but by sound.

Inside were two pale blue eyes.

“So, I had an interesting meeting last night,” Rehv drawled.

Wrath looked at the symphath. “Whose blank stare do I have in my palm.”

“Montrag, son of Rehm. He came to me and asked me to kill you. You got deep enemies in the glymera, my friend, and Montrag’s only one of them. I don’t know who else was in on the plot, but I wasn’t taking any chances at finding out before we took action.”

Wrath put the eyes back in the bag and closed his fist around them. “When were they going to do it.”

“At the council meeting, the night after tomorrow.”

“Son of a bitch.”

V put his gun away and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I despise those motherfuckers.”

“Speaking to the choir,” Rehv said before refocusing on Wrath. “I didn’t come to you before I solved the problem because I’m kind of sweet on the idea of the king owing me something.”

Wrath had to laugh. “Sin-eater.”

“You know it.”

Wrath jogged the bag in his hand. “When did this happen?”

“About a half hour ago,” Xhex answered. “I didn’t clean up after myself.”

“Well, they’ll certainly get the message. And I’m still going to that meeting.”

“You sure that’s wise?” Rehv said. “Whoever else is behind this will not come to me again, because they know where my loyalties appear to lie. But that doesn’t mean they won’t find someone else.”

“So let them,” Wrath said. “I’m down with mortal combat.” He glanced at Xhex. “Montrag implicate anyone?”

“I slit his throat from ear to ear. Talk was tough.”

Wrath smiled and glanced at V. “You know, it’s kind of a surprise you two don’t get along better.”

“Not really,” they said at the same time.

“I can postpone the council meeting,” Rehv murmured. “If you want to do recon yourself to see who else was involved.”

“Nope. If they had balls of any size, they’d have tried to kill me themselves, not get you to do it. So one of two things is going to happen. Since they don’t know whether Montrag outted them before he became visually impaired, they’re either going to go into hiding, because that’s what cowards do, or they’re going to shift the blame to someone else. So the meeting goes on.”

Rehv smiled darkly, the symphath in him obvious. “As you wish.”

“I want an honest answer from you, though,” Wrath said.

“What’s the question.”

“For real, did you think about killing me? When he asked.”

Rehv was a silent for a bit. Then he slowly nodded. “Yeah, I did. But like I said, you owe me now, and given my…circumstances of birth, as it were…that’s far more valuable than what any smarmy-ass aristocrat can do for me.”

Wrath nodded once. “That’s logic I can respect.”

“Plus, let’s face it”-Rehv smiled again-“my sister’s married into the family.”

“That she has, symphath. That she has.”

After Ehlena put the ambulance in the garage, she went across the parking lot and down into the clinic. She needed to get her things from her locker, but that wasn’t what was driving her. Usually at this time of night, Havers would be doing charts in his office, and that was where she headed. When she came up to his door, she took her scrunchie out, smoothed back her hair, and tightly knotted it at the base of her neck. Her coat was still on, but even though it hadn’t been that expensive, it was made of black wool and looked tailored, so she figured she looked okay.

She knocked on the jamb, and when a cultured voice called out, she went in. Havers’s former office had been a splendid old-world study, filled with antiques and leather-bound books. Now that they were at this new clinic, his private workspace was no different from anyone else’s: white walls, linoleum floor, stainless-steel desk, black rolling chair.

“Ehlena,” he said as he glanced up from the charts he was reviewing. “How fare you?”

“Stephan is where he belongs-”

“My dear, I had no idea you knew him. Catya told me.”

“I…did.” But maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned that to the female.

“Dearest Virgin Scribe, why didn’t you say?”

“Because I wanted to honor him.”

Havers removed his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Alas, that is something I can understand. Still, I wish I had known. Dealing with the dead is never easy, but it is especially hard if they are of personal acquaintance.”

“Catya has given me the rest of the shift off-”

“Yes, I told her to. You have had a long night.”

“Well, thank you. Before I leave, though, I want to ask you about another patient.”

Havers put his glasses back on. “Of course. Which one?”

“Rehvenge. He came in last evening.”

“So I recall. Is he having some difficulty with his medications?”

“Did you by any chance see his arm?”

“Arm?”

“The infection in the veins on the right side.”

The race’s physician pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up on his nose. “He didn’t indicate that his arm was giving him bother. If he wants to come back in and see me, I’ll be happy to look at it. But as you know, I can’t prescribe anything without examining him.”

Ehlena opened her mouth to argue when another nurse poked her head in. “Doctor?” the female said. “Your patient is ready in exam room four.”

“Thank you.” Havers looked back at Ehlena. “Now do go home and have a rest.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

She ducked out of his office and watched the race’s physician hurry off and disappear around the corner.

Rehvenge wasn’t coming back in here to see Havers. No way. One, he’d sounded too sick to, and two, he’d already proven he was a hardheaded idiot when he’d deliberately hidden that infection from the doctor.

Stupid. Male.

And she was stupid as well, considering what was banging around in her head.

Generally speaking, ethics were never a problem for her: Doing the right thing didn’t require thought or a negotiation of principles or a cost-and-benefit calculation. For example, it would be wrong to go into the clinic’s supply of penicillin and lift, oh, say, eighty five-hundred-milligram tablets.

Especially if you were giving those tablets to a patient who had not been seen by the doctor for the ailment being treated.

That would just be wrong. All the way around.

The right thing would be to call the patient and persuade him to come into the clinic and get seen by the doctor, and if he wouldn’t get his ass in gear? Then that was that.

Yup, not a lot of complications there.

Ehlena headed for the pharmacy.

She decided to leave it up to fate. And what do you know, it was cigarette-break time. The little BE RIGHT BACK clock read three forty-five.

She checked her watch. Three thirty-three.

Unlatching the counter door, she went into the pharmacy, beelined for the penicillin jugs, and shook out those eighty five-hundred-milligram tablets into the pocket of her uniform-exactly what had been prescribed for a patient with a similar issue three nights ago.

Rehvenge was not going to come back to the clinic anytime soon. So she would bring what he needed to him.

She told herself that she was helping a patient and that was the most important thing. Hell, she was probably saving his life. She also pointed out to her conscience that this was not OxyContin or Valium or morphine. As far as she was aware, no one had ever crushed up some ’cillin and snorted it for a high.

As she went into the locker room and picked up the lunch she’d brought but hadn’t eaten, she didn’t feel guilty. And as she dematerialized home, she felt no shame in going to the kitchen and putting the pills in a Ziploc bag and tucking them into her purse.

This was the course she was choosing. Stephan had been dead by the time she got to him, and the best she’d been able to do was help wrap his cold, stiff limbs in ceremonial linen. Rehvenge was alive. Alive and suffering. And whether he was the cause of it or not, she could still help him.

The outcome was moral even if the method was not.

And sometimes that was the best you could do.