Lover Mine

SIXTY-TWO

When Lash woke up at his hideaway ranch, the first thing he did was look at his arms.

Along with his hands and wrists, his forearms were now shadows as well, a kind of smog- like form that moved as he told it to, and either be nothing more than air or could bear weight at his command.

Sitting up, he shoved off the blanket he’d pulled over himself and stood. What do you know, his feet were pulling a disappear, too. Which was good, but... shit, how long was the transformer bit going to take? He had to assume that if his body still had physical form, with a heartbeat and needs like food and drink and sleep, he wasn’t completely safe from bullets and knives.

Plus, frankly, given all the pieces that had fallen off him, bio-waste management was really fucking messy.

He’d turned the mattress he’d slept on into the biggest Depends on the planet.

A squeak from outside drew him over to the blinds and he parted a seam with his nonfingers. Through the crack, he watched humans going along their lame-ass days, driving by, biking along. Frickin’ morons with their simple little lives. Get up. Go to work. Come home. Bitch about their day. Wake up and do the same thing again.

As a sedan went by, he implanted a thought in the driver’s mind... and smiled as the Pontiac swerved out of its lane, bumped up over the curb, and gunned right at the two-story across the street. The fucking POS powered straight into a bank of windows, smashing through the glass and the wood framing, air bags exploding inside the car.

Better than a cup of coffee to start the day.

He turned away and went to the shitty bureau, firing up the laptop he’d found in the back of the Mercedes. The drug deal he’d interrupted on the way home had been worth the effort. He’d grifted a couple thousand dollars as well as some OxyCs, some X, and twelve crack rocks. More important, he’d thrown the two dealers and the one customer under a trance, gotten them back to the AMG, brought them here, and turned them.

They’d trashed the hall bath by throwing up all night long, but frankly he was about done with this house and was thinking of burning it down.

So... he had a team of four. And whereas none of them had been volunteers, once he’d drained them and brought them back to “life,” he’d promised them all kinds of shit. And what do you know. Junkies who dealt to supply their own habits would believe just about anything you told them. You just had to sell them on a future—after you’d scared the colons out of them.

Which was a no B.F.D. for him. Naturally, they’d been shitting themselves when he’d unmasked his face, but the good thing was they’d hallucinated so many times on acid trips, it wasn’t completely outside their experience to talk to a living corpse. Plus he was persuasive when he wanted to be.

Damn shame he couldn’t brainwash them permanently. But that parlor trick with the Pontiac driver was as far as he could go with the influence: brief and unsustainable for longer than a couple of seconds.

Fucking free will.

After the computer booted up, he went to the Caldwell Courier Journal site...

Hello, front page. The “Farmhouse Massacre” was covered in a number of articles—the blood and the body parts and the strange oily residue garnering all kinds of Pulitzer-light description. Reporters also interviewed the police who’d been there, the postman who’d called 911 in the first place, twelve kinds of neighbors, and the mayor—who was evidently “calling upon the fine men and women of the CPD to solve this terrible crime against the Caldwell community.”

Consensus was: ritual deaths. Perhaps tied to an unknown cult.

All of which was just background chatter obscuring what he was really looking for—

Bingo. In the last article, he found a short two-paragrapher reporting that the crime scene had been broken into the night before. The “fine men and women of the CPD” had grudgingly allowed as how one of their late-night patrol cars had done a drive-by and found that person or persons unknown had ransacked the scene. They were quick to point out that relevant evidence had already been removed and they were putting a black-and-white there full-time from now on.

So the Brotherhood had followed up on his little message.

Had Xhex gone there, too? he wondered. Maybe waited to see if he’d show up?

Shit, he’d missed a goddamn shot at her. And the Brothers.

But he had time. Hell, when his body went full- on shadow? He had an eternity.

Checking his watch, he got his hustle on, changing quickly into black slacks and a turtleneck and that hooded raincoat. Drawing on his leather gloves, he slid his black baseball cap on and gave a gander in the mirror.

Yeah. Right.

Rummaging around, he found a black T-shirt that he ripped to ribbons and wound around his face, leaving room for his lidless eyes and the cartilage that was left of his nose and the gaping maw that was now his mouth.

Better. Not great. But better.

First stop was the bathroom to check and see how his troops were getting along. They had all passed out in a heap on the floor, their arms and legs intertwining, their heads here and there... but the fuckers were alive.

Man, they were so bottom-of-the-barrel, dregs-of-humanity types, he thought. If they were lucky, collectively their IQ might creep into the triple digits.

They were going to be useful, however.

Lash locked the house up tight with a spell and stepped out into the garage. Popping the Mercedes’ trunk, he lifted the carpeted panel, took out the bundle of coke, and loaded up both his non- nostrils before getting behind the wheel.

Gooooooooood mornnning! As a choir of chaos lit him up from the inside, he backed down the drive and headed out of the neighborhood, going the opposite way from the cops and ambulances that had arrived at the house across the street.

Which now had a drive-through as opposed to a living room.

Once he hit the highway, the trip downtown should have been ten minutes, but because of rush-hour traffic, it was more like twenty-five—although with the racing in his mind and his body, he felt like he was at a total standstill the entire time.

It was a little after nine o’clock when he pulled into an alley and parked next to a silver van. As he got out, he thanked God for the blow—he actually felt like he had some energy. Trouble was, if his Extreme Makeover didn’t finish up fast, he was going to go through that stash in the trunk in a matter of days.

Which was why he’d called for this meeting now instead of waiting any longer.

And what do you know, Ricardo Benloise was on time and already in his office: The maroon AMG he was squired around in was docked on the far side of the GMC van.

Lash approached the back door of the art gallery, and waited by the video camera. Yeah, he’d have preferred to chill on this face-to-face for a couple of days, but his own needs notwithstanding, he had sellers curing in his bathroom and he needed product for them to hit the streets with.

Then he had to turn some soldiers.

After all, the little Shit hadn’t wasted any time filling his ranks—although there was no way of telling how many were left after the Brotherhood’s raid at the farmhouse.

Never thought he’d be glad those motherfuckers were lethal at their jobs. Go. Fig.

Lash had to assume that the Omega’s boy toy was going to quickly cook up another batch of inductees. And given that the kid had been a successful dealer, he was going to resume making paper as soon as he could. Both of which would give him the resources not only to fight the vampires, but come after Lash.

So it was a case of the clock ticking. Lash was damn confident that the Shit couldn’t get a meeting with Benloise right now because he was small potatoes—but how much longer would that be true? Sales mattered. Smarts mattered. If Lash could get a foot in the door, someone else could.

Especially if they had the special talents of a Fore-lesser.

With a click, the door locks were sprung and one of Benloise’s enforcers opened up. The guy frowned at Lash’s Lady Gaga rig, but got back in the game quick. No doubt he’d seen a lot of crazy shit—and not just on the drug-trade side of things: artists were no doubt wacky nut jobs for the most part.

“Where’s your ID,” the guy said.

Lash flashed his fake driver’s license. “About to be up your ass, motherfucker.”

Clearly, the combination of the laminated card and Lash’s familiar voice was enough because a moment later, he was allowed in.

Benloise’s office was on the third floor in the front, and the trip up there was silent. The guy’s private space was bowling-alley uncluttered, nothing but a long expanse of black varnished floorboards that culminated in a raised platform—which was the desk equivalent of a set of lifts for shoes. Benloise was parked on the dais, seated behind a teak table that was the size of a Lincoln Town Car.

Like a lot of guys who had to stand tall to hit five-six on a tape measure, everything the short man did was big.

As Lash came forward, the South American stared out over his steepled fingers and spoke in his smooth, cultured way. “I was so pleased to receive your call after you failed to make our last meeting. Wherever have you been, my friend.”

“Family problems.”

Benloise frowned. “Yes, blood can be trouble.”

“You have no idea.” Lash looked around at all of the absolutely nothing, locating the hidden cameras and doors—which were in the same positions they’d been in the last time. “First off, let me assure you that our business relationship remains my top priority.”

“I am very pleased to know this. When you didn’t arrive to buy the pieces you were contracted for, I wondered. As an art dealer, I depend on my regular customers to keep my artists busy. I also expect my regulars to fulfill their obligations.”

“Understood. Which is the real reason I’ve come. I need an advance. I have an empty wall in my house that has to be filled with one of your paintings, but I won’t be able to pay with cash today.”

Benloise smiled, showing orderly little teeth. “I’m afraid I don’t make those arrangements. You must pay for the art you leave with. And why ever is your face covered up?”

Lash ignored the question. “You’re going to make an exception in my case.”

“I don’t make exceptions—”

Lash dematerialized across the space, taking form behind the guy and putting a knife to his throat. With a shout, the guard over by the door went for his heat, but there wasn’t a lot to shoot at when your boss’s jugular was on the verge of springing a leak.

Lash hissed in Benloise’s ear, “I’ve had a really bad fucking week and I’m tired of playing by human rules. It is my full intention to continue our relationship, and you are going to make that possible not only because it benefits us both, but because I’m going to take it personally if you don’t. Know this, you cannot hide from me and there is nowhere you can go that I can’t find you. There is no door strong enough to keep me out, no man I can’t overpower, no weapon you can use against me. My terms are this—one major piece to fill up my wall, and I will take it with me right now.”

When he discovered who Benloise’s overseas contacts were, he might just off the bastard—but that would be jumping the gun. The South American was the pipeline for product into Caldwell, and that was the only reason the son of a bitch had a good shot at having lunch later today.

As opposed to a date with an embalmer.

Benloise dragged in a breath. “Enzo, the new Joshua Tree pastels are due to arrive early this evening. When they do, you will pack up one of them and—”

“I want it now.”

“You will have to wait. I cannot give you that which I don’t possess. Kill me at this moment and you shall have none of it.”

Fucker. Motherfucker.

Lash thought back to how much was left in the trunk of the Mercedes—and considered the fact that even now, the coke buzz was draining from him, leaving a whole lot of snooze in its wake. “When. Where.”

“Same time and place as always.”

“Fine. But I’ll be taking a taste with me now.” He dug the knife into that neck. “And don’t tell me that you’re totally dry. That’s going to make me cranky... and twitchy. Twitchy is bad for you—FYI.”

After a moment, the guy murmured, “Enzo, go get him a sample of the artist’s new work, will you.”

The meat across the way seemed to be having trouble processing everything, but then seeing someone disappear into thin air was no doubt a new one for him.

“Enzo. Go now.”

Lash smiled underneath his mummy wraps. “Yeah, beat some feet there, Enzo. I’ll take excellent care of your boss until you come back.”

The bodyguard backed out and then there was the retreating sound of his boots clapping down the stairwell.

“And so you are the worthy successor to the Reverend,” Benloise said with a strain.

Ah, Rehvenge’s former nomenclature in the human world. “Yeah, I’m right up his alley.”

“There was always something different about him.”

“You think that shit was special?” Lash whispered. “Wait’ll you get a load of me.”

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, Qhuinn was sitting up in his bed, leaning against the headboard. He had the cable remote balanced on one thigh, yet another short-and-squat full of Herradura on the other side, and next to him, hanging tight?

Good ol’ Captain Insomnia.

In front of him, the television glowed in the darkness, the morning news droning on. Turned out the police had found the homophobe Qhuinn had worked over in the alley next to the cigar bar and taken him to St. Francis Hospital. Guy was refusing to identify his attacker or comment on what had happened, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he opened his piehole. There were hundreds of pierced, leather-wearing, tatted up sons of bitches in town and the CPD could kiss Qhuinn’s ass.

But whatever, that motherfucker wasn’t going to say shit to nobody—and Qhuinn was willing to bet his left nut he never gay-bashed again either.

Next came an update on what the humans were calling “the Farmhouse Massacre”—said report basically amounting to a whole lot of no new information, but plenty of hysteria-inducing hyperbole. Cults! Ritual sacrifices! Stay indoors after dark!

All of which was, of course, based on circumstantial evidence, because the blue-uni-and-badge brigade had nothing but aftermath to go on—no bodies. And although the identities of a rash of missing lowlifes were starting to percolate to the surface, the dead end was going to stick: Those few slayers who had escaped the Brotherhood’s infiltration were now firmly entrenched in the Lessening Society, never to be seen or heard from again by their former friends and families.

So, yeah, basically, the humans were left with a ServiceMaster cleanup job out there and not much else: Fuck the CSI types; what they really needed was a carpet steamer, a shitload of mops, and a bathtub of Formula 409. If they thought they were ever going to “solve” the crime, those cops were just masturbating the soles of their shoes and the nibs on their pens.

What actually had happened was just a ghost they could sense, but never capture.

As if on cue, a promo for the all-new Paranormal Investigators prime-time special aired, the camera panning around some Southern mansion with trees that looked as if they needed a beard trimmer.

Qhuinn swung his feet off the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. Layla had wanted to come over again, but when she’d called out to him, he’d sent her back a thought that he was exhausted and needed to sleep.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with her, it was just...

Goddamn it, she liked him, she wanted him, and he clearly was into her body. So why didn’t he just call her over here, mate her, and put a check mark next to the biggest goal in life he had?

As he thought about the plan, an image of Blay’s face came to mind and forced him to take a cold, hard look at the shaggy fabric of his life: The shit wasn’t pretty and all the threads he’d started and could neither clip free nor stitch together suddenly became more than he could bear.

Getting up, he went out into the hall of statues and looked down to the right. To Blay’s room.

With a curse, he walked over to the door he’d been in and out of as much as he had his own. When he knocked, the contact was a soft one, not his usual bang-bang-bang.

No answer. He tried again.

Turning the knob, he pushed inside barely an inch—and wished he hadn’t had cause to be discreet. But maybe Saxton was in there with the guy.

“Blay? You up?” he whispered into the darkness.

No reply... and the lack of running water suggested the pair of them weren’t taking a pneumatic shower together. Stepping in, Qhuinn flicked on the lights...

The bed was made up, neat as a pin, totally undisturbed. Fucking thing looked like an ad in a magazine, with all its pillows arranged and the extra duvet folded up like a cloth taco at the foot of the mattress.

Bathroom had dry towels, no condensation on the glass shower, and a Jacuzzi without a bubble bath ring.

His body went numb as he went back out into the hall and walked farther on.

At the door to the crib Saxton had been given, he stopped and stared at the panels. Excellent carpentry work, the pieces put together seamlessly. Paint job was perfect as well, with no brushstrokes marring the smooth surface. Nice brass knob, too, that was as shiny as a newly minted gold coin—

His acute hearing picked up on a soft sound and he frowned—until he realized what he was listening to. Only one thing made that kind of rhythmic...

Staggering back, he got goosed in the ass by the Greek statue directly behind him.

With stumbling feet, he blindly walked somewhere, anywhere. When he got to the king’s study, he looked over his shoulder and checked the carpet over which he’d trodden.

No trail of his blood. Which, considering the way his chest was hurting, was a surprise.

Sure as shit felt like he’d been shot in the heart.