Lover Revealed

Chapter Five

Rehvenge had not seemed at all surprised when she called him, Marissa thought. But then, he'd always had this uncanny way of reading her.

Gathering up her black cloak, she stepped out the back of her brother's mansion. Night had just fallen, and she shivered, though not because of the cold. It was that horrible dream she'd had during the day. She'd been flying, flying across the landscape, flying over a frozen pond with pines on its far side, going farther past a ring of trees, until she'd slowed and peered downward. On the snowy ground, curled up and bleeding, she saw… Butch.

The urge to call the Brotherhood lingered as much as the images of the nightmare did. Except how stupid would she feel when the warriors called back all annoyed, just to tell her he was perfectly fine? They'd probably think she was stalking him. Except, God… that vision of him bleeding into the white-covered earth, that picture of him, helpless in the fetal position, haunted her.

It was only a dream, though. Merely… a dream.

Closing her eyes, she forced herself into a semblance of calm and dematerialized downtown to the terrace of a penthouse apartment some thirty stories up. As soon as she took form, Rehvenge slid open one of six glass doors.

He immediately frowned. "You're upset."

She forced a smile as she went over to him. "You know I'm always a little uncomfortable."

He pointed his gold engraved cane at her. "No, this is different."

God, she'd never known anyone so in tune with her emotions. "I'll be fine."

As he took her elbow and pulled her inside, a tropical warmth embraced her. Rehv always had the temperature this high, and his floor length sable coat always stayed on until they got to the couch. She had no idea how he could stand the heat, but he seemed to crave it.

He shut the slider. "Marissa, I want to know what's doing."

"Nothing, really."

With a twist, she took off her cloak and draped it on a chrome-and-black chair. Three sides of the penthouse were made up of sheets of glass, and the sprawling view of Caldwell's two halves showed the shimmering lights of downtown, the dark curve of the Hudson River, the stars over it all. The decor was minimalist, all ebony and cream elegance… rather like Rehv, with his black mohawk and his golden skin and his perfect clothes.

Under different circumstances, she would have adored the penthouse.

Under different circumstances, she might have adored him.

Rehv's violet eyes narrowed as he leaned on his cane and came to her. He was a huge male, built like a Brother, and he had looming down pat, his handsome face hard. "Don't lie to me."

She smiled slightly. Males like him tended to be very protective, and though the two of them were not mated, she wasn't surprised he seemed ready to hunt something down on her behalf. "I had a disturbing dream this morning and haven't shaken it off yet. That's all."

As he measured her, she had the oddest sense he was sifting through her emotions, examining how they interconnected from the inside.

"Give me your hand," he said.

She reached out with no hesitation. He always observed the glymera's formalities, and he hadn't yet greeted her as custom required. Except when their palms met, he didn't brush his lips across hers in a kiss. He put his thumb over her wrist and pushed down a little. Then even harder. Suddenly, as if he'd opened up some kind of drain, her feelings of fear and worry tunneled down her arm and out to him, pulled through by the contact.

"Rehvenge?" she whispered weakly.

The instant he let her go, the emotions came back, a well-spring no longer tapped.

"You won't be able to be with me tonight."

She flushed and rubbed the skin where he'd touched her. "Of course I will. It's… time."

To get them started, she went to the black leather couch they usually used and stood beside it. After a moment, Rehvenge came over to her and took off his sable coat, slinging the fur out flat for them to lie on. Then he unbuttoned his black suit coat and removed it as well. His fine silk shirt, which seemed so very white, parted down the middle at his fingertips and then the heavy, hairless expense of his chest was revealed. Tattoos marked his pecs, two five-pointed stars in black ink, and there were more designs on his ribbed stomach.

As he sat down and eased back into the couch's arms, his muscles flexed. Looking up at her, his glowing amethyst stare drew her in, and so did his hand as he extended his arm and crooked his forefinger at her. "Come here, tahlly. I've got what you need."

She lifted the skirt of her gown and climbed between his legs. Rehv always insisted she take from his throat, but in the three times they had done this, he had never once been aroused. Which was a relief as well as a reminder. Wrath had never had an erection when he was near her either.

As she glanced down at Rehv's smooth-skinned male glory, the low-level hunger she had been feeling for the past few days hit hard. She put her palms on his pecs and arched over him, watching as he closed his eyes, tilted his chin to the side, and ran his hands up her arms. A soft groan left his lips, which was something he always did right before she struck. In another situation, she would have said it was anticipation, but she knew that wasn't true. His body was always flaccid, and she couldn't believe he liked being used that much.

She opened her mouth, her fangs elongating, extending downward from her upper jaw. Leaning into Rehv, she—

The image of Butch in the snow froze her, and she had to shake her head to refocus on Rehv's throat and her hunger.

Feed, she told herself. Take what he offers.

She tried again, only to stop with her mouth on his neck. As she squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, Rehv put his hand under her chin and lifted her head up.

"Who is he, tahlly?" Rehv's thumb stroked her bottom lip. "Who is this male you love who won't feed you? And I'm going to be totally insulted if you don't tell me."

"Oh, Rehvenge… it's no one you know."

"He is a fool."

"No. I am the fool."

With an unexpected surge, Rehv pulled her down to his mouth. She was so shocked, she gasped, and in an erotic rush, his tongue entered her. He kissed her with skill, all smooth moves and sliding penetrations. She felt no arousal but could tell what kind of lover he would be: dominant, powerful… thorough.

When she pushed against his chest, he let her break the contact.

As Rehv eased back, his amethyst eyes glowed, a beautiful purple light pouring out of them, pouring into her. Though she felt no erection at his hips, the trembling that ran throughout his big, muscular body told her he was a male with sex on his mind and in his blood—and that he wanted to penetrate her.

"You look so surprised," he drawled.

Considering the way most males regarded her, she was. "That was unexpected. Especially as I didn't think you could—"

"I am capable of mating with a female." His lids dropped, and for a moment he looked frightening. "Under certain circumstances."

From out of nowhere, a shocking image shot into her brain: her naked on a bed with a sable blanket beneath her, Rehv naked and fully aroused, spreading her legs with his hips. On the inside of her thigh, she saw a bite mark, as if he'd fed from the vein there.

As she inhaled sharply and covered her eyes, the vision disappeared and he murmured, "My apologies, tahlly. I fear my fantasies are rather well developed. But don't worry, we can just keep them in my head."

"Dear God, Rehvenge, I never would have guessed. And maybe if things were different…"

"Fair enough." He stared into her face and then shook his head. "I really want to meet this male of yours."

"That's the problem. He's not mine."

"Then like I said, he's a fool." Rehv touched her hair. "And hungry as you are, we're going to have to do this another time, tahlly. That heart of yours isn't going to allow it tonight."

She pushed away from him and stood up, her eyes going to the windows and the glowing city. She wondered where Butch was and what he was doing, then looked back over at Rehv and wanted to know why in the hell she wasn't attracted to him. He was beautiful in the ways of a warrior—potent, thick-blooded, strong… especially now, with his massive body sprawled on the sable-covered couch, his legs spread in blatant sexual invitation.

"I wish I wanted you, Rehv."

He laughed dryly. "Funny, I know just what you mean."

V pushed out through the mansion's vestibule and stood in the courtyard. In the lee of the looming stone manse, he cast his mind out into the night, radar looking for a signal.

"You do not go in alone," Rhage snarled at his ear. "You find the place they're keeping him and you call us."

When V didn't reply, he was grabbed by the back of the neck and shaken like a rag doll. In spite of the fact that he was a jacked six-foot-six.

Rhage's face pushed into his, all no-fooling-around. "Vishous. You hear me?"

"Yeah, whatever." He shoved the male off him, only to become very aware that they were not alone. The rest of the Brotherhood was waiting, armed and angry, a cannon ready to be fired. Except… in the midst of all their aggression, they were looking over at him with worry. As the concern drove him nuts, he turned away.

V marshaled his mind and sifted through the night, trying to find the small echo of himself inside Butch. Penetrating the darkness, he searched across fields and mountains and frozen lakes and rushing streams… out… out… out—

Oh, God.

Butch was alive. Barely. And he was… north and east. Twelve, maybe fifteen miles away.

As V took out his Glock, an iron hand grabbed his arm. Rhage was back with a hard-on. "You do not take those lessers on alone."

"I got it."

"Swear to me," Rhage snapped. Like he knew damn well V was thinking of rushing whoever held Butch and only calling for cleanup.

Except this was personal, not just about the war between the vampires and the Lessening Society. Those undead bastards had taken his—well, he didn't know what Butch was to him specifically. But it ran deeper than anything he'd felt in a long time.

"Vishous—"

"I'll call you when I'm good and fucking ready." V dematerialized free of his brother's hold.

Traveling in a loose scramble of molecules, he misted out into Caldwell's rural farmland to a grove of woods beyond a pond that was still frozen. He triangulated his reappearance about a hundred yards away from the signal he got from Butch, coming together crouched and ready for a fight.

Which was a good plan because, holy hell, he could feel lessers everywhere—

V frowned and held his breath. Moving slowly, he turned in a semicircle, searching with his eyes and his ears, not his instincts. There were no slayers around. There was nothing around. Not even a shack or a hunting lodge—

Abruptly, he shuddered. No, there was something in these woods, all right—a big ass something, a condensed mark of malevolence, an evil that made him twitchy.

The Omega.

As he swiveled his head toward the dreadful concentration, a cold blast of wind nailed him in the face, like Mother Nature was urging him in the opposite direction.

Tough shit. He had to get his roommate out of here.

V ran toward what he could sense of Butch, his shitkickers punching through the crusty snow. Up ahead, the full moon shone brightly at the margin of a cloudless sky, but the presence of evil was so vivid V could have followed the way blindfolded. And shit, Butch was close to that blackness.

Fifty yards later, V saw the coyotes. They were circling something on the ground, growling not as if they were hungry but as if the pack was being threatened.

And whatever had captured their interest was of such magnitude they didn't even notice V's approach. To break them up, he pointed his gun overhead and let off a couple of rounds. The coyotes scattered and—

V skidded to a halt. As he looked at what was on the ground, he couldn't swallow. Which was fine, because his mouth went dry.

Butch was lying in the snow on his side, naked, beaten, blood all over him, face swollen and bruised. His thigh was bandaged, but whatever wound was under the gauze had bled through. None of that was the horror, however. Evil was all around the cop… all around… shit, he was the black, foul footprint V had sensed.

Oh, sweet Virgin in the Fade.

Vishous did a quick scan of the environs, then dropped to his knees and gently laid his gloved hand on his friend. As a painful zinger shot up his arm, V's instincts told him to bolt because what he'd laid his palm on was to be avoided at all costs. Evil.

"Butch, it's me. Butch?"

With a groan, the cop stirred, a kind of hope flaring in his battered face, as if he'd lifted his head to the sun. But then the expression faded.

Dear Lord, the man's eyes were frozen shut because he'd been crying and the tears hadn't gotten far in the cold.

"Don't worry, cop. I'm going to…" Do what? The male was about to die out here, but what the hell had been done to him? He was saturated by darkness.

Butch's mouth opened. The hoarse sounds that came out might have been words, but they didn't carry.

"Cop, don't say anything. I'm going to take care of you—"

Butch shook his head and began to move. With pathetic weakness, he stretched out his arms and grabbed at the ground, trying to pull his broken body through the snow. Away from V.

"Butch, it's me—"

"No…" The cop went all frantic, clawing, dragging himself. "Infected… don't know how… infected… you can't… take me. Don't know why…"

V used his voice like a slap, making it sharp and loud. "Butch! Stop it!"

The cop settled down, although whether it was because he was following orders or had run out of steam wasn't clear.

"What the hell did they do to you, my man?" V whipped out a Mylar blanket from his jacket and put it around his roommate.

"Infected." Butch awkwardly rolled onto his back and shoved the silver sheath down, his busted-up hand falling onto his belly. "In… fected."

"What the fuck…"

There was a fist-sized black circle on the cop's stomach, something like a bruise with highly defined edges. In the center of it, there seemed to be… a surgical scar.

"Shit." They'd put something in him.

"Kill me." Butch's voice was a chilling rasp. "Kill me now. Infected. Something… inside. Growing…"

V sat back on his heels and grabbed at his hair. Forcing his emotions to the back burner, he put his mind to work and prayed that his overdose of gray matter would come to the rescue. Moments later, the conclusion he reached was radical but logical, and it focused him to the point of calmness. He unsheathed one of his black daggers with a perfectly steady hand and leaned in to his roommate.

What shouldn't be in there needed to come out. And given the evil that it was, the extraction had to be done here, in neutral territory, rather than at home or in Havers's clinic. Plus, death was breathing down the cop's neck, and the sooner he was decontam'd the better.

"Butch, buddy, I want you to take a deep breath, then hold still. I'm going to—"

"Be of care, warrior."

V whirled around in a crouch. Right behind him, hovering above the ground, was the Scribe Virgin. As always she was pure power, her black robes unruffled by the wind, her face hidden, her voice clear as the night air.

Vishous opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "Before you o'erstep your bounds and render inquiry, I will tell you, no, I cannot help directly. This is a matter of the sort I must stay out of. However, I will say this. You would be wise to unveil the curse you detest. Handling what is within him will bring you closer to death than ever you have been. And no one could remove it save you." She smiled a little, as if she read his thoughts. "Yes, this moment now is part of the reason you dreamed of him in the beginning. But there is another why of which you may see in time."

"Will he live?"

"Get to work, warrior," she said in a hard tone. "You shall make more progress toward his salvation if you act rather than offend me."

V leaned down to Butch and moved fast, drawing the knife over the cop's belly. As a moan left the man's cracked lips, a gaping hole opened up.

"Oh, Jesus." There was something black cocooned in the flesh.

The Scribe Virgin's voice was closer now, as if she were right over his shoulder. "Unsheathe your hand, warrior, and be of speed about it. How quickly that spreads."

V shoved his dagger back into his chest holster and ripped his glove off. He reached down, then stopped. "Wait, I can't touch anyone with this."

"The infection will offer the human protection. Do it now, warrior, and as you make contact, visualize the white glow of your palm all around you, as if you are skinned by light."

Vishous brought his hand forward while imagining himself surrounded by a pure, radiant incandescence. The moment he made contact with the black piece, his body shuddered and bucked. The thing, whatever it was, disintegrated with a hiss and pop, but, oh, shit, he felt ill.

"Breathe," the Scribe Virgin said. "Just breathe through it."

Vishous swayed and caught himself on the ground, his head hanging off his shoulders, his throat starting to pump. "I think I'm going to be—"

Yeah, he got sick. And as the retching tackled him again and again, he felt himself get eased off his arms. The Scribe Virgin supported him through the vomiting, and when it was over, he sagged into her. For a moment he even thought she was stroking his hair.

Then from out of nowhere, his cell phone appeared in his good hand, and her voice was strong in his ear. "Go now, take this human, and trust that the seat of evil is in the soul, not the body. And you must bring back the jar of one of your enemies. Bring it to this place and use your hand upon it. Do this without delay."

V nodded. Unsolicited advice from the Scribe Virgin was not the kind you left at the roadside.

"And, warrior, keep your shield of light in place around this human. Further, use your hand to heal him. He may yet die unless enough light enters his body and heart."

V felt the power of her fade as another shot of nausea hit his gut. While he dealt with the lingering effects of touching that thing, he figured, Jesus, if he felt this bad, he couldn't imagine how Butch was doing.

When the phone rang in his hand, he realized he'd been lying on his back in the snow for some time. "Hello?" he said, all groggy.

"Where are you? What's happening?" Rhage's bass holler was a relief.

"I have him. I have" — V eyed the bloody mess that was his roommate—"Jesus, I need a pickup. Oh, shit, Rhage—" V put his hand to his eyes and started to shake. "Rhage—what they did to him…"

The tone of his brother's voice instantly gentled, as if the guy knew V had gone bye-bye. "Okay, just relax. Tell me, where are you?"

"Woods… I don't know…" God, his brain had totally shorted out. "Can you pinpoint me on the GPS?"

A voice in the background, probably Phury, yelled, "Got him!"

"All right, V, we got you and we're coming—"

"No, place is contaminated." As Rhage started in with the whats, V cut the brother off. "Car. We need a car. I'm going to have to carry him out. I don't want anyone else to come here."

There was a long pause. "All right. Head straight north, my brother. About a half mile you'll run into Route 22. We'll be there waiting for you."

"Call—" He had to clear his voice and wipe his eyes. "Call Havers. Tell him we're bringing in a trauma case. And tell him that we need a quarantine."

"Jesus… what the hell did they do to him?"

"Hurry, Rhage—wait! Bring a lesser jar with you."

"Why?"

"No time to explain. Just make sure you have one."

V shoved his phone into his pocket, stuffed his glowing hand back into its glove, and went to Butch. After making sure the Mylar blanket was in place, he gathered the cop in his arms and eased all that deadweight off the ground. Butch hissed with pain.

"This is going to be a rough ride," V said, "but we gotta get you moving."

Except then V frowned and looked at the ground. Butch wasn't bleeding much anymore, but holy hell, what about the footprints tracking out through the snow? If a lesser happened to come back, he might catch them on the way out.

From out of nowhere, storm clouds rolled in and snow started to fall hard.

Damn, the Scribe Virgin was good.

As V headed off through what was now nearly a blizzard, he imagined a white light of protection around both him and the man in his arms.

"You came!"

Marissa smiled as she shut the door to the cheery, windowless patient room. On the hospital bed, looking small and fragile, was a seven-year-old female. By her side, looking only somewhat larger but much more breakable, was the young's mother.

"I promised last night I would visit you again, didn't I?"

When the young grinned, there was a black hole where her front tooth was missing. "But still, you came. And you look so pretty."

"So do you." Marissa sat on the bed and took the young's hand. "How are you?"

"Mahmen and I have been watching Dora the Explorer!"

The mother smiled a little, but the expression didn't touch much of her plain face or any of her eyes. Since the young had been brought in three days ago, the mother had seemed to be on some kind of numbed-out autopilot. Well, except when she jumped every time someone came into the room.

"Mahmen says that we can only stay here a little while longer. Is that true?"

The mother opened her mouth, but Marissa answered, "You don't have to worry about leaving. We need to take care of your leg first."

These were not wealthy civilians, probably couldn't pay for any of this, but Havers never turned anyone away. And he wasn't going to rush them out.

"Mahmen says that my leg is bad. Is that true?"

"Not for long." Marissa glanced down at the blankets. Havers was going to operate on the compound fracture momentarily. Hopefully it would heal right.

"Mahmen says I'll be in the green room for an hour. Can it be shorter than that?"

"My brother will keep you there only as long as he has to."

Havers was going to replace her shinbone with a titanium rod, which was better than losing the limb but still a hard path. The young would need more operations as she grew, and going by the mother's exhausted eyes, the female knew this was just the beginning.

"I'm not scared." The young tucked her tattered stuffed tiger in closer to her neck. "Mastimon is coming with me. The nurse said he could."

"Mastimon will protect you. He is fierce, as a tiger should be."

"I told him not to eat anybody."

"Wise of you." Marissa reached into the skirting pocket of her pale pink gown and took out a leather box. "I have something for you."

"A present?"

"Yes." Marissa turned the box to face the young and opened it. Inside, there was a gold plate about the size of a tea saucer, and the precious object was buffed to a high shine, all mirror bright, gleaming like sunshine.

"That's so pretty," the child breathed.

"This is my wishing plate." Marissa took it out and turned the thing over. "Do you see my initial on the back?"

The young squinted. "Yes. And look! There's a letter like as in my name."

"I had yours added. I'd like you to have this."

There was a little gasp from the mother in the corner. Clearly she knew what all that gold was worth.

"Really?" the young said.

"Hold your hands out." Marissa put the gold disk in the girl's palms.

"Oh, it's so heavy."

"Do you know how these wishing plates work?" When the young shook her head, Marissa took out a little piece of parchment and a fountain pen. "Think of a wish and I'll write it down. While you sleep, the Scribe Virgin will come and read it."

"If she doesn't give you your wish, does that mean you're bad?"

"Oh, no. It just means she has something better planned for you. So what would you like? It can be anything. Ice cream when you wake up. More Dora?"

The little female frowned in concentration. "I want my mahmen to stop crying. She tries to pretend she doesn't, but ever since I… fell down the stairs she's been sad."

Marissa swallowed, knowing full well the child hadn't broken her leg like that. "I think that's fine. I'll write that down."

Using the intricate characters of the Old Language, she penned in red ink: If it would not offend, I would be grateful for my mahmen's happiness.

"There. How is it?"

"Perfect!"

"Now we fold it and leave it. Perhaps the Scribe Virgin will reply to you while you are in the operating—the green room."

The child hugged her tiger closer. "I would like that."

As a nurse came in, Marissa stood up. In a rush of heat, she felt a near-violent urge to protect the young, to shield her from what had happened at her home and what was about to happen in the OR.

Instead, Marissa looked at the mother. "This is going to be fine."

When she went over and put her hand on a thin shoulder, the mother shuddered, then gripped Marissa's palm hard.

"Tell me he can't get in here," the female said in a low voice. "If he finds us, he'll kill us."

Marissa whispered, "No one can get into the elevator without identifying themselves in front of a camera. The two of you are safe. I swear to it."

When the female nodded, Marissa left so that the young could be sedated.

Outside the patient room, she leaned against the hallway wall and felt more heaving rage. The fact that those two were bearing the pain of a male's violent temper was enough to make her want to learn how to shoot a gun.

And God, she couldn't imagine setting that female and her young loose in the world because surely that hellren would find them when they left the clinic. Although most males put their mates higher than themselves, there had always been among the race a minority of abusers and the realities of domestic violence were ugly and far-reaching.

A door shutting to the left brought her head up, and she saw Havers come walking down the hall, his head buried in a patient chart. Odd… his shoes were covered with little yellow plastic booties, the kind he always put on when he donned a hazmat suit.

"Have you been in the lab again, brother mine?" she asked.

His eyes shot up from the chart and he pushed his hornrimmed glasses higher on his nose. His jaunty red bow tie was cocked at a bad angle. "Come again?"

She nodded at his feet with a smile. "The lab."

"Ah… yes. I have." He reached down and took the covers off his loafers, crushing the yellow plastic in his hand. "Marissa, would you do me the favor of returning to the house? I've asked the Princeps Council leahdyre and seven other members to dinner on Monday next. The menu must be perfect and I would talk to Karolyn myself, but I'm due in the OR."

"Of course." Except then Marissa frowned, aware that her brother was still as a statue. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you. Go… go now. Do… yes, please go now."

She was tempted to pry, but she didn't want to keep him from the young's operation, so she kissed him on the cheek, straightened his bow tie, and walked away. When she reached the double doors that led into the reception area, though, something made her glance back.

Havers was stuffing what he'd been wearing on his feet into a biohazard bin, and his face was drawn into tight lines. With a deep breath, he braced himself, then pushed open the door to the surgical suite's anteroom.

Ah, she thought, so that's what it was. He was upset about operating on the young. And who could blame him?

Marissa turned back to the doors… then heard the boots.

She froze. Only one kind of male made that thunder when he approached.

Pivoting around, she saw Vishous striding down the hall, his dark head lowered, and behind him, Phury and Rhage were similar silent menaces. All three were dripping with weapons and weariness, and Vishous had dried blood on his leathers and his jacket. But why had they been in Havers's lab? That facility was the only thing back there, really.

The Brothers didn't notice her until they practically mowed her down. Coming to a stop as a group, their eyes quickly went elsewhere, no doubt because of her having fallen from Wrath's grace.

Dear Virgin, up close they looked truly awful. Sick, yet not unwell, if that made any sense.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.

"Everything's cool," Vishous said in a hard voice. " 'Scuse us."

The dream… Butch lying in the snow … "Is someone hurt? Is… Butch…"

Vishous just shrugged her off and stepped past her, punching open the doors into Reception. The other two offered stiff smiles, then did the same.

Following at a distance, she watched them walk by the nursing station to the access elevator. As they waited for the doors to open, Rhage reached out and put his hand on Vishous's shoulder, and the other Brother seemed to shudder.

The exchange made warning bells go off, and the instant the elevator doors closed Marissa headed for the wing of the clinic the three had originally come from. Moving quickly, she passed the sprawling, brilliantly lit lab, then put her head into the six older patient rooms. All of which were empty.

Why had the Brothers been here? Maybe just to talk to Havers?

On instinct, she went out to the front desk, logged on to the computer and scanned the admissions. Nothing about any of the Brothers or Butch came up, but that didn't mean a thing.

The warriors were never entered into the system, and she had to imagine it would be the same for Butch if he were in-house. What she was after was how many beds were occupied of the thirty-five they had.

She got the number and did a quick walk around, scouting each room. Everything was accounted for. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Butch had not been admitted—unless he was in one of the other rooms in the main house. Sometimes patients who were VIPs stayed there.

Marissa picked up her skirts and hightailed it for the back stairs.

Butch curled into himself even though he wasn't cold, operating on the theory that if he could just bring his knees up high enough, the pain in his stomach would ease a little.

Yeah, right. The hot poker in his gut was not impressed by that plan.

He peeled his puffy eyelids apart, and after a lot of blinking and deep breathing, he came to the following conclusions: He was not dead. He was in a hospital. And shit that was no doubt keeping him alive was being pumped into his arm.

As he rolled over gingerly, he came to one more realization. His body had been used for a punching bag. Oh… and something nasty was in his belly, like his last meal had been rancid roast beef.

What the fuck had happened to him?

Only a vague series of snapshots came to mind: Vishous finding him in the woods. Him with a screaming instinct that the brother should leave him to die. Then some knife action and… something about that hand of V's, that glowing thing used to take out a vile piece of—

Butch lurched over onto his side and gagged just from the memory. There had been evil in his belly. Pure, undiluted malice, and the black horror had been spreading.

With shaking hands, he grabbed the hospital johnny he was wearing and yanked it up. "Oh… Jesus…"

There was a stain on the skin of his stomach, like the scorch mark of a fire that had been snuffed out. In desperation, he weeded through his sloppy brain, trying to remember how the scarring had gotten there and what it was, but he just came up with a big fat zero.

So like the detective he'd been before, he examined the scene—which in this case was his body. Lifting one of his hands, he saw that his fingernails were a mess, as if something like a file or some small nails had been hammered under a number of them. A deep breath told him his ribs were cracked. And going by his swollen eyes, he had to assume his face had partied with a lot of knuckles.

He had been tortured. Recently.

Reaching into his mind again, he panned for memories, trying to get back to the last place he'd been. ZeroSum. ZeroSum with… oh, God, that female. In the bathroom. Having hardcore, who-cares sex. Then he'd gone out and… lessers. Fighting with those lessers. Getting shot and then…

His recollections came to the end of their train track at that point. Just shot off the edge of reasoning into a pit of huh, what?

Had he squealed on the Brotherhood? Betrayed them? Had he given his nearest and dearest away?

And what the hell had been done to his belly? God, he felt like there was sludge in his veins thanks to whatever had festered there.

Letting himself go limp, he breathed through his mouth for a while. And found there was no peace to be had.

As if his brain didn't want to stop working, or maybe because it was showing off, the thing kicked up random visions from the distant past. Birthdays with his dad glaring at him and his mom tense and smoking like a chimney. Christmases where his brothers and sisters got presents and he didn't.

Hot July nights that no fan could cool off, the heat driving his father into the cold beer. The Pabst Blue Ribbon driving his father into fist-cracking wake-up calls just for Butch.

Memories he hadn't thought of for years came back, all unwanted visitors. He saw his sisters and brothers, happy, shouting, playing on bright green grass. And remembered how he'd wished he could be among them instead of hanging back, the oddball who'd never fit in.

And then—Oh, God, no… not this memory. Too late. He pictured himself as the twelve-year-old he'd been, scrawny and shaggy, standing at the curb in front of the O'Neal family row house in South Boston. It had been a clear, beautiful fall afternoon when he'd watched his sister Janie get into a red Chevy Chevette that had rainbow stripes down the side. With perfect recollection he saw her waving at him through the window in the back as the car drove off.

Now that the door to the nightmare was open, he couldn't stop the horror show. He recalled the police coming to the door that night and his mother's knees going out when they finished talking to her. He remembered the cops questioning him because he was the last person to see Janie alive. He heard his younger self telling the badges that he hadn't recognized the boys and had wanted to tell his sister not to get in.

Mostly, he saw his mother's eyes burning with a pain so great she had no tears.

Then flash forward twenty-plus years. God… when was the last time he'd spoken to or seen either of his parents? Or his brothers and sisters? Five years? Probably. Man, the family had been so relieved when he'd moved away and started missing holidays.

Yeah, around the Christmas table, everyone else had been part of the O'Neal family fabric and he'd been the stain. Eventually he'd stopped going home altogether, leaving them only phone numbers to reach him, numbers they never dialed.

So they wouldn't know if he died now, would they? Vishous no doubt knew everything about the O'Neal clan, down to their social security numbers and bank statements, but Butch had never spoken about them. Would the Brotherhood call? What would they say?

Butch looked down at himself and knew there was a good chance he wasn't walking out of this room. His body looked a lot like those he'd seen in Homicide, the kind he investigated in the woods. Well, natch. That's where he'd been found. Discarded. Used. Left for dead.

Rather like Janie.

Exactly like Janie.

Closing his eyes, he floated away on the pain in his body. And from out of the swill of agony, he had a vision of Marissa from the first night he'd met her. The image was so vivid, he could almost smell the ocean scent of her and he saw exactly what had been: the filmy yellow gown she'd had on… the way her hair had looked, down over her shoulders… the lemon-colored sitting room they'd been in together.

To him, she was the unforgettable woman, the one he'd never had and never would but who nonetheless reached into the core of him.

Man, he was so fricking tired.

He opened his eyes and took action before he really knew what he was doing. Reaching up to his inner forearm, he peeled the clear plastic tape off the skin around the IV insertion site. Sliding the needle out of his vein was easier than he'd thought it would be, but then again, the rest of him hurt so bad, messing around with that little piece of hardware was a drop in the bucket.

If he'd had the strength, he'd have gone looking for something with a little more punch to off himself. But time—time was the weapon he was going to use because that's what he had at his disposal. And going by how shitty he felt, it wasn't going to take long. He could practically hear his organs coughing up their livelihoods.

Closing his eyes, he let go of everything, only dimly aware that alarms were going off in the machinery behind the bed. A fighter by nature, the ease with which he gave up was a surprise, but then a heavy tide of exhaustion crashed over him. He knew instinctually that this was not the exhaustion of sleep but rather of death, and he was glad that it came so fast.

Drifting free of everything, he imagined that he was at the start of a long, blinding hallway at the end of which was a door. Marissa was standing in front of the portal and as she smiled at him she opened the way into a white bedroom full of light.

His soul eased as he took a deep breath and began to walk forward. He'd like to think he was going to heaven, in spite of all the bad things he'd done, so this made sense.

It wouldn't be paradise without her.