The Beast

EIGHTEEN

The notes in Safe Place’s client files were all still handwritten. Part of it was cost; computers, and networks, and reliable storage were expensive, and with staffing as the priority, funds diverted in an IT direction were just not mission critical. But another part of it was the fact that Marissa, their fearless leader, was old-fashioned and didn’t really like things that were important kept in a form she couldn’t hold in her hands.

After all, if you were almost four hundred years old, the technology revolution of the last three decades was a blip on your radar screen.

Maybe a century from now the boss would trust the likes of Bill Gates a little more.

And it was kind of nice, Mary reflected. More human, somehow, to see the different handwritings, different inks, different ways people misspelled things from time to time. It was the visual equivalent of conversation, everyone bringing something unique to themselves to the records—as opposed to the entries being made up of uniform, spell-checked, all-the-same typed words.

It did, however, make searching for one particular reference or note more difficult. But then again, re-reading everything from the beginning helped you pick up on things you might have previously missed.

Like uncles, for example.

When there had been no mention of any next of kin on the original intake form, Mary had gone on to read each and every one of the progress notes in Annalye’s file, many of which were in her own handwriting. And just as she had remembered, the passages were invariably short and contained little of any use.

Bitty wasn’t the only one who had been quiet.

There wasn’t a single mention of a brother or any parents. And the female hadn’t spoken of her dead mate, either, or of the abuse that she and Bitty had been through. Which was not to say that the violence was undocumented. The medical notes for the two of them had been printed out and attached to the back cover of the file.

After she was done reading it all again, Mary had to sit back and rub her eyes. Like many victims who were afraid for their lives, Bitty’s mahmen had come in for medical assistance only once, when her child was so hurt, there was no way for the natural healing process to take care of the injuries. The x-rays told the rest of the grim story, showing years of broken bones that had reknitted themselves. For them both.

Closing the file, she traded it for Bitty’s. The girl’s was thinner as her medical record had been merged with her mom’s and she’d given them even less to write down than Annalye had. There had been regular talk sessions, as well as art therapy and creative play and music class. But there was not much to go on.

In a way, everyone had only been waiting for the inevitable—

“Ms. Luce?”

Mary jumped in her chair, throwing out her hands and slapping the desk blotter. “Bitty! I didn’t hear you.”

The little girl was standing just outside the open door, her small frame looking even smaller in between the jambs. Tonight, her brown hair was down and curling all around, and she was in another one of her handmade dresses, yellow this time.

Mary was struck by a nearly irresistible urge to get Bitty a sweater.

“Ms. Luce?”

Shaking herself, Mary said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was wondering if my uncle has come yet?”

“Ah, no. He hasn’t.” Mary cleared her throat. “Listen, would you come in here for a moment? And shut the door, please.”

Bitty did as she was asked, closing things behind her and coming forward until she was standing in front of the desk.

“These are your files, honey.” Mary touched the manila folders. “Yours and your mahmen’s. I’ve just gone through them again. I’m not . . . I don’t see anything about your uncle. There’s no mention of him in here? I’m not saying he doesn’t exist, I just—”

“My mahmen got in touch with him. So he’s coming for me.”

Crap, Mary thought. Talk about having to tread carefully.

“How did your mother do that?” she asked. “Did she write to him? Call him? Can you tell me how she reached him? Maybe I can follow up with him?”

“I don’t know how. But she did.”

“What’s his name? Do you remember?”

“His name is . . .” Bitty looked down at the desk. At the folders. “It’s . . .”

It was physically painful to watch the girl try to come up with what was probably going to be a made-up name. But Mary gave her the space, hoping against hope that there would be a magic solution to all this, some brother who did in fact live and breathe out in the world, and who would be as good to Bitty as she deserved—

“Ruhn. His name is Ruhn.”

Mary closed her eyes for a moment. She couldn’t help herself. Ruhn was close to Rhym, of course. Just a step over from the intake supervisor’s name, a distance that was very easily crossed by a young mind searching for a rescue from a horrible situation.

Talk about needing to stay professional.

“Okay, well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” Mary held up her phone. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll post on a closed Facebook group about him. Maybe someone out there can get in touch with him for us?”

Bitty nodded a little. “Are we done?”

Mary cleared her throat again. “One other thing. Your mahmen’s ashes . . . they’ll be ready to be picked up soon. I was thinking, if you’d like, we could do her ceremony here at the house? I know everyone here loved her very much, and we all love you, too—”

“I would like to wait. For when my uncle comes. And then he and I will do it.”

“All right. Well, would you like to come with me to get them? I want to make sure that you have—”

“No. I want to wait here. For my uncle.”

Crap. “All right.”

“Are we done?”

“Yes.”

As the little girl turned away, Mary said, “Bitty.”

“Yes?” Bitty glanced back. “What?”

“You can talk to me, you know. About anything. And at anytime of the night or day. I’m here for you—and if you don’t want to speak to me, anybody else on staff is here to help you. My feelings won’t be hurt. The only thing I care about is that you get the support you need.”

Bitty stared at the floor for a moment. “Okay. Can I go now?”

“I’m very sorry about the way it . . . about what happened at the clinic last night. I encourage you to talk about it with someone—and if not me—”

“Talking is not going to bring my mahmen back, Ms. Luce.” That voice was so grave, it seemed like it should have come out of an adult’s mouth. “Talking is not going to change anything.”

“It will. Trust me.”

“Can it turn back time? I don’t think so.”

“No, but it can help you adjust to your new reality.” God, was she really conversing like this with a nine-year-old? “You have to let the grief out—”

“I’m going now. I’ll be upstairs in the attic. Please let me know when my uncle comes?”

With that, the girl let herself out and quietly re-closed the door. As Mary lowered her head into her hands, she listened to the little footsteps go over to the stairs and ascend to the third floor.

“Goddamn it,” she whispered.

As Rhage got up from the kitchen table, he wasn’t worried that whatever was rushing through the dining room and heading his way was the enemy. He was more concerned that someone in the household was in trouble.

Because there was another sound, layered on top of the footfalls.

A baby wailing.

Before he could get even halfway to the flap door, Beth, the Queen, came tearing into the room, her infant son hanging under one of her arms like a sack of potatoes, her free hand held up as she bled all over herself.

“Oh, shit!” Rhage said as he tripped over his bare feet to meet her at the sink. “What happened?”

His sight wasn’t as sharp as it could have been, but there seemed to be a lot of red on the front of her shirt. And he could smell the blood everywhere.

“Can you take him?” she said over L.W.’s yelling. “Please just take him?”

Annnnnnd that was how he ended up holding Wrath’s first and only born son under the pits like the young was an explosive device with a fuse that was running out fast.

“Ah . . .” he said as the kid kicked his little feet and wailed right in Rhage’s face. “Um . . . yeah, you want to go to the clinic with this?”

As he spoke, he wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the cut or the baby.

Moving the screaming bag of Wrath’s DNA to the side, he tried to see what was going on—was it her finger? Hand? Wrist?

“I was being stupid,” she muttered as she hissed. “I was outside on the terrace, taking him to see the moon because he likes it—and I wasn’t looking where I was going. I hit a patch of wet leaves and whoop! Feet went right out from under me. He was in my arms and I didn’t want to fall on him. Threw my damn hand out, caught it on a flagstone that was cracked and it sliced right through me. Shit . . . this isn’t stopping.”

Rhage winced as he wondered exactly how long the ringing in his ears was going to last after she took L.W. with her. “What . . . ah . . .”

“Hey, can you just stay with him for a minute? Doc Jane’s at the Pit, I just got a text from her. I’ll run across and have her look at this. I’ll be back in two secs.”

Rhage opened his mouth and froze like he had a gun to his head. “Ah, yeah. Sure. No problem.” Please don’t let me kill Wrath’s kid. PleasedontletmekillWrathskid. OhGodohGodohGod— “He and I’ll be just fine. I’ll give him some coffee and—”

“No.” Beth shut the faucet off and wrapped her hand in a towel. “No food, no drink. And I’ll be right back.”

The female left at a dead run, skidding out of the kitchen and racing through the dining room—and as she went all Usain Bolt, he had to wonder whether it was because of her hand . . . or the fact that she’d left her child with a total incompetent.

Annnnnnd L.W. was now really crying, like he’d figured out his mahmen had left and the hollering that had come before had just been a warm-up.

Rhage squeezed his eyes shut and started back for his seat at the table. But after two steps, he thought of Beth’s trip-and-fall and imagined himself flattening the kid like a panini. Going bug-lid, he proceeded heel-toe, heel-toe, as if he were balancing a crystal vase on the top of his skull. As soon as he got within range, he parked it on the chair and stood the kid up on those biscuit feet of his. L.W. wasn’t strong enough to hold his body up, but that screaming was straight rock-and-roll.

“Your mahmen’s coming back.” Please, dearest Virgin Scribe, let that female get back here before he was deaf. “Yup. Riiiight back.”

Rhage looked around the pair of very healthy lungs and prayed for someone, anyone to come running.

When that passive optimism didn’t pan out, he refocused on the red face.

“Buddy, your point’s been made. Trust me. I heaaaaaar you.”

Okay, if the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again . . .

Turning the little boy around, Rhage laid L.W. back in the crook of his arm as he’d seen Wrath and Beth do—

Fucking hell, that just pissed the kid off more. If that was possible.

Next position? Um . . .

Rhage put L.W. up on his chest so that the baby could see over his shoulder. And then he patted his flat palm onto the surprisingly sturdy back. Over. And over. And over . . .

Just like Wrath did.

And what do you know. The shit worked.

About four minutes and thirty-seven seconds later—not that Rhage was counting—L.W. sputtered to a halt, like his tear maker had used up the last of its gas. Then the kid took a ragged inhale and went limp.

Later, Rhage would wonder if things might have been okay had L.W. stopped there. Maybe if the infant hadn’t gone any further . . . or maybe if it had started to cry again? Then perhaps Rhage might have been saved.

The trouble was, mere moments later, L.W. wrapped a chubby arm around Rhage’s throat, and then he fisted the sweatshirt and held on, getting in close, seeking comfort, finding it . . . relying on it because the little guy was utterly helpless in the world.

Abruptly, Rhage stopped with the patting, freezing exactly where he was even though he was off-balance in the chair. And with a clarity that was shattering, everything about the young registered on him, from the heat in that vital body, to the tensile strength in that grip, to the rise and fall of that little chest. The sniffles were right by Rhage’s ear, and so was the soft puffing breath, and when L.W. moved his head, fine, silky hair tickled Rhage’s neck.

This was the future, Rhage thought. This was . . . destiny come to rest up against him.

After all, L.W. had eyes that would witness events long after Rhage was gone. And the infant’s brain would make decisions Rhage couldn’t even comprehend. And the body that was fragile in this nascent state, but enduring in its maturity, would fight and honor and protect, just as his father had and his father’s father . . . and all the sires in the bloodline before that had.

Wrath was alive in this boy. And would be in the boy’s young. And in their young after that.

Moreover, Beth had given this to him. They shared this. They had . . . made . . . this.

Suddenly, Rhage found that he could not breathe.