The Beast

SIXTY-SIX

Jo Early could not stop staring.

Then again, she wasn’t the only one in the coffee shop whose lattes were left unattended and cooling as they tried not to look at the guy. He’d come in alone, sucking up most, if not all, of the oxygen in the building, and then proceeded over to a back table to sit with a nice-looking, if unremarkable, woman.

All things considered, he should have been with a Miss America type: He was huge, just incredibly tall, but also built big, as if he were a professional athlete of the football, not basketball variety. His hair was blond, but it seemed to be actually that shade, no roots showing, no professional streak job growing out, just thick and healthy and . . . blond.

His eyes, though, were the big thing. His eyes were totally a thing. Even from across the crowded coffee shop, they glowed with a color blue that was something you’d see in the Bahamas by the ocean, the color so iridescent, so clear, so resonantly teal that you had to wonder whether it was contacts, because how in the hell could that be found in nature?

And P.S., the clothes weren’t bad at all. Nope. He was wearing all black, from a silk shirt and very well-cut and well-tailored slacks, to a jacket that had lapels like something a suit would have, but a loose body like an overcoat.

The shoes were spectacular, too.

It was as if a movie star had wandered into I’ve Bean Waitin’, and for a moment, Jo wondered if maybe she’d seen him on the big screen . . . ?

As her cell phone went off, she was grateful for the distraction. This hyper-focus of hers kept up and she was going to see that handsome face every time she closed her eyelids. Not that that would have been any great sacrifice.

When she saw who it was, she rolled her eyes, but accepted the call anyway. “Dougie, what’s up. No. No, you may not. What—no! Look, I told you, I’m leaving my job, I’m not going to be able to lend you money for a while. . . . Well, then ask one of them. No. No. Okay . . . fine, but only the Fig Newtons. I come back and you’ve eaten my Milanos and you and I are going to have words. And would you go out and get employed, for godsakes?”

As she hung up, a dry voice said, “I agree with you about the cookies.”

Recoiling, she put her hand over her heart. “Jeez, Bill, you scared me.”

“What’s this about leaving Bryant’s?” he said as he sat down with his latte and did that scarf unwindy thing he did. “You quit?”

“It’s nothing.” Well, other than the fact that her boss was a manipulator and she had allowed herself to be his pawn. “Really.”

Oh, but b.t.dub, Bryant thinks we’re boning, she tacked on in her head.

“Listen,” Bill murmured as he leaned in and pushed those glasses up higher on his nose. “First of all, I’m sorry I’m late. And second of all, I have to ask. With parents like yours, I really can’t believe . . . I mean, the money thing . . .”

She opened her mouth to brush things off, but then decided, Screw it. “After I walked out on them and their whole . . . lifestyle . . . they cut me off.”

“That must have been a hard thing to do—leave your family, I mean. Well, and the money.”

Jo swirled her cappuccino around. “I never really fit in with them. My dad—I’m sorry, my father, as he would insist I call him—engineered my adoption because my mother went through a phase of wanting a kid. I guess she thought babies were like purses or something? After they got me, I was raised by nannies, some of whom were good, some of whom were bad. I was then shipped off to boarding school and college—and by the time I got out, I’d just kind of had it with pretending to be who they wanted me to be when I was around them. Outside of that big house, I was my own person. In the presence of the pair of them, I was a facsimile of myself, just like they were constructed versions of themselves.” She batted at the air with her hand. “It’s your standard boring poor-little-rich-girl stuff.”

“Standard and boring unless you’re going through it.”

“Be that as it may, I told them I wasn’t coming back, and they said fine, and that was it. The monthly checks went poof—and honestly, it’s okay. I’m smart, I’m willing to work hard, and I have an education. I’ll make it on my own, just like a whole bunch of people before me have.”

Bill shrugged out of his coat. “May I ask one more personal question?”

“Absolutely.” As she tried her ’cino, she grimaced. Watching that blond man had drained a lot of the warmth out of things. “Anything.”

“You say you were adopted—have you ever thought about looking up your birth family?”

She shook her head. “The records of everything are beyond private—or at least that’s what they told me. I guess my father paid to keep it that way? And it makes sense—I heard that my mother tried to pass me off as hers in the beginning, saying that she had been hiding the pregnancy under loose clothes and then had spent the last month down in Naples or some place like that. As my hair got redder and redder, though, that lie became more difficult to support—especially as she didn’t like the idea of people thinking she’d stepped out on my father.”

“So you never hear from them at all?”

“No, and it’s all right. At this point, hey, my ivy league education’s paid for. If that’s the worst thing those two do to me for the rest of my life, I came out on top of the deal.”

“Well . . .” Bill cleared his throat. “So segue, here—do you want to apply for something at the paper? I know there are a couple of openings and I could put in a good word. You’ve shown me that you’re a helluva good investigator.”

For a minute, Jo just sat there like a lump, blinking. Then she shook herself. “Really? Oh . . . my God, yes. I mean, thank you. I have a résumé I can e-mail you.”

“Consider it done. Like, I know they’re looking for an online content editor right now. The pay has to be about what you’re making as a receptionist, but at least it’s a stepping stone.”

And better than worrying about Bryant’s love life and laundry, she thought to herself.

“Thank you. I mean it.” She flashed him the napkin she’d been writing on. “And on that note, I’ve made a list of the places I’ve visited. I’ve got a couple more to go—I want to check out that closed restaurant where Julio Martinez said he got ambushed by a vampire? And I want to go to this alley where . . . have you seen the footage of the shoot out in the alley? Where there’s this guy up on a roof who kills someone while this other guy runs out into a spray of bullets? There were no fangs in the clip, but it was put up on YouTube by the same guy who posted a lot of the footage of the massacre at that farm.”

Bill took out his phone like he was ready to go ’net surfing. “No, I haven’t seen that yet.”

“Here, let me get it up for you.”

#donteversaythatagain

Assail waited on the periphery of Naasha’s hellren’s great mansion, tracking the movement of the staff and its mistress in the windows on the first and second floors. One advantage of the female being an exhibitionist was that pulled draperies were an anathema to her, and thus the stages of her dressing were on display for all to see.

At the moment, she was in her bathroom, seated in a make-up chair in front of a window that faced due west. Her maid was rolling her hair in curlers whilst she focused on something in her lap. Perhaps it was e-mail on an iPad. Or a phone.

Taking out his cell, he sent her a text . . . and watched as her head came up and she pointed across the way. The maid put down the roller she’d been about to put to use and scampered out of view. And then she was back, placing a device in her mistress’s hand.

Assail’s own phone went off a second later. When he read what she had texted, he looked at his cousins.

“You know what to do.”

“Aye,” Ehric said. “Is the Brother here—”

“Right behind you.”

All three of them turned about to find Zsadist exactly where he’d said he’d be at exactly the time he’d told Assail he would arrive. Like the rest of them, the Brother had a large backpack on, and plenty of weapons with him.

“Shall we, gentlemales?” Assail murmured.

At his nod, his cousins dematerialized to the back of the mansion, to the infiltration point that had been established beforehand.

Assail put his backpack down at the base of the tree he had been taking cover behind, and then he strode into view, straightening his suit coat and tugging out his cuffs. When he hit the walkway that led to the front entrance, his loafers made a clipping sound. Zsadist, who tracked in his wake, made no sound as he stuck to the grass, staying just outside of the light thrown by the short lanterns at the edge of the flagstones.

When Assail got to the door, he tried the handle. No such luck this time; it was locked.

Using the bell, he had a smile on his face as the butler answered the summons. “Good evening, I’m afraid I am a good twenty minutes early. I do not wish to inconvenience your mistress, however. May I tarry in her parlor?”

As the doggen bowed low, Assail checked to make sure there was no one else in the foyer. And then, as the butler straightened, Assail outed his forty.

Such that the servant looked the muzzle eye-to-eye.

“Do not move a muscle,” Assail whispered. “And do not make a sound unless you are answering my questions. Do you wish to live?” Nod. “How many other staff are in the house?”

“S-s-s-seven.”

“Is Throe in residence?” Nod. “Where is he?”

“H-h-he is eating upstairs in his bedroom.”

Zsadist walked right into the house, and the doggen looked like he wanted to faint at the sight of that scarred face and those black eyes.

“Do not worry about him,” Assail said softly. “Focus on me.”

“I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

“Listen to me, and listen to me well. You have seven minutes to get the staff out of the house. That is one minute per person. Do not waste a moment. Do not explain why they have to leave. Tell them to gather at the base of the driveway. Do not alert your mistress. If you tell her of my presence, I will consider you a co-conspirator in the keeping of the blood slave whom I rescued last evening, and I will kill you where you stand. Am I clear?” Nod. “Tell me what I just told you.”

“Y-y-you . . . I have s-s-s-seven minutes to get the staff out. Head of the drive—”

“Base. I said the base of the driveway. I’ll be able to see you, because there is a streetlight there. And what about your mistress.”

A hard look came across the butler’s face, one that very probably was going to save his life. “I shall say not a word to her. She and her lover killed my master.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Tharem.”

“Tharem, I want you to go to the King’s Audience House after this. Tell them everything—what was in that basement, what she did to him, what I am doing here. Do you understand?”

“I took pictures,” the butler whispered. “On my phone. I didn’t know where to go with them.”

“Good. Show them. But go now. Seven minutes.”

The doggen bowed low. “Yes, my Lord. Right away.”

The uniformed male took off at a dead run, heading for the kitchen, and before Assail was even halfway to the main stairs, three doggen dressed in chef’s whites came rushing out through the dining room. One had flour all over his hands, and another had a pot with something in it. Their eyes were wide and afraid, suggesting that the butler had not stayed completely truthful to their bargain.

He clearly had imparted there were deadly forces within the house.

No matter. The motivation had worked, and it was obvious that there was naught to be worried about in terms of allegiances to Naasha. The three chefs took one look at him and his gun—and just ran even faster as opposed to causing a ruckus.

And meanwhile, the sweet smell of gas was already wafting in the air. Soon that would not be the half of it.

Assail walked up the stairs rather than taking them at a run. And as he ascended, two maids came hurrying down, their fastened hair bouncing loose from pins, the pale gray skirts of their uniforms flying. They, too, took a single glance at him and ducked their heads in response, re-doubling their speed without interfering.

Up on the second-floor landing, he took a left and stopped at the first door he came to, just as the butler skidded into view at the far end of the hallway and came down at a run.

“I’ll take care of the dressing maid,” Assail said. As the male blanched, he rolled his eyes. “Not like that. She shall join you anon.”

The butler nodded and scampered off.

Grasping the doorknob, Assail turned the ornate brass knot slowly and then pushed. The panels gave way without a sound, and he instantly scented Naasha’s perfume and shampoo. As he let himself in and re-closed things, he had a brief impression of a great deal of pink and cream and silk and taffeta.

The carpet was thick as a male’s brush cut, and his loafers were silent as he crossed the distance to the archway. The marble bathroom beyond was larger than some people’s living rooms.

And indeed, the set-up could not have been more perfect. Naasha was facing away from him in that professional hairstylist’s chair, her long locks falling over its short back, a table with brushes and curling provisions beside her. There were many mirrors all around, but they were trained on her, leaving his presence unreflected.

“—told you I do not care for my hair as such,” Naasha snapped. “Do it again! He is going to be here soon—my phone, it is ringing, give it to me first.”

As the maid backed off from her ministrations, she happened to turn in Assail’s direction—and froze. Pointing the gun right at her head, he put his finger to his lips and mouthed, Shhhhhh.

The maid paled.

“Get my phone! What are you doing?”

Assail nodded in the direction of the iPhone, which was vibrating on the marble counter well within Naasha’s reach.

The maid went to pick the thing up, fumbled it, and took a verbal lashing as she scrambled to retrieve the cell from the floor.

“Finally—hello? Oh, hello, darling, how kind of you to call. I am devastated, simply devastated. . . .”

Assail crooked his finger at the maid, beckoning her over. The poor thing was statued in panic, however—until Assail mouthed you and safe.

The female came across haltingly. As Naasha continued to play the role of bereft widow, Assail whispered, “Go out the front door. Keep running until you see the others at the bottom of the driveway. Do not come back into this house for any reason. Am I clear?”

The maid nodded and offered a trembling curtsy—and then she was off like the wind, out of the room.

Assail stalked his way over and waited patiently as Naasha continued to talk whilst she trailed her finger across the screen of her iPad. Looming behind her, he was a Grim Reaper who had fucked her—and was about to fuck her again.

When she finally hung up, she said, “Where are you? Where the hell are—”

Assail clamped a hand on the hair on top of Naasha’s head and yanked back. As she dropped the phone, and the tablet scattered to the floor, she started to struggle in earnest—until he put the barrel of the gun into her mouth and stepped off to the side.

Terrified eyes met his.

“This is for Markcus,” he growled.

“So how’d he do?” Mary asked as Rhym came into her office at Safe Place.

“Your hellren is quite a thing—and he did wonderfully.” The female sat down with a smile, arranging her coat over her legs. “He truly did. He’s got a huge heart.”

“The biggest.” There was a pause, and Mary leaned in over her paperwork. “And you can say it . . . I’m not going to be weird about it. I have to live with him, remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re . . .” Rhym threw her hands up. “Okay, fine. I mean, he’s just ridiculous looking. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Mary had to laugh. “I know, I know. And the good news is that he doesn’t particularly care. He’s aware of it, sure, but, jeez, if he took that stuff seriously, his head would be so big, you couldn’t fit him indoors.”

Rhym nodded. “Too right. So, are you ready?”

“Always.” Mary got up and went to shut the door. “Anything you want to know.”

“I’m sorry, I should have done that.”

Mary swiped the air with her hand. “Not to worry.”

Back at her desk, she sat down again and acknowledged, at least to herself, that she was nervous.

Rhym shucked that coat. And then stared at the urn by the lamp. “Is that . . .”

“Yes.” Mary took a deep breath. “That’s Annalye. Originally, Bitty was saying that she wanted to save the ashes for when her uncle came, but now . . .”

“About the uncle. Have you heard anything on him? At all?”

“Not a thing. Rhage even had one of his Brothers search for him. We’ve come up with absolutely nothing.”

Rhym shrugged. “The issue, for me, is how long does the notification period last? Marissa and I agree, this has to be a foster situation while Bitty adjusts and while whatever relations she might have have an opportunity to get in contact with her. But that can’t go on forever. Is it a month? Six months? A year? And how do we do the notifications? What’s fair?”

Mary’s heart jumped off the diving board of her rib cage, somersaulted, and hit her stomach badly, belly-flopping all over the place. Oh, God, a year. Of not knowing for sure. Of wondering every night if they were going to lose her.

Even a month of that seemed like torture.

“Whatever you think is best,” she said as she tried to keep her wince to herself. “But I have to tell you, I’m not a good person to weigh in on all that. As much as I try to be objective, the reality is . . . I just want her for our own.”

“The Old Laws are not really helpful in this regard, although I did check to see what the humans do. When it comes to terminating parental rights, it’s clear that there is a very high standard to be met. But for other relations and next of kin? It depends on state and local law how it’s all handled. Accordingly, I’m going to leave it up to the King—it’s exactly the sort of thing we need him to weigh in on. Plus, because of Rhage’s station, the two of you would have to get his sign-off anyway.”

“That sounds very fair. And I really want to make sure we do this right. It’s too important to cut any corners on.”

“I’m glad you agree—and I’m not surprised.” Rhym sat back. “So tell me about your relationship with Bitty. I’ve seen glimpses of it, but I’d like to get a sense from you not as a professional, but as a person.”

Mary picked up a pen and wove it in and out between her fingers, the way she had when she’d been in college. “I’ve known her ever since she came to the house. I’ve been her primary caseworker the entire time, as you know, and honestly, she was so reserved and self-protective, I thought I was never going to get through to her. I’m aware that this whole adoption thing seems to have just come up since her mother died, but the truth of it is that Bitty’s been on my mind and in my heart for the last two years. I refused to look too close at the opportunity, though. I just . . . as you know, I can’t have children, and when that’s your reality? You don’t want to touch that closed door. All there is, on the other side, are flames that will burn your house down.”

“Are you prepared to let the girl go if a relation surfaces? Can you do that?”

This time, there was no keeping the grimace off her face. Then again, when someone got your bare foot even close to an alligator’s mouth, you did tend to flinch.

“Whatever is good for Bitty.” She shook her head. “And I honestly mean that. If we have to let her go, we will.”

“Well, the truth is, I’ve also looked for that uncle. Looked for anybody tied to her. No one fits any of the information. We lost so many in the raids, it’s possible that he died at that time along with others of her kin. Or perhaps in some other way.”

“Can I just say . . . I’m really not a big fan of death.”

For a moment, she thought back to dancing with Rhage in the gym. They’d had to be close to each other in the wake of their agreement, that future separation they’d had the luxury of not worrying about suddenly looming over them as it did for all other couples.

“Neither am I,” Rhym said. And then the female cleared her throat. “And on that note, can we talk about your situation”

“You mean with the Scribe Virgin?”

“Yes, please.” There was an awkward pause. “I don’t really understand the . . . quasi-immortality, I guess you’d call it—not that it isn’t possible. With the Scribe Virgin, anything can happen. And then I need to ask you about the beast. I have to confess, that’s the only red flag for me in any of this.”

Mary chuckled. “That thing is just a big purple teddy bear. I promise you, it couldn’t hurt a fly—or at least not a female one, and certainly never me. But I digress. My story starts back a couple of years ago, when I was diagnosed with . . .”