Other than those two omissions, both of which were non-factual, she’d hid nothing about the natural death that had tragically occurred to a Type 1 diabetic after he had no doubt kept on his insulin schedule but forgotten to eat all day long.
Utterly heartbreaking, but a totally common, garden variety way for someone with Gerry’s condition to die.
Frowning, she thought about her statements to Manfred. Relating the this-then-that-after-which-this-other-thing-happened to the agent had been the first time she had relived Gerry’s death from start to finish. In the intervening two years, she’d had plenty of flashbacks, but they had been out of sequence, an unending supply of discordant, invasive snapshots unleashed by all manner of foreseeable and unforeseeable triggers.
But tonight had been her first full replay of the horror movie.
And that was why she now wondered, even though she had spent too many hours to count ruminating on the natural death of her fiancé …
… how it was that BioMed had known to come pick up those computers before she had told anyone at the company that Gerry was dead.
The Black Dagger Brotherhood Mansion
Caldwell, New York
Born in a bus station. Left for dead. Rescued from the human world by a stroke of luck.
If John Matthew’s life had been required to carry ID, some kind of laminated card detailing its vitals, those would be his birth date, height, and eye color.
Listed also would be mute and mated. The former didn’t really matter to him as he had never known speech. The latter was everything to him.
Without Xhex, even the war wouldn’t matter.
As he entered the King’s study—that pale blue French sanctuary which suited Wrath and the Black Dagger Brotherhood about as well as a ball gown on an alligator—he found the four walls and the silk furniture crowded with big bodies. They were all there waiting for the King, these prime males of the species, these teachers and smart-asses, these fighters and lovers.
This was his family on such a deep level that he felt like he should caboose that particular f-word with “of origin.”
Not everyone was a Brother, however. Still, he and Blay fought side by side with them in the war against the Lessening Society, and so did Xcor and the Band of Bastards. There were also trainees in the field and females. And the team had a surgeon who was a human, for godsakes. And a doctor who was a ghost and an advisor that was the king of the symphaths and a therapist who had been taken out of time continuum by the Scribe Virgin.
This was the village that had sprung up under Darius’s old roof, all of them living here on this Adirondack mountain, mhis protecting them from intrusion, time’s passing marked by the collective purpose of eradicating the Omega’s lessers.
Squeezing past Butch and V, he zeroed in on a spot in the corner. He always hung back, even though nobody asked him to last-row-it.
Leaning against the wall, he adjusted his weapons. He had a belt with a matched pair of forties and six full clips around his hips. Under one arm, he had a long-bladed hunting knife, and on the other side, he had a length of chain on his shoulder. Before he went out into the field, he’d throw on a leather jacket, either the new one Xhex had just gotten him or the old one that was beat to shit, and the wardrobe addition was not because it was a howling winter’s night out there.
If there was one thing he’d learned in the war? Humans were like toddlers. If there was something that could kill them, they would beeline for that mortal event like the gunfight/knife fight/hand-to-hand was calling their name and promising free Starbucks.
One rule in the war. One common ground between the Lessening Society and the vampires. One single, solitary issue on which both sides could agree.
No human involvement—and not because anybody cared about collateral casualties of the noisy and nosy variety. What neither Wrath and the Brotherhood nor the Omega wanted was the bees’ nest of Homo sapiens rattled. On so many levels humans were inferior: not as strong, not as fast, not as long-living—hell, lessers were immortal unless you stabbed them back to their black gasbag of a master.
Humans did have one big bene going for them, however.
They were everywhere.
This was something that, back when John Matthew had assumed he was one of them—or rather, a super-scrawny, mute version of one—he hadn’t noticed. Then again, humans tended to believe they were the only species on the planet.
According to their myopic point of view, there was nothing else that walked upright on two legs, had hyper-deductive reasoning, gave birth to live young, etc. And the only things with fangs were dogs, tigers, lions, and the like.
Everybody wanted to keep it that way—
Wrath entered the room and a hush came over the conversation as the King made his way to the throne, a.k.a. the only piece of furniture properly sized for what was going to sit on it. And even though John had been around the great male for how long now?, he still was awed. Sure, all the Brothers were enormous, products of a now-defunct—and thank God for that—breeding program instituted by the Scribe Virgin.
But the King was something else.
Long black hair falling to his hips. Black wraparound sunglasses to hide his blind eyes. Black leathers and shitkickers. Black muscle shirt even though it was January and the old mansion had more drafts than lawful inhabitants.
More power in those muscles than a wrecking ball.
Tattoos of his lineage running up the insides of his forearms.
At his side, like a first grade schoolteacher next to a serial killer, a golden retriever kept pace with those heavy strides, the fine leather harness that connected canine and master telegraphing all manner of communication, of which, first and foremost, was absolute loyalty and love on both sides. George was Wrath’s sight, but also—not that anyone would bring this up because hey, who needed to be stabbed, right?—the King’s comfort dog.
Wrath had been so much better with George around—which was to say, he probably lost his shit and screamed at people only two or three times a night, instead of using his booming voice, epic impatience, and brutal communication style every time he opened his mouth. Still, in spite of his nature, or perhaps because of it, he was utterly revered, not just in the household, but out in the species as a whole. Gone was the Council, that ruling body of the glymera, those aristocrats who had tried to overthrow him. Gone was also his birthright to the throne. Now, he was democratically elected and his leadership, although gruff at best, and at worst downright scary, was spot-on in this most dangerous era in the war—
“You, sir, are a bag of dicks.”
Lassiter, the fallen angel, broke the silence with that little ditty. And at least he wasn’t talking to Wrath.
John Matthew leaned to the side to see who was the recipient of the cock-ticular call-out, but there were too many heavy shoulders in the way. Meanwhile, people jumped in with all kinds of shut-the-fuck-up, what’s-wrong-with-you, are-you-stoopid, as well as an at-least-they’rebig-dicks—that last one clearly from the accused.
Lassiter had joined the household ranks a while ago, and talk about indelible impressions. The blond-and-black-haired angel with the David Lee Roth zebra tights and the questionable taste in television seemed to enjoy his role as cutup, counter-cool anarchist. John Matthew wasn’t fooled. Underneath the pecker cracks and the Golden Girls marathons, there was a watchfulness that seemed to suggest he was waiting for something to happen.
Something of H-bomb magnitude.
Wrath settled on his father’s great chair, the ancient wood accepting his weight without a groan. “A civilian died last night on the streets and didn’t stay that way. Just like the others. Hollywood was there. Rhage, do your thing.”
John listened to the Brother make a report that was not a news flash. For eons, the war with the Lessening Society had pitted vampires against de-souled, paled-out humans who stank like baby powder and followed the Simon-says of their bus-exhaust leader, the Omega. Not anymore. Something else was stalking the night, prowling the back alleys of Caldwell’s downtown, picking off vampires, not humans.
Shadows.
And not of the Trez and iAm variety.
These new entities were literally shadows and they were deadly, lashing out, killing mortal flesh while leaving clothes intact, their victims dying and being reborn into some other plane of existence out of the Zombies-R-Us playbook. The Brotherhood had so far found the reanimated victims before any humans did. But how long was that good luck going to last?
Nobody wanted BuzzFeed to sink its viral teeth into “The Zombie Apocalypse Is Real!!!” Or for Anderson Cooper to remote report from a zip code full of snap-jawed, rotting corpses. Or for there to be front-page stories on the National Guard battling an army of leg draggers.
Although knowing humans, it would probably be good for tourism in Caldie.
After Rhage finished sharing the details, all kinds of questions came from the Brotherhood. What were the shadows? How many were there? Were they a new soldier for the Omega?
“I don’t think so,” Butch said. “I can sense that shit, and there is nothing to them that rings that bell for me.”
The former cop from Boston with the Fenway Park accent and the Fendi/Prada clothes would know. He had the Omega inside of him. He was the Dhestroyer Prophecy manifest. He would, someday, or so people said, end the war.
Pretty good source of intel, in other words.
There was more talk, and then someone came and stood next to John, although he was so into what was being discussed that he didn’t look over.
Eventually, the King wrapped things up. As the rotation schedule was reviewed, something that scented of spring, not winter, tapped John’s attention on the proverbial shoulder.
Zsadist was the one who’d joined him. Not a surprise. The scar faced Brother with the silent and deadly M.O. also liked to be out-of-the-way in a crowd. And he was working on … a blast from the past.
The Brother had unsheathed one of the black daggers that were strapped, handles down, to his chest, and he had taken the sharp blade to the skin of a green apple. Round and round, in his large, sure hands, the ribbon of skin spiraled down, the white, tart flesh exposed.