The Beast

SIXTEEN

About halfway to Safe Place, Mary decided she was going to end up with knee-replacement surgery.

As she took an exit off the Northway, she gritted her teeth and punched in the rock-hard clutch of her husband’s vintage, rehabbed, brilliant purple GTO—a.k.a. his pride and joy. The light of his life after her. The single most valuable anything he owned since he’d given her his gold Presidential Rolex.

The muscle car started making a coughing noise and then it kicked out a pattern of bass explosions followed by some high-pitched squealing as she moved the gearshift forward and back in the box.

“Third? Third . . . I need, no, second? Definitely not first.”

She’d learned that one the hard way when she’d come to a stop at the bottom of the mansion’s hill and had nearly knocked her front teeth out on the steering wheel from the jerking and jumping.

“Oh, Ms. Volvo, I miss you so. . . .”

When she’d come out of the mansion, she’d discovered the station wagon wasn’t out front in the courtyard with the Brotherhood’s other vehicles. But rather than waste time trying to hunt the thing down back at the training center, she’d snagged Rhage’s keys and figured, How hard could it be to take his muscle car in to town? She knew how to drive a stick shift.

It was going to be fine.

Of course, she hadn’t banked on the fact that the clutch was like trying to put her foot through a brick wall every time she needed to shift. Or that the gears were so tightly calibrated that if you didn’t get the gas in at exactly the right time, all those horses under the hood went buck wild.

The good news? At least fighting with the transmission gave her something other than Bitty-linked anxiety to focus on as she made her way to Safe Place.

Plus Fritz was as good a mechanic as he was a butler.

When she finally arrived at the house, she parked in the driveway, got out, and hobbled around in the dark for a minute, kicking her left leg around until something popped and suddenly she didn’t feel as if she were walking like a flamingo anymore.

With a curse, she headed around to the door into the garage, entered a code and slipped inside. As the motion-sensitive lights came on, she put her hand up to shield her eyes, but she didn’t have to worry about tripping over anything. The two bays were empty but for lawn-mowing equipment and some old oil stains on the concrete slabs. There were three steps up to the door into the kitchen, and then she put a code in and waited for the dead bolts to begin their sequence of unlocking. She also turned and presented her face for recognition as well.

Moments later, she was in the mudroom, taking off her coat and hanging it up with her purse on the row of hooks above the boot bench. The new kitchen out the back was all busy-busy, stacks of pancakes being made at the stove, fruit getting cut up on the counters, bowls and plates being lined up on the longtable.

“Mary!”

“Hey, Mary!”

“Hi, Ms. Luce!”

Taking a deep breath, she returned the hellos, heading over to give a hug here and there, put her hand on a shoulder, greet a female, high-five a young. There were three staff members on duty, and she checked in with them.

“Where’s Rhym?” she asked.

“She’s been upstairs with Bitty,” the curly-haired one said softly.

“I’ll go there now.”

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“I’m sure there will be.” Mary shook her head. “I hate this for her.”

“We all do.”

Going to the front of the house, she rounded the base of the stairs and took the steps two at a time. She didn’t bother stopping to see if Marissa was in. Chances were good, given the scope of the attack, that the head of Safe Place was taking a little time off to be with her hellren.

Being mated to a Brother was not for the faint of heart.

Up on the third floor, she found Rhym asleep in a padded chair that had been pulled over next to Bitty’s door. As the floorboards creaked, the other social worker stirred.

“Oh, hey,” the female said as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

Rhym had always reminded Mary of herself to some degree. She was the sort of female who maybe wasn’t the first person you noticed in a room, but never failed to be there when you needed someone. She was on the tall end for height, a little on the thin side. Never wore make-up. Usually pulled her hair back. No male that anyone had ever heard about.

Her life was her work here.

“It’s six-thirty?” Mary stared at the closed door. “How’d we do during the day?”

Rhym just shook her head. “She wouldn’t talk about anything. She just packed her clothes into her suitcase, got her doll and her old toy tiger together, and sat at the end of her bed. Eventually, I came out here because I thought she was probably staying awake because I was in there with her.”

“I think I’ll put my head in and see what’s going on.”

“Please.” Rhym stretched her arms up and cracked her back. “And if it’s okay with you, I’ll head on home for some shut-eye myself?”

“Absolutely. I’ll take over from here. And thanks for looking after her.”

“Is it dark enough out for me to leave now?”

Mary glanced at the shutters that were still down for the day. “I think—” As if on command, the steel panels that protected the interior from sunlight began to go up. “Yup.”

Rhym got to her feet and drew her fingers through her blond-and-brown hair. “If you need anything, if she needs anything, just call and I can come back in. She’s a special little girl, and I just . . . I want to help.”

“I agree. And thanks again.”

As the other female started down the stairs, Mary spoke up. “One question.”

“Yes?”

Mary focused on the oculus window down at the far end of the hall, trying to find the right words. “Did she . . . I mean, she didn’t say anything about her mother? Or what happened at the clinic?”

Like something along the lines of My therapist made me feel as if I killed my mother?

“Nothing. The only thing she mentioned was that she was leaving as soon as she could. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was nowhere for her to go. It seemed too cruel. Too soon.”

“So she talked about her uncle.”

Rhym frowned. “Uncle? No, she didn’t bring anything like that up. Does she have one?”

Mary looked back at the closed door. “Transference.”

“Ah.” The social worker cursed softly. “These are going to be long nights and days ahead for her. Long weeks and months, too. But we’ll all rally around her. She’ll do well if we can just get her through this part in one piece.”

“Yes. So true.”

With a wave, the female went down the steps, and Mary waited until the sounds of the footfalls disappeared in case Bitty was only lightly asleep.

Leaning into the door, she put her ear to the cool panels. When she heard nothing, she knocked quietly, then pushed things open.

The little pink-and-white lamp on the bureau in the corner was casting a glow in the otherwise dark room, and Bitty’s diminutive form was bathed in the soft illumination. The girl was lying on her side, facing the wall, having obviously fallen asleep hard at some point. She was in the same clothes she had had on, and she had indeed packed her battered suitcase—and her mother’s. The two pieces of luggage, one smaller and the color of a grass stain, the other larger and Cheeto orange, were lined up together at the base of the bed.

Her doll head and brush were on the floor in front of them, along with that stuffed toy tiger of hers.

Putting her hands on her hips, Mary lowered her head. For some reason, the impact of the room’s silence, its modest and slightly threadbare curtains and bedspreads, its thin area rug and mismatched furniture, hit her like body blows.

The barrenness, the impersonality, the absence of . . . family, for lack of a better word, made her want to turn the thermostat up. As if some extra heat from the ducts in the ceiling could transform the place into a proper little girl’s room.

But come on, the problems that were ahead were going to have to be solved by a lot more than just functioning HVAC systems.

Tiptoeing across to the bed Bitty’s mom had slept in, it seemed fitting to take the patchwork quilt off that mattress and carry it over to the little girl. With care, Mary added the layer without disturbing the sleep that was so very needed.

Then she stood over the child.

And thought back to her own past. After her cancer had made itself known, she could remember very clearly thinking that enough was enough. Her mother had died early and horribly, with much suffering. And then she herself had been diagnosed with leukemia and had to go through a very non-fun-filled year trying to beat the disease into remission. The whole lot of it had seemed so very unfair.

As if her mother’s hard time of it should have qualified Mary for a tragedy-exemption card.

Now, as she stared down at the girl, she was downright indignant.

Yes, she frickin’ knew that life was difficult. She’d learned that lesson very well. But at least she had gotten a childhood marked with all the traditionally good things you wanted to be able to look back on when you were old. Yes, her father had died early, too, but she and her mother had had Christmases and birthdays, graduations from kindergarten and elementary school and high school. They’d had turkey on Thanksgiving and new clothes every year and good nights of sleep where the only worry that might have kept someone up was whether a passing grade was going to happen or, in the case of her mom, if there was going to be enough money for two weeks of summer vacation at Lake George or just one.

Bitty had had absolutely none of that.

Neither she nor Annalye had ever spoken in specifics, but it wasn’t hard to extrapolate the kind of violence that they had both been subjected to. For godsake, Bitty had had to get a steel rod implanted in her leg.

And what had it all added up to?

The little girl here alone.

If destiny had had any conscience at all, Annalye wouldn’t have died.

But at least Safe Place had come into being in a nick of time. The idea that the resource wouldn’t have been available to Bitty when it was needed most?

It was enough to make Mary sick to her stomach.

Rhage woke up in a rush, sure as if an alarm had lit off next to his head. Jacking his torso off the hospital bed, he looked around in a panic.

Except then, as quick as the anxiety hit, it disappeared, the knowledge that Mary had gone to Safe Place calming him down sure as if she’d spoken the words in his ear. And he supposed she had. For a while now, they’d been using the beast as a kind of message board if Rhage was out like a light.

It worked—and you didn’t have to worry about having to find a pen.

He still missed her, though. Still worried about his own mental state. But that little girl . . .

Shifting his legs to the side, he blinked a number of times and yup, remained blind after the lid workout. Whatever. He felt otherwise strong and steady—physically that was—and as long as he took things slowly, he was going to make it into the shower just fine.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom buck-ass naked and smelling like a rose. Amazing what a little soap and shampoo could do for a guy. A good teeth brushing, too. Next stop? Food. After the beast came out and then he did his purging thing afterward, his guts felt not so much hungry as hollow—and the best thing he could do was put some low-fiber carbohydrates in there for processing.

Twelve French baguettes. Four sleeves of bagels. Seven pounds of pasta.

This type of thing.

Stepping out into the corridor, he wondered how long it was going to take to find his way to—

“Fucking finally—”

“Couldn’t you have put a towel on—”

“Fritz brought you clothes—”

“You’re back, motherfucker—”

All of his brothers were there, their scents and voices, their relieved laughter, their curses and jibes exactly what the doctor ordered. And as they embraced him and slapped his bare ass, he had to suck in the emotion.

He was already nakey. #plentyvulnerablethanks

God, in the midst of all the reeeeeunnnnited and it feeeeeeeeeels so gooooooood, it was impossible not to get hit with another load of shame for his selfishness and what he’d put Mary and all of his brothers through.

And then V’s voice was directly in front of him.

“You good?” the brother asked in his raspy voice. “Feeling back to normal?”

“Yeah. I’m back in working order except for my eyesight.” I’m sorry, too. And I’m scared. “You know, just a little tired—”

Whack!

The chin shot came out of nowhere, nailing him so hard, his head knocked back and nearly snapped off his spine.

“What the fuck!” Rhage blurted as he rubbed his jaw. “What—”

“That was for not fucking listening to me.”

Crack!

The second shot came from the opposite direction, which was a good thing—the swelling would be bilateral, so his face wouldn’t look as fucked up.

“And that is for going out early and fucking our strategy.”

As Rhage brought his brains to level for a second time, he held his jaw with both hands. ’Cuz there was a possibility the lower half of his skull was going to fall off.

The good news was that the double shots cleared his vision a little, the blindness receding enough so that he could make out the hazy blotches of his brothers’ bodies and clothes.

“We coulda justh talked thith out,” Rhage bitched. “Great, I’m talkin’ wif a lispth.”

“Where’s the fun in that, true?” V grabbed hold of him and hugged him hard. “Now don’t ever fucking do that again.”

Rhage waited for the others to start asking questions. When no one did, he had to guess that V had already told them about the vision thing. Unless . . . well, everybody had seen him run out into that field early and that kind of shit was grounds for a beat down.

“I can thee now,” he said.

“You can thank me for that later.”

There was a bunch of conversation at that point—which led him to ohhhh-snapping the fact that they had Xcor in custody.

“Tohr kill the fucker yet?” he asked.

“No,” came from all fronts.

Then there was a story about the Omega showing up and doing a Mr. Clean at the campus, and V saving the day with some mhis action.

“I’ll take a thift,” Rhage said. “Guarding the bastard, that ith.”

“Later.” V exhaled some Turkish smoke. “All cylinders first. Then we’ll place you.”

On that note, the group dispersed, some heading up to the mansion, others hitting the workout room. Rhage went along with the ones who took the tunnel to the main house, but as his brothers went for their beds, he walked through the dining room and into the mansion’s kitchen.

God, he wished Mary was with him.

The good news was that there were no doggen around, First Meal having not been served thanks to the number of injuries that had been sustained during the attack and all the drama with him. The household staff were no doubt having a rare and well-deserved rest before they resumed their cleaning and tending, and he was relieved not to be fussed over.

As he wandered around Fritz’s sacred space, however, he did feel like he should put out an offering or something so he didn’t get in trouble with the butler. And on that note, he decided no cooking. He was going to take whatever was readily available and not start thinking independently with the stove or the pantry.

He’d already been punched twice and the night was young.

But first, clothing. He’d been too blind down in the bathroom to see that anything had been left out for him, and he went into the laundry behind the pantry, using his half-assed eyesight and keen sense of touch to locate a set of loose black sweats and a huge sweatshirt with the American Horror Story logo on it. Then it was time to get serious about the calories.

Raiding the bread stash, he began to clean it out by putting bags of bagels and sourdough loaves on the counter—but then he thought, Fuck it. Reaching under the drawer, he took the thing off its track and carried the whole damn shebang over to the oak table. Step two was to double back to the fridge, get out a pound of unsalted butter and a package of cream cheese, and snag the toaster, unplugging it by pulling the body until the cord gave up the ghost.

A serrated knife and a cutting board later, along with the coffee pot, the sugar bowl, and a small carton of half-and-half, and he was in business. While the coffee percolated, he got to slicing, making mountains of butterable pieces off to the right. The bagels he set up on a Henry Ford, so he could process them through the toaster and into the Phillie zone.

Probably should have gotten a plate. And at least one other knife, but the bigger blade was going to be efficient for spreading.

When the coffee had finished brewing, he took the pot out from under, poured the entire sugar bowl into it, and followed that up with as much of the half-and-half as he could fit in. Then he took a test sip.

Perfect.

He put the thing back on the heat plate and started systematically working his way through the bagels—’cuz, hey, that was close to First Meal–type stuff, right? Next up was anything sourdough because that was as lunch-ish as his options allowed. Dessert was going to be a pecan coffee cake. Or two.

As he chewed along, his teeth were a little loose thanks to V. Mayweather’s bare knuckles, but it wasn’t a huge deal. And from time to time, he washed things down with drafts off the lip of the coffee pot.

About two thousand calories into the binge, the reality of how alone he was really hit him.

Then again, the room could have been filled with his brothers and he would have felt the same.

Worse, he had the sense that even his Mary’s presence couldn’t have fixed this isolation for him.

As he sat there, filling his hollow stomach yet unable to do anything about the emptiness that really counted, he thought it would have been so much easier if he had even a clue as to what his problem was—

Off in the distance, in the dining room, a sound echoed around.

And came closer.

It was a flurry of footsteps, like someone was running.

What the hell? he thought as he rose from his chair.