The Beast

SIXTY-FIVE

As night fell, Assail was still down in the Brotherhood’s training center complex, sitting in the chair opposite Markcus, who had been asleep the entire day.

Given the length of time Assail had been gone, and his plans for the evening, he took his phone out, his fingers flying over the screen as he texted his cousins—

“Whate’er is that?” came a hoarse inquiry.

Whipping his head around, he was surprised to see that Markcus was awake. “An iPhone.” He held the device up. “It’s . . . a cell phone.”

“I am afraid . . .” The male pushed himself up a bit higher on the pillows. “I am afraid that tells me nothing.”

For a moment, Assail tried to imagine all that stringy hair being gone, some pounds on that frame, the face filled out so it didn’t look so skeletal. Markcus was going to prove to be rather . . . comely, as it were.

Shaking himself, Assail murmured, “It’s a phone? You know, you can call people? Or text them?”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what a phone is?”

Markcus nodded. “But they were on tables, not in pockets.”

Assail sat forward. “How long did she hold you down there?”

The male’s entire body reacted to the question, tensing up. But he did not turn away from the inquiry. “What year is it?” When Assail answered, that pale face seemed to crumble. “Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe . . .”

“How long.”

“Thirty-two years. What . . . what month is this?”

“October. Almost November.”

Markcus nodded. “It felt cold. When you carried me out of the house . . . it felt cold, but I was not sure whether that was me or . . .”

“It was not you.”

Jesus, Naasha must have abducted him very close to when she’d first mated her hellren. She must have known what she was in for with the old male. But why hadn’t she taken better care of Markcus? Morality issues aside, blood sources were, after all, only as good as the health of the flesh they inhabited.

Except then Assail thought of the way Naasha had used him, and others. She had clearly found many outlets for feeding.

Neglect had obviously occurred when the necessity decreased.

There was a silence. And then Markcus said, “How did you know I was in there?”

“I was exploring the house in search of . . .” Assail waved the explanation away for its lack of importance. What mattered more was . . . “We have all wondered where your kin are? Who may we call on your behalf?”

“My blood are all back in the Old Country. I left them to come here because I wanted . . .” Markcus’s voice trailed off. “I wanted an adventure. I came unto that house to apply for a workmale’s position. The mistress passed by my quarters one evening, and then she summoned me unto her presence down in the cellar. She gave me some wine and . . .”

The male’s eyes seemed to cloud over, as if his memories were so dark and heavy they were capable of robbing him of consciousness.

“How may we contact your kin?” Assail prompted.

“I know not. I . . .” Markcus focused abruptly. “No, do not contact them. Not now. I cannot see them like this.”

As the male lifted his wrists with their tattoos, he seemed as helpless as he had been when chained in that cell. “What shall I e’er tell them? We are naught but commoners—I had to work for my passage on the ship to New York harbor. But all bloodlines have pride. And there is no . . . pride in this.”

Assail scrubbed his face so hard that his poor, fucked-up nose hummed. Which reminded him. He had to get more coke before he performed his duties at nightfall.

“You may stay with myself and my cousins,” he announced. “You will be safe there.”

Markcus shook his head as he ran his fingertips over the band on his left wrist. “Why . . . why would you do that?”

“It is as I told you. You are in need. And I find myself in need of serving someone.” Assail put both palms out. “And there is naught that is dodgy. We are but three males who cohabit one among each other.”

Naturally, he left out the coke habit, the fact that he had arguably whored out his relations, and also his past as a drug importer and dealer.

Was he starting fresh, then, he wondered.

Hmm. Considering the arms deal he had just made for the Brotherhood? Perhaps the term was more starting next, rather than fresh.

“Is there work to be done at your home?” Markcus nodded to Assail’s clothing. “By your wardrobe and your accent, it is clear you are a male of means. Is there work that I may perform so that I can earn my room and board? Otherwise, I cannot avail myself of your offer. I shall not do that.”

Assail shrugged. “It is but menial work.”

“No effort is menial if it is done well.”

Assail eased back in the chair and regarded the haggard scrap of flesh on the hospital bed. Even barely out of captivity—for over thirty fucking years—and already the male was showing a character of note.

“I shall have to leave you the now,” Assail heard himself say. “But I shall return prior to dawn, and when they will release you, you will come home with me. And that is what shall be.”

Markcus lowered his head. “I am e’er in your debt.”

No, Assail thought to himself. I rather sense ’tis the other way around, my good male.

Rhage and Mary walked arm in arm up the mansion’s grand staircase. As they ascended, she smiled as she remembered them waltzing around that empty gym. And then she flushed as she recalled what they’d done as the dancing had slowed to a stop.

That equipment room had never seen so much action.

“When did she say I had to be there?” Rhage asked.

“You’ve got about thirty minutes to get ready. It’s the I’ve Bean Waitin’ coffee shop down on Hemingway Avenue. I think Rhym is going by car, but you certainly don’t have to.”

“I’m not ordering anything while I’m there. I don’t want to have coffee breath.”

“Rhage. Seriously.” She stopped him as they came up to the second floor. “You’re going to do fine.”

Taking his beautiful face in her hands, she smoothed his worried eyebrows and stroked the shadow of his beard. “Just treat it like any other conversation.”

“I’m being interviewed to be Bitty’s dad. How the hell is that supposed to be like any other conversation? And, God, will you tell me what to wear? Should it be a suit? I feel like it should be a suit.”

Taking his hand, she led him in the direction of their room. “How about just a regular pair of slacks and one of your black silk shirts. She’ll be so distracted by how gorgeous you are, she won’t remember her own name, much less whatever she was going to ask you.”

He was grumbling as they entered their suite, and his attitude didn’t get much better as she shooed him toward the bath.

“No,” she said as he tried to pull her along with him. “We’ll get seriously distracted. Let me go lay out your clothes.”

“You’re right. Plus every time I think about where I’m going I want to throw up.”

They went their separate ways in the middle of the room, he to a cleanly shaven jaw and freshly shampooed hair, she to the walk-in closet, where—

The scream that emanated from the loo was enough to give her a frickin’ heart attack. “Rhage! Rhage—what’s wrong!”

She blasted across the carpet and into the—only to slam against his backside.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” he barked.

“What, what are you . . .”

Mary started laughing, and she got on such a roll with it, she had to sit down on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

Someone, or someones, more like it, had Little Mermaided their bathroom: There were Little Mermaid towels hanging on all the hooks and rods, a Little Mermaid rug in front of the double sinks . . . Little Mermaid cups and toothbrushes and kids’ toothpaste on the counters . . . Little Mermaid shampoo and conditioner in the shower . . . action figures lined up on the lip around the tub and down the sill of the big window that looked out over the gardens.

But the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly the wall stuff. About a hundred and fifty different stickers, posters, clings, and cut-outs from coloring books had been stuck, glued, or pinned to every square inch of vertical surface.

Rhage wheeled around and went to march out—but he didn’t have to go far at all. A gathering of his Brothers filed into their suite, the males high-fiving one another and smacking Rhage on the ass.

“I’m going to get you back,” he growled. “Every single one of you—especially you, Lassiter, you fuck stick.”

“How?” the fallen angel countered. “By flooding my room? You already tried that with the pantry and Fritz got it fixed in a night.”

“No, I’m going to hide every cocksucking remote in this house.”

The angel froze. “Okay, those are fighting words.”

“Blam!” Rhage yelled as he hit his hips. “Wassup, bitch.”

Lassiter started looking to the Brothers for help. “That’s not funny. That shit is so not funny—”

“Hey, Hollywood, can I pay you to hide those?” someone said.

“We can still get access to them, though, right?” somebody else demanded.

“Fuck all y’all, for real,” Lassiter muttered. “I’m serious. One of these days, you are gonna respect me. . . .”

Mary just leaned into her arms and smiled at the bunch of crazies: In a way, this was exactly what Rhage needed, a little steam-blow-off on his way to the coffee shop. Heck, on that theory, they all deserved to release some tension.

It had been a heavy-duty couple of hours.

Fucking Little Mermaid, Rhage thought when he left their bedroom twenty-five minutes later.

Shutting the door, he retucked his already tucked-in shirt and pulled on the jacket Mary had picked out for him to hide his guns. As he walked down the hall, he fiddled with his hair, rolled his shoulders, tugged at his belt.

His palms were sweaty. How the hell was he going to shake the social worker’s hand if he was sweating this bad? She was going to have use a napkin to dry off.

Or a set of drapes.

Coming up to Wrath’s study, he saw that the doors were open and he paused, wondering if now would be a good time to tell his brother and his King what the hell they were up to. When he looked around the jamb, though, he got an eyeful of Wrath and V talking together, the King on the throne, the brother right next to him, crouching on the floor. Their heads were together, their voices low, the air so thick there might as well have been mhis around them.

What the fuck was going on, Rhage thought as he was tempted to go inside.

But then he checked his gold Rolex, the one that he’d given Mary, but which she’d insisted he wear for good luck. No time to ask, and on that note, no time to go into the whole Bitty thing, either.

Later, he decided.

Hitting the stairwell, he bottomed out on the mosaic floor and beelined for the exit.

“Good luck.”

Rhage pulled up short and looked to the right. Lassiter was in the billiards room, bluing up a cue.

“What are you talking about?” Rhage demanded.

As the angel just shrugged, Rhage shook his head. “You’re crazy—”

“When she asks about how the father died, don’t fudge it. She already knows it was you and your brothers who killed him. It’s in the file. She hates the violence, but she knows that the two of them wouldn’t have survived otherwise. She wants you to have the kid. You and Mary.”

As Rhage felt all the blood leave his head and end up in his shoes, he wished he had something to hold onto.

“How do . . . did Mary talk to you about this?” Even though he found that hard to believe. “Marissa?”

“And the beast. That makes her nervous. Don’t try to calm her down about it—you’ll dwell too much on the subject and it will rattle her. Mary will handle that. Mary will tell her all she needs to know on that issue.”

“How do you know all this?”

Lassiter put the square of chalk down and shifted those oddly colored eyes over. “I’m an angel, remember? And it’s going to work out. Just hang tight—you’re going to have to keep the faith. For both you and Mary. But it’s going to happen.”

“Really?” he found himself asking.

“No lie. I might fuck with your bathroom. But never, ever about this.”

Rhage’s feet moved of their own volition, crossing the way to the pool table—and the next thing he knew, he was bear-hugging the blond-and-black motherfucker.

“You got this,” Lassiter said as they clapped each other’s backs. “But just remember. You’ve got to keep the faith.”

Before things got too sappy, Rhage backed off and headed for the front door again. Stepping outside through the vestibule, he took a deep, bracing draw of the cold air . . . and off he went, traveling through the night in a rush of molecules, zeroing in on a very human establishment.

When he arrived at his destination, he was careful to re-form in the back of the shallow parking lot, and yes, he did a re-check on his hair and his shirt before he walked around to the I’ve Bean Waitin’ coffee shop’s front door.

Opening things up, he got hit in the nose with a whole lot of coffee aroma, and he had a momentary wobble about the whole not-ordering thing. What was he going to do with his hands while he sat there?

With a curse that he didn’t smoke or bring needlepoint, he looked through the human men and women, a lot of whom glanced up at him and kept on staring . . . and then met the stare of the only other vampire in the place—no, wait, there was a pretans in the crowd he didn’t recognize.

He knew who Rhym was, though. He’d seen her in plenty of pictures from Mary’s work.

As he took another deep breath, it wasn’t quite the cathartic experience the one on the front stoop of the mansion had been, but there was oxygen in here. Right?

God, that coffee smell was making him suffocate. Or maybe that was his adrenal glands.

Rhage tried to pin down his freak out as he began making his way one of the tables in the back.

When he stopped in front of Rhym, he wanted to pass out. Instead, he rubbed his hand on the ass of his pants as discreetly as he could, and then extended his arm.

“Hi, I’m Rhage.”

The female was a little wide-eyed as she stared at him—but that was common, and no, he wasn’t being arrogant. People did tend to do a little double-take when they first met him, and then yes, they usually ended up looking at him closely, as if trying to figure out whether he was for real.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I, ah, I’m Rhym.”

As they shook, he nodded at the vacant chair. “You mind if I sit down?”

“Oh, please. I’m sorry. Wait, I already said that. Jeez.”

To her credit, she didn’t ogle him unnecessarily or come on to him. And the fact that she was also nervous made him feel a little better.

“Are you going to get something?” she asked.

“No. I’m fine. Would you like another . . . what is that?”

“It’s a latte. And no, thank you, this is plenty.” There was a pause and she opened a little notebook. “So . . . I, um . . . listen, I’ve got to be honest. I’ve never been in the presence of a Brother before.”

He smiled, being careful to conceal his fangs because they were in mixed company. “I’m just like everyone else.”

“Not even close,” she muttered under her breath. “So, I, ah, I have some questions for you? If that’s okay? I know Mary’s talked to you about all this.”

Rhage crossed his arms and leaned on the table. “Yes, she has. And listen, if I could just . . .”

He looked down at the wood grain under his elbows and tried to figure out what he was attempting to say. As the chatter around them and the ins and outs of the front door and the seething of the coffee machines droned on, he started to worry that he’d been quiet too long.

Rhage looked at the social worker. “Bottom line is, I’m prepared to lay down my life for that little girl. I’m ready to get up at high noon for her if she has a daymare. I’m ready to feed her and clothe her, and show her how to drive. I’m also prepared to hold her close when she gets her heart broken for the first time, and present her to her mate if she finds someone she wants. I want to help her get a good education, and follow whatever dreams she has, and be there to pick her up when she stumbles. I understand that it’s not going to be all puppies and unicorns, and there’s going to be conflict, and maybe even anger . . . but none of that will change my commitment. I knew my Mary was the one I was supposed to be with the moment I met her, and I knew the other night, with the same clarity, that Bitty is my kid. If you’ll let me have the chance to be her father.”

He sat back and held his arms out. “Now, ask me everything.”

Rhym smiled a little. And then a lot. “Well, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

Rhage smiled back. Which yeah, was what happened when you got the very clear sense that you had just hit one out of the park.

“Let’s do that,” he said with a sense of profound relief.