“Guess those boys who took your whip were heading to one hell of a party,” Rhage said.
“Word,” Z muttered.
As the beams of the flashlights highlighted an old, decrepit airplane in the back—and absolutely nothing else—Z shook his head.
“Let’s search the outer area. There’s nada in here.”
Given that the cabin was nothing much from the exterior, just your typical hunting/fishing shack out in the woods, Mr. C was tempted to bypass the damn thing. Thoroughness had its virtues, however, and the cabin’s location, about a mile or two into the tract of land, suggested it might have been used as a headquarters at some point.
All things considered, it would have been smarter to check out the property before he’d used that airplane hangar for the largest induction in the Lessening Society’s history. But priorities were what they were: First, he had to put himself in control; second, he had to justify the promotion; and third, he had to deal with all those new lessers.
And that meant he needed resources. Fast.
Following the Omega’s messy, grand ceremony, and the nauseous period that had lasted a number of hours thereafter, Mr. C had ordered the new recruits onto a school bus that he’d stolen from a used-truck dealership a week ago. Between exhaustion and the physical discomfort they were in, they had been such good little boys, filing on and sitting two by two like they were on some kind of fucked-up Noah’s Ark.
From there, he’d driven them himself—because you didn’t trust assets like that to anybody else—to the Brownswick School for Girls. The defunct prep school was in the suburbs on thirty-five acres of ignored, overgrown, dilapidated grounds, rumors of its being haunted keeping the normal folks out.
For now, the Lessening Society were squatters, but the For Sale sign on the corner near the road meant he could fix that. As soon as he pulled some cash together.
With his boys finishing up their recovery back at the school, and the current slayers downtown trolling for the Brotherhood, he was out on his own, cataloging the few assets left in the Society—including this stretch of mostly empty forest north of the city.
Although he was beginning to believe he was wasting his time.
Stepping up on the cabin’s shallow porch, he shone a flashlight in through the nearest window. Potbellied stove. Rough wood table with two chairs. Three bunks that had no mattresses or sheets on them. Galley kitchen.
Heading around back, he found an electric generator that was out of gas, and a rusted-out oil tank, which suggested the place had had some kind of heating in it at some point.
Returning to the front, he toggled the door latch and found it locked.
Whatever. Not much in there.
Taking the map out of the inside of his bomber jacket, he unfolded the thing and located where he was. Checking off the little square, he got out his compass, adjusted his heading, and started walking in a northwesterly direction.
According to this map—which he’d found at the former Fore-lesser’s crack house, this tract of property totaled some five hundred acres and had these cabins sprinkled around at random intervals. He gathered that the place had once been a camping area owned by multiple people, a kind of modern-day hunting preserve that had been lost to the New York State tax burden, and purchased by the Society back in the eighties.
At least, that was what the handwritten notations in the corner said, although God only knew if the Society was still the owner of record. Considering the financial state of the organization, the good ol’ NYS might well have a gorilla-size tax lien on the acreage now, or have reseized the shit.
He paused and checked the compass again. Man, being a city boy, he hated rooting around out in the woods at night, clomping through the snow, checking shit off like some kind of forest ranger. But he had to see with his own eyes what he had to work with, and that was happening only one way.
At least he had a revenue stream lined up.
In another twenty-four hours, when those boys of his were finally on their feet again, he was going to start refilling the coffers. That was the first step to reclamation.
Step two?
World domination.
FIFTEEN
She was bleeding.
As Layla looked down at the toilet paper in her hand, the red stain on all that white was the visual equivalent of a scream.
Reaching behind herself, she flushed, and had to use the wall to steady her balance as she got to her feet. With one hand on her lower belly and the other thrown out at the sink counter and then the doorjamb, she stumbled into the bedroom and went right for the phone.
Her first instinct was to call Doc Jane, but she decided against that. Assuming she was in the process of miscarrying, there was a possibility of sparing Qhuinn the wrath of the Primale—provided she kept this under wraps. And using the Brotherhood’s personal physician probably wasn’t the best way to ensure privacy.
After all, there was only one reason a female bled—and questions about her needing and how she’d handled it would inevitably follow.
At the table by the bedside, she opened the drawer and drew out a small black book. Locating the number for the race’s clinic, she dialed with a shaking hand.
When she hung up a little later, she had an appointment in thirty minutes.
Except how was she going to get out there? She couldn’t dematerialize—too anxious, and anyway, pregnant females were discouraged from that. And she didn’t feel as though she could drive herself. Qhuinn’s lessons had been comprehensive, but she couldn’t imagine, in her condition, getting on a highway and trying to keep up with the flow of human traffic.
Fritz Perlmutter was the only answer.
Going to the closet, she retrieved a soft chemise, twisted it into a thick rope, and secured it between her legs with the help of several pairs of underwear. The solution to her bleeding issue was incredibly bulky and made it hard to walk, but that was the least of her problems.
A phone call to the kitchen secured the butler to drive her.
Now she just had to get down the stairs, out the vestibule, and into that long saloon car in one piece—and without running into any of the males of the household.
Just as she was about to leave her room, she caught her reflection in the mirrors upon the wall. Her white robe and her formal hairstyle announced her rank of Chosen as nothing else could: Nobody beside the Scribe Virgin’s sacred females in the species dressed like this.
Even if she appeared under the assumed name she had provided to the receptionist, all would guess her other-worldly affiliation.
Throwing off her robing, she attempted to draw on a pair of yoga pants, but the wadding she had applied to herself made that an impossibility. And the jeans she and Qhuinn had bought together wouldn’t work, either.
Withdrawing the chemise, she used paper towels from the bath to deal with her problem and managed to get the denim on. A heavy sweater provided bulk and warmth, and a quick brush out and tieback of her hair made her look…almost normal.
Leaving her room, she held hard to the cellular device that Qhuinn had given her. She thought only briefly about calling him, but in truth, what was there to say? He had no more control over this process than she did—
Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, she was losing their young.
The thought occurred to her just as she came to the apex of the grand staircase: She was losing their young. At this very moment. Here outside of the king’s study.
All at once the ceiling crashed down on her head and the walls of the grand, spacious foyer squeezed in so tight she could not draw a breath.
“Your grace?”
Shaking herself, she looked down the red carpet runner. Fritz was standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in his standard livery, his old, lovely face clothed in concern.