As they came up to the stairwell's fire door, Phury barked, "Hold up, Rhage."
The brother stopped on a dime; and Phury clamped his hand on the side of the woman's neck, putting her out cold with a pressure lock.
"She's gone. S'all good."
They hit the back stairs and hauled ass. Vishous's rasping breath was testimony to how much the express-train action was killing him, but he was hard-core as always, hanging in, in spite of the fact that he'd turned the color of pea soup.
Each time they came to a landing, Phury pulled a little scramble with a security camera, running an electrical surge through the things so they blinked out. His big hope was that they'd make it to the Escalade without tangling with a bunch of security guards. Humans were never targets for the Brotherhood. That being said, if there was a risk of the vampire race being exposed, there was nothing that wouldn't be done. And as hypnotizing large groups of agitated and aggressive humans had a low success rate, that left fighting. And death for them.
Some eight flights down the stairwell bottomed out, and Butch stopped in front of a metal door. Sweat poured down his face and he was weaving, but his face was soldier-strong: He was going to get his buddy out, and nothing was going to stand in his way, even his own physical weakness.
"I'll do the door," Phury said, jumping to the head of the pack. After taking care of the alarm, he held the slab of steel open for the others. On the far side, a maze of utility halls branched out.
"Oh, shit," he muttered. "Where the hell are we?"
"Basement." The cop marched ahead. "Know it well. Morgue's on this level. Spent a lot of time here in my old job."
Some hundred yards farther, Butch hooked them up with a shallow corridor that was more a shaft full of HVAC piping than any kind of hallway.
And then there it was: salvation in the form of an emergency access door.
"Escalade's out here," the cop said to V. "Sitting pretty."
"Thank… God." V's lips pressed flat, again, like he was trying not to throw up.
Phury did another jump ahead, then cursed. This alarm setup was different from the others, operating on a more complex circuitry. Which he should have expected. Exterior doors were frequently wired more heavily than interior ones. Trouble was, his little mental tricks weren't going to work here, and it wasn't like he could call a time-out to disarm the thing. V was looking roadkill bad.
"Brace yourself for a screamer," Phury said before punching the bar handle.
The alarm went off like a banshee.
As they rushed out into the night, Phury wheeled around and looked up at the ass end of the hospital. He located the security camera over the door, got it to misread, and stayed locked with its blinking red eye as V and the human female were dumped inside the Escalade and Rhage got behind the wheel.
Butch took shotgun and Phury hopped into the back with the cargo. He checked his watch. Total elapsed time from when they'd first parked back here to Hollywood's foot slamming down on the gas pedal was twenty-nine minutes. The op had been relatively clean. All that was left to do now was get everyone to the compound in one piece and scrap the plates on the SUV.
There was just one complication.
Phury shifted his eyes to the human woman.
One big, huge complication.
Chapter Ten
John was antsy as he waited in the mansion's brilliantly colored foyer. He and Zsadist always went out for an hour before dawn, and there had been no change of plans as far as he was aware. But the Brother was nearly half an hour late.
To kill some more time, John took another trip across the mosaic floor. As always he felt as if he didn't belong in all the grandeur, but he loved and appreciated it. The foyer was so outrageously fancy it was like standing in a jewelry box: Columns in red marble and some kind of green-and-black stone supported walls festooned with gold-leafed curlicue thingies and light fixtures with crystals. The staircase up was a majestic expanse of red carpet, the kind of thing a movie star would pause dramatically at the top of, then swoop down to a black-tie party. And the pattern beneath your feet was of an apple tree in bloom, the bright palate of spring resplendent and glimmering thanks to millions of sparkling pieces of colored glass.
His favorite thing, though, was the ceiling. Three stories up there was an astonishing stretch of painted scenes, with warriors and stallions leaping to life as they went into battle with black daggers. They were so real it was as if you could reach up and touch them.
So real it was as if you could be them.
He thought back to when he'd first seen it all. Tohr had been taking him to meet Wrath.
John swallowed. He'd had Tohrment for such a short time. Mere months. After a lifetime of feeling ungrounded, after having floated along for two decades without any family-gravity to anchor him, he'd been given a glimpse of what he'd always wanted. And then with one bullet both his adoptive father and mother were gone.
He'd like to be big enough to say he was grateful he'd known Tohr and Wellsie for the time he had, but that was a lie. He wished he'd never met them. The loss of them was so much harder to bear than the amorphous ache he'd had when he'd been by himself.
Not really a male of worth, was he?
Without warning, Z strode out of the hidden door under the grand staircase, and John stiffened. He couldn't help it. No matter how many times he saw the Brother, Zsadist's appearance always made him think twice. It wasn't just the facial scar or the skull trim. It was the deadly air that hadn't been lost, even though he was now mated and going to be a father.
Plus tonight, Z's face was cast-iron tight, his body even tighter. "You good to go?"
John narrowed his eyes and signed, What's going on?
"Nothing you need to worry about. Are you ready." Not a question, a command.
When John nodded and zipped up his parka, the two of them went out through the front vestibule.
The night was the color of a dove, the stars faded by a thin saturation of clouds that was backlit by a full moon. According to the calendar spring was coming, but it was just in theory, if you went by the landscape: The fountain in front of the mansion remained out of commission for the winter, empty and waiting to be refilled. The trees were like black skeletons reaching to the sky, pleading with their bony arms for the sun to get stronger. Snow lingered on the lawns, stubbornly hanging in over ground that was still frozen solid.
The wind held a cheek-slapping chill as he and Zsadist walked over to the right, the pebbles of the courtyard shifting under their boots. The compound's security wall was off in the distance, a twenty-foot-tall, three-foot-thick bulwark that encircled the Brotherhood's property.
The thing was strung with security cameras and motion detectors, a good soldier packing a shitload of ammo. But all that was just small potatoes, really. The true keep-out was the 120 volts of electrical charge that ran across the top in curls of barbed wire.
Safety first. Always.
John followed Z down the snow-patched lawn, passing battened-down flower beds and the drained swimming pool in the back. After a gentle decline they reached the forest edge. At this point the monster wall hung a sharp louie and shot down the mountainside. They didn't follow it, but penetrated the tree line.
Beneath thick pines and densely branched maples there was a pad of old needles and leaves and not much undergrowth. Here, the air smelled like earth and cold air, a combination that made the inside of his nose tingle.
As usual, Zsadist led. The paths they took each night were different and felt random, but they always ended at the same place, a short-stack waterfalclass="underline" The brook that came down the mountainside threw itself off a little cliff, then formed a shallow pool some nine feet across.
John went over and put his hand into the gurgling rush. As his palm pierced the tumble, his fingers numbed out from the cold.