Wrath's voice rang out. "V? Yo, Vishous?"
V's head jerked up. "What?"
"You're going to the Scribe Virgin this afternoon, right?"
V's mouth barely moved: "Yeah."
"You're going to need a rep from the Brotherhood to go with you. I'm assuming Butch, right?"
V glanced over at the cop, who was sitting in a pale blue love seat. "You mind?"
Butch, who was clearly worried about V, immediately manned up. "Of course not. What do I need to do?"
When V said nothing, Wrath filled the void. "Human equiv's probably best man at a wedding. You'll go for the viewing today and then the ceremony, which'll be tomorrow."
"Viewing? Like this woman is a painting or some shit?" Butch grimaced. "I'm so not feeling this whole Chosen thing, I gotta be honest."
"Old rules. Old traditions." Wrath rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. "Lot needs to change, but it's the Scribe Virgin's territory, not mine. All right… so… rotation. Phury, I want you sitting out tonight. Yeah, I know you're tight after being hurt, but I just noticed you missed your last two scheduled breaks."
When Phury just nodded, Wrath cocked a smirk. "No fight on that?"
"Nope."
Actually, he had something he had to do. So it was fucking perfect.
On the Other Side, in the sacred marble bathing chamber, Cormia wished she could leave her own skin. Which was a bit ironic, as it had been so carefully prepared for the Primale. One would think she would wish to stay within it now that it was so purified. She had been steeped in a dozen different ritual baths… had her hair cleansed and recleansed… had her face put in masks of rose-smelling unguents, then ones that smelled of lavender, then still others of sage and hyacinth. Oil had been rubbed all over her, while incense had burned in honor of the Primale and prayers were chanted. The process had made her feel like something in a ceremonial buffet. A piece of meat, seasoned and prepared for consumption.
"He will be here on the hour," the Directrix said. "Waste not the time."
Cormia's heart stopped in her chest. Then pounded. The numb state induced by all the steam and the warm waters retreated, leaving her painfully and horribly aware that her last moments of life as she had always known it were about to be over.
"Ah, the robing is here," one of the Chosen said with excitement.
Cormia looked over her shoulder. Across the vast marble floor a pair of Chosen came through gold doors with a white hooded robe hanging between them. The garment was embroidered with diamonds and gold, and it shimmered in the candlelight, alive with light. Behind them another Chosen held a stretch of translucent cloth in her arms.
"Bring the veil forward," the Directrix commanded. "And put it on her."
The diaphanous sheath was draped over Cormia's head, and it landed upon her with the weight of a thousand stones. As it fell before her eyes, the world around her fogged.
"Stand," she was told.
She got to her feet and had to steady herself; her heart beating hard behind her ribs, her palms growing sweaty. The panic grew worse as the heavy robing was borne forward by the two Chosen. As the ceremonial dress was laid upon her from behind, it clamped onto her shoulders, not so much settling onto her frame as locking onto her body. She felt as though some giant stood at her back with his massive, pawlike hands pressing her down.
The hood was lifted over her head and everything went black.
The front of the robe was buttoned in place over the tail end of the hood, and Cormia tried not to think about when and in what manner those fastenings were going to be freed again. She tried to take slow, deep breaths. Fresh air came in through some vents at her neck, but it wasn't enough. Not by a measure and a half.
Under her dressings all sound was muffled, and it would be difficult for anyone to hear her speak. But then, she had no personal role in either the presentation ceremony or the mating ritual that was to come. She was a symbol, not a female, so her individual response was not required or encouraged. The traditions reined supreme.
"Perfect," one of her sisters said.
"Resplendent."
"Worthy of us."
Cormia opened her mouth and whispered to herself, "I am me. I am me. I am me…"
Tears welled and fell, but she couldn't reach her face to wipe them off, so they ran down her cheeks and her throat, getting lost in the robing.
With no warning, her panic suddenly got away from her, a wild animal set loose. She wheeled around, hobbled by the heavy robes, but driven by a need to flee that she could not harness. She took off in the direction she thought was the door, dragging the weight with her. Dimly she heard shrieks of surprise echoing in the bathing chamber, along with crashing sounds as bottles and bowls and jars were knocked asunder.
She flailed around, trying to strip off the robing, desperate for relief.
Desperate to be free of her destiny.
Chapter Thirty-three
In downtown Caldwell, in the northeast corner of the St. Francis Hospital complex, Manuel Manello, M.D., hung up the phone on his desk without having dialed anything on it or having answered a call that had come through to him. He stared at the NEC console. The thing was jacked up with buttons, right out of a Circuit City junkie's wet dreams with all its bells and whistles.
He wanted to throw it across the room.
He wanted to, but he didn't. He'd given up throwing tennis rackets, TV remotes, scalpels, and books when he decided to become the youngest chief of surgery in St. Francis Hospital history. Since then, his palm punting involved only empty bottles and vending machine wrappers snapped into trash cans. And that was just to keep his aim up.
Shifting back in his leather chair, he pivoted himself around and stared out the window of his office. It was a nice office. Big, fancy as shit, all mahogany-paneled and oriental-rugged up, the Throne Room, as it was known, had served as the head surgeon's landing pad for fifty years. He'd been sitting pretty in the digs for about three years now, and if he ever got a break in the action he was going to give the place a makeover. All the Establishment gloss made him scratch.
He thought of the damn phone and knew he was going to make a call he shouldn't. It was just so fucking weak, and it was going to come across that way, even if he was all his usual macho arrogance.
Still, he was going to end up letting his fingers do the walking.
To put off the inevitable, he blew some time staring out the window. From his vantage point he could see the front of St. Francis's landscaped entrance, as well as the city beyond. Hands down this was the best view on hospital grounds. In the spring cherry trees and tulips bloomed in the median of the entrance's drive. And in the summer, on either side of the two lanes maples leafed up green as emeralds until they faded to peach and yellow in the fall.
Usually he didn't spend a lot of time enjoying the scenery, but he did appreciate knowing it was there. Sometimes a man needed to corral his thoughts.
He was having one of those moments now.
Last night he'd called Jane's cell phone, figuring she'd be home from that damn interview. No answer. He'd called her this morning. No answer.
Fine. If she didn't want to spill about that fucking interview at Columbia, he was going to go directly to the source. He'd call the chief of surgery down there himself. Egos being what they were, his former mentor wouldn't hesitate to share some details, but, man, this was going to be an ass burner of a fishing expedition.
Manny twisted around, punched out ten digits, and waited, tapping a Montblanc pen on his blotter.
When the ringing was answered, he didn't wait for a hello. "Falcheck, you raiding dickhead."
Ken Falcheck laughed. "Manello, you have such a way with words. And me being your elder, I'm especially shocked."