After a moment that was long as a century, she extended the thing toward him. When he reached out and took it, they were linked by the wooden handle for a mere breath, then she dropped her hand.
"You deserve better than that," she whispered. "You're better than that."
"No, I'm not." Oh, man, he had to get away from her heartbroken expression. "Don't let your pity turn me into a prince, Bella."
"This is self-destructive. All of it."
"Hardly." He went over to the bureau, picked up his blunt, and took a drag on it. "I want this."
"Do you? Is that why you've been lighting up red smokes all afternoon? The whole mansion smells of it."
"I smoke because I'm an addict. I'm a loose-willed drug addict, Bella, who was with a whore last night in a public place. You should condemn me, not pity me."
She shook her head. "Don't try to make yourself look ugly in front of me. It won't work. You are a male of worth-"
"For fuck's sake-"
"-who has sacrificed much for his brothers. Probably too much."
"Bella, stop it."
"A male who gave up his leg to save his twin. Who has fought bravely for his race. Who is giving up his future for his brother's happiness. You can't get much more noble than that." Her eyes were rock-solid as she stared up at him. "Don't tell me who you are. I see you more clearly than you see yourself."
He paced around the room until he found himself back in front of the dresser. He hoped there were no mirrors on the Other Side. He hated his reflection. Always had.
"Phury-"
"Go," he said hoarsely. "Please just go." When she didn't, he turned around. "For God's sake, don't make me break down in front of you. I need my pride right now. It's the only thing keeping me standing."
She put a hand over her mouth and blinked quickly. Then she shored herself up and spoke in the Old Language. "Be of good fortune, Phury, son of Ahgony. May your feet follow a level path and the nightfall gently upon your shoulders."
He bowed. "As for you, Bella, beloved nalla of mine blooded brother, Zsadist."
When the door shut behind her, Phury sank down on the bed and brought the blunt to his lips. As he looked around the room he'd stayed in since the Brotherhood had moved into the compound, he realized it wasn't home to him. It was just a guest room… a luxurious, anonymous guest room… four walls of nice oil paintings with good carpeting and drapes lush as a female's ball gown.
It would be nice to have a home.
He'd never had one. After Zsadist had been abducted as an infant, their mahmen had closed herself in underground, and their father had gone on the hunt for the nursemaid who'd taken Z. Growing up, Phury had lived among the moving, breathing shadows of the household. Everyone, even the doggen, had just gone through the motions of life. There had been no laughter. No happiness. No calendar of ceremonies.
No hugs.
Phury had learned to keep quiet and stay out of the way. It was, after all, the kindest thing he could do. He'd been the replica of what had been lost, the reminder of the heartbreak that was on everyone's mind. He took to wearing hats to hide his face, and he'd walked with a shuffle, curling into himself so as to be smaller, less noticeable.
As soon as he'd gone through his transition, he'd left to find his twin. No one had waved him off. There had been no good-byes. Z's disappearance had used up all of the household's capacity for missing someone, so there was none left over for Phury.
Which had been good, actually. It made everything easier.
About ten years later he'd learned from a distant cousin that his mother had died in her sleep. He'd gone back home immediately, but they'd had the funeral without him. His father had died fighting about eight years later. Phury had made it to that funeral and had spent his last night in the family house. Afterward the property had been sold, the doggen had dispersed, and it was as if his parents had never been.
His rootlessness now was not new. He'd felt it since his first moment of consciousness as a child. He was ever the wanderer, and the Other Side was not going to give him a base. He couldn't make a home there because he couldn't have one without his twin. Or his brothers. Or-
He stopped. Refused to let himself think of Bella.
As he stood up and felt his prosthesis bear his weight, he thought it was ironic that a nomad like him was missing a limb.
Tamping out his blunt, slipped a number of them into his pocket, and was almost out the door when he stopped and turned around. Four strides brought him to his walk-in closet, three clicks of a lock opened a metal door, two hands reached in. One black dagger came out.
He palmed his weapon, feeling the perfect balance and the precision grip that matched only his specs. Vishous had made it for him… hell, how long ago? Seventy-five years… yeah, it would be seventy-five years this summer since he'd joined the Brotherhood.
He examined the blade in the light. Seventy-five years of offing lessers, and not a scratch on the blade. He took out the other one he used. Same diff. V was a master craftsman, all right.
Looking at the weapons, feeling their weight, he pictured Vishous standing in the bedroom's doorway earlier this evening, explaining that the Scribe Virgin was going to allow the substitution of Primales. The icy brother had had life in his eyes. Life and hope, along with a shining purpose.
Phury tucked one of the daggers into the satin belt that was around his waist and returned the other to the safe. Then he strode to the door with steel in his spine. Love was worth sacrificing for, he thought as he left his room. Even if it wasn't yours.
At that moment Vishous materialized on the far side of the street across from Jane's condo. There were no lights on inside her place, and he was tempted just to go inside, but he stayed in the shadows.
Goddamn, his head was scrambled. He felt guilty as hell over Phury. Scared to death over what Jane was going to say. Worried about how to manage a future with a human. Hell, he was even concerned about that poor Chosen who was stuck having to man up for the rest of her kind.
He checked his watch. Eight o'clock. He had to imagine Jane would be home soon-
The garage door to the condo next to Jane's trundled up with a whining sound, and a real yawn of a minivan backed out. Its brakes made a little squeak when it reached the ass end of its K-turn, then the driver put it in forward gear.
V frowned, his instincts coming to attention for no apparent reason. He sniffed the air, but he was upwind of the vehicle and couldn't catch a scent.
Great, so he was paranoid, too-which, along with his ambient anxiety and the narcissistic behavior he'd been popping lately, meant he had most of the DSM-IV covered tonight.
He checked his watch again just for the hell of it. Two minutes later. Great.
When his cell phone rang, he answered it with relief, because he was looking to pass some time. "I'm glad it's you, cop."
Butch's voice was off. "You at her place?"
"Yeah, but she's not. What's doing?"
"There's something going on with your computers."
"As in?"
"One of the tracers you laid down over at the hospital's been triggered. Someone went into the medical file of Michael Klosnick."
"No big deal."
"It was the chief of surgery. Manello."
Man, V hated the sound of the guy's name. "And?"
"He searched his own computer today for the pictures of your heart. Looking for the file Phury corrupted while we were evac'ing you, no doubt."
"Interesting." V wondered what had gotten the guy's attention… some printout of the photographs that had a date/time on it, maybe? Even if there was no notation as to the patient, that Manello guy was probably smart enough to trace it to the OR and figure out who had been on Jane's table. On one level it was no BFD, because the medical record showed that Michael Klosnick had checked out AMA following surgery. But still… "I think I should pay a visit to the good doctor."