In his solitude, he was far from alone: thoughts of Selena, his brother, his parents, crowded the space around him, making him consider seriously the merits of getting fucking plastered.
iAm had told him that the deal made with s’Ex was a dumb-ass fucking idea. And then promptly headed back for the kitchen to make cacciatore.
Still, all things considering, that convo had actually gone so much better than some of their others of late—
“You wanna buy some crack? H?”
Cocking an eyebrow, Trez glanced over at a white guy who was lounging up against the far side of a tattoo parlor. Classy.
Just as he opened his mouth to tell the guy fuck, no—the wind changed direction and he got hit in the face with a cream pie full of lesser scent.
It stopped him dead in his tracks.
“So what’ll it be?” the slayer asked him.
Trez looked left and right for no particular reason—other than he was suddenly interested in buying something he was never going to use from an asshole who had no clue he was talking to the enemy.
Stepping into the darkness, Trez put his hand in the pocket of his slacks like he was going for his wallet. “How much?”
“For which one.”
Trez kept up the ruse, glancing around like he was nervous. Up close, this was defo a lesser, the sweet stench so much worse than a seven-day-no-shower human working in a sweatshop—who just happened to be doused in baby powder.
And smuggling a dead raccoon under each armpit.
“Both. Hey, you mind if we step a little farther in?”
The slayer turned away and started quoting prices as he moved deeper into the shop’s side alley. He did not make it to the cash-changing-hands part of the transaction.
Trez took control easily, coming at the bastard from behind, grabbing onto the head and snapping it around so that the only thing keeping it on the spine was the skin. Catching the deadweight by the torso, he pushed the slayer behind a stack of pallets and started going through pockets.
Ten baggies of powder. Twenty or so rocks—small scale. Seven hundred in cash, roughly.
Not major leagues. In fact, hardly remarkable for this part of town—except for the lesser part.
Shoving the still-moving corpse to the ground, he took out his phone and dialed up a number. It was answered on the third ring.
“Butch?” he said. “Hey, buddy—whatchup to? Uh-huh. Yeah. Right.” He eyeballed the slayer and thought the sluggish machinations of the arms and legs were totally fly-on-a-windowsill. “Well, I got a friend I’d like you to meet. Nah, not the kind you’d want to bring home for dinner. Yeah, he’s going nowhere. Take your time.”
After he hung up, he looked at the packets in his palm. They were marked with the death symbol—in the Old Language.
Someone in the race was dealing, big-time. And they were working with the enemy to do it.
Next question? Who the fuck was it.
FORTY-SIX
It was getting close to dawn when Beth decided she just had to leave her and Wrath’s set of rooms. He hadn’t come back yet, and the prospect of spending another minute with the chaos in her mind was enough to make her want to take a bridge.
First stop? Layla’s room, but the Chosen wasn’t there. Probably a good thing as she supposed all she would have done was bug the poor female about early pregnancy symptoms—which was nuts on two accounts: One, if she had conceived, she was what, like twenty-four hours into it, tops? And two, Layla had had that horrible near-miscarriage.
Not exactly a good comp—if Beth didn’t want to drive herself completely insane.
Walking back down the hall of statues, she figured … kitchen. Yeah, the kitchen was a good next stop—assuming she didn’t want to bug Wrath down in the training center’s weight room.
He clearly needed some space.
As she hit the grand staircase, she was finding it impossible not to parallel-process reality. The first layer was what was in front of her: Wrath and the dethroning, the sad quietness in the house, the stress over what the race’s future held. The second level was wholly internal and completely physicaclass="underline" a twinge in her pelvis—was it implantation … or the coming of her period, which would mean no-go?; an ache in her breasts—symptom of conception … or the result of all that sex?; hot flashes—the residual of the hormonal imbalance … or flannel?
Only the severity of the situation they were in thanks to the Council’s actions kept her from devolving completely into her body’s minutiae. And meanwhile, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t know whether she hoped she was pregnant … or hoped she wasn’t.
Actually, that was a lie.
Putting her hand over her lower belly, she found herself praying that it hadn’t worked. The only thing worse than Wrath losing the throne … was him finding out he was going to be a father right afterward.
If he was already feeling like he’d lost his parents’ legacy, that was going to be like throwing him a boulder to catch while he was barely treading water: Undoubtedly, he was going to feel like he cheated his child, too.
Down at the foyer level, she crossed over into the dining room, and then pushed into the kitchen. God, the eerie emptiness—the galley was usually such an active place, even during the lulls between large household meals. To walk in as the shutters were coming down and have nothing on the stove, in the oven, or on the counters scared her.
Damn … what was going to happen now?
Was the Brotherhood going to split apart? Where would she and Wrath go? Technically, they shouldn’t be staying in those overdone quarters on the third floor if they weren’t the First Family anymore.
Actually … it would be a relief to get out of there.
Although the cause for the relo sucked.
Opening up the Sub-Zero, she saw … a whole lot of shit she didn’t want to eat. But she should be hungry, shouldn’t she? She’d only snacked on the stuff Fritz had brought her how many hours ago? And she certainly hadn’t eaten anything during the needing.
She needed to pee.
Disappearing into the loo off the kitchen, she took care of business, washed her hands, and gave the refrigerator another try.
Someone had just put a big vat of something on the lower level. A quick peek under the lid and … cacciatore. Normally an entrée well worth tackling, especially because iAm must have been the one who made it. However, a quick whiff got her a big fat no-thanks from her stomach. Same thing when it came to the leftover ham. A plate’s worth of Bolognese with linguini in a Tupperware container. Tomato soup …
Giving the freezer a try, she took out a box of plain Eggos … then put them back. “Meh.”
Ice cream was a total no-go. Just the thought of that heavy-cream stuff made her want to throw up—
She hesitated as she looked down at herself. “Somebody in there?” she said to her pelvis.
Okay, it was official. She’d totally lost it.
After a trip through the pantry, which proved to be like trying to find something edible in the laundry room, for chrissakes, she doubled back to the fridge and made herself take out a Vlasic jar of butter chips.
“It’s pickles, people,” she muttered. “Pickles. Total cliché here.”
Except when she twisted off the lid and looked at the slices dancing in their little pool of sweet brine, she grimaced and had to put them back.
As a last resort, she hit the vegetable drawer—
“Yes,” she said in a rush as her hand snapped out for a grab. “Oh, yes yes yes…”
As she carried the bunch of organic carrots over to the knife drawer, she couldn’t believe she was about to get it on with all that beta carotene.
She hated carrots. Okay, not completely—if they were in salads, it wasn’t like she’d eat around them. But she had never in her life volunteered them out of the fridge.