The Beast

  He clearly had imparted there were deadly forces within the house.

  No matter. The motivation had worked, and it was obvious that there was naught to be worried about in terms of allegiances to Naasha. The three chefs took one look at him and his gun--and just ran even faster as opposed to causing a ruckus.

  And meanwhile, the sweet smell of gas was already wafting in the air. Soon that would not be the half of it.

  Assail walked up the stairs rather than taking them at a run. And as he ascended, two maids came hurrying down, their fastened hair bouncing loose from pins, the pale gray skirts of their uniforms flying. They, too, took a single glance at him and ducked their heads in response, re-doubling their speed without interfering.

  Up on the second-floor landing, he took a left and stopped at the first door he came to, just as the butler skidded into view at the far end of the hallway and came down at a run.

  "I'll take care of the dressing maid," Assail said. As the male blanched, he rolled his eyes. "Not like that. She shall join you anon."

  The butler nodded and scampered off.

  Grasping the doorknob, Assail turned the ornate brass knot slowly and then pushed. The panels gave way without a sound, and he instantly scented Naasha's perfume and shampoo. As he let himself in and re-closed things, he had a brief impression of a great deal of pink and cream and silk and taffeta.

  The carpet was thick as a male's brush cut, and his loafers were silent as he crossed the distance to the archway. The marble bathroom beyond was larger than some people's living rooms.

  And indeed, the set-up could not have been more perfect. Naasha was facing away from him in that professional hairstylist's chair, her long locks falling over its short back, a table with brushes and curling provisions beside her. There were many mirrors all around, but they were trained on her, leaving his presence unreflected.

  "--told you I do not care for my hair as such," Naasha snapped. "Do it again! He is going to be here soon--my phone, it is ringing, give it to me first."

  As the maid backed off from her ministrations, she happened to turn in Assail's direction--and froze. Pointing the gun right at her head, he put his finger to his lips and mouthed, Shhhhhh.

  The maid paled.

  "Get my phone! What are you doing?"

  Assail nodded in the direction of the iPhone, which was vibrating on the marble counter well within Naasha's reach.

  The maid went to pick the thing up, fumbled it, and took a verbal lashing as she scrambled to retrieve the cell from the floor.

  "Finally--hello? Oh, hello, darling, how kind of you to call. I am devastated, simply devastated. . . ."

  Assail crooked his finger at the maid, beckoning her over. The poor thing was statued in panic, however--until Assail mouthed you and safe.

  The female came across haltingly. As Naasha continued to play the role of bereft widow, Assail whispered, "Go out the front door. Keep running until you see the others at the bottom of the driveway. Do not come back into this house for any reason. Am I clear?"

  The maid nodded and offered a trembling curtsy--and then she was off like the wind, out of the room.

  Assail stalked his way over and waited patiently as Naasha continued to talk whilst she trailed her finger across the screen of her iPad. Looming behind her, he was a Grim Reaper who had fucked her--and was about to fuck her again.

  When she finally hung up, she said, "Where are you? Where the hell are--"

  Assail clamped a hand on the hair on top of Naasha's head and yanked back. As she dropped the phone, and the tablet scattered to the floor, she started to struggle in earnest--until he put the barrel of the gun into her mouth and stepped off to the side.

  Terrified eyes met his.

  "This is for Markcus," he growled.

  *

  "So how'd he do?" Mary asked as Rhym came into her office at Safe Place.

  "Your hellren is quite a thing--and he did wonderfully." The female sat down with a smile, arranging her coat over her legs. "He truly did. He's got a huge heart."

  "The biggest." There was a pause, and Mary leaned in over her paperwork. "And you can say it . . . I'm not going to be weird about it. I have to live with him, remember?"

  "I don't know what you're . . ." Rhym threw her hands up. "Okay, fine. I mean, he's just ridiculous looking. I've never seen anything like it."

  Mary had to laugh. "I know, I know. And the good news is that he doesn't particularly care. He's aware of it, sure, but, jeez, if he took that stuff seriously, his head would be so big, you couldn't fit him indoors."

  Rhym nodded. "Too right. So, are you ready?"

  "Always." Mary got up and went to shut the door. "Anything you want to know."

  "I'm sorry, I should have done that."

  Mary swiped the air with her hand. "Not to worry."

  Back at her desk, she sat down again and acknowledged, at least to herself, that she was nervous.

  Rhym shucked that coat. And then stared at the urn by the lamp. "Is that . . ."

  "Yes." Mary took a deep breath. "That's Annalye. Originally, Bitty was saying that she wanted to save the ashes for when her uncle came, but now . . ."

  "About the uncle. Have you heard anything on him? At all?"

  "Not a thing. Rhage even had one of his Brothers search for him. We've come up with absolutely nothing."

  Rhym shrugged. "The issue, for me, is how long does the notification period last? Marissa and I agree, this has to be a foster situation while Bitty adjusts and while whatever relations she might have have an opportunity to get in contact with her. But that can't go on forever. Is it a month? Six months? A year? And how do we do the notifications? What's fair?"

  Mary's heart jumped off the diving board of her rib cage, somersaulted, and hit her stomach badly, belly-flopping all over the place. Oh, God, a year. Of not knowing for sure. Of wondering every night if they were going to lose her.

  Even a month of that seemed like torture.

  "Whatever you think is best," she said as she tried to keep her wince to herself. "But I have to tell you, I'm not a good person to weigh in on all that. As much as I try to be objective, the reality is . . . I just want her for our own."

  "The Old Laws are not really helpful in this regard, although I did check to see what the humans do. When it comes to terminating parental rights, it's clear that there is a very high standard to be met. But for other relations and next of kin? It depends on state and local law how it's all handled. Accordingly, I'm going to leave it up to the King--it's exactly the sort of thing we need him to weigh in on. Plus, because of Rhage's station, the two of you would have to get his sign-off anyway."

  "That sounds very fair. And I really want to make sure we do this right. It's too important to cut any corners on."

  "I'm glad you agree--and I'm not surprised." Rhym sat back. "So tell me about your relationship with Bitty. I've seen glimpses of it, but I'd like to get a sense from you not as a professional, but as a person."

  Mary picked up a pen and wove it in and out between her fingers, the way she had when she'd been in college. "I've known her ever since she came to the house. I've been her primary caseworker the entire time, as you know, and honestly, she was so reserved and self-protective, I thought I was never going to get through to her. I'm aware that this whole adoption thing seems to have just come up since her mother died, but the truth of it is that Bitty's been on my mind and in my heart for the last two years. I refused to look too close at the opportunity, though. I just . . . as you know, I can't have children, and when that's your reality? You don't want to touch that closed door. All there is, on the other side, are flames that will burn your house down."

  "Are you prepared to let the girl go if a relation surfaces? Can you do that?"

  This time, there was no keeping the grimace off her face. Then again, when someone got your bare foot even close to an alligator's mouth, you did tend to flinch.

  "Whatever is good for Bitty." She shook her head. "And I hones
tly mean that. If we have to let her go, we will."

  "Well, the truth is, I've also looked for that uncle. Looked for anybody tied to her. No one fits any of the information. We lost so many in the raids, it's possible that he died at that time along with others of her kin. Or perhaps in some other way."

  "Can I just say . . . I'm really not a big fan of death."

  For a moment, she thought back to dancing with Rhage in the gym. They'd had to be close to each other in the wake of their agreement, that future separation they'd had the luxury of not worrying about suddenly looming over them as it did for all other couples.

  "Neither am I," Rhym said. And then the female cleared her throat. "And on that note, can we talk about your situation"

  "You mean with the Scribe Virgin?"

  "Yes, please." There was an awkward pause. "I don't really understand the . . . quasi-immortality, I guess you'd call it--not that it isn't possible. With the Scribe Virgin, anything can happen. And then I need to ask you about the beast. I have to confess, that's the only red flag for me in any of this."

  Mary chuckled. "That thing is just a big purple teddy bear. I promise you, it couldn't hurt a fly--or at least not a female one, and certainly never me. But I digress. My story starts back a couple of years ago, when I was diagnosed with . . ."

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  His mistake had been the unmuffled gunshot.

  As Assail proceeded from Naasha's suite to Throe's, and then broke down the male's locked door, he was greeted with an empty bedroom and an open window, the traitor having obviously dematerialized out when he heard the forty go off.

  "Goddamn it," Assail muttered as he wheeled around and checked the bathroom. And the closet.

  Nothing was particularly out of place, and the true telltale of quick departure was the open wall safe across the way, that landscape that had been ever so slightly cockeyed upon its hook before now sitting on the seat of a chair, the metal belly of the keep-all exposed, the light inside illustrating that its contents had been removed.

  But whate'er did it matter? Naasha had been the true target.

  Throe could be pursued at leisure on another night.

  Assail doubled back to Naasha's, and strode through her bedroom, going to the window that he had seen her in from down below. Willing the lights off in the bath, he peered out of the glass as the sweet chemical stink of gasoline now reached even the second floor.

  Down below at the foot of the drive, as prescribed, was a group of eight standing beside the lamppost, the illumination detailing that the seven servants and that butler had arranged themselves in a line and were staring up at the mansion.

  "Good male," Assail muttered as he turned away.

  He was about to leave when something caught his eye--a gleam over on one of the counters. Reigniting the lighting, he stepped over her dead body and picked up the diamond necklace. The thing was modest, by Naasha's standards, naught but a rivere of two-and three-carat stones.

  Below where it sat, there was a series of thin drawers, each with a pair of brass key locks that were engaged.

  Mayhap it was nostalgia for his cat burglar, or perhaps a final fuck-you to Naasha, but he extended his gun arm and pumped off a number of rounds into the fucking things, splintering the wood, scattering the locks, ruining the pristine bank of cabinets.

  When he had emptied his clip, the top drawer lolled open like a cartoon character's tongue. Inside, in a jumbled mess, were all kinds of things that sparkled, and he grabbed handfuls, stuffing the rings and earrings and necklaces and bracelets into his pockets.

  His jacket was near full to bursting when Zsadist came in.

  The Brother had ready his flamethrower, the tip of the discharge nozzle spitting blue fire, the wand in those oh, so capable hands like the head of a dragon who was ready to roar.

  "Time to go," the fighter said.

  One had to admire his disinterest in the thievery. Then again, Assail had just committed murder right over there in that swivel chair, and the Brother seemed unbothered by that as well.

  With a last look at Naasha's sprawled, motionless form, Assail walked out with the Brother. In the hall, the fumes were strong enough to water the eye, and that became even more prevalent as they descended.

  Ehric and Evale had gathered in the foyer, and, ever thoughtful, they had retrieved his pack from where he had laid it down outside.

  After he strapped it on and lit his pilot, so to speak, he pumped off several bursts of orange flame.

  "Shall we?" he said.

  Splitting up, they went to the four corners of the grand mansion. The gasoline, which his cousins had liberally doused all manner of textiles and wood in, was perhaps overkill, however, the flamethrowers' kisses would thereby be capable of igniting whole walls of fabric and expanses of pine, oak and mahogany with naught but a burst.

  As the arson was initiated with efficiency, Assail moved through the dining room, setting ablaze the antiques and the Zuber wallpaper, the Aubusson rug, the Federal table that was twenty-five feet long and two centuries old. He had a momentary pause before he went on his way into the kitchen, a spark of grief for the Waterford chandelier that was in the midst of the now e'er-expanding bonfire making him wish he had removed it first.

  But sacrifices had to be made.

  He did not bother with the pantry. It would be consumed soon enough. Instead, he set about lighting afire the fine professional kitchen, starting with the drapes on either side of the banks of windows and continuing on to all the wooden cabinetry that his cousins had so competently covered with accelerant.

  The great whoosh! as things caught and flames held was a rush every time it happened, and he felt himself get hard, some primal part of him expressing dominance and demanding submission from this static environment of inanimate objects. Indeed, with each explosion of power, it seemed as though he were reclaiming some part of himself that he had lost along the way.

  Sure as if he had been the one chained down below.

  Soon, the re-doubling heat became unbearable, his hair curling up at the ends, the skin of his face tightening to the point of pain.

  As he rounded the circuit back to the foyer, he realized that he was surrounded by the fire he had sought to create, trapped in the inferno. Smoke, billowing and toxic, needled his eyes and stung his nose and sinuses, whilst undulating walls of fire blocked every exit.

  Perhaps this was the end, he thought as he lowered the muzzle of his thrower.

  All around him, great waves of orange and red flames ebbed and flowed, like mouths chewing on the mansion and its contents, and he was momentarily mesmerized by the deadly beauty of the blaze.

  Calming down, he took out his phone.

  Summoning up a number, he hit send and turned in a circle slowly as it rang, and rang, and rang--

  "Hello?" came her voice.

  He closed his eyes. Oh, that voice. Marisol's beautiful voice.

  "Hello," she demanded.

  There was a silence over the connection, although no silence in the house. No, things were creaking and popping, moaning and cursing as if the studs and plaster had bones that broke and nerve receptors to feel the pain.

  "Assail?" she said urgently. "Assail . . . is this you?"

  "I love you," he replied.

  "Assail! What is--"

  He cut off the call. Turned off his phone. And then he removed the pack and placed it at his feet.

  As the temperature increased and the chaos rose e'er higher, he straightened his jacket and tugged his cuffs into place.

  After all, he might have been a degenerate, self-interested, drug-dealing sociopath, but one should have standards and look good when one passed.

  Dhund or the Fade, he wondered.

  Probably Dhund--

  From out of the tsunami of flame, a black figure streaked into the eye of the inferno's hurricane where Assail was standing.

  It was the Brother Zsadist. And contrary to the impending death and destruction that was overwhelming th
ings, the gentlemale seemed more annoyed than frantic as he skidded to a halt.

  "Not going to die here," the male yelled over the din.

  "This is a fitting end for me."

  Those black, soulless eyes rolled. "Oh, please."

  "Even though this arson is for proper reason," Assail hollered, "your King will have to prosecute me for murder, as there was no due process for the blood slave transgression of that female. So allow me to perish here, on my terms, satisfied that I have--"

  "Not on my watch, asshole."

  The punch came from the right and plowed into Assail's jaw so hard, it cut off not just his rather poetic speech, if he did say so himself, but his link to consciousness.

  The last thing he heard as he went lights-out was, "--carry you out of here like luggage, you goddamn fool."

  For Fates' sake, Assail thought as everything went dark and silent. The principles of others were so fucking inconvenient.

  Especially when one was trying to kill oneself.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  As Rhage went back home after his meeting at I've Bean, he was feeling like a fucking boss.

  Rhym had even given him a hug at the end of the interview. And that had to mean something, right?

  The first thing he wanted to do, as he headed up the mansion's grand staircase, was call his Mary, but she was in her meeting now, so he'd have to wait. Whatever, he could get changed and maybe go downtown to do some hunting and burn off some--

  His phone went off with a bing! just as he hit the second floor and saw that the King was sitting on the throne at his desk--as opposed to being at the Audience House, where he should have been.

  Ignoring the text, Rhage strode forward and knocked on the open door. "My Lord?"

  Wrath's head jerked up as if he'd been surprised by the interruption--which was the first clue that something big had happened: That brother might have been blind, but he had the instincts of the keenest predator.

  "You're early," Wrath muttered. "The meeting doesn't start for another twenty minutes."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "You get V's text?"

  Rhage entered the frilly pale blue room with its French furniture and its air of butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth. The study or parlor or whatever it was the most ludicrous environment to plan fights and wars and strategy in, but now, like so much of Darius's mansion, it was a tradition that no one wanted to change.