As V arrived back at the mansion with the King, he’d really just plain fucking had it with everyone. And that included himself.
But as the pair of them rematerialized side by side next to the fountain, he was well aware that his job as personal guard wasn’t done until he got Big, Bad, and Really Fucking Bossy through the vestibule and into the foyer. Then, and only then, would he be free to abandon ship and go get hammered.
With any luck, those two bottles of Grey Goose that Fritz had brought over were still where they’d been dropped off, namely under the counter in the Pit’s galley kitchen.
After a night like tonight, he wasn’t even going to need ice.
Or a glass.
“Congratulations,” Wrath said.
V grabbed hold of the arm that was nearly the size of his own thigh and started walking them forward. “What for?”
“You have another opportunity to be reasonable tonight.”
“I’m always reasonable.”
“In your own mind, I’m sure that’s true.”
“Step up,” V muttered as they came to the stone stairs. “And now what are we doing. It better be good, by the way. I have a date with a vodka bottle.”
When the King hit the ascent but kept quiet, V wanted to bare his fangs and hiss. Instead, he demanded, “Tell me.”
As they arrived at the vestibule’s outer door, the King stopped and looked over at him. “I’m ready to talk to Qhuinn. Your opportunity is to get shot at because you’re coming with me to speak to him.”
“That’s not a chance to be reasonable. That’s called being a target.”
“Tomato, tomahto. Whatever.”
“I swear, I keep winning the lottery around you.” V yanked open the way into the vestibule. “Every frickin’ night, true?”
Wrath did the duty at the security camera, finding the lens with his hand and then putting his face in its camera. “You’re a lucky motherfucker, for sure.”
Fritz opened things wide, and the light from the glorious foyer was enough to leave V blinking as his retinas adjusted.
“My Lord!” the doggen exclaimed. “Sire! Oh, it is good that you have arrived home before the storm! May I get you a libation?”
Fritz’s smile was like that of a basset hound’s, all wrinkles and enthusiasm, and the butler had a dog’s lack of time conception, his joy as if the pair of them had been gone for five years, not an hour.
“How ’bout a couple of bulletproof vests,” V said under his breath.
“But of course! Would you care for the Point Blank Alpha Elites, or is this more of a bomb-detonation occasion requiring the Paraclete tactical vests?”
As if the choice were nothing more than having to pick white tie and tails over your standard-issue tuxedo.
You had to love the guy, V thought grudgingly.
“It was a joke, my man.” Vishous put a hand-rolled between his lips and talked around it as he got out his lighter. “At least I hope it was.”
“Anything for you both! Oh, and my Lord, I took the liberty of allowing George to relieve himself about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Thanks, Fritz. Did you—”
“And I fed him, as well. I gave him the tenderloin left over from last night, but I warmed it up and served it with fresh whole carrots, pumpkin mash, and green beans. Everything was organic, of course.”
“You love that dog, don’t you.”
The doggen bowed so low it was a wonder his bushy gray eyebrows didn’t Swiffer the mosaic floor. “I do. Oh, I do.”
“Good male, you’re a good male.”
Wrath seemed like he wanted to clap the butler on the shoulder, or maybe offer his palm for a high five, but he didn’t follow through. Even though he was King, there were some things you didn’t do, and that was make contact with an old-school servant like Fritz.
The poor guy was liable to mushroom cloud out of embarrassment.
Instead, Wrath strode forward like he owned the place, and V fell in line.
“Three feet,” V said when it was time.
The Blind King stepped up onto the bottom of the great staircase with the coordination of a tap dancer, hitting the mark perfectly, and he knew when he got to the top, as well. First stop was his study, where he opened the double doors and got attacked by George, who had clearly never expected to see his master again.
“Come on, boy, back to work. Lead.”
George trotted off to the desk and came back with his halter, which Wrath put on so quick, you’d swear he could see what he was doing. And then dog and master were reunited and heading in the direction of the hall of statues.
With V pulling up the rear. No doubt looking like the bad guy in a Disney movie.
Hell, even he didn’t want to be anywhere near this black mood he was sporting. But of course, everywhere you went, there you were, and all that bullshit.
When they got to the room that the young were in, Wrath knocked once and then opened things up. In the glow of a night-light that was in the shape of the moon and the stars, it was easy to pick out Qhuinn on the bed, his two kids tucked in tight and sound asleep on either side of him.
But the brother wasn’t at rest.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Time to talk,” the King announced as George parked it in a sit at his side.
“You mind if we go out in the hall?”
“Nope.”
Qhuinn nodded and slowly sat up. Then he looked back and forth between the two sleeping babies … like he couldn’t decide which one to take to the bassinets first.
“V, can you give me a hand?”
For a moment, Vishous couldn’t comprehend who the guy was talking to, even though his name was in the mix. But then Wrath’s head turned in his direction, like the King was waiting for an answer, too.
Okay, why couldn’t he just be drinking right now? Still, bassinet jockeying one of these pooping machines had to be better than dodging bullets.
Right?
V glanced at the matched set of milk addicts. Fine, maybe the goo-goo, gaga/Glock assessment was more of a fifty-fifty.
“V?” Qhuinn prompted.
“Yeah. Sure.” I’d fucking looooooove to manhandle your DNA. And maybe afterward, we can take turns doing each other’s hair. “What do I do?”
Qhuinn’s brows popped as V approached the bed. “You pick Rhamp up and carry him over here.”
The head. Support the head—
“You need to support the head,” Qhuinn tacked on.
See? V told himself. This was going to be fine.
Except then Vishous realized that he had a lit cigarette in his hand.
“Gimme your hand-rolled,” Wrath announced in a bored tone. “What the hell, V—you can’t bring that around a young.”
As Qhuinn got to his feet with Lyric, V gave the cig over like it was his last heartbeat. And then he was extending his good hand, as well as the one wrapped in black leather, to the brother’s son. Man … outside of a medical situation, it felt all wrong to pick up anything more precious than a bag of dog food with his curse, but he knew intellectually nothing was going to happen to the kid.
Hell, it wasn’t like the heat source was going to turn Rhamp into the infant equivalent of a pig-in-a-blanket or something. No, really. True?
Fuck—
Small. Warm. Strong.
That was what it felt like. And it was utterly bizarre to realize … that he was picking up a young outside of a clinical setting for the first time in his life. It wasn’t that he had avoided them; he’d just never been interested in the stinky, whiny little bastards.
In the slightest—
Without warning, Rhamp opened his lids just as V was settling him down in the crib-thing next to his sister.
V recoiled. Okay, wow, those eyes were really fucking intense, very direct, and slightly hostile—like the kid knew this happy little transfer was waaaaaaaaaaaaay above Vishous’s pay grade and not something that should have been sanctioned by any kind of self-respecting parental unit.
“Chill, my man,” V murmured as he checked on what Pops was doing over at the other bassinet—and then V followed suit, pulling up the blanket just like Qhuinn was. “S’all good. You good, true?”
Qhuinn looked over. “He’s a fighter, all right. You can already tell.”
V sat back on his heels, crossed his arms, and continued to look down at the little bag of vampire. And what do you know. That infant sonofabitch glared right back at him.
Vishous started to smile. He couldn’t help it. You had to admire that kind of strength—and it obviously came from breeding. How else could you explain why something that was barely more than a month old was ready to take on a grown-ass male who was heavily armed and really fucking cranky.
“My man,” V said as he put his good hand out. “Gimme five.”
Rhamp didn’t know from high-fiving anything, but he did grab onto what was right in front of his face, and oh, how he squeezed.
V laughed deep in his throat. “Yeah, you can fight with me in the field when you’re grown. And soon as you’re big enough to hold a dagger … I’ll make one for you. Forge it myself. You’re gonna be just like your dad, one helluva a fighter. Just like him …”
As Vishous seemed to find a partner in surly crime with Rhamp, Qhuinn found himself staring at the brother. For a lot of reasons.
One, the fact that V seemed to be falling all kinds of enchanted over Rhamp was … well, a person was more likely to see God up close and in person before a male like V was ever going to ohhh and ahhh over a kid. Second, Rhamp was starting to warm up in return, the little guy’s initially hostile response easing, his body relaxing its tension, his expression and those myopic baby-eyes assuming a kind of fondness.
Sort of like if one tiger met another in the wilderness and the pair decided to hang out instead of try to eat each other in a bid for dominance.
But the main reason Qhuinn couldn’t look away?
Shifting his head, he glanced up to the far corner. To those bullet holes in the ceiling.
You’re gonna be just like your dad.
Just like him.
With a wince, Qhuinn rubbed his temples. “We ready?”
Wrath and George turned themselves around. “Door.”
As they left, Qhuinn wondered whether V was going to stay behind and hang with the kids. You know, maybe read some Goodnight Moon. Chill with a little Pat the Bunny.
That kind of shit.
But Vishous came along, so that the three of them and the King’s golden gathered together in the hall.
Right before anyone said anything, Zsadist came out of his door down at the end of the corridor. The brother took one look at them, shook his head, and went riiiiight back into his suite.
Yeah, everyone knew what this was about.
“So here’s the way it’s going to be,” Wrath said without preamble. “Half and half. And she takes ’em to the Sanctuary for her time. Starts tomorrow after sundown when you leave to go out in the field. This is not subject to negotiation, nor is it up for your consideration. This is royal edict and I expect you to behave like a male and not a mental patient about it.”
Qhuinn put his palms back on the sides of his noggin. Like maybe the extra padding would help his brain work. Or something.
“The Sanctuary?” he asked.
“She can travel as a Chosen does and so can they.” Wrath handed V’s cigarette back to the brother. “The Scribe Virgin is not using her quarters anymore, so there’s a place there they can sleep when they need to.”
“I just took some more songbirds up there,” V mused as he took an inhale. “And I betcha those kids would like them. Those chirpy little fuckers are colorful and they sound nice. You know, sensory processing benefits have been shown as a result of—”
The brother recoiled and then looked annoyed as both Qhuinn and Wrath stared at him like he’d changed out of his leathers into a pink dress and bedroom slippers.
“What? I’m just sayin’.” V rolled his eyes. “I don’t care, you know. Not at all.”
“Back to the visitation,” Wrath continued. “I’m assuming your biggest concern about Layla taking them out of here is safety, and there’s no better place for her to be with them—because she can’t be here.”
Qhuinn crossed his arms and stared at the carpet. Then he paced up and down, passing by the marble statuary that had been carved by humans known as Greeks and Romans. The male forms were powerful and positioned in various poses, their empty hands gripping spears that had been lost over the course of centuries—and the accoutrements of conflict weren’t the only things that were missing. A few had limbs that stopped at the elbow or the knee, some accident or another stripping them of that which had been necessary to complete them. One was even headless.
Naturally, he thought of that essential part of him which he had recently lost.
His Blay.
As Qhuinn turned around and came back slowly, V put out his hand-rolled on the sole of his shitkicker and tucked the half-smoked end into the ass pocket of his leathers. Then the brother surreptitiously slipped his un-gloved palm onto the butt of a forty holstered under his arm.
Good move, Qhuinn thought, ’cuz he was getting angry. In fact, even the hypothetical of that Chosen taking his kids anywhere was making that white rage start to vibrate at the base of his skull.
Except then he heard V’s voice in his head.
You’re gonna be just like your dad.
As the words rebounded around and around his cranial blank space, he felt like he was caught between being where he was … and behaving as he should.
In the end, the memory of those bullet holes tipped the scale.
Looking over at Vishous, he said roughly, “You can keep your weapon where it is.”
“Turning over a new leaf?” V drawled without lowering his hand. “And in such a short time, too. So you’re either exhausted or waiting for a better opportunity.”
Qhuinn focused his eyes on the closed door of his young’s suite, seeing through the panels to the room beyond. He pictured the sweet moments like that night-light, and the bassinets with their ribbons, and the little cursive R above Rhamp’s bed and the L over Lyric’s.
“Neither,” he heard himself say after a while. Although he was tired to the point of zombie.
“So you accept my terms,” Wrath prompted.
“I don’t want to have to see Layla.” Qhuinn shook his head. “Ever again. We’re done, she and I. And I want to speak personally with the Amalya, the Directrix. I want to make absolutely sure they can get up and back okay. Also, if Layla tries to hoard them there—”
“She won’t.”
“How do you know that,” Qhuinn said bitterly.
“She told me how important it is for you to see them.”
“And you believed her?”
Wrath touched the side of his nose. “You think I wouldn’t know if she were lying? And gimme a fucking break. She’s not the source of all evil in the world.”
“That would be the Omega,” V chimed in dryly. “In case you forgot.”
“So it’s done.” Qhuinn didn’t bother voicing his disagreement on the subject of the Chosen with them. “Do we have to sign anything?”
The King shook his head. “Not unless you insist. We all know how it’s going to be.”
“Yeah. Guess we do.”
After Wrath, George, and V went off, Qhuinn stayed where he was, staring at the statues. He was of half a mind to go down to Z’s door and let the brother know that the coast was clear. But in the end, he just went back inside the bedroom.
A quick check of the clock, and he knew that it was going to be bottle time in about an hour. Fritz and the doggen took great pride in delivering the milk promptly on schedule and at the perfect temperature. Feeding two at a time was going to be a thing, but he’d figure it out.
God … Blay loved doing the bottle thing. Loved diapers, even the ones that made your eyes water.
Qhuinn went back over to the bassinets and thought about Layla taking the two infants anywhere. He literally couldn’t imagine it—and every bone in his body, every fatherly instinct he had, screamed for him to stop the madness. He didn’t care that she had birthed them. Didn’t give a shit what the King said. And completely disagreed with the general consensus that that traitor in a white robe had any right to be even in the same zip code as his young.
Much less take them away from him.
Looking down at Lyric, he frowned. There was so much of Layla in the little girl, from the shape of the face, to the hands …
The hands were really freaky. A miniature carbon copy.
As his emotions churned, he turned away from her. And focused on Rhamp.