Xcor waited until he sensed Layla had fully dematerialized away from the ranch, and then he went on a search mission of the little house, quickly moving through all the closets and drawers and possible hiding places in the bedrooms. His assumption was that if the Brothers ever stayed here, they would keep weapons where they slept—but ultimately, he found nothing.
Frustrating.
He did locate adequate outerwear for himself, however. There was a coat closet on the way to the door out into the garage, and therein he found a parka and snow pants that were big enough to fit him, as well as a pair of ski gloves and a skullcap. Unfortunately, they were all black, and in the snow, they were going to make him stand out like a sparkler in the pitch dark—but beggars, choosers, and all that.
There was, however, something else in there that made up for the potentially dangerous eye-catch of it all.
After gearing up, he headed out into the garage, to the Range Rover in which they had evac’d from the forest the night before. The SUV looked as if it had been through a salt bath, great white streaks all down its sides and up its front grille and hood. No keys, and he wasn’t surprised. Vishous would have taken them with him.
The vehicle was unlocked, however, and what he was hoping to find turned out to be in its back compartment: From an emergency box, he took three red flares, and tucked them into the parka, securing them by zipping up the front of the puffy jacket.
And then he went back inside, engaged the security system, and quickly departed through the slider in the kitchen. He didn’t expect Layla to come back during the night, but in the event that she did return, he wanted her in a house that had been at least nominally secured. Further, he had no way to lock up the place behind himself, assuming he wanted to reenter and spend the day here.
Which he wasn’t sure would be the case.
Out on the porch, the weather conspired a great assault against him, the snow falling in heavy bands that came with blustery winds, as if there were storms within the storm. Visibility was poor, and he was willing to bet there would be few humans out. This would work in his favor.
Closing his eyes, he dematerialized …
… and re-formed in a neighborhood about fifteen miles to the southwest.
As he came into his corporeal body once more, he was in a cul-de-sac of two-story colonials, the houses at a more expensive price point than the ranch, but very far from mansion status. All around, there were lots of lights on, whether it was in living rooms or bedrooms, on garage corners or in trees, but with the thickly descending flakes, the illuminations were isolated, carrying not far at all.
Leaning into the wind, he walked the rest of the way, his heavy boots shuffling powdery snow out of his path, his hearing going in and out of acuity depending on the direction of the gusts. The specific property he was after was in the back, and like the others, it too had lights on inside. Stopping out in front, he watched through the windows as a lanky human male, of some fifteen or sixteen years, strode into the sitting room and said something to a middle-aged human female who was sitting before a lit hearth and talking on a cell phone.
Xcor went up the pathway that was no pathway at all, the snow falling with such density that no one was attempting to plow or shovel prior to the storm’s cessation. When he got to the front door, on which an evergreen wreath had been affixed, he reached out and tried the brass handle.
It was unlocked, so he opened things up and walked right in.
Everything went in slow motion in the sitting room. The young male looked over his shoulder, and then leapt back in alarm. The older female jumped to her feet, whatever hot beverage she had been consuming from a mug going flying.
Xcor shut the door as the son took cover behind the mother.
Coward.
And yet he felt a stab of some emotion he did not wish to entertain as the mother shoved the boy further to the rear of her, even though he was taller than her and probably a little stronger.
“Wh-what … what do you want?” she asked.
As a strand of brown hair flopped in her face, she blew it out of her eyes; her hands were too busy holding her son in relative safety.
“There’s—” Her voice squeaked. “My purse is in the kitchen on the counter. Take what you want, there’s … I have jewelry, upstairs. Just please … don’t hurt us.”
Xcor regarded the high color in her cheeks and her trembling form from what felt like a vast distance. Then he glanced around. The furniture had changed since he and his bastards had stayed under this roof, the sectional sofa gone along with the perpetual layers of pizza boxes and duffel bags, weapons and ammunition, boots and knives.
“I have not come for your money,” Xcor said in a low voice.
She closed her eyes briefly, her face abruptly going white.
“Nor have I come for you.” Xcor held up his palm because he knew they would both focus on it. “I am not a defiler of females or young.”
As the eyes of the humans locked on what he had raised, he went into their brains and froze everything about them, such that all they did was blink and breathe. Meanwhile, down on the floor, the cell phone, which the mother had dropped, was still engaged, a panicked voice coming out of a tiny little speaker and demanding someone answer.
’Twas a good guess that talking to a vampire would not assuage whoever it was of their fear.
Leaving the human who was getting worked up to their exercise for the evening, Xcor stomped both of his boots on the mat to get most of the snow off of them, then took the stairs two at a time. Up at the top, he went into the master suite, which had been nicely redecorated in an elegant white and blue scheme.
No more hideous ruffles and frills. And gone, too, were the rosebuds that had peppered the pink bathroom.
However offensive to the eye it had all once been, he spent no time appreciating the improvements in decor. He proceeded directly to the tall, narrow closet beside the shower where the towels would have been kept had he had any when he had stayed here—
Oh, of course, now the shelves were filled with precisely folded, bright white terry-cloth stacks.
Dropping down on his knees, he pulled out cleaning supplies at the bottom, exposing the tile floor that, blessedly, the homeowner had left as was. The panel he had previously created was one foot by one foot and all the way in the back, and he had to strip off his gloves to locate the lip and free the thing with his fingertips. Then he stretched his arm out and dipped his hand into the hidden space.
The pair of semiautomatic forties were exactly where he had left them.
So, too, the box of ammunition.
Xcor replaced the top of the secret compartment only because it made the amount of mental shit he had to tidy up in those humans downstairs a little less.
Leaving the bathroom, he strode by the bed, and then paused in the doorway. Glancing back, he thought of the time he and his males had spent in the house.
And was surprised by how much he wanted to see them again.
The descent took no time at all, and then he was back on the first floor with the mother and son. They were still standing together, the female shielding what she loved and sought to protect with the very body she had brought it forth unto this world with.
He delved into their minds once again. “You heard a noise. You went outside to check. It was nothing. When you returned, your wet boots left water on this mat. Odd night. Probably the wind. Good thing it was nothing.”
Xcor dematerialized outside, and he stood for a moment to watch them reawaken, the pair of them looking at each other like they couldn’t figure out why their hands were clutched together. And then the mother reached up to her temple and rubbed at it as if her head hurt, and the young male glanced around and cracked his neck.
They both looked toward the door.
As the female bent over and picked up the phone, Xcor took himself on his way once more.
The Sanctuary was indeed a sacred place of peace and tranquility, and as Layla sat out by the Scribe Virgin’s fountain with both of her young, she took a deep breath. The three of them were arranged on a soft, thick blanket, and the temperature was perfect, the air as gentle and warm as bath water. Overhead, the milky white sky was bright, but not glaring, and the white marble of the courtyard glowed as if from within.
Lyric and Rhamp had made the trip like champs, and Cormia, as if sensing that Layla wanted some private time with them, had departed readily once the twins were settled out here by the sparkling water and the blooming tree that was full of new songbirds.
Tucking her feet under her, she dangled a yellow tulip over one young and then the other … and then she brought it back to the first.
“Isn’t this beautiful? Tulip … this is a tulip.”
Indeed, the petals were as the green grass and the blue water were: resplendent and mysteriously jewel-like in their coloring. It was something about the light here, the way it came from nowhere and fell with no particular angle—or mayhap there was some sort of sacred magic at work.
And it was funny. She could tell that her precious ones were gathering strength from the energy herein, their cheeks growing pink, their eyes shining with an extra healthy brightness, their movements more coordinated.
Yes, she thought. They had her blood in them for sure. Even Rhamp, who looked so much like Qhuinn it was eerie, was very obviously her son. Members of the Chosen always did better when they came here to recharge.
So maybe this was a good thing—
A strange sense that she was being watched made her twist around. But there was no one in the colonnade, and nobody in the open archway into what had been the Scribe Virgin’s private quarters. No one anywhere, as it were.
She remembered when things had been so very different, when Chosen had borne and raised the next generations of Chosen and Brothers here and had served the Scribe Virgin, adhering to her schedule of worship and rest and celebration. There had been joy and happiness, purpose and fulfillment—although there had been such sacrifices.
And no color. Anywhere.
Layla reached out and stroked Lyric’s soft cheek. Much as she still revered the Scribe Virgin and the traditions that had been so valued and respected, she was glad that her daughter would not be forced into a role that had no way out and was solely in service of others.
Yes, as much as she missed the old days and the old ways, and as sad as she was to have this marvelous place so empty and lifeless, she had no regrets.
She was of the generation who knew both servitude and liberation, and the latter was certainly not without its difficulties and tragedies. But at least now she had a sense of who she was as an individual, and she had desires that were her own and unlegislated by anyone else. She also had two young who were going to be free to choose who they wanted to be and where they wanted to go in life.
It was always better to follow a bumpy course of one’s own than a smooth but intractable trail set by another.
The former was harder, yet far more vital. The latter was like a living death … except you didn’t know you were dying because you were in a coma.