When he went to look at his phone for a third time, he shook his head. “I just spoke with Balz.”
The head of the Bastards nodded once. Xcor was broader than all the others, and with his deformed upper lip, he looked like a bare-knuckle street fighter. He wasn’t crude, though. Mated of the Chosen Layla, adopted sire to Lyric and Rhamp, he was a good guy to have at your six. In your house. Guarding your King. Your shellan.
“And,” the male prompted.
“He wanted cigarettes and food.”
“Okay.”
Vishous glanced at his phone and couldn’t figure out what the fuck his problem was. “I told him after the meeting, I’d roll him some and hook him up with the calories.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Xcor crossed his arms over the steel daggers that were holstered, handles down, onto his thick chest. “He will not speak to me. I call, he never returns it.”
When the urge to check his frickin’ Samsung hit again, V shoved the thing in his ass pocket. Then he gave his hands something to do by lighting up a hand-rolled. As he exhaled, he thought about the conversation he’d had with Balz out behind the Caldwell Police Department’s headquarters.
“What are you leaving out?” Xcor demanded. “You tell me the now. He is mine.”
The Bastard had plenty of Old Country in his accent on a good night. Tonight? His words were almost a language other than English.
“Last evening,” V said, “he made me swear I’d kill him if the shit with Devina came down to it.” As Xcor’s face hardened, V shrugged. “He doesn’t want to saddle you with the deed. And you need to chill. I know he’s serious, but we can get that demon. I know we can.”
Xcor broke away and paced over to the head of the grand staircase. As he stared down the red-carpeted steps to the foyer below, he looked like he wanted to throttle the other Bastard with his bare hands. He also appeared devastated in the manner of someone whose best friend was dying.
It was a hot minute before he came back. When he did, there was no expression on his face at all. He was showing absolutely nothing.
But his words were rough: “He has broken my heart.”
V put up his gloved palm. “Look, I’m sorry I had to shit on your parade, but I need to know. Does he cycle, or something? Like, go through periods of depression and mania?”
“Never. He is steady. Always.”
V stroked his goatee and shook his head. “I don’t get it. Just now he called me, talking about nicotine and a meal. In the middle of everything that’s going on. Like nothing’s wrong.”
“Maybe he got some sleep, finally,” Xcor muttered. “Either way, if he was serious about what he asked you to do, we need to help him in any way we can, whether or not the Book still exists.”
“Agreed.” V narrowed his eyes. “You have to know, though, I gave him my word.”
Xcor’s upper lip peeled off his fangs. “You have a choice.”
“Not when I give my word, I don’t.” V pointed the lit tip of his hand-rolled at the Bastard. “I don’t want us as enemies if it comes down to it. If he kills himself, there’s no Fade, and he knows this. And I’m not in a big hurry to put him in his grave, are we clear. I’m telling you this ahead of time so that you and I are on the same page. You got a problem with it? Then let’s you and me fuck that demon to the wall.”
There was a period of silence, and the tense quiet went on for so long, V wondered whether or not they were going to have an issue right here, right now.
“The one you really have to worry about,” Xcor said grimly, “is Syn.”
* * *
In the dim and dusty storage room at the bookshop, Erika was blacking out from lack of oxygen. The inexplicable, invisible constriction on her body was so great, so unrelenting, that she couldn’t inflate her lungs properly and the shallow panting she could draw in wasn’t enough to keep her going. And shockingly, life-threatening hypoxia wasn’t her main problem.
“He’s mine,” the brunette said into her face, “until I’m bored with him. And in any event, our relationship’s got shit-all to do with you—”
The door broke open and the suspect filled the jambs, the light from behind turning him into a shadow with substance—as opposed to… whatever had been out there.
“Where is she,” he demanded.
I’m here, Erika answered. I’m right here…
She was yelling at him. At least she thought she was. But it was as if the suspect couldn’t see her, hear her. In desperation, she screamed as loud as she could. And screamed again. As sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down into the collar of her coat, she had to give up because remaining partially conscious was more important than repeating her vocal failure.