Lover Revealed (60 page)

"I would offer my services to you. The clinic's, I mean. Free of charge." He pushed his glasses up higher on his straight nose. "The females and their young who stay here will need medical care."

"Thank you. Thank you… for that."

"I will also tell the nursing staff to be on the lookout for signs of abuse. We will refer to you any cases we find."

"That would be most appreciated."

He inclined his head. "We are pleased to be of service."

As her cell phone went off, she said, "Good-bye, Havers."

His eyes widened and she realized it was the first time she'd ever dismissed him.

But then change was good… and he'd better get used to the new world order.

The phone rang again. "Shut the door behind you, if you don't mind."

After he left, she glance at her cell's caller ID and sighed in relief: Butch, and thank God for it. She so needed to hear his voice.

"Hi," she said. "You'll never believe who just—"

"Can you come home? Right now?"

Her hand closed tight on the phone. "What's wrong? Are you hurt—"

"I'm fine." His voice was way too level. Nothing but false calm. "Except I need you to come home. Now."

"I'm leaving this moment."

She grabbed her coat, shoved her phone into her pocket, and went looking for her one and only staff member.

When she found the older female
doggen
, she said, "I have to go."

"Mistress, you seem upset. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you. And I'll be back."

"I shall take care of everything in your stead."

She squeezed the female's hand and then hurried outside. Standing on the front lawn in the raw spring night, she struggled to calm herself enough to dematerialize. When it didn't work immediately, she thought she was going to have to call Fritz for a pickup: She was not only worried, she needed to feed, so it was possible she wasn't going to be able to do it.

But then she felt herself go. As soon as she materialized in front of the Pit, she barged into the vestibule. Its inner lock sprang free before she even put her face in front of the camera, and Wrath was on the other side of the heavy panels of wood and steel.

"Where's Butch?" she demanded.

"I'm right here." Butch stepped into her line of sight, but didn't come near her.

In the stark silence that followed, Marissa walked in slowly, feeling as though the air had turned into a slush she had to fight her way through. Numbly, she heard Wrath shut the door, and from the corner of her eye she saw Vishous rise to his feet from behind his computers. As V walked around the desk, the three males traded looks.

Butch held out his hand. "Come here, Marissa."

When she took his palm, he led her to the computers and pointed to one of the monitors. Up on the screen was… text. A whole lot of dense text. Actually, there were two sections of documents, the field split down the middle.

"What is this?" she asked.

Butch gently sat her in the chair and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "Read the passage in italics."

"Which side?"

"Either. They're identical."

She frowned and ran her eyes over something that seemed almost a poem:

There shall be one to bring the end before the master,

a fighter of modern time found in the seventh of the

twenty-first,

and he shall be known in the numbers he bears:

One more than the compass he apperceives,

Though mere four points to make at his right,

Three lives has he,

Two scores on his fore,

and with a single black eye, in one well will he be

birthed and die.

Confused, she scanned what was around it, only to have horrible phrases jump out at her: "Lessening Society," "Induction," "Master." She looked up to the title on the page and shuddered.

"Dear God… this is about…
lessers
."

As Butch heard the icy panic in her voice, he sank down on his knees beside her. "Marissa—"

"What the hell am I reading about here?"

Yeah, how to answer that one. He was still having a hard time coming to terms with it all himself. "It seems as though… I am this." He tapped the smooth screen and then looked at his deformed pinkie, the one that was shriveled up tight to his palm… the one he couldn't straighten… or point with.

Marissa shifted away from him warily. "And
this
is… what?"

Thank God V spoke up. "What you're looking at is two different translations of the Lessening Society's Scrolls. One we had from before. One is from a laptop that I confiscated from the slayers about ten days ago. The Scrolls are the handbook of the Society and the section you're looking at is what we call the Destroyer Prophecy. We've known about it for generations, ever since the first copy of the Scrolls fell into our possession."

As Marissa's hand went to her throat, she was obviously getting the gist of where they were headed. She started shaking her head. "But it's all riddles. Surely—"

"Butch has all the markers." V lit up a hand-rolled and exhaled. "He can sense
lessers
, so that's one more than north, south, east, or west he apperceives. His pinkie is misshapen from the transition, so he has only four fingers he can point with. He's had three lives, childhood, adulthood, and now as a vampire, and you could argue he was birthed here in Caldwell when we turned him. But the real telltale is that scar on his belly. It's the black eye and one of two scores on his forefront. Assuming you count his belly button as the first."

She looked at Wrath. "So what does this mean?"

The king took a deep breath. "It means Butch is our very best weapon in the war."

"How…" Marissa's voice drifted.

"He can shortcut a
lesser's
return to the Omega. See, during the induction, the Omega shares a part of himself with each slayer and that piece comes back to the master when the
lesser
is killed. As the Omega is a finite being, this return is critical. He needs to get back what he puts in them if he's to continue to populate his fighters." Wrath nodded toward Butch. "The cop breaks that part of the cycle. So the more
lessers
Butch consumes, the weaker the Omega will become until there is, literally, nothing left of him. It's like chipping away at a boulder."

Marissa's eyes slid back to Butch. "Consume exactly how?"

Oh, man, she wasn't going to like this part. "I just… inhale them. Take them into me."

The terror in her eyes killed him, it really did. "Won't you become one, then? What stops you from being taken over?"

"I don't know." Butch settled back on his heels, terrified that she would bolt. Not that he'd blame her. "But Vishous helps me. In the way he healed me with his hand before."

"How many times have you done… whatever to them?"

"Three. Including the one tonight."

Her eyes squeezed shut. "And when did you first do it?"

"About two weeks ago."

"So none of you know the long-term effects, do you?"

"But I'm okay—"

Marissa burst up from the chair and walked out from behind the desk, her eyes on the floor, her arms wrapped around herself. When she stopped in front of Wrath, it was to glare at him. "And you want to use him?"

"This is about the race's very survival."

"What about his?"

Butch got to his feet. "I want to be used, Marissa."

She looked over at him with hard eyes. "May I remind you, you almost died from the Omega's contamination?"

"That was different."

"Was it? If you're talking about putting more and more of that evil in your system again, exactly how is it different?"

"I told you, V helps me process it. It doesn't stay with me." He got no reply to that. She just stood stock-still in the middle of the room, so self-contained he didn't know how to reach her. "Marissa… we're talking about purpose. My purpose."

"Funny, you told me in bed this morning that I was your life."

"You are. But this is different."

"Ah, yes, everything is different when you want it to be." She shook her head. "You couldn't save your sister, but now… now you have a shot at saving thousands of vampires. Your hero complex must be thrilled."

Butch bit down hard, jaw flexing. "That is a cheap shot."

"But true." Abruptly, she grew weary. "You know, I am really sick and tired of violence. And fighting. And people getting hurt. And you told me you weren't going to get involved with this war."

"I was human then—"

"Oh, please—"

"Marissa, you've seen what those
lessers
can do. You've been at your brother's clinic when the bodies have been brought in. How can I not fight?"

"But you're not just talking about hand-to-hand combat. You're taking it to a whole different level.
Consuming
slayers. How can you be sure you won't turn into one?"

From out of nowhere, fear sliced through him, and as her eyes narrowed on his face, he knew he didn't hide the anxiety fast enough.

She shook her head. "You're worried about that, too, aren't you? You're not certain you won't turn into one of them."

"Not true. I won't lose myself. I know it."

"Oh, really. Then why are you holding on to your cross like that, Butch?"

He glanced down. Shit, his hand was locked on the crucifix so tight his knuckles were white and his shirt was all bunched up. He forced himself to drop his arm.

Wrath's voice cut in. "We need him, Marissa. The race needs him."

"
What about his safety?"
She let out a sob, but then quickly smothered it. "I'm sorry, but I—I can't smile and say Go get 'em. I spent days under quarantine watching him—" She wheeled toward Butch. "Watching
you
nearly die. It almost killed me. And the thing is, back then it wasn't your choice, but this… this is a choice, Butch."

She had a point. But he couldn't back down. He was what he was, and he had to believe he was strong enough not to fall into the darkness. "I don't want to be a kept pet, Marissa. I want a purpose—"

"You have a pur—"

"—and that purpose is
not
going to be sitting at home waiting for you to get back from your life. I'm a man, not a piece of furniture." When she just stared at him, he said, "I can't sit on my hands when I know there's something I can do to help the race—
my
race." He went over to her. "Marissa—"

"I can't… I can't do this." She put her hands out of his reach and backed up. "I've seen you almost die too many times. I won't… I can't do this, Butch. I can't live like that. I'm sorry, but you're on your own. I will not sit back and watch you destroy yourself."

She turned and walked out of the Pit.

* * *

Up at the main house, John waited in the library, feeling like he was about to jump out of his skin. As the clock chimed, he looked down at his little chest and the tie that was hanging off of his neck. He'd wanted to look nice, but the getup probably came across like he was posing for a school picture.

When he heard fast footsteps, he glanced up at the open double doors. Marissa walked by, heading for the staircase and looking desolate. Butch was tight on her heels, looking worse.

Oh, no… He hoped they would be okay. He liked them both so much.

When a door shut with a bang upstairs, he walked over to the diamond-pane windows and stared outside. As he put his hand up to the glass, he thought about what Wrath had said—that Tohr was alive, somewhere.

He so wanted to believe that.

"Sire?" When he turned at the sound of Fritz's voice, the old man smiled. "Your guest has arrived. Shall I show her in?"

John swallowed. Twice. Then nodded. Fritz disappeared and a moment later a woman appeared in the doorway. Without looking at John, she bowed to him and stayed parallel to the floor in supplication. She seemed to be about six feet tall and was wearing something like a white toga. Her blond hair was coiled on top of her head, and though he couldn't see her face now, the split-second eyeball he'd gotten of it stuck with him.

She was beyond beautiful. Straight into angel territory.

There was a long silence, during which all he could do was stare.

"Your grace," she said softly. "May I meet thine eyes?"

He opened his mouth. Then started to nod frantically.

Except she just stayed as she was. Well, duh, she couldn't see him. Shit.

"Your grace?" Now her voice wavered a little. "Perhaps… you would care for another of us?"

John went over to her and lifted his hand to touch her lightly. Um, where, though? That toga thing was low-cut and slit up the sleeves as well as down the front of the skirt… God, she smelled good.

He tapped her awkwardly on the shoulder, and she inhaled as if he'd surprised her.

"Your grace?"

With a little pressure on her arm, he brought her upright.
Whoa
… her eyes were really green. Like summer grapes. Or the inside of a lime.

He gestured to his throat and then made a cutting motion with his hand.

Her perfect face tilted to the side. "You do not speak, your grace?"

He shook his head, a little surprised Wrath hadn't mentioned it. Then again, the king had a lot of other things on his mind.

In response, Layla's eyes positively glowed, and as she smiled, she knocked him out. Her teeth were perfect and her fangs were… incredibly lovely. "Your grace, the vow of silence is to be commended. Such self-discipline. You shall be a warrior of great power, you who have been bred from Darius son of Marklon's line."

Good Lord. She was seriously impressed by him. And hell, if she wanted to think he'd taken a vow, that was fine. No reason to tell her he had a defect.

"Perhaps you would like to have knowledge of me?" she said. "So that you are assured you shall have what you want when you are in need?"

He nodded and glanced over at the couch, thinking he was glad he'd brought a pad with him. Maybe they could sit there for a while and get to know one another—