“Charming,” Qhuinn bit out. “If you want to breed rats and cockroaches.”
Let’s go around back, John signed.
There were two alleys that ran down both sides of the shithole, and they randomly picked the one on the left for absolutely no good reason. As they jogged along, they passed by your standard- issue city detritus—nothing new, nothing remarkable, just beer cans, candy wrappers and newspaper pages. The good news was that there were no windows on the flanks of the fugly building, but then it wasn’t like there was anything to see other than the other slaughterhouses and packing facilities—plus maybe the stability of all that load-bearing brick was the reason the roof hadn’t become the floor.
Xhex bounced on the balls of her feet as she ran with the males, the bunch of them falling into a quick rhythm that carried them down the alley efficiently and in relative quiet. The back of the structure was nothing but more red brick streaked with metro-grime. Only difference was that the reinforced-steel door opened out into a small parking lot instead of a surface road.
No lessers. No human pedestrians. Nothing but stray cats, filthy asphalt, and the distant wailing of sirens.
A sense of powerlessness overcame her. Goddamn it, she could show up here or across town at that ridiculous park or out in the sticks. But there was no making the enemy come to her. And they had so little to go on.
“For fuck’s sake,” Qhuinn muttered. “Where the hell’s the party.”
Yup, she wasn’t the only one spoiling for a fight—
From out of nowhere, Xhex felt a tingling go through her, the resonant echo something that at first she didn’t understand. She glanced at the rest of the team. Blay and Qhuinn were studiously not looking at each other. Tohr and John were pacing around. Zsadist had his phone out to report to the Brothers they were at the mark.
That pull...
And then she realized: She was sensing her blood in another.
Lash.
Lash was not far.
Blindly turning on her heel, she headed off... walking, then breaking into a run. She heard her name being shouted, but there was no stopping to explain.
Or stopping her.
SIXTY-FIVE
On the Far Side, as Payne lay in an unnatural position on hard marble, her namesake overwhelmed her—but only above her waist. She felt no agony in her legs or feet, only a disassociated tingling that made her think of fire sparks over damp kindling wood. Directly above her broken body, the Blind King was leaning o’er, his face tight—and the Scribe Virgin had also made an appearance, that black robe and dim light floating around in circles.
It was not a shock that her mother had come to magically fix her. Like that door which had gone from shambles to saved, her darling mother wanted to wipe away everything, neaten it all up, make everything perfect.
“I... refuse,” Payne said again through gritted teeth. “I do not consent.”
Wrath glanced over his shoulder at the Scribe Virgin, then looked back down. “Ah... listen, Payne, that’s not logical. You can’t feel your legs... your back’s probably broken. Why won’t you let Her help you?”
“I am not some inanimate... object She can manipulate at will... to please her whims and fancy—”
“Payne, be reasonable—”
“I am—”>
“You’re going to die—”
“Then my mother can watch me expire!” she hissed—and then promptly moaned. In the wake of her outburst, consciousness ebbed and flowed, her eyes blurring and then regaining focus, Wrath’s shocked expression becoming that by which she measured whether she had fainted or not.
“Wait, she’s...” The king braced his hand against the marble floor to steady his crouching position. “Your... mother?”
Payne cared not that he knew. She had never felt any pride associated with being the birthed daughter of the race’s founder—had in fact sought at every turn to distance herself—but what did it matter now. If she refused “divine” intervention, she would go unto the Fade from here. What pain she did feel told her this.
Wrath twisted around to the Scribe Virgin. “This is the truth?”
No affirmative answer came back to him, but nor did a denial. And there was no chastisement that he had dared offend by his inquiry, either.
The king looked back at Payne. “Jesus... Christ.”
Payne dragged in a breath. “Leave us, dear King. Go forth unto your world and lead your people. You need no help from this side or Her. You are a fine male and a brilliant warrior... ”
“I’m not going to let you die,” he spat.
“You have no choice, do you.”
“The fuck I don’t.” Wrath shot to his feet and glared downward. “Let Her heal you! You’re out of your goddamn mind! You can’t die like this—”
“I most certainly... can.” Payne shut her eyes, a wave of exhaustion rolling through her.
“Do something!” Clearly the king was now yelling at the Scribe Virgin.
Too bad she felt like such hell, Payne thought. Otherwise, she most certainly would have enjoyed this final declaration of independence. Verily, it had come upon the wings of her death, but she had done it. Stood up to her mother. She had gotten her freedom through her refusal.
The Scribe Virgin’s voice was barely louder than breath. “She has denied my help. She is blocking me.”
She certainly was. Her fury was directed at her mother to such an extent, it wasn’t hard to believe that it functioned as a barrier to whatever magic the Scribe Virgin might seek to bear upon the “tragedy” that had occurred.
Which in fact felt more like a blessing.
“You’re all-powerful!” The king’s voice was a rough charge—the frantic nature of which was a tad confusing. But then, he was a male of worth who would no doubt place the blame upon himself. “Just fix her!”
There was a silence and then a weak reply: “I can no more reach her body... than I can her heart.”
Verily, if the Scribe Virgin was finally getting a sense of what it was to be without power... Payne could die in peace.
“Payne! Payne, wake up!”
Her lids lifted. Wrath was inches from her face.
“If I can save you, will you let me?”
She couldn’t understand why she was so important to him. “Leave me—”
“If I can do it, will you let me?”
“You can’t.”
“Answer the fucking question.”
He was such a good male, and the fact that her demise would be upon his conscience e’ermore was a sorrow. “I’m sorry... about this. Wrath. I’m sorry. This is not your doing.”
Wrath turned upon the Scribe Virgin. “Let me save her. Let me save her!”
Upon the demand, the Scribe Virgin’s hood lifted of its own volition, and her once glowing form appeared nothing but a dingy shadow.
The visage and the voice she put forth was that of a beautiful female in tremendous agony: “I did not want this destiny.”
“That and a pile of shit gets you nothing. Will You let me save her.”
The Scribe Virgin shifted her stare to the opaque heaven above her and the tear that fell from her eyelanded on the marble flooring as a diamond, bouncing with a shimmer and a flash.
That lovely object would be the last thing Payne ever saw, she thought as her eyes became so heavy, she could no longer keep her lids open.
“For fuck’s sake,” Wrath bellowed. “Let me—”
The Scribe Virgin’s answer came from a vast distance. “I can fight this no longer. Do what you will, Wrath, son of Wrath. Better she be away from me and alive, than dead upon my floor.”
Everything went quiet.
A door was shut.
Then Wrath’s voice: I need you on the Other Side. Payne, wake up, I need you on the Other Side...