His only hearth was his ambition.
At least there was plenty afire in it to warm him over the coming winter months.
Throe pressed on, the cold biting through the leather coat he wore, the one that was still stained with the kills he had wrought from nights ago.
Before all had changed.
The house that was his target turned out to be on the left, on the opposite side of the street. It was grand and historic, a white Federal manse with the bone structure of a true beauty and the attended-to upkeep that only the very wealthy could bring to an old estate: No peeling paint for her. No scruffy bushes. No sagging rooflines or porches.
Unlike with the others, there was no way to see inside.
The drapes were all pulled and so heavy he could see no light through them. There were no cars in the driveway, but as he waited, taking cover behind a shrub, he caught sight of two individuals approaching the front door . . . even though they had not arrived at the property by any motorized conveyance.
Because they were vampires who had dematerialized to the place.
Ten minutes later, another visitor arrived. Fifteen minutes after that, two more.
They were discreet, and not everyone used the front door—no doubt to avoid suspicion.
Throe checked his phone, in spite of the fact that he knew he had the location correct. Yes, Abalone was in there.
Keeping to the shadows, he stayed longer, not because he had any particular plans to infiltrate, but rather, because he had yet to formulate them. His ambition, strong as it might be, was not as yet an engine in drive—he had recon to do, weaknesses to discover, strategies to define.
A car turned the corner and came down the street.
As it passed under the streetlight across the way, he saw that it was a Rolls-Royce, a dark one with a trademark pale hood.
And here he was without a motorcar.
Indeed, his lack of prospects was a problem.
How was he going to marshal any resources? he wondered. How was he to support himself whilst he built a coalition?
The answer, when it came, was so obvious, it was as if destiny had spotlit a path through darkness for him. Yes, he thought, that was the way . . .
A moment later, he returned to Abalone’s most generous accommodations with a smile on his face.
FORTY-EIGHT
On his hospital bed, Luchas was in and out of consciousness, waves of pain rolling through him, battering him senseless. When he simply could not take it anymore, he fumbled around with the hand that still had fingers. Finding the call button, he pressed with his thumb until his hearing registered a beep.
The door burst open, and Doc Jane came in. “Luchas?”
“My leg,” he moaned. “Hurts . . .”
She came over, checked machines, IVs, God only knew what. “I’ll get you something for the—”
“The infection . . .” he babbled, turning his head from side to side. “My leg . . .”
He’d had this plan to waste away, but instead, this felt like he’d decided to kill himself by stepping into a fire pit feetfirst—leading with his bad ankle and calf.
On a crazy surge of strength, he sat up and started pulling at the sheets. Doc Jane grasped his shoulders and tried to get him to flatten out—while at the same time, someone else entered the room. Qhuinn—it was his brother.
“Luchas, Luchas, stop—”
That was Qhuinn, coming in close, trying to capture his hands, and get him to lie back. It was not a fair fight. He was weak, so weak, and then he went on a ride, a sudden floating feeling replacing the burning sensation down below.
Glancing to the side, he saw Doc Jane retracting a syringe from the clear plastic tubing that ran into his arm.
Qhuinn’s face appeared above his own, those mismatched eyes intense. “Luchas, relax. We got you.”
“My leg . . .”
The drug was working magic, soothing him sure as if his body had been sunk into a warm bath. The pain was still there; he just didn’t care as much about it.
“It’s getting worse,” he heard himself say. “The infection . . . thought I would be dead by now.”
“Luchas . . .”
Something about his brother’s affect registered, something about his tone of voice, and the tightness in his mouth and eyes.
“What,” Luchas said. “What?”
Qhuinn looked at Doc Jane like he was hoping for a proverbial airlift out of a danger zone.
“Luchas,” his brother said, “I had to save you.”
Save him? But that was the whole point of all this. He wanted out. “What?”
“I told her she could take the leg. To save your life.”
Luchas fell silent. Surely he must have gotten that wrong, the proper translation of what had been spoken misappropriated by the painkillers they’d just given him.
“It was the only option. We were losing you.”
“What did you do to me,” he said slowly. “What did you—”
“Calm down.”
Luchas sat back up off the pillows, an indescribable horror draining the blood from his head. Looking down at his lower body, he found that the thin sheets revealed the contours of the thigh, knee, calf, and foot of his left leg . . . but only the thigh and knee of his right one.
With a shout, he reached for what should have been there, jerking at the flat sheets, pulling at them as if they were somehow hiding what was in fact no longer there.
“What did you do!” He turned on his brother, grabbing at his shirt, yanking, pulling with the set of fingers he had left. “What the fuck did you do!”
“You were dying—”
“Because I wanted to! How could you!”
He batted at Qhuinn, ineffectual fist flying, his ruined hand slapping.
Qhuinn did not defend himself. He just allowed the beating, such as it was, to happen—not that there was much to the attack. And Luchas didn’t last long. Energy soon spent, he collapsed back against the pillow, his hollow chest pumping up and down, blood running up his IV line, vision flaring in and out of clarity.
And still the limb that wasn’t there hurt.
“Get out,” he said numbly. “I don’t want to see you again.”
Turning his face to the wall, he heard quiet conversation and then the door opened and closed softly.
“How is your pain level now?” Doc Jane asked.
“Why does it hurt . . . ?” he mumbled. “You took it away.”
God, he was even more mangled now, still more of who and what he had been was gone.
“It’s called phantom-limb pain. But the sensation is very real.”
“Did you take . . . were you the one who cut it off?”
“I was.”
“Then get out of here, too. I didn’t consent to this—”
“You were dying—”
“I’m not listening. Get out.”
There was a pause, and he detested the way she looked down at him, all kind, concerned, caring.
“In time, Luchas, when you feel better—”
He ripped his head around. “You denied me my death. You butchered my body without my permission. So you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m completely uninterested in anything you have to say.”
The doctor closed her eyes briefly. “I’ll send Ehlena in with some food.”
“Don’t bother. You’ve just delayed the inevitable. I intend to finish the job myself now.”
Luchas went for the IV that ran into his arm, pulling at it until the thing sprang loose, clear liquid and red blood going everywhere—
People came through every door there was, racing in with panic, grabbing at him, talking loudly. He fought against them, writhing and shoving, struggling to stay upright because of his missing calf and foot. . . .
Someone must have given him another shot, because all of a sudden his body went lax. Even though his brain was ordering all kinds of movement, nothing was responding.
As his eyes rolled around, he caught dim sight of Qhuinn standing in the doorway, his big, healthy, strong body blocking the way out.
It might as well have been the door unto the Fade the male was in the way of.