Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Butch had been the last to see his sister Janie, through the back window of a car, as those boys had driven her off to be gang-raped and murdered.
Lowering his eyes, V tilted his head and brought the cigarette to the flame. It was nearly impossible to draw in a sufficient inhale to make the lighting happen. When he exhaled because there was no more room in his lungs, he was surprised to see a plume of smoke come out.
Killing the flame, Butch put the lighter back in V’s hand. “We see too much of our younger selves in the lives of our children. And yes, it makes us do better if we aren’t pieces of shit. But, God, it fucking hurts.”
Later, V would try to piece out what happened next. Who stepped into who. What else was said—was there anything? Did he speak? Did Butch?
All he knew was that his best friend was holding him.
As he started to weep.
For the young he had once been… and what had been done to him.
Also for a truth that he had refused to think about, and certainly would not be sharing with anybody, ever. Not Butch, not Jane. Because it was too terrifying to contemplate.
Who was he to try to take care of any young male? He’d had no fucking example about how to be a father.
Especially to someone who’d already been deserted in this cold, cruel world.
“I got you,” Butch said roughly. “Just let it out and we never have to speak about this again.”
All V could do was shake his head. The cop knew exactly what he had to hear, and through his swirling sadness, he thought of that first night they’d met, back at Darius’s.
There were strangers you were supposed to have in your life. The way you tripped over them was always coincidental, and the years they stayed proved that family wasn’t about the blood. It was about the bond.
The shit was written in the stars, really.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Allhan re-formed, it was in front of a sleek modern house that was white as the snow, and stark as the drifts that backed up against its flanks and drape-pulled windows. Talk about blending in. There were no exterior lights on, not even motion-activated ones triggered by his arrival. In the moon’s blue wash of illumination, it looked deserted.
Maybe this was just Shuli’s version of lying low in the midst of humans?
A little shoveled path had been cleared to the front door, and he walked up it feeling like he should be anywhere else.
But he had to do this.
Arriving at the entry, he paused and looked around. Tested the air with his nose. The sense that he was being watched made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he had a sudden thought that he needed a weapon on him. Not that he’d know what to do with it.
Just as he went to hit the summoning bell, the panels opened wide, revealing a black hole of an interior.
Shuli himself was playing the role of butler, and wasn’t that a surprise. The male was also grim as a mortician. “Al, you can’t be here.”
As Allhan’s mind spun with everything he needed to say, he scrambled for words. When he came out with nothing but a weird clicking sound, he thought, fuck, this was worse than even the very worst hypotheticals he’d tried on for size before he’d left the clearing.
“L-look, I just want to say I’m s-sorry—”
“Now’s not the time.” Shuli leaned around and seemed to be searching for something out on the lawn. “We’ll talk later—”
“I’m r-really sorry about—”
“Fuck, will you just go!”
Allhan took a deep breath. He wanted to tell the truth: That it was his fault those males had died. That all of this was his fault.
“I c-can’t, Shuli. I can’t go.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you—”
With a quick grab, Shuli fisted the front of Allhan’s sweatshirt and hauled him into a foyer, slamming the door and putting his back against it.
As Allhan’s keen, post-transition eyes adjusted to all the darkness, he looked the aristocrat up and down. No silk pajamas and velvet slippers tonight. No slim-cut suit and cologne, either. The aristocrat was dressed for war, in full leathers, with weapons strapped to his chest, his hips, his thigh.
A shiver went through Allhan’s entire body.
“You th-think they’re coming here,” he said. “You think… the interrogations… g-gave up your address.”
When Shuli broke off and stalked into whatever room was off to the left, Allhan followed the heavy footfalls, but then stopped quick. Which is what you did when you found yourself in the middle of an arsenal of weapons pointed at the front door, pointed to another archway, pointed into the foyer.
“Hey, Al,” came a dry greeting. “What’s doing.”
Rhampage, a.k.a. Rhamp, came into focus. The other fighter was in the far corner, wedged into the juncture of two windowless walls. Next to him on the floor, some kind of vicious-looking gun the size of a desk had been propped up on a tripod.