That evening, as the sun fell and the shutters rose up from the windows, Mary decided she could get used to being pampered by Rhage. What she couldn't handle was any more food. She put her fingers on his wrist, stopping the forkload of mashed potatoes coming at her.
"No, I'm stuffed," she said as she lay back against the pillows. "My stomach's about to burst."
With a smile, he picked up the tray of dishes and put it on the bedside table, then sat down next to her again. He'd been gone for most of the day, working, she assumed, and she'd been grateful for the sleep she'd gotten. Her exhaustion was getting worse by the day, and she could feel herself sliding into sickness. Her body felt as if it were struggling to maintain its regular processes, little aches and pains cropping up all over. And the bruises were back: Black and blue marks were blooming under her skin at an alarming rate. Rhage had been horrified when he'd seen them, convinced he'd hurt her during sex. It had taken a lot of talking to get him to realize they weren't his fault.
Mary focused on Rhage, not wanting to think about the illness, or the doctor's appointment that was coming soon. God, he didn't look any better than she felt, although he was keyed up, not grinding to a halt. The poor man couldn't settle down. As he sat beside her on the bed, he was rubbing his thighs with his palms, looking like he had a case of poison ivy or the chicken pox. She was about to ask him what was wrong when he spoke up.
"Mary, will you let me do something for you?"
Even though sex should be the last thing on her mind, she eyed the biceps that stretched his black shirt. "Do I get to pick what it is?"
A soft growl came out of him. "You shouldn't look at me like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to mount you when you do."
"Don't fight the feeling."
Like the strike of dual matches, his pupils flashed white. It was the oddest thing. One moment they were black. The next, pale light was shining out of them.
"Why does that happen?" she asked.
His shoulders thickened as he bore down on his legs and braced himself. Abruptly he stood up and paced around. She could sense an energy coming off of him, out of him.
"Rhage?"
"You don't need to worry about it."
"That hard tone in your voice tells me maybe I should."
He smiled at her and shook his head. "No. You don't. About the favor. Our race has a physician, Havers. Will you let me give him access to your medical files? Maybe our science can help you."
Mary frowned. A vampire doctor. Talk about exploring your alternative therapies.
Yeah, but what exactly did she have to lose?
"Okay. Except I don't know how to get copies¡ª"
"My brother, V, is a computer god. He can hack into anything, and most of your stuff should be online. All I need are names and places. Dates, too, if you have them."
When he grabbed paper and a pen, she told him where she had been treated as well as the names of her doctors. After he'd written it all down, he stared at the piece of paper.
"What?" she asked.
"There are so many." His eyes lifted to hers. "How bad was it, Mary?"
Her first impulse was to tell him the truth: that she'd had two rounds of chemo and a bone-marrow transplant and had just squeaked by. But then she thought about the night before, when her emotions had gotten so out of control. She was a box of dynamite right now and her disease was the best fuse around. The last thing she needed was to get tripped again, because Christ knew nothing good had come of the last two times she'd lost it. The first she'd cried all over him. The second she'd... Well, biting his lip had been the least of it.
Shrugging, lying, hating herself, she murmured, "It was okay. I was just glad when it was over."
His eyes narrowed.
Just as someone pounded on the door.
Rhage's stare didn't waver, in spite of the urgent sound. "Someday you're going to learn to trust me."
"I do trust you."
"Bullshit. And here's a quick tip. I hate being lied to."
The heavy knocking started up again.
Rhage went over and opened the door, ready to tell whoever it was to screw off. He had a feeling he and Mary were about to get into an argument, and he wanted to get the thing over with.
Tohr was on the other side. Looking like he'd been hit with a stun gun.
"What the hell happened to you?" Rhage asked while stepping into the hall. He shut the door partway.
Tohr sniffed the air drifting out of the bedroom. "Jesus. You've marked her, haven't you?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"No, it makes this all easier in a way. The Scribe Virgin has spoken."
"Tell me."
"You should be with the rest of the brothers to hear¡ª"
"Fuck that. I want to know now, Tohr."
When the brother finished speaking in the Old Language, Rhage took a deep breath. "Give me ten minutes."
Tohr nodded. "We're in Wrath's study."
Rhage went back into his room and shut the door. "Listen, Mary, I've got some business with my brothers. I might not be back tonight."
She stiffened and her eyes dropped away from his face.
"Mary, it's not females, I swear to you. Just promise me you'll be here when I get back." As she hesitated, he went over and stroked her cheek. "You said you don't have a doctor's appointment until Wednesday. What's another night? You could spend more time in the tub. You told me how much you like that."
She smiled a little. "You are a manipulator."
"I like to think of myself more as an outcome engineer."
"If I stay one more day, you're just going to try to talk me into another and another..."
He bent down and kissed her hard, wishing he had more time, wanting to be with her, inside of her, before he left. But hell, even if he'd had hours to spare, he wouldn't be able to do that. The tingling and the hum in him was about to vibrate his body into midair.
"I love you," he said. Then he pulled back, took off his watch, and put the Rolex in her hand. "Keep this for me."
He went over to the closet and shed his clothes. Way in the back, behind another two pairs of pajamas he was never going to use, he found his ceremonial black robe. He drew the heavy silk on over his naked skin and belted it with a thick strip of braided leather.
When he came out, Mary said, "You look like you're going to a monastery."
"Tell me you will be here when I come back."
After a moment, she nodded.
He pulled the robe's hood into place. "Good. That's good."
"Rhage, what's going on?"
"Just wait for me. Please, wait for me." As he got to the door, he took one last look at her in his bed.
This was their first good-bye that had teeth, their first separation where, when they were reunited, he'd feel the awful distance of time and experience. He knew tonight was going to be hard to get through. He just hoped that when he came out on the other side, the aftermath of the punishment didn't linger too long. And that she was still with him.
"I'll see you later, Mary," he said as he shut her in his room.
When he walked into Wrath's study, he closed the double doors behind himself. All the brothers were there, and no one was talking. The scent of unease permeated the room, smelling like rubbing alcohol.
Wrath came forward from behind the desk, looking as rigid as Tohr had. From behind his wraparound sunglasses, the king's stare was piercing, something felt, though not seen.
"Brother."
Rhage bowed his head. "My lord."
"You wear that robe as if you want to stay with us."
"Of course I do."
Wrath nodded once. "Here is the pronouncement, then. The Scribe Virgin has determined that you offended the Brotherhood in both defying Tohr's orders and by bringing a human onto our turf. I'll be honest with you, Rhage, she wants to override my decision about Mary. She wants the human out."
"You know where that leads."
"I told her you were prepared to walk."
"That probably cheered her up." Rhage smirked. "She's been trying to get rid of me for years."
"Well, it's your choice now, brother. If you want to remain with us, and if the human is to continue to be sheltered within these walls, the Scribe Virgin has demanded that you offer a rythe."
The ritualistic way of assuaging offense was a logical punishment. When a rythe was tendered and accepted, the offender allowed the object of his insult free use of a weapon against him without putting up a defense. The offended could choose anything from a knife to a set of brass knuckles to a gun, provided the wound inflicted was not mortal.
"I so offer the rythe," Rhage said.
"It must be one to each of us."
There was a collective groan in the room. Someone muttered, "Fuck."
"I so offer them."
"Be it as you wish, brother."
"But"¡ªRhage hardened his voice¡ª"I offer them only on the understanding that if the ritual is observed, Mary stays for however long I want."
"That was my agreement with the Scribe Virgin. And you should know she came around only after I told her you wanted to take the human as your shellan. I think Her Holiness was shocked you could even consider that kind of commitment." Wrath looked over his shoulder. "Tohrment is to choose the weapon that all of us will use."
"The tri-whip," Tohr said in a low voice.
Oh, shit. This was going to hurt.
There were more mutters.
"So be it," Wrath said.
"Except what about the beast?" Rhage asked. "It can come out when I'm in pain."
"The Scribe Virgin will be there. She said she has a way of keeping it at bay."
But of course she would. She'd cooked the damn thing up in the first place.
"We're going to do this tonight, right?" Rhage glanced around the room. "I mean, there's no reason to wait."
"We'll go to the Tomb now."
"Good. Let's get it over with."
Zsadist was the first to leave as the group got to their feet and worked out logistics in quiet tones. Tohr needed a robe, did someone have an extra one? Phury announced he'd bring the weapon. V offered the Escalade to take them all down together.
The latter was good thinking. They were going to need something to get him home in after the rythe was over.
"My brothers?" he said.
They all stopped talking, stopped moving. He looked at each one, noting the grim casts to their faces. They hated this, and he understood perfectly. Hurting any one of them would have been unbearable for him. It was much better to be on the receiving end.
"I have one request, my brothers. Don't bring me back here, okay? When it's over, take me somewhere else. I don't want Mary to see me like that."
Vishous spoke up. "You can stay at the Pit. Butch and I will take care of you."
Rhage smiled. "Twice in a less than a week. You two could hire out as nursemaids after this."
V clapped him on the shoulder and then left. Tohr followed, doing the same. Phury gave him a hug as he passed by.
Wrath paused on his way out.
When the king remained silent, Rhage squeezed the male's bicep. "I know, my lord. I'd feel the same way if I were you. But I'm tough. I can take it."
Wrath reached into the hood and took Rhage's face into his palms, tilting it down. He kissed Rhage's forehead and held the contact between them, a pledge of respect from the king to his warrior, a reaffirmation of their bond.
"I'm glad you're staying with us," Wrath said softly. "I would have hated to lose you."
About fifteen minutes later, they reconvened down in the courtyard by the Escalade. The brothers were all barefoot and wearing black robes. With the hoods up, it was hard to tell who was who, except for Phury. His prosthetic foot showed, and he had a bulging duffel bag slung over his shoulder. No doubt he'd thrown bandages and rolling tape into the thing as well as the weapon.
Everyone was silent as V drove them behind the house and into the mountain's thick beard of pines and hemlocks. The road was a single dirt lane, crowded by the evergreen trees.
As they shot along, Rhage couldn't stand the tense silence a minute longer.
"Oh, for God's sake, my brothers. You're not going to kill me. Could we lighten up a little?"
No one would look at him.
"V, put on some Luda or Fifty, will ya? All this quiet is boring."
Phury's laugh came out of the robe on the right. "Only you could try to turn this into a party."
"Well, hell, you've all wanted to nail me a good one for some shit I've popped, right? This is your lucky day." He clapped Phury on the thigh. "I mean, come on, my brother, I've ridden you for years about the no females. And Wrath, a couple months ago I needled you until you stabbed a wall. V, just the other day you threatened to use that hand of yours on me. Remember? When I told you what I thought about that goatee monstrosity?"
V chuckled. "I had to do something to shut you up. Every damn time I've run into you since I grew it, you ask me if I've French-kissed a tailpipe."
"And I'm still convinced you're doing my GTO, you bastard."
That got the ball rolling. Rhage stories started flying around until the voices were so loud, no one could hear anyone else.
As his brothers blew off steam, Rhage settled back against the seat, looking out into the night. He hoped like hell the Scribe Virgin knew what she was doing, because if his beast got loose in the Tomb, his brothers were in deep shit. And they just might have to kill him after all.
He frowned and looked around. He located Wrath behind him. Could tell who it was because the king's black diamond ring was on the male's middle finger.
Rhage arched back and whispered, "My lord, I beg of a favor."
Wrath leaned forward, his voice deep and even. "What do you need?"
"If I don't... make it through this, for whatever reason, I beg of you to watch over Mary."
The hood nodded. In the Old Language, the king said, "As you wish, so I am sworn. I shall look upon her as I would my own blooded sister and caretake her as I would any female of mine own family."
Rhage exhaled. "That is good. That is... good."
Soon enough, V parked the Escalade in a small clearing. They got out and stood around, listening, looking, sensing.
All things considered it was a nice evening, and this was a serene place to be. The breeze winding its way through the countless branches and trunks of the forest carried a pleasing smell of earth and pine. Overhead, a fat moon glowed through milky clouds.
When Wrath gave the signal, they walked a hundred yards over to a cave set into the mountain. The place looked like absolutely nothing special, even when you walked inside. You had to know what you were looking for to find the little seam in the wall in the back. If triggered correctly, a slab of stone slid open.
As they filed inside the cave's inner belly, the wedge of rock closed behind them with a whisper. Torches mounted on the walls flickered gold as their flames breathed into the air, puffing and hissing.
The walk into the earth was a slow, easy descent on a rock floor that was cold beneath the feet. When they got to the bottom they disrobed, and a pair of cast-iron doors opened. The hall ahead was about fifty feet long and twenty feet high and covered with shelves.
On these racks, thousands of ceramic jars of various sizes and shapes reflected light. Each container held the heart of a lesser, the organ the Omega removed during the Society's induction ceremony. During a lesser's existence as a slayer, the jar was his only real personal possession, and if possible, the Brotherhood collected them after a kill.
At the end of the hall, there was another set of double doors. These were already open.
The Brotherhood's sanctum sanctorum had been carved out of bedrock and veneered in black marble back in the early 1700s when the first migration from Europe had come across the ocean. The room was good-sized and had a ceiling of white stalactites that hung down like daggers. Massive candles, as thick as a male's arm and as long as his leg, were plugged into black iron stations, their flames nearly as luminous as those of the torches.
Down in front there was a raised platform, accessed by a series of shallow steps. The altar on top was made out of a slab of limestone that had been brought over from the Old Country, its great weight propped up horizontally by two rough-cut stone lintels. In the center of the thing was a skull.
Behind the altar, a flat wall was etched with the names of every brother there had ever been, back to the very first one whose cranium was on the altar. The inscriptions ran in panels that covered every inch of the surface, save for an unmarked stretch in the middle. This smooth portion was about six feet wide and ran the whole vertical of the marble expanse. In the midst of it, about five feet up from the floor, two thick pegs jutted out, positioned so a male could grip them and hold himself in place.
The air smelled so very familiar: damp earth and beeswax candles.
"Greetings, Brotherhood."
They all turned to the female voice.
The Scribe Virgin was a tiny figure in the far corner, her black robes hovering above the floor. Nothing of her was visible, not even her face, but from underneath the draping black folds, light spilled out like water falling.
She floated toward them, stopping in front of Wrath. "Warrior."
He bowed low. "Scribe Virgin."
She greeted each one in turn, saving Rhage for last. "Rhage, son of Tohrture."
"Scribe Virgin." He inclined his head.
"How fare you?"
"I am well." Or he would be, as soon as this was over.
"And you have been busy, have you not? Continuing to set new precedents, as is your affection. Pity they are not in laudable directions." She laughed with an edge. "Somehow, it is no surprise we ended up here with you. You are aware, are you not, that this is the first rythe ever to be exchanged within the Brotherhood?"
Not exactly, he thought. Tohr had turned down one offered by Wrath back in July.
But it wasn't like he was going to point that out to her.
"Warrior, are you prepared to accept what you have offered?"
"I am." He chose his next words very carefully, because you didn't pose a question to the Scribe Virgin. Not unless you wanted to eat your own ass. "I would beg of you that I do not hurt my brothers."
Her voice grew hard. "You are perilously close to inquiry."
"I mean no offense."
That low, soft chuckle came again.
Man, he bet she was enjoying the hell out this. She'd never liked him, although it wasn't as if he could blame her. He'd given her antipathy plenty of reasons to breed.
"You mean no offense, warrior?" The robes moved as if she were shaking her head. "On the contrary, you never hesitate to offend to get what you wish, and that has always been your problem. It is also why we have been brought here together this night." She turned away. "You have the weapon?"
Phury put down the duffel, unzipped it, and took out the tri-whip. The two-foot-long handle was made of wood and covered with brown leather that had been darkened by the sweat of many hands. Out of the rod's tip, three lengths of blackened steel chain swung in the air. At the end of each of them there was a spiked dangler, like a pinecone with barbs.
The tri-whip was an ancient, vicious weapon, but Tohr had chosen wisely. In order for the ritual to be considered successful, the brothers could spare Rhage nothing either in the type of weapon they used or the way they put it to his skin. To give leniency would be to demean the integrity of the tradition, the regret he was offering, and the chance for a true cleansing.
"So be it," she said. "Proceed to the wall, Rhage, son of Tohrture."
He went forward, climbing the stairs two at a time. As he passed the altar, he gazed at the sacred skull, watching firelight lick over the eye sockets and the long fangs. Positioning himself against the black marble, he gripped the stone pegs and felt cold smoothness on his back.
The Scribe Virgin drifted up to him and lifted her arm. Her sleeve fell back, and a glow bright as a welder's arc was revealed, the stinging light vaguely shaped like a hand. A low-level electrical hum went through him, and he felt something shift inside his torso, as if his internal organs had been rearranged.
"You may begin the ritual."
The brothers lined up, their naked bodies gleaming with strength, their faces drawn into deep grooves. Wrath took the tri-whip from Phury and came forward first. As he moved, the weapon's links chimed with the sweetness of a bird's call.
"Brother," the king said softly.
"My lord."
Rhage stared into those sunglasses as Wrath started swinging the whip in a wide circle to build momentum. A droning sound started low and crescendoed until the weapon came forward, slicing through the air. The chains hit Rhage's chest and then the barbs clawed into him, grabbing the air out of his lungs. As he bore down on the pegs, he kept his head up while his vision dimmed and then returned.
Tohr was next, his blow knocking the wind out of Rhage so that his knees sagged before they accepted his weight again. Vishous and Phury followed.
Each time, he met the pained eyes of his brothers in hopes of easing their anguish, but as Phury turned away, Rhage could no longer support his head. He let it fall on his shoulder and so caught sight of the blood running down his chest, over his thighs, and onto his feet. A pool was forming on the floor, reflecting the light of the candles, and staring at the red mess made him woozy. Determined to remain standing, he cocked his elbows so it was his joints and bones, not his muscles, that kept him in place.
When there was a lull, he became dimly aware of some kind of argument. He blinked several times before his eyes were clear enough to see.
Phury was holding out the whip and Zsadist was backing away from the thing in what seemed a lot like terror. Z's fisted hands were held up high and his nipple rings flashed in the firelight as he breathed far too heavily. The brother was the color of fog, his skin gray and unnaturally shiny.
Phury spoke gently and tried to take Zsadist's arm. Z pivoted wildly, but Phury stayed with him. As they moved in a grim dance, the whip marks covering Z's back shifted with his muscles.
This approach was going nowhere, Rhage thought. Zsadist was closing in on full panic, like a cornered animal. There had to be some other way to reach him.
Rhage took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again.
"Zsadist..." His reedy voice brought all eyes to the altar. "Finish it, Z... Can't... can't hold myself up much longer."
"No¡ª"
Phury cut Zsadist off. "You have to¡ª"
"No! Get the fuck away from me."
Z bolted for the door, but the Scribe Virgin got there first, forcing him to spin out to a stop so he didn't run her over. Trapped in front of the diminutive figure, his legs trembled and his shoulders shook. She talked to him quietly, the words not carrying far enough for Rhage to decipher through his haze of pain.
Finally the Scribe Virgin motioned to Phury, who brought the weapon over to her. When she had it, she reached out, took Z's hand, and placed the leather-bound grip on his palm. She pointed to the altar and Zsadist dropped his head. A moment later he came up front with a lurching stride.
When Rhage looked at the brother, he almost suggested someone else do the deed for Z. Those black eyes were cracked open so wide, there was white all around the irises. And Zsadist kept swallowing, his throat working like it was keeping a scream down in his chest.
"S'okay, my brother," Rhage murmured. "But you need to finish. Now."
Z panted and swayed, sweat rolling into his eyes and down the scar on his face.
"Do it."
"Brother," Z whispered, lifting the whip over his shoulder.
He didn't swing it for momentum, probably couldn't have coordinated his arm that well at this point. But he was strong, and the weapon sang as it traveled through the air. The chains and danglers streaked across Rhage's stomach in a blaze of needles.
Rhage's knees gave out and he tried to catch himself with his arms, only to find that they too refused to hold him. He fell to his knees, palms landing in his own blood.
But at least it was over. He took long breaths, determined not to pass out.
Abruptly a rushing sound cut through the sanctuary, something like metal against metal. He didn't think much about it. He was busy talking to his stomach, trying to convince it that dry heaves were in fact not a really good plan.
When he was ready, he crawled on his hands and knees around the altar, taking a breather before he tackled the steps. As he glanced ahead, he saw that the brothers had lined up again. Rhage rubbed his eyes at what was before him, getting blood on his face.
This was not part of the ritual, he thought.
Each one of the brothers had a black dagger in his right hand. Wrath started the chant and the others carried it until their voices were loud shouts reverberating around the sanctorum. The buildup didn't stop until they were almost screaming, and then their voices cut off abruptly.
As a unit, they slashed their daggers across their upper chests.
Zsadist's cut was the deepest.