Chapter TWENTY-ONE
An hour after Trez took the tray back down to the kitchen, Rehv's stomach was in full revolt. Man, if oatmeal was no longer a viable food afterward, what was he left with? Bananas? White rice?
Fucking Gerber baby gruel?
And it wasn't just his digestive tract that was screwed up. If he'd been able to feel anything, he was pretty sure he had a headache along with the tossing nausea. Anytime there was a light source, like when Trez came in to check on him, Rehv's eyes went on autoblink, flickering up and down in an uncoordinated, ocular version of the Safety Dance; then he'd start to salivate and swallow compulsively. So he had to be nauseated.
As his phone went off, he put his hand on it and brought it to his ear without turning his head. There was a lot going on at ZeroSum tonight, and he needed to keep tabs. "Yeah."
"Hi...you called me?"
Rehv's eyes shot to the bathroom door, which had a soft light glowing around the jambs.
Oh, God, he hadn't had a shower yet.
He was still covered with the sex he'd had.
Even though Ehlena was about a three-hour drive away and he wasn't on a Web cam, he felt absolutely nasty just talking to her.
"Hey," he said in a rough voice.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah." Which was a total fucking lie, and the gravel in his voice made that obvious.
"Well, I, ah...I saw that you'd called me-" As a strangled sound came out of his mouth, Ehlena stopped. "You're sick."
"No-"
"For God's sake, please come to the clinic-"
"I can't. I'm..." God, he couldn't bear to speak to her. "I'm not in town. I'm upstate."
There was a long pause. "I'll bring the antibiotics to you."
"No." She couldn't see him like this. Shit, she couldn't see him ever again. He was filthy. A filthy, dirty whore who let someone he hated touch him and suck on him and use him, and force him to do the same to her.
The princess was right. He was a fucking dildo.
"Rehv? Let me come to you-"
"No."
"Goddamn it, don't you do this to yourself!"
"You can't save me!" he shouted.
In the aftermath of his explosion, he thought, Jesus...where had that come from? "I'm sorry...it's been a bad night for me."
When Ehlena finally spoke, her voice was a thin whisper. "Don't do this to me. Don't make me see you in the morgue. Don't do that to me."
Rehv squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not doing anything to you."
"The hell you aren't." Her voice cracked on a sob.
"Ehlena..."
Her moan of despair came through the phone all too clearly. "Oh...Christ. Whatever. Kill yourself, fine."
She hung up on him.
"Fuck." He rubbed his face. "Fuck!"
Rehv sat up and fired the cell phone at the bedroom door. And just as it ricocheted off the panels and went flying, he realized he'd busted the only thing he had with her number in it.
With a roar and a messy scramble, he launched his body off the bed, quilts landing everywhere. Not a great move on his part. As his numb feet hit the throw rug, he went Frisbee, finding air briefly before landing on his face. On impact, a sound like a bomb had gone off rumbled through the floorboards, and he crawled for the phone, tracking the light that still glowed from its screen.
Please, oh, fucking please, if there is a God...
He was almost in range when the door swung open, narrowly missing his head and clipping the phone-which shot like a hockey puck in the opposite direction. As Rehv wheeled around and lunged for thing, he shouted at Trez.
"Don't shoot me!"
Trez was in full fighting stance, gun up and pointed at the window, then the closet, then the bed. "What the fuck was that."
Rehv sprawled out flat to reach the phone, which was spinning under the bed. When he caught it, he closed his eyes and brought it close to his face.
"Rehv?"
"Please..."
"What? Please...what?"
He opened his eyes. The screen was flickering, and he pressed the buttons fast. Calls received...calls received...calls r-
"Rehv, what the hell is going on?"
There it was. The number. He stared at the seven digits after the area code as if they were the combination to his own safe, trying to get them all.
The screen went dark and he let his head fall down on his arm.
Trez crouched beside him. "You okay?"
Rehv pushed himself out from under the bed and sat up, the room spinning like a merry-go-round. "Oh...fuck me."
Trez holstered his gun. "What happened?"
"I dropped my phone."
"Right. Of course. Because it weighs enough to make that kind of-Hey, easy, there." Trez caught him as he tried to get up. "Now where are you going?"
"I need a shower. I need..."
More pictures of him with the princess hammered into his brain. He saw her back arched, that red mesh split free of her ass, him buried deep in her sex, pumping until that barb of his locked him inside of her so that his release would get way up into her.
Rehv pressed his fists into his eyes. "I need to..."
Oh, Jesus...He orgasmed when he was with his blackmailer. And not just once, usually three or four times. At least the whores in his club who hated what they did for the money could take solace in the fact that they didn't enjoy it. But a male's release said it all, didn't it.
Rehv's gag reflex tightened, and in a panic he Curly-shuffled into the bathroom. The oatmeal and the toast made a successful bid for liberation, and Trez was right there to hold him over the loo. Rehv couldn't feel the retching, but he was damn sure that his esophagus was getting torn, because after a couple of minutes of coughing and trying to breathe and seeing stars, blood started to come up.
"Lie back," Trez said.
"No, shower-"
"You're in no shape-"
"I have to get her off me!" Rehv's voice bellowed through not just his bedroom, but the whole house. "For fuck's sake...I can't stand her."
There was a moment that positively smacked of holy crap: Rehv wasn't the type to ask for a life jacket even if he were drowning, and he never bitched about the arrangement with the princess. He got through it and did what he had to and paid the consequences, because it was all worth it to him to keep his and Xhex's secret.
And part of you likes it, an inner voice pointed out. You get to be you without apology when you're in her.
Fuck off, he told himself.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," he said to his friend hoarsely.
"Nah, it's cool. Don't blame you." Trez gently lifted him up from the tile and tried to reposition him on the sinks. "It's about time."
Rehv lurched for the shower.
"Nope," Trez said, pushing him back. "Let me get the water warm."
"I won't feel it."
"Your core temperature has enough problems already. Just stay there."
As Trez leaned into the marble shower and turned on the water, Rehv stared down at his cock, which lay loose and long down his thigh. It seemed like the sex of someone else, and that was a good thing.
"You realize I could kill her for you," Trez said. "I could make it look like an accident. No one would know."
Rehv shook his head. "I don't want you sucked into this shithole. We got enough people down it already."
"The offer stands."
"Duly noted."
Trez reached in and put his hand under the spray. With his palm in the rushing water, his chocolate eyes drifted back and abruptly became white from anger. "Just so we're clear. You die? I'm going to skin that bitch alive in the s'Hisbe tradition and send the strips back to your uncle. Then I'm going to spit-roast her carcass and chew the meat from her bones."
Rehv smiled a little, thinking it wasn't cannibalism, because on a genetic level Shadows had as much in common with sympaths as humans did with chickens.
"Hannibal Lecter motherfucker," he murmured.
"You know how we do." Trez shook the water off his hand. "Symphaths... it's what's for dinner."
"You going to bust out the fava beans?"
"Nah, but I might have a nice Chianti with her, and some pommes frites. I gotta have some tater with my meat. Come on, let's get you under the water and wash that bitch's stank off."
Trez walked over and got Rehv up off the counter.
"Thank you," Rehv said quietly as they limped toward the shower.
Trez shrugged, knowing damn well they weren't talking about the visit to the bathroom. "You'd do the same for me."
"I would."
Under the spray, Rehv worked the Dial over himself until his skin was red as a raspberry, and got out of the shower only after he'd done his three-times-over wash. When he stepped free of the water, Trez handed him a towel, and he dried off as fast as he could without losing his balance.
"Speaking of favors..." he said, "I need your phone. Your phone and some privacy."
"Okay." Trez helped him back to bed and covered him up. "Man, good thing this duvet didn't land in the fire."
"So can I have your phone?"
"You going to play soccer with it?"
"Not as long as you leave my door closed."
Trez handed him a Nokia. "Take care of her. She's brand-new."
When he was alone, Rehv dialed carefully and hit send on a wing and a prayer, having no clue whether or not he got the number right.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hello?"
"Ehlena, I'm so sorry-"
"Ehlena?" the female voice said. "Sorry, there isn't any Ehlena at this number."
Ehlena sat in the ambulance holding in her tears out of habit. It wasn't like anyone could see her, but the anonymity didn't matter. As her latte cooled in its double cup, double sleeve, and the heater ran intermittently, she kept herself together because that's what she always did.
Until the CB radio went off with a squawk and scared her out of her numb colds.
"Base to four," Catya said. "Come in, four."
As Ehlena reached for the handset, she thought, See, this was exactly why she could never let her guard down. If she'd been a wilted mess and had to answer? Not where she needed to be.
She hit the talk button with her thumb. "This is four."
"Are you okay?"
"Ah, yes. I just needed...I'm coming back right now."
"There's no hurry. Take your time. I only wanted to make sure you were okay."
Ehlena glanced at the clock. God, it was nearly two a.m. She'd been sitting out here, gassing herself by running the engine and the heater, for almost two hours.
"I'm so sorry, I had no idea what time it was. Do you need the ambulance for a pickup?"
"No, we were just worried about you. I know you assisted Havers on that body and-"
"I'm fine." She rolled down the window to let some air in and put the ambulance in gear. "I'm coming back right away."
"Don't rush, and listen, why don't you take the rest of the night off."
"That's okay-"
"It's not a request. And I've switched the schedule around so you have tomorrow free as well. You need a break after tonight."
Ehlena wanted to argue, but she knew that would just come across as defensive, and besides, with the decision made, there was nothing to fight for.
"All right."
"Take your time coming back."
"I will. Over and out."
She hung up the handset and headed for the bridge that would take her across the river. Just as she was accelerating on the ramp, her phone went off.
So Rehv was calling her back, huh. Not a surprise.
She took out the phone only to confirm that it was him, not because she was intending to answer his call.
Unknown number?
She hit send and brought her cell to her ear. "Hello?"
"Is this you?"
Rehv's deep voice still managed to shoot through her on a warm thrill, even though she was pissed off at him. And herself. Basically at the whole situation.
"Yes," she said. "This isn't your phone number, though."
"No, it's not. My cell had an accident."
She rushed ahead before he got to any sorrys. "Look, it's none of my business. Whatever's going on with you. You're right, I can't save you-"
"Why do you even want to try?"
She frowned. If the question had been self-pitying or accusatory, she would have just ended the call and changed her number. But there was nothing but sincere confusion coming through in his voice. That and utter exhaustion.
"I just don't understand...the why," he murmured.
Her answer was simple and from the soul. "How can I not."
"What if I don't deserve it."
She thought of Stephan lying on that stainless steel, his body cold and bruised. "Everyone with a beating heart deserves to be saved."
"Is that why you got into nursing?"
"No. I got into nursing because I want to be a doctor someday. The saving thing is just the way I see the world."
The silence between them lasted forever.
"Are you in a car?" he said eventually.
"An ambulance, actually. I'm going back to the clinic."
"You're out alone?" he growled.
"Yes, and you can cut the he-man crap. I've got a gun under the seat and I know how to use it."
A subtle laugh came through the phone. "Okay, that's a turn-on. I'm sorry, but it is."
She had to smile a little. "You drive me nuts, you know that. Even though you're all but a stranger to me, you drive me up the frickin' wall."
"And somehow I'm complimented." There was a pause. "I'm sorry about earlier. I've had a bad night."
"Yeah, well, me too. On both the sorry part and the bad night."
"What happened?"
"It's too much to go into. How about you?"
"Ditto."
As he shifted, a sheet rustled. "Are you in bed again?"
"Yes. And yes, you still don't want to know."
She smiled widely. "You're telling me I shouldn't ask what you're wearing again."
"You got it."
"We're so falling into a rut, you know that?" She grew serious. "You sound really sick to me. Your voice is hoarse."
"I'll be all right."
"Look, I can bring you what you need. If you can't make it to the clinic, I can bring the medicine to you." The silence on the other end was so dense, and went on for so long, she said, "Hello? You there?"
"Tomorrow night...can you meet me?"
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Yes."
"I'm on the top floor of the Commodore. Do you know the building."
"I do."
"Can you be there at midnight? East side."
"Yes."
His exhale seemed one of resignation. "I'll be waiting for you. Drive safely, okay?"
"I will. And don't throw your phone anymore."
"How did you know?"
"Because if I'd had an open space in front of me instead of the dashboard of an ambulance, I would have done the same thing."
His laugh made her smile, but she lost the expression as she hit end and put the phone back in her purse.
Even though she was driving at a steady sixty-five and the road ahead of her was straight and free of debris, she felt as if she were totally out of control, careening from guardrail to guardrail, leaving a trail of sparks as she ground off parts of the clinic's vehicle.
Meeting him tomorrow night, being alone with him somewhere private, was exactly the wrong thing to do.
And she was going to do it anyway.
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Montrag, son of Rehm, hung up the phone and stared out the French doors of his father's study. The gardens and the trees and the rolling lawn, like the great mansion and everything in it, were his now, no longer a legacy he would one day inherit.
As he took in the grounds, he enjoyed the sense of ownership singing in his blood, but he was less than satisfied with the view. Everything was battened down for winter, the flower beds emptied, the blooming fruit trees blanketed with mesh, the maples and oaks without their leaves. As a result, one could see the retaining wall, and that was just not attractive. Better for those ugly security sorts of things to be covered.
Montrag turned away and walked over to a more pleasing vista, albeit one that was mounted on the wall. With a flush of reverence, he regarded his favorite painting in the manner he always had, for indeed Turner deserved veneration for both his artistry and his choices of subject. Especially in this work: The depiction of the sun setting over the sea was a masterpiece on so many levels, the shades of gold and peach and deep burning red a feast for eyes robbed by biology of the actual glowing furnace that sustained and inspired and warmed the world.
Such a painting would be the pride of any collection.
He had three Turners in this house alone.
With a hand that twitched in anticipation, he took hold of the lower right-hand corner of the gilt frame and pulled the seascape from the wall. The safe behind it fit the precise dimensions of the painting and was inset into the lath and plaster. After twisting the combination on the dial, there was a subtle shifting that was barely audible, giving no hint that each of the six retracting pins was thick as a forearm.
The safe opened without a sound and an interior light came on, illuminating a twelve-cubic-foot space stacked with thin leather jewelry cases, bound bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and documents in folders.
Montrag brought over a needlepointed stepping stool and got up on its flowered back. Reaching far into the safe, going behind all the real estate deeds and stock certificates, he took out a strongbox and then put the safe and the painting back as they had been. With a feeling of excitement and possibility, he carried the metal box over to the desk and got the key from the lower left-hand drawer's secret compartment.
His father had taught him the combination of the safe and shown him the location of the hiding place, and when Montrag had sons, he would pass down the knowledge to them. That was how one made sure things of value were not lost. Father to son.
The lid of the strongbox did not open with the same well-calibrated, well-lubricated slide the safe did. This one came wide with a squeak, the hinges protesting the disturbance of their rest and reluctantly revealing what lay within its metal belly.
They were still there. Thank the Virgin Scribe they were still there.
As Montrag reached inside, he thought, So relatively worthless, these pages, valued by themselves at a fraction of a penny. The ink held within their fibers was worth but a penny, as well. And yet for what they spelled out, they were invaluable.
Without them he was at mortal risk.
He took out one of the two documents and it didn't matter which he removed, as they were identical. Between careful fingers, he held the vampire equivalent of an affidavit, a three-page, handwritten, signed-in-blood dissertation concerning an event that had happened twenty-four years ago. The notarized signature on the third page was sloppy, a scrawl in brown that was barely legible.
But then, it had been made by a dying man.
Rehvenge's "father," Rempoon.
The documents laid the ugly truth all out in the Old Language: Rehvenge's mother's abduction by the symphaths, his conception and birth, her escape and later marriage to Rempoon, an aristocrat. The last paragraph was as damning as everything else:
Upon my honor, and the honor of mine blooded ancestors and decedents, verily on this night did mine stepson, Rehvenge, fall upon me and cause to be rendered unto my body mortal wounds through the application of his bare hands upon my flesh. He did so with malice aforethought, having lured me into my study with the object of provoking an argument. I was unarmed. Following my injuries, he did go about the study and prepare the room for to appear to have been invaded by intruders from without. Verily, he did leave me upon the floor for death's cold hand to capture my corporeal form, and he did depart from the premises. I was roused briefly by my dear friend Rehm, who had come to visit for the purpose of business discussions.
I am not expected to live. My stepson has killed me. This is my final confession on earth as an embodied spirit. May the Scribe Virgin carry me unto the Fade with her grace and all alacrity.
As Montrag's father had later explained it, Rempoon had gotten it mostly right. Rehm had come on business and found not only an empty house, but the bloody body of his partner-and had done what any reasonable male would have: He'd rifled through the study himself. Operating under the assumption Rempoon was dead, he'd set about trying to find the papers on the business so that Rempoon's fractional interest would stay out of his estate and Rehm would own the going concern outright.
Having succeeded in his quest, Rehm had been on his way to the door when Rempoon had shown a sign of life, a name leaving his cracked lips.
Rehm had been comfortable being an opportunist, but falling into the roll of accomplice to murder went too far. He'd called for the doctor, and in the time it took Havers to arrive, the mumblings of a dying male had spelled out a shocking tale, one worth even more than the company. Thinking quickly, Rehm had documented the story and the stunning confession about Rehvenge's true nature and had Rempoon sign the pages-thus turning them into a legal document.
The male had then lapsed into unconsciousness and been dead when Havers had arrived.
Rehm had taken both the business papers and the affidavits with him when he'd left and been touted as a valiant hero for trying to rescue the dying male.
In the aftermath, the utility of the confession had been obvious, but the wisdom of putting such information in play was less clear. Tangling with a symphath was dangerous, as Rempoon's spilled blood had attested. Ever the intellectual, Rehm had sat on the information and sat on it...until it was too late to do anything with it.
By law, you had to turn a symphath in, and Rehm had the kind of proof that met the threshold for reporting someone. However, in considering his options for so long, he found himself in the dicey position of arguably protecting Rehvenge's identity. If he'd come forward twenty-four or forty-eight hours later? Fine. But one week? Two weeks? A month...?
Too late. Rather than squander the asset completely, Rehm had told Montrag about the affidavits, and the son had understood the father's mistake. There had been nothing that could be done in the short run, and only one scenario where it was still worth anything-and that had come to pass over the summer. Rehm had been killed in the raids and the son had inherited everything, including the documents.
Montrag couldn't be blamed for his father's choice not to reveal what was known. All he had to do was state that he'd stumbled upon the papers in his father's things, and in turning them and Rehv in, he was just doing what he was supposed to.
It would never come out that he'd known about them all along.
And nobody would ever believe that Rehv hadn't been the one who'd decided to kill Wrath. He was, after all, a symphath, and nothing they said could be trusted. More to the point, his hand was either going to be on the trigger, or if he just ordered the murder of the king, he was the leahdyre of the council and in the position to profit from the death the most. Which was precisely why Montrag had had the male elevated into the role.
Rehvenge would do the deed with the king, and then Montrag would go to the council and prostrate himself before his colleagues. He would say that he didn't find the papers until he had properly moved into the Connecticut house a month after both the raids and after Rehv had been made leahdyre. He would swear that as soon as he found them he reached out to the king and revealed the nature of the issue over the phone-but Wrath had forced his silence because of the compromising position it put the Brother Zsadist in: After all, the Brother was mated to Rehvenge's sister, and that would make her related to a symphath.
Wrath, of course, could say nothing to the contrary after he was dead, and more to the point, the king was disliked already for the way he had ignored the glymera's constructive criticism. The council was primed to embrace another fault of his, real or manufactured.
It was intricate maneuvering, but it was going to work, because with the king gone, the remnants of the council would be the first place the race would go looking for the murderer, and Rehv, a symphath, was the perfect scapegoat: Of course a symphath would do such a thing! And Montrag would help the motive assumption along by testifying that Rehv had come to see him before the murder and talked with bizarre conviction about change of an unprecedented variety. In addition, crime scenes were never completely clean. Undoubtedly, there would be things left behind that would tie Rehv to the death, whether because it was actually there or because everyone would be looking for exactly that kind of evidence.
When Rehv fingered Montrag? No one would believe him, primarily because he was a symphath, but also because, in the tradition of his father, Montrag had always cultivated a reputation for thoughtfulness and trustworthiness in his business dealings and social conduct. As far as his fellow members of the council knew, he was above reproach, incapable of deception, a male of worth from impeccable bloodlines. None of them had a clue that he and his father had double-crossed many a partner or associate or blood relation-because they had been careful to choose the ones they preyed upon so that appearances were maintained.
The result? Rehv would be brought up on charges of treason, arrested, and either put to death according to vampire law or deported to the symphath colony, where he would be killed for being a half-breed.
Either outcome was acceptable.
It was all set, which was why Montrag had called his closest friend just now.
Taking the affidavit, he folded it in on itself, and slid it into a thick, creamy envelope. Drawing a page of his personalized stationery from an embossed leather box, he penned a quick missive to the male who he would tap as his second in command, and cemented the stage for Rehvenge's fall. In the note, he explained that, as they'd discussed over the phone, this was what he had found in his father's private papers-and if the document was validated, he was concerned for the future of the council.
Naturally, the thing would be verified by the law office of his colleague. And by the time it was, Wrath would be dead and Rehv poised for blame.
Montrag lit a stick of red wax, dripped some of it on the envelope's flap, and sealed the affidavit in. On the front, he wrote the male's name, and in the Old Language spelled out HAND DELIVERY ONLY; then he closed up and locked the metal box, tucking it under his desk, and returning the key to its safe place in the secret drawer.
A button on the phone summoned the butler, who took the envelope and immediately headed off to complete the task of getting it into the correct hands.
Satisfied, Montrag took the lockbox over to the wall safe, pivoted the painting outward, put his father's combination to use, and returned the remaining affidavit to its home: Keeping one copy for himself was only prudent, a safeguard in the event something happened to the document that was on its way across the border into Rhode Island.
As he eased the Turner back into place, the landscape spoke to him as always, and for a moment, he allowed himself to step out of the bedlam he was creating with purpose and seep into the peaceful, lovely sea. The breeze would be warm, he thought.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, how he missed the summer during these cold months, but then, it was contrast that enlivened the heart. Without the cold of winter, one would not truly appreciate the sultry nights of July and August.
He pictured where he would be in six months when a full solstice moon rose o'er Caldwell's sprawling city. Come June, he would be king, an elected and respected monarch. If only his father had been alive to see-
Montrag coughed. Breathed in with a hiccup. Felt something wet on his hand.
He looked down. Blood was all over the front of his white shirt.
Opening his mouth to shout in alarm, he tried to draw in a deep breath, but there was only a gurgling sound-
His hands snapped up to his neck and found a geyser jumping free of his exposed carotid artery. Wheeling around, he saw a female standing before him with a man's haircut and black leathers. The knife in her hand had a red blade, and her face was a calm mask of detached disinterest.
Montrag fell to his knees before her and then pitched over to his right, his hands still trying to keep his lifeblood in his body and not all over his father's Aubusson.
He was still alive when she rolled him over, took out a rounded tool made of ebony, and knelt down to him.
As an assassin, Xhex's job performance was measured in two dimensions. First, did she get her target? Self-explanatory. Second, was it a clean kill? Meaning, was there no collateral damage in the form of other deaths to protect herself, her identity, and/or the identity of the individual who had tasked her with the job.
In this case, the first was going to be a snap, given the way Montrag's artery was doing the drainpipe. The second was still open to question, so she needed to work fast. She took the lys out of her leathers, bent over to the bastard, and didn't waste more than a nanosecond watching his eyes roll around.
She grabbed his chin and forced his face to hers. "Look at me. Look at me."
His wild stare shot to hers, and when it did, she brought the lys forward. "You know why I'm here and who sent me. It's not Wrath."
Montrag clearly had enough air still going to his brain, because his lips mouthed, Rehvenge, in horror, before those eyeballs of his started rolling again.
She let go of his chin and slapped him hard. "Pay attention, asshole. Look at me."
With their stares locked and her grip back on his jaw, she peeled the upper and lower lids of his left eye even wider. "Look at me."
As she took the lys and pressed it into the socket at the corner near his nose, she reached into his brain and triggered all sorts of memories. Ah...interesting. He'd been a conniving fucker for real, specializing in screwing people about money.
Montrag's hands slapped into the rug and dug in hard as he gurgled his way through a scream. The eyeball came out of the skull like a scoop of honeydew off its rind, as perfectly round and clean as you'd want. The right eye was just the same, and she put both of them in a lined velvet pouch as Montrag's arms and legs jerked and flopped on his expensive rug, his lips peeling back such that every single one of his teeth including his molars showed.
Xhex left him to his sloppy death, walking right out of the French door behind the desk and dematerializing to the maple she'd first cased the place from the day before. She waited there for about twenty minutes and then watched as a doggen entered the study, saw the body, and dropped the silver tray she was carrying.
As the teapot and the china bounced, Xhex cocked her phone open, hit send, and put the thing to her ear. When Rehv's deep voice answered she said, "It's done and they've found him. Kill was clean and I'm bringing you the souvenir. ETA ten minutes."
"Well-done," Rehv said in a husky voice. "Well-fucking-done."