Which was pretty much anytime he was conscious.
And especially after a night like tonight had been.
As he walked into the room, his face never changed position, his wraparound sunglasses straight ahead and not varying as he wound his way around the bodies who were standing, the people who were seated, the furniture, the everything. His ability to circumnavigate the space was not just the result of memorization. By his side, George, his golden retriever service dog, brushed against his outer calf, guiding him through a set of subtle cues invisible to those outside of the symbiotic relationship between owner and animal.
They were a hell of a pair. Like a sawed-off shotgun and a homemade quilt. But it worked—and you want to talk about true love? Sometimes that dog was the only thing that kept Wrath’s temper in check.
So yup. Everyone in the household was a huge fan of George’s.
The doors to the study closed in the same way they opened, without the benefit of a hand—and hey, at least they didn’t slam hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Although again, that was only because it would have scared the dog.
Over at the desk, Wrath lowered his three-hundred-pound, 0% body fat, mesomorphic bulk down on his throne, the old-growth timber bearing his weight with a tired groan. A lot of the time, George got picked up and settled in his lap. Not today.
Butch put the steak back in place and waited.
Three…
Two…
… and—
“What the fuck is going on out there,” Wrath yelled.
Boom!
In the silence that followed, Butch looked over at V. Who looked at Tohr. Who slowly shook his head back and forth.
“Am I sitting in here alone?” Wrath demanded. “Or did all of you check your cock and balls at the door.”
“You know, I wondered what that basket was for,” someone said.
“Mine are so big they wouldn’t fit in it—”
Wrath slammed his fist into the desk, making everyone, including the dog, jump. “Fine, I’ll fill in the blanks for you bunch of pussies. The Omega shows up in a back alley, and you—”
Butch closed his eyes and shrank into the settee as the wraparounds swung in his direction.
“—decide it’s a great idea to call an all clear even when you needed backup.” Wrath’s face then swung around in the opposite direction, at Syn. “And then you decide that tackling the evil is the right move.” Wrath then looked around the room. “After which all of you arrive on scene and circle jerk each other.”
Butch raised his hand even though no one was going to call on him. “I had a plan.”
The Oakleys of Death came back at him. “Oh, really. What was it? Getting killed? ’Cuz Jesus Christ you almost pulled that off with room to spare—”
“Save the father at any cost.”
Wrath frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Qhuinn.” Butch shifted himself on the petit point throw pillows, and decided that the last thing his aching head needed was that blind stare boring into him. So he shut his peepers and prayed like he was back in parochial school and one of the nuns had heard him cuss. “Save Qhuinn, that was my plan—and it worked. He had just taken down a slayer when I sensed the Omega coming in for a landing. I knew Qhuinn wasn’t going to leave me so I did what I had to to get him to go.” He kept quiet about his little bargain with the Omega. “You think you’re pissed off now? Imagine how you’d feel if we were having a mourning ceremony at the Tomb for Rhamp and Lyric’s dad instead of this thoroughly enjoyable little holler session in here.”
Over in the corner, Qhuinn rubbed his face. Next to him, his hellren, Blay, put a supportive hand on the brother’s shoulder.
“I’d do it again,” Butch said as he reopened his eyes. “So am I suspended or something? I mean, V was already talking like I was going to be put on lockdown, like I’m some kind of lightweight who can’t take care of myself. Is that where you’re heading with this? Or are you going to let me live up to the Prophecy bullshit? Huh? What’s it going to be?”
A looooooot of stares moved his way, everybody in the room giving him the hairy eyeball with a combination of respect and oh-boy-this-was-going-to-hurt.
Wrath stared at him for a long moment, during which Butch figured he was probably going to need a lot more strip steaks.
“Now I know what she meant,” the King muttered.
“I’m sorry?” Butch asked. “What?”
“You and the fucking questions. I always wondered why the Scribe Virgin refused to let us ask questions of her. Now I know.” Before Butch could throw out another one, in the form of a “why,” Wrath answered the unspoken. “Because it’s fucking annoying, that’s why.”
* * *
Standing off to the side, with Balthazar next to him like the bastard was holding the leash of a hungry bear, Syn wondered why he was at the meeting. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the ass kicking Wrath was warming up to. He kind of liked it when the leader of the vampires got all riled up. It made Syn feel like he was working with someone he could understand and respect.
After all, he’d grown up around a male with a temper. He was familiar with the ranting and the raving, and in a sick way, he was comfortable with it—although in Wrath’s case, the hellfire was backed up with a formidable intelligence and a strong sense of right and wrong. Sure, the Blind King had a tongue like a sword, and had been very, very aptly named, but Wrath was a true North, the kind of thing you could bet on to be fair even when he was furious.
“I’m not staying indoors like some kind of little bitch,” Butch said from over on a dollhouse-sized sofa. “I’m not going to do that.”
The Brother had clearly been in a fistfight since Syn had faded out from the alley where the shit with the Omega had gone down. Butch’s left eye was the color of one of Rhage’s grape Tootsie Pops, and that piece of beef in a plastic bag he kept putting on the bruise seemed like excellent first aid. Plus, hello, you could cook it up and eat it once the cool had faded to room temperature—and who could say that about commercial-grade ice packs.
“And the lockdown is not even necessary,” the Brother said.
“Bullshit,” Wrath shot back from over on the throne. “And I’ve got four centuries of fighting with the Omega under my belt to prove you wrong.”
“The evil is not what it used to be.” Butch sat forward. “And I’ve had the close-ups under my belt to prove you wrong. Unless I need to remind you about how you and I came to know we’re related.”
“He’s right.”
As the eyes in the room reoriented in Syn’s direction, he was surprised to find that the two words had come out of his mouth.
Shrugging, he muttered, “I should have been incinerated or blown into chunks when I tackled the fucker.”
“Which brings me to my next agenda item,” Wrath said dryly. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I came on scene and I was ready to fight. That’s it.”
“So you picked the evil on a just-’cuz? Ambitious—or self-destructive, depending on how you look at it.”
“Both.” was pretty much anytime he was conscious.
And especially after a night like tonight had been.
As he walked into the room, his face never changed position, his wraparound sunglasses straight ahead and not varying as he wound his way around the bodies who were standing, the people who were seated, the furniture, the everything. His ability to circumnavigate the space was not just the result of memorization. By his side, George, his golden retriever service dog, brushed against his outer calf, guiding him through a set of subtle cues invisible to those outside of the symbiotic relationship between owner and animal.
They were a hell of a pair. Like a sawed-off shotgun and a homemade quilt. But it worked—and you want to talk about true love? Sometimes that dog was the only thing that kept Wrath’s temper in check.
So yup. Everyone in the household was a huge fan of George’s.
The doors to the study closed in the same way they opened, without the benefit of a hand—and hey, at least they didn’t slam hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Although again, that was only because it would have scared the dog.
Over at the desk, Wrath lowered his three-hundred-pound, 0% body fat, mesomorphic bulk down on his throne, the old-growth timber bearing his weight with a tired groan. A lot of the time, George got picked up and settled in his lap. Not today.
Butch put the steak back in place and waited.
Three…
Two…
… and—
“What the fuck is going on out there,” Wrath yelled.
Boom!
In the silence that followed, Butch looked over at V. Who looked at Tohr. Who slowly shook his head back and forth.
“Am I sitting in here alone?” Wrath demanded. “Or did all of you check your cock and balls at the door.”
“You know, I wondered what that basket was for,” someone said.
“Mine are so big they wouldn’t fit in it—”
Wrath slammed his fist into the desk, making everyone, including the dog, jump. “Fine, I’ll fill in the blanks for you bunch of pussies. The Omega shows up in a back alley, and you—”
Butch closed his eyes and shrank into the settee as the wraparounds swung in his direction.
“—decide it’s a great idea to call an all clear even when you needed backup.” Wrath’s face then swung around in the opposite direction, at Syn. “And then you decide that tackling the evil is the right move.” Wrath then looked around the room. “After which all of you arrive on scene and circle jerk each other.”
Butch raised his hand even though no one was going to call on him. “I had a plan.”
The Oakleys of Death came back at him. “Oh, really. What was it? Getting killed? ’Cuz Jesus Christ you almost pulled that off with room to spare—”
“Save the father at any cost.”
Wrath frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Qhuinn.” Butch shifted himself on the petit point throw pillows, and decided that the last thing his aching head needed was that blind stare boring into him. So he shut his peepers and prayed like he was back in parochial school and one of the nuns had heard him cuss. “Save Qhuinn, that was my plan—and it worked. He had just taken down a slayer when I sensed the Omega coming in for a landing. I knew Qhuinn wasn’t going to leave me so I did what I had to to get him to go.” He kept quiet about his little bargain with the Omega. “You think you’re pissed off now? Imagine how you’d feel if we were having a mourning ceremony at the Tomb for Rhamp and Lyric’s dad instead of this thoroughly enjoyable little holler session in here.”
Over in the corner, Qhuinn rubbed his face. Next to him, his hellren, Blay, put a supportive hand on the brother’s shoulder.
“I’d do it again,” Butch said as he reopened his eyes. “So am I suspended or something? I mean, V was already talking like I was going to be put on lockdown, like I’m some kind of lightweight who can’t take care of myself. Is that where you’re heading with this? Or are you going to let me live up to the Prophecy bullshit? Huh? What’s it going to be?”
A looooooot of stares moved his way, everybody in the room giving him the hairy eyeball with a combination of respect and oh-boy-this-was-going-to-hurt.
Wrath stared at him for a long moment, during which Butch figured he was probably going to need a lot more strip steaks.
“Now I know what she meant,” the King muttered.
“I’m sorry?” Butch asked. “What?”
“You and the fucking questions. I always wondered why the Scribe Virgin refused to let us ask questions of her. Now I know.” Before Butch could throw out another one, in the form of a “why,” Wrath answered the unspoken. “Because it’s fucking annoying, that’s why.”
* * *
Standing off to the side, with Balthazar next to him like the bastard was holding the leash of a hungry bear, Syn wondered why he was at the meeting. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the ass kicking Wrath was warming up to. He kind of liked it when the leader of the vampires got all riled up. It made Syn feel like he was working with someone he could understand and respect.
After all, he’d grown up around a male with a temper. He was familiar with the ranting and the raving, and in a sick way, he was comfortable with it—although in Wrath’s case, the hellfire was backed up with a formidable intelligence and a strong sense of right and wrong. Sure, the Blind King had a tongue like a sword, and had been very, very aptly named, but Wrath was a true North, the kind of thing you could bet on to be fair even when he was furious.
“I’m not staying indoors like some kind of little bitch,” Butch said from over on a dollhouse-sized sofa. “I’m not going to do that.”
The Brother had clearly been in a fistfight since Syn had faded out from the alley where the shit with the Omega had gone down. Butch’s left eye was the color of one of Rhage’s grape Tootsie Pops, and that piece of beef in a plastic bag he kept putting on the bruise seemed like excellent first aid. Plus, hello, you could cook it up and eat it once the cool had faded to room temperature—and who could say that about commercial-grade ice packs.
“And the lockdown is not even necessary,” the Brother said.
“Bullshit,” Wrath shot back from over on the throne. “And I’ve got four centuries of fighting with the Omega under my belt to prove you wrong.”
“The evil is not what it used to be.” Butch sat forward. “And I’ve had the close-ups under my belt to prove you wrong. Unless I need to remind you about how you and I came to know we’re related.”
“He’s right.”
As the eyes in the room reoriented in Syn’s direction, he was surprised to find that the two words had come out of his mouth.
Shrugging, he muttered, “I should have been incinerated or blown into chunks when I tackled the fucker.”
“Which brings me to my next agenda item,” Wrath said dryly. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I came on scene and I was ready to fight. That’s it.”
“So you picked the evil on a just-’cuz? Ambitious—or self-destructive, depending on how you look at it.”
“Both.”