Apex wrenched his head around. Right in front of the SUV, spotlit by the headlights, was the single largest maple he’d ever seen.
As their driver hit the brakes, the SUV fought the deceleration, fishtailing, weaving again like it was going to tip over. Then there was a bump…
… a moment of spinning…
… followed by an impact so great that Apex was thrown into the front of the vehicle. As he banged back into place, he was momentarily stunned, his sight flickering, his hearing going out, his heart rate all that he was aware of.
As their lack of motion persisted, with nothing but the hiss of a ruined engine cutting into the silence, he heard something off in the distance.
Another vehicle, traveling fast toward them.
More guards, he thought as he tasted his own blood.
Fuck… but at least they had died trying to get out.
With his eyesight failing, he turned his head and tried to focus on Kane. The male was in a contorted tangle as he lay half on, half off, the bench seat, his bloodstained tunic and bandages making a mummy out of him. He did not appear to be conscious and also wasn’t breathing.
“I am sorry,” Apex croaked as he started to lose consciousness.
His last thought as he died was that he’d never told the male he loved him.
Probably for the best.
CHAPTER TWO
The King’s Audience House
Caldwell, New York
No,Annabellecomes first—”
“Absolutely not—”
“Does too.”
“Does not.”
As the highly intellectual argument went from a simmer to a parboil, Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, glanced across what had been a dining room and was now the King’s receiving hall—just in time to see his roommate, Butch, look at Rhage like the brother had called someone’s momma a five-finger felon.
“Annabelle: Creation,” the former homicide cop pronounced. “You watch that first. Everyone knows it.”
Hollywood pointed to the guy with his sterling silver, Mint Chocolate Chunk delivery device. A.k.a. soup spoon, because the tea ones were too small. “The origin story has better resonance if you go back to it. More context.”
“Why would you start in the middle?”
“Because it’s the way the filmmakers made the films. It’s in their title. Making, films.”
“Thank you, Einstein. You want to draw me a—”
“—portrait? Sure. Do you want it with or without common sense? I mean, if it’s the former, you’re not subject.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a picture of what goes through your mind when you’re losing an argument this badly. Is it a hopeless void?”
“That’s my stomach actually.”
“Okay, I’ll agree with you there.”
As the tennis match of insults and cinematic continuity issues continued to roll out, V decided to do some rolling of his own. Unhooking his lean from a sideboard, he walked across a Persian rug that had been hand-loomed and purchased new a good century and a half ago. He could remember when the bowling-alley-long stretch of jewel colors had anchored a dining room table that could seat twenty-four. Now it was Holi lawn for the polished hardwood flooring, no furniture marring its vast, vibrant pattern of swirls except for a pair of armchairs set in front of the hearth down at the far end.