Her previous captors had taken her to the brink of rigor mortis a number of times.
Although vampires believed in the Scribe Virgin, symphaths had no conception of an afterlife. To them, death was an exit ramp not to another highway, but to a brick wall that you slammed into. After which there was nothing.
Personally, she didn't buy the whole holy-deity bullshit, and whether that was breeding or intellect, the outcome was the same. Death was lights- out, end of story. For fuck's sake, she'd seen it up close so many times--after the great struggle came. . . nothing. Her victims had just stopped moving, frozen in whatever position they'd been in when their hearts had halted. And maybe some people died with a smile on their face, but in her experience, that was a grimace, not a grin.
You'd think if they were getting a boatload of bright white light and kingdom-of-heaven crap, they'd be beaming like they'd won the lottery.
Except maybe the reason they looked so bitched was less about where they were going and more about where they'd been.
The regrets. . . you did think about your regrets.
Aside from the fact that she wished she'd been born under different circumstances, there were two transgressions among her many that weighed more than all the others.
She wished she'd told Murhder, all those years ago, that she was half- symphath . That way, when she'd been taken up to the colony, he wouldn't have come to rescue her. He'd have known it was inevitable that the other side of her family would come claim her and he wouldn't then have ended up where he had.
She also wished she could go back and tell John Matthew she was sorry. She still would have pushed him away, because that was the only construct under which he wouldn't have repeated the mistakes of her other lover. But she would have let him know it wasn't him. It was her.
At least he was going to be okay in all of this. He had the Brothers and the king of the race to look after him, and, courtesy of her shutting him down, he wasn't going to do anything stupid.
She was on her own in this and it was going to play out as it would. Having led a violent life, it was entirely unsurprising that she was going to meet a violent end. . . but true to form, she was sure as fuck going to take out a pound or two of flesh with her on the way to the exit.
Chapter Seven
Shit, they were losing the darkness.
As John glanced at his watch, the time check was a waste of effort. The sting in his eyes was telling him all he needed to know about how little night they had left.
Even the promise of daylight was enough to make him blink fast.
Then again, the activity at the Xtreme Park was winding down for the evening anyway, the drugged-out stragglers getting vertical on the benches or ducking into the public bathrooms for a last fix. Unlike Caldwell's other parks, this one was open twenty-four/seven, with fluorescent lights on tall poles illuminating the expanse of concrete. Hard to tell what the city planners had been thinking with the round-the-clock business--because that was what they had here. Round- the-clock business. With all the drugs changing hands, the place was like a bar away from the bars down on Trade.
No lessers, though. Just humans dealing to humans who used in the shadows.
Still, it was promising. If Lash hadn't infiltrated the zone yet, he was going to. Even with the cops doing their idle-bys in their marked cars, there was plenty of privacy and plenty of notice. The park was laid out like a huge terrace, with sinkholes in the ground alternating with ramps and jumps. Bottom line was, the people could see the CPD coming and duck behind or into all kinds of shelter.
And, man, they were trained well. From their vantage point behind the work shed, he and his boys had seen it happen over and over again. Kind of made you wonder why the CPD didn't send unmarkeds over or infiltrate in plain clothes.
Or maybe they were doing that already. Maybe there were others who, like John, were invisible to the crowd. Well, not exactly like him and Qhuinn and Blay. There was no way even a fully trained and decorated member of the CPD could present himself as nothing--which was what John and his buddies had been doing for the last three hours. Every time someone passed, they wiped out the memory.
It was kind of odd to be in a place, but not of it. . . sensed, but not seen.
"We gonna get ghost?" Qhuinn asked.
John glanced up at the brightening sky and told himself that in approximately thirteen hours that fucking heat lamp of a sun was going back under wraps and they could take up res in their little hidden corner and wait again.
Goddamn it.
"John? Let's go. "
For a split second, he almost tore his buddy's head off, his hands coming up and getting ready to fly through all kinds of fuck-you, you're-not- my-babysitter shit.
What stopped him was the fact that just as no amount of waiting around here was going to produce Lash, yelling at Qhuinn wasn't going to get them closer to a sighting, either.
He nodded once and took a last look around. There was a single dealer type who seemed to run the show and the kid was hanging out to the very end. His main lean was against the center ramp, which was smart--it meant he could see everything in the park, from the far corners to the road where the cops came and went.
Kid looked to be about seventeen or eighteen and his clothes were loose on his frame, which was part of the skater style, and also probably a function of his using what he sold. He looked like he needed to be scrubbed with a car brush a couple of times, but he was alert and he was savvy. And he seemed to work alone. Which was interesting. To dominate a drug territory, usually the dealer in question had enforcers to back him up-- otherwise he got jumped for either his product or his cash. But this young guy. . . he was by himself the whole time.
Either he had some serious meat in the shadows, or he was about to get taken down.