John shook his head and went over to pick up the Flex. Flipping through the pages, he realized he had become what he had always wished he would be: a big, badass motherfucker. Who'da thought. He'd been a real scrawny pretrans, at the mercy of so much--
Tossing the magazine back down, he cut off that thought pattern hard and fast. He was willing to show her almost everything. But not that. Never. . . that part.
They were not going back to the first building he'd lived in alone and she was not going to find out why he'd left there for this addy.
"Who brought you into our world?"
Tohrment, he mouthed.
"How old were you when you left the orphanage?" He flashed a one and a six. "Sixteen? And you came here? Right from Our Lady?"
John nodded and went over to the cupboards above the sink. Opening one up, he saw the only thing he'd expected to find left behind. His name. And the date.
He stepped aside so Xhex could see what he'd written. He remembered doing it, so quick, so fast. Tohr had been waiting down at the curb and he'd scooted up to get his bike. He'd scribbled the markings as a testament to. . . he didn't know what.
"You didn't have anyone," she murmured, looking inside. "I was like that. My mother died in childbirth and I was raised by a perfectly nice family. . . who I knew I had nothing in common with. I left them early and never went back, because I didn't belong where I was--and something was screaming in me that it was better for them that I took off. I didn't have a clue I was part symphath and there was nothing out in the world for me. . . but I had to go. Fortunately, I met Rehvenge and he showed me what I was. "
She glanced over her shoulder. "The near misses in life. . . man, they're a killer, aren't they. If Tohr hadn't found you. . . "
He would have gone into his transition and died in the middle of it because he didn't have the blood he needed to survive.
For some reason, he didn't want to think about that. Or the fact that he and Xhex had a lonely stretch of lost in common.
Come on, he mouthed. Let's go to the next stop.
Out among the corn fields, Lash drove along the dirt lane toward the farmhouse. He had his psychic cover in place so that the Omega and his new boy toy couldn't get a bead on him and he was also rocking a baseball cap, a raincoat with the collar turned up, and a pair of gloves.
He felt like the Invisible Man.
Fuck that, he wished he were invisible. He hated looking at himself, and after a good couple of hours of waiting to see what else was going to fall off on his descent into the living dead, he wasn't sure whether he was relieved that he appeared to have plateaued.
He was only half-melted at this point: his muscles were still hanging on to his bones.
About a quarter of a mile away from his destination, he parked the Mercedes in a stand of pines and got out. As his powers were all being used to keep himself masked, there was nothing left over for him to dematerialize with.
So it was a long frickin' walk to the goddamn shithole and he resented like hell having to work that hard just to move his body.
But when he came up to the clapboard house, he got hit with a surge of energy. There were three POS cars in the driveway--all of which he recognized. The Willy Loman rides were owned by the Lessening Society.
And what do you know, the place was hopping. There were a good twenty guys inside and there was a whole lot of partying going on: Through the windows, he could see the kegs and the liquor bottles, and all around, motherfuckers were lighting up bongs and snorting God only knew what.
Where was the little bastard.
Ah. . . perfect timing. A fourth car pulled up and it was not like the other three. The street racer's flashy-ass paint job was probably just as expensive as the souped-up sewing machine under the hood, and the undercarriage's neon glow made it look like it was coming in for a landing. The kid got out from behind the wheel and gee whiz, he was all spanked, too: He'd gotten himself some brand- new jeans and a sweet-ass Affliction leather jac
ket, and he'd taken up lighting his cigarettes with something gold.
Well, wasn't this going to be the test.
If the kid went in and just partied, Lash had been wrong about the fucker's smarts. . . and the Omega had gotten himself nothing other than a good lay. But if Lash was right, and the SOB had more to him than that, the party was going to get interesting.
Lash drew his lapels closer to the raw meat that was now his neck and tried to ignore how jel he was. He'd been in the sweet spot where that kid was. Reveled in the I'm-so-specials and assumed that glow would last forever. But whatever. If the Omega was willing to kick his own flesh and blood to the curb, this previously human piece of shit wasn't going to last long.
When one of the lushes inside stared out the window in Lash's direction, he supposed he was taking a chance getting this close to the hub, but he didn't give a crap. He had nothing to lose, and wasn't really looking forward to spending the rest of his days as nothing more than animated beef jerky.
Ugly and weak and leaky was not hot.
As the cold wind made his teeth rattle, he thought of Xhex and warmed himself with the memories. On some level, he couldn't believe that his time with her had been mere days ago. Felt more like ages since he'd had her under him. For fuck's sake, finding that first lesion on his wrist had been the beginning of the end. . . he just hadn't known it at the time.