Throe had a point about the grisly bag of keepsakes. Damn it.
Dematerializing to the top of the bathroom shed, he left his trophies under the contours of the ventilation system and willed himself inside, where the sinks and the toilets were. He was quite sure the place smelled of fake air freshener, but nothing was able to penetrate the cloying, spoiled-meat stink of his prey.
Motion-activated lights came on as he moved around, creating a fluorescent haze. The basins were stainless steel and rudimentary, but the water ran cold and clean, and, leaning down, he cupped his hands and splashed his face once. Twice. Again.
So dumb to waste time on this tidy-up, he thought. Those prostitutes would remember nothing. And it wasn't as if washing would improve the comeliness of his features.
On the other hand, best not to scare them into flight: Dragging them back was such a bore.
As he lifted his head, he saw himself in the crude metal sheets that were supposed to be mirrors. Even though the reflection was dull, he noted his ugliness and thought of Throe just now. In spite of the fact that the soldier had been out fighting all night, his handsome visage had appeared fresh as a daisy, his well-bred looks overshadowing the reality that he had slayer blood on his clothes and had been scraped and bruised.
Xcor, however, could have taken rest for two weeks straight, eaten a large meal, and fed from a fucking Chosen, and he would still appear as repulsive.
He rinsed his face one more time. Then looked around for something to use as a wipe-off. All there appeared to be were machines bolted into the wall for drying one's hands with hot air.
His leather duster was filthy. The loose black shirt underneath was the same.
He left the facility with cold water dripping from his chin, reappearing up top on the roof. His bag was not secure enough here, and he was going to have to leave his scythe and his coat somewhere very safe.
As exhaustion dogged him, he thought. . . such a bloody fucking nuisance, all this.
Chapter Sixteen
Up high above the chaos of Caldwell, in the silent marble library of the Chosen, Tohr had a scream in his head that was so loud, it was a wonder that No'One didn't cover her ears from the din.
He threw his hand out. "Give me that. "
Taking the volume from her, he forced his eyes to focus on the characters of the Old Language that had been so carefully constructed.
Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, blooded daughter of Relix, passed from the earth on this night, taking with her her unbirthed young, a son of some forty weeks.
Reading the short passage, he felt as if the whole event had happened a mere moment ago, his body submerging in that old, familiar river of grief.
He had to go over the symbols a couple of times before he could concentrate not only on what was there, but what wasn't.
No mention of the Fade.
Sifting through other paragraphs, he sought the notations of other passings. There were a number. . . .
Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the - he flipped the page - earth unto the Fade.
"Oh, God. . . "
As a screeching noise echoed around, he did not lift his eyes. But abruptly, No'One started pulling on his arm.
"Sit, please sit. " She yanked hard. "Please. "
He let himself go, and the stool that she had dragged over caught his weight.
"Is there any chance," he said in a guttural voice, "that they simply forgot to put it in?"
There was no need for No'One, or anybody else, to answer that question. The sequestered Chosen had had a sacred job, something they did not fuck up. And that kind of "oopsie" would be a big one.
Lassiter's voice knocked on his inside door: That's why I've come - I'm here to help you, help her.
"I have to go back to the mansion," he mumbled.
Next move was to get to his feet, but that didn't go well. Between a sudden weakness in his body and that fucking foot, he slammed into one of the stacks, the contour of his shoulder pushing a wave into the books whose spines were so carefully arranged. Annnnnnnd then it was a case of the floor tipping in the opposite direction, pitching him into free air.