"Have you been in the lab again, brother mine?" she asked.
His eyes shot up from the chart and he pushed his hornrimmed glasses higher on his nose. His jaunty red bow tie was cocked at a bad angle. "Come again?"
She nodded at his feet with a smile. "The lab."
"Ah... yes. I have." He reached down and took the covers off his loafers, crushing the yellow plastic in his hand. "Marissa, would you do me the favor of returning to the house? I've asked the Princeps Council leahdyre and seven other members to dinner on Monday next. The menu must be perfect and I would talk to Karolyn myself, but I'm due in the OR."
"Of course." Except then Marissa frowned, aware that her brother was still as a statue. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, thank you. Go... go now. Do... yes, please go now."
She was tempted to pry, but she didn't want to keep him from the young's operation, so she kissed him on the cheek, straightened his bow tie, and walked away. When she reached the double doors that led into the reception area, though, something made her glance back.
Havers was stuffing what he'd been wearing on his feet into a biohazard bin, and his face was drawn into tight lines. With a deep breath, he braced himself, then pushed open the door to the surgical suite's anteroom.
Ah, she thought, so that's what it was. He was upset about operating on the young. And who could blame him?
Marissa turned back to the doors... then heard the boots.
She froze. Only one kind of male made that thunder when he approached.
Pivoting around, she saw Vishous striding down the hall, his dark head lowered, and behind him, Phury and Rhage were similar silent menaces. All three were dripping with weapons and weariness, and Vishous had dried blood on his leathers and his jacket. But why had they been in Havers's lab? That facility was the only thing back there, really.
The Brothers didn't notice her until they practically mowed her down. Coming to a stop as a group, their eyes quickly went elsewhere, no doubt because of her having fallen from Wrath's grace.
Dear Virgin, up close they looked truly awful. Sick, yet not unwell, if that made any sense.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.
"Everything's cool," Vishous said in a hard voice. " 'Scuse us."
The dream... Butch lying in the snow ... "Is someone hurt? Is... Butch..."
Vishous just shrugged her off and stepped past her, punching open the doors into Reception. The other two offered stiff smiles, then did the same.
Following at a distance, she watched them walk by the nursing station to the access elevator. As they waited for the doors to open, Rhage reached out and put his hand on Vishous's shoulder, and the other Brother seemed to shudder.
The exchange made warning bells go off, and the instant the elevator doors closed Marissa headed for the wing of the clinic the three had originally come from. Moving quickly, she passed the sprawling, brilliantly lit lab, then put her head into the six older patient rooms. All of which were empty.
Why had the Brothers been here? Maybe just to talk to Havers?
On instinct, she went out to the front desk, logged on to the computer and scanned the admissions. Nothing about any of the Brothers or Butch came up, but that didn't mean a thing.
The warriors were never entered into the system, and she had to imagine it would be the same for Butch if he were in-house. What she was after was how many beds were occupied of the thirty-five they had.
She got the number and did a quick walk around, scouting each room. Everything was accounted for. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Butch had not been admitted - unless he was in one of the other rooms in the main house. Sometimes patients who were VIPs stayed there.
Marissa picked up her skirts and hightailed it for the back stairs.
Butch curled into himself even though he wasn't cold, operating on the theory that if he could just bring his knees up high enough, the pain in his stomach would ease a little.
Yeah, right. The hot poker in his gut was not impressed by that plan.
He peeled his puffy eyelids apart, and after a lot of blinking and deep breathing, he came to the following conclusions: He was not dead. He was in a hospital. And shit that was no doubt keeping him alive was being pumped into his arm.
As he rolled over gingerly, he came to one more realization. His body had been used for a punching bag. Oh... and something nasty was in his belly, like his last meal had been rancid roast beef.
What the f**k had happened to him?
Only a vague series of snapshots came to mind: Vishous finding him in the woods. Him with a screaming instinct that the brother should leave him to die. Then some knife action and... something about that hand of V's, that glowing thing used to take out a vile piece of -
Butch lurched over onto his side and gagged just from the memory. There had been evil in his belly. Pure, undiluted malice, and the black horror had been spreading.
With shaking hands, he grabbed the hospital johnny he was wearing and yanked it up. "Oh... Jesus..."
There was a stain on the skin of his stomach, like the scorch mark of a fire that had been snuffed out. In desperation, he weeded through his sloppy brain, trying to remember how the scarring had gotten there and what it was, but he just came up with a big fat zero.
So like the detective he'd been before, he examined the scene - which in this case was his body. Lifting one of his hands, he saw that his fingernails were a mess, as if something like a file or some small nails had been hammered under a number of them. A deep breath told him his ribs were cracked. And going by his swollen eyes, he had to assume his face had partied with a lot of knuckles.
He had been tortured. Recently.
Reaching into his mind again, he panned for memories, trying to get back to the last place he'd been. ZeroSum. ZeroSum with... oh, God, that female. In the bathroom. Having hardcore, who-cares sex. Then he'd gone out and... lessers. Fighting with those lessers. Getting shot and then...
His recollections came to the end of their train track at that point. Just shot off the edge of reasoning into a pit of huh, what?
Had he squealed on the Brotherhood? Betrayed them? Had he given his nearest and dearest away?
And what the hell had been done to his belly? God, he felt like there was sludge in his veins thanks to whatever had festered there.
Letting himself go limp, he breathed through his mouth for a while. And found there was no peace to be had.
As if his brain didn't want to stop working, or maybe because it was showing off, the thing kicked up random visions from the distant past. Birthdays with his dad glaring at him and his mom tense and smoking like a chimney. Christmases where his brothers and sisters got presents and he didn't.
Hot July nights that no fan could cool off, the heat driving his father into the cold beer. The Pabst Blue Ribbon driving his father into fist-cracking wake-up calls just for Butch.
Memories he hadn't thought of for years came back, all unwanted visitors. He saw his sisters and brothers, happy, shouting, playing on bright green grass. And remembered how he'd wished he could be among them instead of hanging back, the oddball who'd never fit in.
And then - Oh, God, no... not this memory. Too late. He pictured himself as the twelve-year-old he'd been, scrawny and shaggy, standing at the curb in front of the O'Neal family row house in South Boston. It had been a clear, beautiful fall afternoon when he'd watched his sister Janie get into a red Chevy Chevette that had rainbow stripes down the side. With perfect recollection he saw her waving at him through the window in the back as the car drove off.
Now that the door to the nightmare was open, he couldn't stop the horror show. He recalled the police coming to the door that night and his mother's knees going out when they finished talking to her. He remembered the cops questioning him because he was the last person to see Janie alive. He heard his younger self telling the badges that he hadn't recognized the boys and had wanted to tell his sister not to get in.
Mostly, he saw his mother's eyes burning with a pain so great she had no tears.
Then flash forward twenty-plus years. God... when was the last time he'd spoken to or seen either of his parents? Or his brothers and sisters? Five years? Probably. Man, the family had been so relieved when he'd moved away and started missing holidays.
Yeah, around the Christmas table, everyone else had been part of the O'Neal family fabric and he'd been the stain. Eventually he'd stopped going home altogether, leaving them only phone numbers to reach him, numbers they never dialed.
So they wouldn't know if he died now, would they? Vishous no doubt knew everything about the O'Neal clan, down to their social security numbers and bank statements, but Butch had never spoken about them. Would the Brotherhood call? What would they say?