Butch looked down at himself and knew there was a good chance he wasn't walking out of this room. His body looked a lot like those he'd seen in Homicide, the kind he investigated in the woods. Well, natch. That's where he'd been found. Discarded. Used. Left for dead.
Rather like Janie.
Exactly like Janie.
Closing his eyes, he floated away on the pain in his body. And from out of the swill of agony, he had a vision of Marissa from the first night he'd met her. The image was so vivid, he could almost smell the ocean scent of her and he saw exactly what had been: the filmy yellow gown she'd had on... the way her hair had looked, down over her shoulders... the lemon-colored sitting room they'd been in together.
To him, she was the unforgettable woman, the one he'd never had and never would but who nonetheless reached into the core of him.
Man, he was so fricking tired.
He opened his eyes and took action before he really knew what he was doing. Reaching up to his inner forearm, he peeled the clear plastic tape off the skin around the IV insertion site. Sliding the needle out of his vein was easier than he'd thought it would be, but then again, the rest of him hurt so bad, messing around with that little piece of hardware was a drop in the bucket.
If he'd had the strength, he'd have gone looking for something with a little more punch to off himself. But time - time was the weapon he was going to use because that's what he had at his disposal. And going by how shitty he felt, it wasn't going to take long. He could practically hear his organs coughing up their livelihoods.
Closing his eyes, he let go of everything, only dimly aware that alarms were going off in the machinery behind the bed. A fighter by nature, the ease with which he gave up was a surprise, but then a heavy tide of exhaustion crashed over him. He knew instinctually that this was not the exhaustion of sleep but rather of death, and he was glad that it came so fast.
Drifting free of everything, he imagined that he was at the start of a long, blinding hallway at the end of which was a door. Marissa was standing in front of the portal and as she smiled at him she opened the way into a white bedroom full of light.
His soul eased as he took a deep breath and began to walk forward. He'd like to think he was going to heaven, in spite of all the bad things he'd done, so this made sense.
It wouldn't be paradise without her.
Chapter Six
Vishous stood in the clinic's parking lot and watched as Rhage and Phury pulled out in the black Mercedes. They were going to grab Butch's phone from the alley behind Screamer's, then pick up the Escalade from the ZeroSum lot and head home.
It went without saying that V wasn't going back into the field tonight. The remnants of the evil he'd handled lingered in his body, making him weak. But more than that, seeing Butch worked out and nearly dead had done some kind of inner damage. He had the sense that a part of him had become unhinged, that some inner escape hatch was hanging open and segments of him were fleeing the core.
Actually, he'd had this feeling for a while now, ever since his visions had left him. But this horror movie of a night made it so much worse.
Privacy. He needed to be alone. Except he couldn't stand the idea of going back to the Pit. The silence there, the empty couch where Butch always sat, the weighty knowledge that there was something missing, would be unbearable.
So he went to his undisclosed place. Taking form again thirty stories in the air, he materialized on the terrace of his penthouse at the Commodore. The wind was howling and it felt good, biting through his clothes, making him feel something other than the gaping hole in his chest.
He went to the terrace's edge. Bracing his arms against the railing, he looked over the lip of the skyscraper, down to the streets below. There were cars. People going into the lobby. Someone reaching into a cab, paying the driver. So normal. So very normal...
Meanwhile, he was up here dying.
Butch was not going to make it. The Omega had been inside him; that was the only explanation for what had been done to him. And although the evil had been taken out, its infection was beyond deadly and the harm was done.
V rubbed his face. What the hell was he going to do without that smart-ass, tough-talking, Scotch-sucking SOB? The rough bastard somehow smoothed the edges of life, probably because he was like sandpaper, a scratchy, persistent wrong-way-rub-that left everything more even.
V turned away from the three-hundred-foot drop to the pavement. Going over to a door, he took a gold key out of his pocket and pushed it into the lock. The penthouse beyond was his private space, for his private... endeavors. And the scent of the female he'd had the night before lingered in the darkness.
At his will, black candles flared. The walls and the ceilings and the floors were black and the chromatic void absorbed the light, sucking it in, eating it up. The only true piece of furniture was a king-sized bed that was likewise covered in black satin sheets. But he didn't spend a lot of time on the mattress.
The rack was what he relied on. The rack with its hard table-top and its restraints. And he also used the things hanging beside it: the leather straps, the lengths of cane, the ball gags, the collars and spikes, the whips - and always the masks. He had to have the females anonymous, had to cover their faces as he tied up their bodies. He didn't want to know them as anything more than the equipment for his deviant workouts.
Shit, he was depraved about sex and he knew it, but after trying out a lot of things, he'd finally found what worked for him. And fortunately there were females who liked what he did to them, craved it as he craved the release he got when he mastered them singly or in pairs.
Except... tonight as he looked at his equipment, his perversions made him feel dirty. Maybe because he never came here unless he was ready to use what he had, so he'd never given the place a look-see when his head was clear.
His cell phone's ring startled him. As he glanced at the number, he numbed out. Havers. "Is he dead?"
Havers's voice was all professional-doctor sensitive. Which was the tip-off that Butch was hanging by a spider's thread. "He coded, sire. He pulled the IV out and his vitals dipped. We brought him back, but I don't know how long he can keep going."
"Can you restrain him?"
"I did. But I want you to be prepared. He's just a human - "
"No, he is not."
"Oh... of course, sire, but I didn't mean it like - "
"Shit. Look, I'm coming back. I want to be with him."
"I would prefer you didn't. He gets agitated whenever anyone's in the room and that doesn't help things. Right now he's as stable as I can make him and as comfortable as possible."
"I don't want him dying alone."
There was a pause. "Sire, we all die alone. Even if you were in the room with him, he would still leave unto the Fade... alone. He needs to be kept calm so his body can decide whether it's going to revive. We're doing everything we can for him."
V put a hand over his eyes. In a small voice that he didn't recognize, he said, "I don't... I don't want to lose him. I, ah... yeah, don't know what I would do if he - " V coughed a little. "Fuck."
"I shall care for him as mine own. Give him a day to try and stabilize."
"Nightfall tomorrow, then. And you will call me if his condition gets worse."
V hung up the phone and found himself staring at one of the lit candlewicks. Over its black wax torso, the captured little head of light weaved in the currents of the room.
The flame got him thinking. The bright yellow of it was... well, it was kind of like the color of blond hair, wasn't it.
He whipped out his cell, deciding that Havers was wrong about the no-visitors thing. It just depended on who the visitor was.
As he dialed, he resented the only option he had. And knew that what he was doing probably wasn't fair. Probably would cause a helluva lot of trouble, too. But when your best friend was doing the tombstone two-step with the Reaper, you kind of didn't give a shit about a lot of things.
"Mistress?"
Marissa looked up from her brother's desk. The seating chart for the Princeps dinner was in front of her, but she couldn't concentrate. All that searching of the clinic and the house and she'd come up with nothing. Meanwhile, her senses were screaming that something was wrong.
She forced a smile for the doggen in the doorway, "Yes, Karolyn?"
The servant bowed. "A call for you. On line one."
"Thank you." The doggen inclined her head and left as Marissa picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"He's in the room down by your brother's lab."