Butch's phone went off, and he scrambled to answer the thing. "V? Oh... hey, baby. No... nothing yet. I will. I promise. Love you."
As the cop hung up, Wrath turned toward the fire in the fireplace and was quiet for a while, no doubt reviewing, as they all were, what kind of options they had. Which were, like... none. Vishous could be anywhere at this point, so if the brothers scattered to the four arms of the compass, they'd be doing the needle-in-the-haystack routine. Besides, it was pretty obvious V had killed the GPS chip. He did not want to be found.
Eventually Wrath said, "The pin's out of the grenade, gentlemen. Now it's just a question of what gets blown."
V picked the place for the car accident with care. He wanted to be close to their destination, but still far enough for discretion, and just when he got within range, a curve in the road offered itself up for use. Perfect. Putting his seat belt on, he stomped on the gas and braced himself. The Audi's engine roared, and its wheels spun faster and faster on the slick road. Pretty damn quick it ceased being a car, morphing into nothing but a f**kload of kinetic energy.
Instead of going with Route 22's sharp turn to the left, V headed straight for the tree line. Like a well-behaved child with no survival instincts, the car flew off the shoulder and held air for a split second.
The landing bounced V right off the driver's seat, knocking his head into the car's sunroof, then slamming him forward. Air bags exploded from the steering wheel and the dashboard and doors as the sedan pummeled through brush and saplings and...
The oak tree was immense. Big as a house. Just as sturdy.
The Audi's crash cage was all that saved V from annihilation as the front of the car crumpled into an accordion of metal and engine. The shock of impact snapped V's head on his neck, banging his face into his air bag again as a branch pierced through the windshield.
In the aftermath his ears rang like they had fire alarms going off in them, and his body did a self-scan for broken bits and pieces. Dazed, bleeding from cuts left by the branch, he undid his seat belt, forced his door open, and stumbled out of the car. As he took some deep breaths, he heard the hiss of the engine and the wheezing deflation of the air bags. Rain fell with steady, graceful disinterest, dripping off the trees into shallow puddles on the forest floor.
As soon as he could he went around the car to Jane.
The impact had thrown her forward, and her blood now marked the windshield and the dash and the seat. Which was what he'd wanted. He leaned in and released her belt, then picked her up as carefully as if she still lived, arranging her in his arms so she would have been comfortable. Before he started through the woods, he got his leather jacket and draped it over her to protect her from the cold weather.
Vishous began the walk as all walks began. He put one foot in front of another. Then repeated. Then repeated.
He tromped through the forest, getting wetter and wetter until he became as the trees were, just another object for water to fall off of. He took a roundabout way to their destination, until his arms and his back ached from carrying her.
Finally he came up to the entrance of a cave. He didn't bother checking to make sure he wasn't followed. He knew he was alone.
He walked into the earthy well, the sound of the rain receding as he continued farther over the dirt floor. He located from memory the catch in the rock wall and triggered the release. As a nine-foot slab of granite shifted over, he entered the hall that was revealed and approached a set of iron gates. He released the locking mechanism with his mind, and the barrier parted without a sound as the rock behind him replaced itself.
Inside, it was beyond pitch-black, the air denser in this underground place, as if it were crowded into the space. With a quick thought he flamed up some of the wall torches with his mind, then started down toward the Tomb's place of worship and ritual. On either side of the hall, on shelves that reached up some twenty feet, there were thousands of ceramic jars containing the hearts of lessers killed by the Brotherhood. He did not look up at them, as he usually did. He stared straight ahead as he carried his beloved forward, his wet boots leaving tracks on the glossy black marble floor.
Not long thereafter he stepped into the Tomb's belly, the vast, subterranean cave opening up a belly in the earth. At his will, thick black candles on stanchions lit up, illuminating the daggerlike stalactites that hung down as well as the massive black marble slabs that formed the wall behind the altar.
The slabes were what he had seen in his vision. When he'd stared down Route 22 and looked at the trees, he had pictured the memorial wall: As with the trees' interlocking branches, the inscriptions on the marble, all those names of warriors who had served in the Brotherhood for generations, formed a subtle, gentle pattern, looking like lace from afar.
In front of the wall the altar was crude, but powerful: an enormous block of stone set on two stout lintels. In the center was the ancient skull of the first member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the most sacred relic the brothers had.
He pushed it aside and laid Jane down. She had lost her color, and her limp white hand as it fell off to the side made him shake all over. He carefully returned it to her, putting it on her chest.
He stepped away until his back hit the etched wall. In the candlelight, and with his jacket over her upper torso, he could almost imagine she was sleeping.
Almost.
Surrounded by the subterranean vista, he thought of the cave of the warrior camp. Then he saw himself using his hand on the pretrans who had threatened him, and on his father.
He undid his glove and slid it off his glowing palm.
What he contemplated now went against the laws of both nature and his species.
Reanimation of the dead was not an appropriate or allowable course of action under any circumstances. And not just because it was the Omega's realm. The Chronicles of the race, those volumes and volumes of history, provided only two examples, and neither had resulted in anything but tragedy.
But he was different. This was different. Jane was different. He was doing this out of love, whereas the examples he read about had been done out of hatred: There had been a murderer that someone had brought back to use as a weapon, and a female returned to life as an act of revenge.
And there was more in his favor. He healed Butch on a regular basis, drawing the evil out of the cop when he did his business with the lessers. He could do the same for Jane. He absolutely could.
With iron resolve, he pushed from his mind the outcomes of those other forays into the Omega's realm of dark arts. And focused on his love for his female.
The fact that Jane was a human was not an issue, as reanimation was the act of bringing that which was dead back to life, and the dividing line was the same no matter the species. And he had what he needed. The ritual required three things: something of the Omega's, some fresh blood, and a source of electrical energy such as a harnessed lightning bolt.
Or in his case, his f**king curse.
V walked back out to the hall of jars and didn't waste time picking. He took one randomly from the shelf, its ceramic marked by fine cracks, its color a murky brown, which meant it was one of the early ones.
When he returned to the altar, he slammed the jar into the stone, shattering the thing, revealing what it had housed. The heart inside was covered with a black, oily sheen, preserved by what flowed in the Omega's veins. Though the exact nature of the induction into the Lessening Society was unknown, it was clear the Omega's "blood" went in first before the heart was removed.
So Vishous had what he needed from their enemy.
He looked at the skull of the first Brother and didn't think twice about using the sacred relic for what was an unlawful purpose. He took out one of his daggers, scored his wrist, and bled into the sterling silver cup that was mounted in the top of the skull. Then he palmed the lesser heart and squeezed it with his fist.
Black drops of distilled evil welled and fell, mixing with the red of his blood. The liquid sin had magic to it, the kind that ran against the rules of the righteous, the kind that turned torture into sport, the kind that enjoyed pain inflicted on the innocent... but it had eternity in it, too.
And that was what he needed for Jane.
"No!"
He spun around.
The Scribe Virgin had appeared behind him, her hood down, her transparent face a mask of horror. "You must not do this."
He turned away and brought the skull up next to Jane's head. On a fragmentary thought, he found an odd, reassuring parallel that she knew what the inside of his chest looked like and he was about to know the same of her.