When she'd failed to kill V, she backed off... until she could try again. No doubt she was smart enough and nasty enough to defend her territory until either the Brothers ran out or the Primale role started to look cursed.
"You were about to say something, weren't you?" he prompted.
The Directrix smoothed the medallion hanging from her throat. "You are the Primale. You are the ruler herein."
"Good. Glad we're both straight on that." He tapped Darius's diary again. "I'm taking this back with me."
"Are we not meeting?"
He walked over to her, thinking that if she had been male he would have snapped her neck.
"Not right now, no. I have something I have to take care of with the Scribe Virgin." He leaned down, putting his mouth next to her ear. "But I'll be back for you."
Chapter Fifty-two
Vishous had never cried before. Throughout all his life he had never, ever cried. After all this shit he'd been through, it had gotten to the point that he'd decided he'd been born without tear ducts.
The events leading up to now hadn't changed that. When Jane had lain dead in his arms he hadn't wept. When he'd attempted to cut off his hand in the Tomb as a sacrifice and the pain had been astonishing, there had been no tears. When his hated mother had cast him back from the deed he'd been about to do, his cheeks had been dry.
Even when the Scribe Virgin had put her hand upon Jane's body and he'd watched in a daze as his beloved had been reduced to ash, he had not wept.
He did now.
For the first time since his birth, tears rolled down his face and soaked his pillow.
They had started when a vision of Butch and Marissa on the couch in the Pit's living room had come to him. Vivid... so vivid. V could not only hear their thoughts in his head, but he knew that Butch was picturing Marissa on their bed in a black bra and blue jeans. And Marissa was imagining him taking off her blue jeans and putting his head down between her thighs.
V knew that in six minutes Butch was going to take the orange juice Marissa had in her hand and put it on the coffee table. He was going to spill it, because the glass was going to land on the corner of a Sports Illustrated, and the juice was going to get on Marissa's jeans. The cop was going to use this as an excuse to take her down the hall and get her good and naked.
Except on the way, they would stop by V's door and lose their sexual impulses. With sad eyes, they would go to their mated bed and hold each other in silence.
V put an arm over his face. And wept uncontrollably.
His visions were back, his curse of the future returned to him.
The crossroads in his life was over.
Which meant this was his existence from now on: he was to be nothing but an empty shell that lay next to the ashes of his beloved.
And sure enough, in the midst of his crying he heard Butch and Marissa come down the hall, heard them pause in front of his bedroom, then heard them shut their door. No sounds of sex got muffled by the wall between the rooms, no headboard banged, no throaty cries sounded.
Just as he'd foreseen. In the silence that followed, V wiped his cheeks, then looked at his hands. The left one still throbbed a little from the damage he'd done to it. The right one glowed as it always did - and his tears were white against the backdrop of his inner illumination, white as the irises of his eyes.
He took a deep breath and looked at the clock.
The only thing that was keeping him breathing was nightfall. He absolutely would have killed himself by now - would have taken his Glock and put it in his mouth and blown the back of his head out - if it weren't for nightfall.
He was making it a personal mission to eradicate the Lessening Society. It was going to take the rest of his life, but that was f**king fine, because there was nothing else out there for him. And he would have preferred to leave the Brotherhood to do it, but Butch would die without him, so he was going to have to stick around.
Abruptly, he frowned and looked toward the door.
After a moment he wiped his cheeks and said, "I'm surprised you don't just come in."
The door opened without benefit of a hand. On the other side, the Scribe Virgin stood in the hallway, her black robes covering her head to foot.
"I was not sure of my welcome," she said in a low voice as she came into the room.
He didn't lift his head from the pillow. Had no interest in honoring her in any way. "You know what your welcome is."
"Indeed. So I will get down to the purpose of my visit. I have a gift for you."
"I don't want it."
"Yes. You do."
"Fuck you." Beneath her robes, her head seemed to drop. Not that he gave a shit that her precious little feelings were hurt. "Leave."
"You will want - "
He jerked upright. "You took what I wanted - "
A form entered the doorway, a ghostly form. "V... ?"
"And I give it back to you," the Scribe Virgin said. "In a certain manner."
Vishous didn't hear a word she said, because he couldn't comprehend what he was looking at. It was Jane... kind of. It was Jane's face and Jane's body, but she was... a transparent apparition.
"Jane?"
The Scribe Virgin spoke as she dematerialized. "You need not thank me. Just know that your curse is the way you may touch her. Good-bye."
Okay, as romantic reunions went, this one was bizarre and uncomfortable.
And not just because Jane supposed she could be classified as a ghost.
Vishous was looking as if he were going to pass out. Which hurt. It was entirely possible he wouldn't like her like this, and then where would she be? When the Scribe Virgin had come to her in heaven, or whatever that place was, and had given her the option of coming back, the answer had been a real no-brainer. But now that she was standing in front of a completely shocked-out guy, she wasn't so sure she'd made the right choice. Maybe she'd over -
He got up out of bed, walked across the room, and put his glowing hand to her face with hesitation. On a sigh she leaned into the imprint of his palm and the warmth of his flesh.
"Is this you?" he said hoarsely.
She nodded and reached out to his cheeks, which were a little red. "You've been crying."
He captured her hand. "I feel you."
"Me, too."
He touched her neck, her shoulder, her sternum. Brought her arm forward and looked at it... well, through it.
"Um... so I can sit on things," she said for no particular reason. "I mean... while I was waiting out there in the hall I sat on the couch. I also moved a picture on the wall, put a penny back in your change dish, picked up a magazine. It's a little weird, but all I have to do is concentrate." Shit. She had no idea what she was saying. "The, ah... the Scribe Virgin said I could eat but I didn't have to. She said... I could drink, too. I'm not sure how it all works, but she seems to know. Yeah. So. Anyway, I think it's going to take some time to figure out the drill, but..."
He put his hand into her hair and it felt the same as it had before. Her nonexistent body registered the sensations exactly as it had before.
He frowned, then looked downright angry. "She said it required a sacrifice. To bring someone back. What did you give her? What did you bargain with?"
"How do you mean?"
"She doesn't give things away without demanding something in return. What did she take from you?"
"Nothing. She never asked me for anything."
He shook his head and seemed like he was going to speak. But then he wrapped his heavy arms around her and held her against his trembling, glowing body. Unlike the other times when she had to concentrate to find solidity, with V it just happened. Against him, she was corporal with no effort on her part.
She could tell he was crying by the way he breathed and the fact that he leaned on her, but she knew that if she made any mention of it, or tried to soothe him with words, he would stop on a dime. So she just held him and let him go.
Then again, she was kind of busy holding herself together.
"I thought I would never get to do this again," he said in a voice that cracked.
Jane closed her eyes and squeezed him, thinking about that moment in the fog when she'd let him go. If she hadn't done that, they wouldn't be here, would they?
Fuck free will, she thought. She'd rely on destiny, no matter how much it hurt in the short run. Because love in its many forms always endured. It was the infinite. The eternal. That which sustained. She had no idea who or what the Scribe Virgin was. Had no idea where she herself had been or how she had come back. But she was sure of one thing.