John stared into Cormia's face. There was sadness, but it was of the poignant variety, the kind you got when you were in an unhappy situation. There was also resolve and a forthright strength.
There was no fear. No choking despair. No horrible shame.
She was not as he had been afterward.
"Go," she said softly. "All is well. Truly."
John looked at Wrath, who nodded. "I don't know what you walked in on, but I'm going to find out. Let me deal with this, son. I'll do right by her. Now everyone, out."
John squeezed Cormia's hand and left with Rhage and the others. The second he was out in the hall, the door was shut and he heard quiet voices.
He didn't go far. Couldn't. He made it to just outside of Wrath's study when his knees took a TO and he collapsed in one of the antique chairs that dotted the hall. After reassuring everyone he was okay, he let his head hang and breathed slowly.
The past was alive in his head, reanimated by the lightening strike of what he'd seen in Cormia's room.
Closing his eyes didn't help. Trying to talk himself down didn't help.
While he struggled to get the slipcovers back on his sofa, he realized it had been weeks and weeks since he and Zsadist had had one of their walks in the woods. As Bella's pregnancy had progressed and become more of a concern, his and Z's once-nightly sojourns where they traipsed through the forest in silence had become more and more infrequent.
He needed one now.
Lifting his head, he glanced in the direction of the hall of statues and wondered whether Zsadist was even in the house. Probably not, as he hadn't been in the room when the drama had rolled out. Given all the killings that had gone down tonight, the Brother no doubt had his hands full in the field.
John stood and went to his room. After he shut himself in, he stretched out on his bed, texted Qhuinn and Blay, and told them he was crashing. They'd get the messages when they came back out of the tunnel.
Staring up at the ceiling, he thought... of the number three. Bad things did come in that number, and did not always involve death.
Three times he had lost it within the last year. Three times his temper had snapped and he'd attacked someone.
Twice Lash. Once Phury.
You're unstable, a voice said.
Well, except he'd had his reasons, and they had all been good ones. The first time, Lash had gone after Qhuinn. The second time Lash had more than deserved. And this third time... the circumstantial evidence had been overwhelming, and what kind of male walked in on a female like that and didn't take action?
You're unstable.
Closing his eyes, he tried not to remember that stairwell in that grungy apartment building where he'd lived by himself. He tried not to remember what those boots on the steps had sounded like as they'd rushed at him. He tried not to remember the old mold and the fresh urine and the sweaty cologne that had tunneled into his nose when what had been done to him had been going down...
He couldn't shake the memories. Especially of the smells.
The mold had been from the wall he'd been pushed face- first into. The urine had been his own and had run down the insides of his thighs to the pants that been ripped down from his hips. The sweaty cologne had been his attacker's.
The scene was as fresh as where he was now. He felt his body then as clearly as he knew it now, saw the stairwell as he did the room he was currently in. Fresh... fresh... fresh... and there appeared to be no expiration date on the horrible episode's milk carton.
It didn't take a psychology degree to know that this explosive temper of his was rooted in all he kept inside.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to talk to someone.
No... not exactly.
He wanted back the one who was his. He wanted his father.
After John's Oscar de la Hoya routine, Phury's face felt as if it had been spit-broiled and put on a bed of fresh-cut I've-hit -bottom. "Look, Wrath... don't get angry with John."
"It was a misunderstanding," Cormia said to the king. "Nothing more."
"What the hell happened between you two?" Wrath asked.
"Nothing," Cormia replied. "Absolutely nothing."
The king so wasn't buying it, which proved their fearless leader had half a brain, but at the moment Phury didn't have enough left in him to argue for the truth. He just kept mopping up his busted mouth with the back of his forearm as Wrath kept talking and Cormia kept defending him, God only knew why.
Wrath glowered from behind his wraparounds. "Look, do I need to break something else to get you two to cut the shit? The hell it was nothing. John's a hothead, but he's not a - "
Cormia cut the king off. "John misinterpreted what he saw."
"What did he see?"
"Nothing. I say it was nothing and therefore it is as such."
Wrath gave her the once-over, as if checking for bruises. Then he looked hard at Phury. "What the f**k do you have to tell me?"
Phury shook his head. "She's wrong. John didn't misunder - "
Cormia's tone was sharp. "The Primale is clothing himself in blame that is unnecessary. My honor was not impeached in any fashion, and I do believe that is my call to make, is it not."
After a moment, the king inclined his head. "As you wish."
"Thank you, Your Highness." She bowed deep and low. "Now, I shall be taking my leave of you."
"Would you like me to send Fritz with some food - "
"No. I am taking my leave of this side. I am returning home." She bowed again, and as she did, the blond hair that was still drying from her shower slipped off her shoulder and brushed the floor. "I wish you both the very best and proffer my kindest regards to the rest of the household. Your Majesty." She bowed again to Wrath. "Your grace." She bowed to Phury.
Phury leaped up off the bed and rushed forward in a panic... but she disappeared into the thin air before he reached her.
Gone. Just like that.
"Will you excuse me," he said to Wrath. It wasn't a request, but he didn't give a shit.
"I really don't think you should be alone right now," Wrath said in a dark tone.
There was conversation at that point, some sort of back-and -forth, which must have reassured Wrath on some level, because the king left.
When he was gone, Phury stood in the middle of his room, still as a statue, staring at the imprint of that ashtray on the wall. On the inside he writhed, but on the outside he was utterly motionless: The choking ivy was growing underneath his skin, instead of over it.
With a flick of his eyes, he checked the clock. Only an hour before dawn.
As he headed into the bathroom for a cleanup, he knew he was going to have to be quick about this.
Chapter Forty-one
The caldwell police station had two separate faces to it: the front entrance on Tenth, with all the steps, which was where the TV crews filmed the shit you saw on the evening news, and the back one, with the iron bars, where business was taken care of. In truth, the Tenth Street facade was only marginally better-looking, because the 1960s-era building was like the profile of an aging, ugly woman. There were no good sides.
The squad car Lash was in the back of pulled to a stop right behind the rear entrance.
How the f**k had he ended up here?
The cop who'd arrested him came around and popped the door. "Step out of the car, please."
Lash stared up at the guy, then shifted his legs, unhinged his knees, and towered over the human. Fantasies of ripping the man's throat open and turning his jugular vein into a soda fountain were all but undeniable.
"This way, sir."
"No problem."
He could tell he made the SOB jumpy by the way the cop's hand drifted over to the butt of his gun in spite of the fact that they were in full view of the CPD home team.
Lash was led through some double doors and down a linoleum hallway that looked like it had been installed when the shit had first been invented. They stopped at a Plexiglas window that was thick as an arm, and the cop yammered into a circular metal patch that was mounted on the wall. The woman on the other side was all business in her navy blue uniform, and about as attractive as the male cop.
But she took care of the paperwork quickly. When she was satisfied that she'd pulled together enough forms for them to fill out, she slid the stack under the window to the cop and nodded. The door next to them let out a beeeeeeeep and a clunk, as if it had burped open its lock, and then it was another beat-to-shit linoleum stretch that ended in a little room with a bench, a chair, and a desk.
After they were seated, the officer took out a pen and clicked it. "What's your full name?"