“No.”
“So trusting. Another surprise. We keep this up and you’re going to tell me you’re turning into a pacifist next.”
“I don’t trust you at all. But you can’t hurt me.”
Those amethyst eyes narrowed. “That, my friend, is where you’re wrong.”
“No one can hurt me,” Sahvage countered grimly.
“You know”—the Reverend took his hand back out—“I’ve heard of toxic narcissism before, but you’re taking the cake. Here’s your money.”
“Keep it and tell me what you know about the Book.”
“No offense, this is couch change to me. So you’re not doing me any favors.”
“Keep it anyway. And tell me what you know.”
The Reverend disappeared the cash again. Then he just stared at Sahvage. “Where’s your lost family, fighter.”
“What?”
“I have this cute little knack for knowing what people hide.” He tapped the side of his head. “Such a handy thing out in the world, really. And you lost your people, your family, a long time ago, didn’t you.”
“I didn’t lose anybody, and I just want the Book.”
There was a long period of silence. Then the Reverend switched his cane from one hand to another. “As it turns out, I have someone you’re going to want to speak to. I don’t know where the fucking thing is, but a friend of mine does. You’ll want to ask him. He’s an absolute angel.”
“Fine. Tell me when and where.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Make it quick.”
“You are hardly in a position to make demands.”
Sahvage slowly shook his head. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
The Reverend open his mouth like he was going to make a snide comment. But the male didn’t follow through on the impulse.
As a calculating look came into those eyes, he smiled a little. “Fascinating.” Then he nodded with respect. “And I do believe you are right. I don’t know who I’m dealing with—but neither do you, fighter. You’ll be hearing from me.”
The Reverend bowed. And then he was off, disappearing into the night.
Left on his little lonesome, Sahvage went back to staring over the slow-moving water. The fact that he didn’t know the river’s name was a testament to how many places he had been over the last couple of centuries. From wandering the Old Country’s various nation-states to coming to the New World fifty years ago and traveling all around the South and the Midwest, the globe was a blur to him. Then again, he’d never used maps. Maps were for people with destinations. The sole direction he took was no daylight and veins only when he absolutely needed them.
Otherwise, he roamed in search of a moving target.
No, that was actually no longer true. He had come to this side of the big pond because he had finally given up on finding his cousin. Just as he had predicted the night he resealed his coffin full of oat flour, his “death” had freed him of any ties, and he had gone to ground, following up on leads, gossip, and tenuous stories of magic in hopes of finding Rahvyn.
Not one single trace. She must have died somewhere along the line—and now he was here, an ocean away. But no longer purposeless.
The Reverend was right. He wasn’t going after the Book for Mae.
He was going to find it and destroy the goddamn thing before she could ruin her brother’s life.
And her own.
Balz limped around in circles outside one of the training center’s operating rooms. There were a lot of people with him: Xcor and the rest of the Band of Bastards, the Brotherhood, the other fighters in the house. On the far side of the closed door, Syphon was being treated for God only knew what.
On that note, Balz pulled up the sleeve of the flannel shirt he’d changed into after his own medical exam. The welt on his forearm was calming down, the raised flesh less angry, less swollen. There were a lot of the damn things, mostly on his chest and arms. Maybe twenty percent of his entire body.
Syphon was at more like eighty percent.
If the male died, it was all Balz’s fault.
Back at that psychic’s, Manny had arrived with his mobile surgical unit a mere eight minutes after the call-in for help, and Xcor and several of the Brothers had loaded Syphon into the treatment bay. Balz had refused any medical attention at that point, and insisted on riding in to offer protection.
Not that he had been much use. He’d been in killer pain.
But self-blame was a better analgesic than morphine, go figure.
In recounting the attack, he’d done what he could to fill the docs and the other fighters in on what had happened. But he’d given them all an edited version—although he’d been totally up front about the shadow. Again, it had been a goddamn shame that he hadn’t had water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain in those bullets—
“There’s a new evil in town,” Butch muttered. “Maybe the shadows are something of hers.”