The Beast
Page 81
Mary had to turn around again. Bitty was looking forward, her brows super-high, her little face the picture of surprise.
“He’s not kidding,” Mary murmured. “Even if you’re not into the ice cream, watching him eat all that is something to see. So what do you say?”
“They have your number?” the girl asked.
“Absolutely they do. It’s a requirement for all staff members. And I keep my phone with me and turned on at all times, even when I’m sleeping—and certainly when I go out into the world.”
“And if you’re worried about something being missed”—Rhage held up his own phone—“I’ll give them my number, too. And my brother Vishous made sure we have the best reception and service in the city. No dead zones. Unless you’re around Lassiter, and that’s more of a mental thing than anything about cellular networks.”
“Um . . . Lassiter?” Bitty said.
Rhage nodded. “Yeah, he’s this pain in the ass—oh, shit—I mean, sorry, I shouldn’t say ass around you, should I? Or shit. And all those other bad words.” He poked himself in the head. “I gotta remember that, gotta remember that. Anyway, Lassiter’s a fallen angel who we’ve somehow gotten stuck with. He’s like gum on the bottom of your shoe. ’Cept he doesn’t smell like strawberries, he hogs the T.V. remote, and on a regular basis, you think to yourself, Is that really the best the Creator could do with an immortal? The guy has the worst taste in television—I mean, the only saving grace is that he isn’t addicted to Bonanza . . . have you ever watched twelve straight hours of Saved by the Bell? Okay, fine, it was probably only seven, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t have left—my God, I tell you, though, it’s a wonder I escaped with my ability to put my pants on one leg at a time still intact. . . .”
It was right about then when it happened. And Mary would have missed it if she hadn’t by some stroke of luck picked that moment to turn around again and check to see if Bitty was still listening.
The little girl smiled.
It wasn’t some big grin, and she didn’t laugh exactly, but the sides of her mouth definitely, totally lifted.
“Will you tell me more?” Bitty asked when Rhage stopped to take a breath. “About the other people you live with?”
“Sure. Absolutely. So my boss, the King? Your King? He has a golden retriever named George that helps him around. Wrath’s blind—but he always knows where you are in the room. He’s got crazy senses, that one. He likes lamb, and even though he’d deny it, he seems determined to always finish his vegetables. Like, at meals, you look over—well, see his plates have to all be arranged with the meat, the carbs, and the vegetables in the same place—’cuz, you know, he can’t see. Anyway, I can tell he hates those damn veggies, but he eats ’em. Ever since he had his son, L.W. Little Wrath, you know. The kid’s how old now?” Rhage looked over. “Mary, can you remember?”
But Mary wasn’t really listening to specifics. She was leaning back against the headrest and letting Rhage’s prattle of their lives wash over her.
It was the first time in . . . months that she felt relaxed.
“Mary?”
Turning her head to him, she smiled.
I love you so much, she mouthed in the lights of the dash.
Rhage’s chest inflated twelve times its normal size, and his I’m-the-man expression was so bright on his beautiful face, it was a wonder the entire zip code didn’t light up from it.
“Anyway,” he continued as he brought the back of her hand up to his mouth for a kiss. “We have a cat named Boo. He came with Wrath’s shellan, Beth, your Queen. And then one of our doctors has a retired racehorse? And I don’t want to think about Vishous owning any gerbils. But I’m not going there, and no, I will absolutely not explain that one. . . .”
Mary found herself closing her eyes as she let the stories and his baritone voice wash over her. For some reason, she remembered a different ride in this car, one very early on in their relationship . . . one where they had put the windows down and blared “Dream Weaver,” and she had stuck her head out the window and felt the wind in her face and her hair as they had roared down the road.
It was nice to know, even after all this time, that he still had the ability to carry her away.
THIRTY-THREE
Assail rematerialized at the rear of his mansion, back by the garage. And one after the other, his cousins followed suit, appearing beside him.
“Fates, it is a good job you both remain ambulatory.” He approached the kitchen entrance to his home, and entered in a code by the door. As the lock released, he glanced over his shoulder. “I feel quite certain that you are in need of hydration.”
All he got back was a mumbled response from Evale—which was a surprise as he was typically the silent one. However, an evening of fucking seemed to have reversed their personalities, draining all conversation out of Ehric, and leaving Evale to be the one who spoke.
Rather amusing, really.
Inside, he removed his coat and tuxedo jacket. They did not have to. Evidently, fully re-clothing had required greater stores of energy than they had had; their outerwear was draped over their forearms, their shirts barely buttoned to the sternum, their white ties stuffed into the pockets of their slacks.
“Food,” Evale said. “We require sustenance over that inconsolably small meal.”
“Evale, you have the oddest vocabulary.”
“He’s not kidding,” Mary murmured. “Even if you’re not into the ice cream, watching him eat all that is something to see. So what do you say?”
“They have your number?” the girl asked.
“Absolutely they do. It’s a requirement for all staff members. And I keep my phone with me and turned on at all times, even when I’m sleeping—and certainly when I go out into the world.”
“And if you’re worried about something being missed”—Rhage held up his own phone—“I’ll give them my number, too. And my brother Vishous made sure we have the best reception and service in the city. No dead zones. Unless you’re around Lassiter, and that’s more of a mental thing than anything about cellular networks.”
“Um . . . Lassiter?” Bitty said.
Rhage nodded. “Yeah, he’s this pain in the ass—oh, shit—I mean, sorry, I shouldn’t say ass around you, should I? Or shit. And all those other bad words.” He poked himself in the head. “I gotta remember that, gotta remember that. Anyway, Lassiter’s a fallen angel who we’ve somehow gotten stuck with. He’s like gum on the bottom of your shoe. ’Cept he doesn’t smell like strawberries, he hogs the T.V. remote, and on a regular basis, you think to yourself, Is that really the best the Creator could do with an immortal? The guy has the worst taste in television—I mean, the only saving grace is that he isn’t addicted to Bonanza . . . have you ever watched twelve straight hours of Saved by the Bell? Okay, fine, it was probably only seven, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t have left—my God, I tell you, though, it’s a wonder I escaped with my ability to put my pants on one leg at a time still intact. . . .”
It was right about then when it happened. And Mary would have missed it if she hadn’t by some stroke of luck picked that moment to turn around again and check to see if Bitty was still listening.
The little girl smiled.
It wasn’t some big grin, and she didn’t laugh exactly, but the sides of her mouth definitely, totally lifted.
“Will you tell me more?” Bitty asked when Rhage stopped to take a breath. “About the other people you live with?”
“Sure. Absolutely. So my boss, the King? Your King? He has a golden retriever named George that helps him around. Wrath’s blind—but he always knows where you are in the room. He’s got crazy senses, that one. He likes lamb, and even though he’d deny it, he seems determined to always finish his vegetables. Like, at meals, you look over—well, see his plates have to all be arranged with the meat, the carbs, and the vegetables in the same place—’cuz, you know, he can’t see. Anyway, I can tell he hates those damn veggies, but he eats ’em. Ever since he had his son, L.W. Little Wrath, you know. The kid’s how old now?” Rhage looked over. “Mary, can you remember?”
But Mary wasn’t really listening to specifics. She was leaning back against the headrest and letting Rhage’s prattle of their lives wash over her.
It was the first time in . . . months that she felt relaxed.
“Mary?”
Turning her head to him, she smiled.
I love you so much, she mouthed in the lights of the dash.
Rhage’s chest inflated twelve times its normal size, and his I’m-the-man expression was so bright on his beautiful face, it was a wonder the entire zip code didn’t light up from it.
“Anyway,” he continued as he brought the back of her hand up to his mouth for a kiss. “We have a cat named Boo. He came with Wrath’s shellan, Beth, your Queen. And then one of our doctors has a retired racehorse? And I don’t want to think about Vishous owning any gerbils. But I’m not going there, and no, I will absolutely not explain that one. . . .”
Mary found herself closing her eyes as she let the stories and his baritone voice wash over her. For some reason, she remembered a different ride in this car, one very early on in their relationship . . . one where they had put the windows down and blared “Dream Weaver,” and she had stuck her head out the window and felt the wind in her face and her hair as they had roared down the road.
It was nice to know, even after all this time, that he still had the ability to carry her away.
THIRTY-THREE
Assail rematerialized at the rear of his mansion, back by the garage. And one after the other, his cousins followed suit, appearing beside him.
“Fates, it is a good job you both remain ambulatory.” He approached the kitchen entrance to his home, and entered in a code by the door. As the lock released, he glanced over his shoulder. “I feel quite certain that you are in need of hydration.”
All he got back was a mumbled response from Evale—which was a surprise as he was typically the silent one. However, an evening of fucking seemed to have reversed their personalities, draining all conversation out of Ehric, and leaving Evale to be the one who spoke.
Rather amusing, really.
Inside, he removed his coat and tuxedo jacket. They did not have to. Evidently, fully re-clothing had required greater stores of energy than they had had; their outerwear was draped over their forearms, their shirts barely buttoned to the sternum, their white ties stuffed into the pockets of their slacks.
“Food,” Evale said. “We require sustenance over that inconsolably small meal.”
“Evale, you have the oddest vocabulary.”
