Lover Eternal: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood (33 page)

Rhage dropped his hands. Only to start massaging his thighs.

 

"We've got to get you to One Eye," V said softly. "You're losing it. You need to have some sex."

 

"Fuck that."

 

"Phury told me how he found you out in the hall."

 

"You guys are a bunch of old maids, for real."

 

"If you won't do your female, and you can't find a fight, what's your alternative?"

 

"It's not supposed to be like this." He moved his head around, trying to loosen his shoulders and neck. "This isn't how it works. I just changed. It's not supposed to come out again—"

 

"Supposed to in one hand, shit in the other, see what you get the most of. You're in a bad space, my brother. And you know what you have to do to get out of it, true?"

 

When Mary heard the door open, she came awake with a groggy disorientation. Shoot, she had another night fever.

 

"Rhage?" she mumbled.

 

"Yeah, it's me."

 

His voice sounded like hell, she thought. And he'd left the door to the room open, so he probably wasn't staying for long. Maybe he was still angry at her from that last phone call.

From inside the closet, she heard the shifting of metal and some fabric flapping, as if he were pulling on a fresh shirt. When he came out, he went right back for the hallway, his trench coat billowing behind him. The idea that he would leave without saying good-bye Was somehow shocking.

As he gripped the doorknob, he paused. Light from the hall fell on his bright hair and his broad shoulders. His face was in profile, in darkness.

 

"Where are you going?" she asked as she sat up.

 

There was a long silence. "Out"

 

Why did he seem so apologetic? she wondered. She didn't need a babysitter. If he had business to attend to…

 

Oh… right
. Women. He was going out after women.

 

Her chest cavity turned into a cold, damp pit, especially as she looked at the bouquet of flowers he'd given her. God, the idea of him touching someone else like she knew he could made her want to retch.

 

"Mary… I'm sorry."

 

She cleared her throat. "Don't be. There's nothing going on between us, so I don't expect you to change your habits for me."

 

"It's not a habit."

 

"Oh, right. Sorry, Addiction."

 

There was a long silence. "Mary, I… if there were another way—"

 

'To do what?" She swept her hand back and forth. "Don't answer that."

 

"Mary—" "Don't, Rhage. It's none of my business. Just go."

 

"My cell phone will be on if you—"

 

"Yeah. I'm
really
going to call." He stared at her for a heartbeat. And then his black shadow disappeared through the door.
Chapter Twenty-seven

John Matthew walked home from Moe's, trailing the three-thirty A.M. police patrol. He dreaded the hours until dawn. Sitting in his apartment was going to feel like being in a cage, but it was much too late for him to be out and about on the street. Still… God, he was so restless he could taste the agitation in his mouth. And the fact that there was no one he could talk to made him ache.

He really needed some advice. Ever since Tohrment had left him, he'd been scrambled in his head, debating whether or not he'd done the right thing. He kept telling himself he had, but the second-guessing wouldn't stop.

He wished he could find Mary. He'd gone to her house the night before, only to find it dark and locked up. And she hadn't been going to the hotline. It was as if she'd disappeared, and worrying about her was one more reason he was twitchy.

As he approached his building, he saw a truck parked in front. The bed was full of boxes, like someone was moving in.

 

What a weird time of night to do that, he thought, eyeing the load.

 

As he saw that there was no one around to stand guard, he hoped the owner came back soon. Otherwise, their stuff was going to get disappeared.

John went into his building and up the stairs, ignoring the cigarette butts and the empty beer cans and the crumpled potato-chip bags. When he stepped off onto the second floor, he squinted. Something was spilled all over the corridor. Deep red…

Blood.

Backing up into the stairwell, he stared at his door. There was a sunburst in the center of it, as if someone had had their head… But then he saw the broken dark green bottle. Red wine. It was just red wine. The drunken couple who lived next door had taken another fight out into the hall.

His shoulders eased.

 

" 'Scuse me," someone said from above him. He moved aside and looked up.

 

John's body seized.

 

The big man standing over him was dressed in black camouflage pants and a leather jacket. His hair and skin were utterly white, and his pale eyes had an eerie shine to them.

 

Evil. Undead.
Enemy.

 

This was his enemy.

 

"Some kind of mess you got on this floor," the guy said before narrowing his gaze on John. "Something wrong?"

 

John fiercely shook his head and dropped his eyes. His first instinct was to run to his apartment, but he didn't want the guy knowing where he lived.

 

There was a deep chuckle. "You look a little pale there, buddy."

John took off, shooting down the stairs and out into the street. He raced to the corner, took a left, and kept going. He ran and ran, until he couldn't go any farther because he'd lost his breath. Squeezing himself into the juncture between a brick building and a Dumpster, he panted.

In his dreams, he fought pale men. Pale men in black clothes whose eyes were soulless.

 

My enemy.

He was shaking so badly he could barely get his hand into his pocket. Taking out a quarter, he gripped the thing so tightly it dug into his palm. When he had his breath back, he leaned out and peered up and down the alley. There was no one around, no sounds of heavy feet hitting the asphalt.

His enemy hadn't recognized him.

 

John left the Dumpster's sanctuary and walked quickly to the far corner.

 

The dented pay phone was covered with graffiti, but he knew it worked because he called Mary from it a lot. He put the quarter in the slot and punched out the number Tohrment had given him.

 

After one ring, voice mail kicked in with a robotic recitation of the numbers he'd dialed. John waited for the beep. And whistled.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was right before dawn when Mary heard male voices out in the hall. As the door opened, her heart skipped in her chest. Rhage filled the frame as another guy spoke.

 

"Man, that was one hell of a fight as we left the bar. You were a
demon
out there."

 

"I know," Rhage muttered.

 

"You're incredible, Hollywood, and not just with the hand-to-hand. That female you—"

 

"Later, Phury."

 

The door shut and the closet light came on. By the sound of clicks and metallic shifting, he was disarming. When he came out, he took a shuddering breath.

Mary faked being asleep as his footsteps hesitated by the foot of the bed and then headed for the bathroom. When she heard the shower come on, she imagined everything he was washing off of himself: Sex. Fighting.

Especially the sex.

 

She covered her face with her hands. Today she would go home. She would pack her things and walk out the door. He couldn't make her stay; she wasn't his responsibility just because he said so.

 

The water shut off.

The silence sucked all the air from the room, and she grew out of breath while holding herself in place. Gasping, suffocating… she threw the covers back and bolted for the door. Her hands latched onto the knob and fought to free the lock, jerking, pulling, until her hair whipped around.

"Mary," Rhage said from right behind her.

 

She jumped and wrestled harder with the door.

 

"Let me out. I have to get out… I can't stay here in this room with you. I can't be here… with you." She felt his hands come down on her shoulders. "
Don't touch me
."

She careened around the room until she bounced into the far corner and realized there was nowhere to go and no way to get out. He was in front of the door, and she had a feeling he was keeping the locks in place.