Lover Avenged(51)

Lash’s e-mail to the king of the symphaths had been short and sweet, and in the brief rundown, he identified himself as who he really was, not who he’d been raised to think himself to be: He was Lash, head of the Lessening Society. Lash, son of the Omega. And he was seeking an alliance against the vampires that had discriminated against and shunned the symphaths.

Surely the king wanted to avenge the disrespect showed to his people?

The response he’d received had been so gracious he’d nearly hurled, but then he recalled from his training days that symphaths treated everything like a chess match-right down to the moment they captured your king, turned your queen into a whore, and burned down your castles. The reply from the colony’s leader had indicated that a collegial discussion of mutual interest would be welcome, and would Lash be so kind as to come up north, as the exiled king’s travel options, by definition, were limited.

Lash had taken the car because he’d imposed a condition of his own, and that was Mr. D’s attendance. Truth was, he put out the requirement for no other reason than equity of demands. They wanted him to come to them; fine, he was bringing one of his men. And as the lesser couldn’t dematerialize, the drive was necessary.

Five minutes later, Mr. D took an exit off the highway and eased through an urban center the size of just one of Caldwell’s seven city parks. Here there were no skyscrapers, just four-and five-story brick buildings, such that it seemed as if the harsh winter months had stunted the growth not only of the trees, but the architecture as well.

At Lash’s direction, they headed west, passing leafless apple orchards and fenced-in cow farms.

As he had on the highway, he ate up the scenery. It was still amazing to him to be witness to milky December sunlight throwing shadows on sidewalks or house roofs or over the brown ground beneath barren tree limbs. Upon his rebirth, he had been given purpose anew from his true father, along with this gift of daylight, and he enjoyed both immensely.

The Mercedes’ GPS conked out a couple minutes later, the reading going all-over wonky. He figured this meant they were getting close to the colony, and sure enough the road they were looking for presented itself. Ilene Avenue was marked by only a tiny street sign. And avenue, his ass; it was nothing but a dirt lane that intersected cornfields.

The sedan did its best over the uneven trail, its shocks absorbing the craters created by puddles, but the trip would have been easier in a fucking four-wheeler. Eventually, though, a thick collar of trees appeared in the distance, and the farmhouse that formed the head around which they were crowded was in pristine condition, all brilliant white with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. Like something off a human’s Christmas card, smoke eased from two of its four chimneys, and the porch was set with rocking chairs and evergreen topiaries.

As they drew closer, they passed a discreet sign in white and dark green that read: TAOIST MONASTICAL ORDER, EST. 1982.

Mr. D brought the Mercedes to a halt, killed the engine, and made the sign of the cross over his chest. Which was so fucking dumb. “This don’t feel right.”

The thing was, the little Texan had a point. In spite of the fact that the front door was open with sunlight spilling onto warm cherry floorboards, something wrong lurked behind the homey facade. It was just too perfect, too calculated to set a person at ease and thus weaken his defensive instincts.

This was a pretty girl with an STD, Lash thought.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They both got out, and whereas Mr. D palmed his Magnum, Lash didn’t bother to reach for his gun. His father had given him many tricks, and unlike those instances when he dealt with humans, he had no problem bringing out his special skills in front of a symphath. If anything, putting on a show might help them see him in his proper light.

Mr. D positioned his cowboy hat. “This really don’t feel right.”

Lash narrowed his eyes. Lace curtains hung in front of every one of the windows, but as Clorox bright as the fabric was, the shit was creepy… Whoa, was it moving?

At that moment, he realized it wasn’t lace, but spiderwebs. Populated by white arachnids.

“Them’s…spiders?”

“Yup.” Wouldn’t be Lash’s decor choice, for real, but he didn’t have to live here.

The two of them paused at the first of the three steps up onto the front porch. Man, some open doors were not welcoming, and that was so the case here-less hi-how’re-ya, more come-in-so-your-skin-can-be-used-to-make-a-super-hero-cape-for-one-of-Hannibal-Lecter’s-patients.

Lash grinned. Whoever was in this house was so his peeps.

“You be wantin’ me to go up and ring the doorbell?” Mr. D said. “If there is one?”