Or three, as was the case here.
Zsadist's voice was husky. "I killed the bitch who did it to me. Took her head with me when I left. You get that satisfaction?"
John shook his head slowly. Wish I had.
"Not going to lie. That helped me, too."
There was a tight, awkward silence, as if neither of them knew how to hit the reset button and get back to normal. Then Z nodded once and stuck out his fist.
John knocked those knuckles with his own, thinking, Shit, you never knew what was in someone's closet, did you.
Z's eyes glowed yellow once more as he turned away and walked back toward the door that would take him into the mansion and to his family, to his Brothers. In his back pocket, like he'd shoved it there and forgotten about it, was a pink baby's bib, the kind that had Velcro patches on the straps and a little skull and crossbones in black on the front.
Life goes on, John thought. No matter what the world did to you, you could survive.
And maybe if Xhex talked to Mary she wouldn't . . .
God, he couldn't even finish the thought because he feared defining her exit strategy.
Hustling on down into the training center, he headed for the clinic, where he found his jacket and his weapons and what Xhex needed.
As he picked up the shit, his mind was churning over things . . . things in the past, and in the present. Churning, churning, churning . . .
When he got back to the mansion, he beelined up the grand staircase and down the hall of statues. As soon as he walked into his room, he heard the shower running in the bath and had a brief, vivid image of Xhex gloriously naked and slick from the water and the soap suds--but he didn't go in and join her. He pulled the bed together and laid the cilices at the foot of it, then changed into his fighting gear and left.
He didn't go to First Meal.
He went down the hall to another bedroom. As he knocked on the door, he had the sense that what he was about to do was a long time in coming.
When Tohr opened up, the Brother was half-dressed--and obviously surprised. "What's doing?"
Can I come in? John signed.
"Yeah, sure."
As John stepped inside, he felt an odd sense of premonition. But then when it came to Tohr, he'd always had them . . . that and a sense of deep connection.
He frowned while he looked at the male, thinking of the time they'd spent on that sofa downstairs, watching Godzilla movies while Xhex was out fighting in the daylight. It was funny; he was so comfortable around the guy that being with Tohr was like being alone without the solitude . . .
You've been following me, haven't you, John signed abruptly. You're the one . . . the shadow I've sensed. At the tattoo parlor and the Xtreme Park.
Tohr's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. That was me."
Why?
"Look, for real, it wasn't that I don't think you can handle yourself--"
No, it's not that. What I don't understand is . . . if you're well enough to be out in the field, why aren't you killing them? For . . . her. Why waste time with me?
Tohr breathed out a curse. "Ah, shit, John . . ." Long pause. And then, "You can't do anything more for the dead. They're gone. It's done. But the living . . . you can take care of the living. I know what kind of hell you've been in--and still are in--and I lost my Wellsie because I wasn't there when she needed me. . . . I couldn't go through losing you for the same reason."
As the Brother's words faded, John felt like he'd been sucker punched--and yet he wasn't shocked. Because this was the kind of male Tohr was--steadfast and true. A male of worth.
The guy laughed harshly. "Don't get me wrong. Soon as you're out from under this Lash bullshit, and that bastard is good and dead, I'm going hard-core on those motherfuckers. I will kill slayers in her memory for the rest of my natural life. But the thing is, I remember. . . . see, I've been where you were when you were thinking your female was gone. No matter how levelheaded you believe yourself to be, you're insane in the membrane--and you were blessed to get her back, but life doesn't just return to rational that quick. Plus, let's face it--you'd do anything to save her, even put your chest in front of a bullet. Which I can understand, but would like you to avoid if at all possible."
As the Brother's words sank in, John signed automatically, She's not my female.
"Yeah, she is. And the two of you make so much sense. You have no idea what kind of sense you make together."
John shook his head. Not sure who you're talking about there. No offense.
"Doesn't have to be easy to be right."
In that case, we're meant for each other.
There was a long silence, during which John had the oddest sense that life was resetting itself, that the gears which had previously been slipping and missing had once more locked into place.
And here it was again, the Shitstorm Survivors' Club.