As Qhuinn and Blay materialized on either side of him, he walked up the steps to the huge double doors and pushed his way into the vestibule.
Inside, he presented his mug for viewing in the security camera. Instantly, the lock was popped and he walked into a foyer that was right out of czarist Russia. Malachite and claret marble columns supported a three-story-high painted ceiling. Gold-leafed sconces and mirrors generated and reflected buttery light that further enriched the colors. And that staircase . . . the thing was like a carpeted landing strip that stretched up to the heavens, its golden balustrade splitting at the top to form the anchors of the second floor's open balcony.
His father had spared no expense and obviously had a flair for the dramatic. All you needed was orchestral backup and you could imagine a king floating down in robes--
Wrath appeared at the top, his huge body clothed in black leather, his long black hair falling around his tremendous shoulders. His wraparound sunglasses were in place, and although he was at the head of a vast expanse of fall-on-your-ass, he didn't look down. No reason to. His eyes were now utterly blind.
But he was not sightless. At his side, George had things covered. The Seeing Eye dog was in control of the king, the two united through the harness that went around the golden retriever's chest and haunches. They were the ultimate Mutt and Jeff, a canine Good Samaritan with beauty-contestant looks and a brutal warrior who was obviously capable of tearing your throat open on a whim. But they worked well together and Wrath was pretty much in love with his animal: The dog was treated like the royal pet he was--to hell with even Iams; George ate whatever his master did, which meant prime cuts of beef and lamb. And word was that the retriever slept in bed with Beth and Wrath--although that had yet to be independently verified, as no one was allowed in the First Family's quarters.
As Wrath started down for the foyer, he walked with a limp, the result of something he did over on the Far Side at the Scribe Virgin's. No one knew who he saw or why he sported a black eye or a split lip on a regular basis, but everyone, even John, was glad for the sessions. They kept Wrath on an even keel and away from the field.
With the king descending, and some of the other Brothers coming through the door John had just used, he had to make his escape. If those Shadows had sensed he had fresh ink, the people gathering for last meal would pick up on it in a heartbeat if they got close enough.
Fortunately, there was a wet bar in the library and John went there and helped himself to a shot of Jack Daniel's. The first of many.
While he started to make deposits into his buzz account, he braced himself against the marble slab and wished like hell he had a time machine--although it was hard to know whether he'd choose to go forward or backward with it.
"You want any food?" Qhuinn said from the doorway.
John didn't look in the guy's direction, just shook his head and poured some more liquid relief into his squat glass.
"Okay, I'll bring you a sandwich."
With a curse, John pivoted around and signed, I said no.
"Roast beef? Good. And I'll hitch you some carrot cake. Tray'll be left in your room." Qhuinn turned away. "If you wait about five more minutes in here, everyone will be seated at the table, so you'll have a clear shot up the stairs."
The guy took off, which meant short of braining him with the glass, there was no other way of expressing his I-am-an-island opinion.
Although really, that would just be a waste of good booze--Qhuinn was so hardheaded, you could have hit his frontal lobe with a crowbar and made no impression on him whatsoever.
Fortunately, the alcohol began to take effect, its numb blanket settling on John's shoulders first before sweeping up and down his body. The shit did nothing to quiet his mind, but his bones and muscles did ease out.
After waiting the suggested five minutes, John took his drink and his bottle and hit the stairs two at a time. As he ascended, the subdued voices from the dining room followed him, but that's all there was. Lately, there hadn't been much to laugh about over meals.
When he got to his room, he opened the door and walked into a jungle. There were clothes draped on every conceivable surface--the dresser, the wing chair, the bed, the plasma-screen TV. Kind of like his closet had thrown up all over everything. Empty bottles of Jack cluttered up the two side tables by the headboard, and the dead soldiers spread out from there, clustering on the floor and nesting in the twisted sheets and duvet.
Fritz and his cleaning crew hadn't been let in for two weeks, and at the rate things were going, they were going to need a backhoe when he finally threw the doors open to them.
Undressing, he let his leathers and shirt fall where they did, but his jacket he was careful with. At least until he took his weapons out--then he dumped the thing on the corner of the bed. In the bathroom, he double-checked his two blades and then he swiftly cleaned his guns with the kit that he just left out by the second sink.