Which left him living off of . . . lessers?
Nah, he didn't fly that way. Never had. No fucking way he was going to be latching onto the throats of guys with any regularity.
Lifting up his arm, he checked his watch. Ten minutes of ten. And he looked like a homeless guy. Felt like one, too.
"Clean yourself up," he told Mr. D. "I have shit you need to do."
As he started to give out the orders, his mouth tripped over the words he was speaking.
"You got that?" he said.
"Yes, suh." The Texan looked around the bathroom like he was searching for a towel.
"Downstairs," Lash snapped. "Kitchen. And you need to go get me a change of clothes and bring them here. Oh, and while you're at the brownstone, set some more food out in the bedroom."
Mr. D just nodded and headed out, walking on loose legs.
"Did you get the new recruit a cell phone? ID?" Lash called after him.
"They're down in the messenger bag. And I texted you the number."
Fucker really was an excellent PA.
As Lash leaned into the shower and cranked the knobs on the tile wall, he wouldn't have been surprised if either nothing came out or there was only a thin trail of brown muck. He lucked out, though. Fresh, clean rain fell from the showerhead and he quickly undressed.
It felt good to wash off, kind of like he was rebooting his body.
After he was finished, he used his shirt to dry himself and then stumbled into a bedroom. Lying down, he closed his eyes and put his hand on his stomach over where the sores were. Which was dumb. Not like he needed to protect them from anything.
As the sounds from downstairs seemed to indicate things were progressing, he was relieved . . . and a little surprised. The noises weren't all painful and frightened anymore; they were heading into porno territory, the groans and moans now rising up the result of orgasms.
Are you queer? he recalled the kid asking.
Maybe that had been more of an I-hope-so kind of thing.
Whatever. Lash didn't want to be all out-of-it around his father, so with any luck the new recruit would be used for a while.
Lash closed his eyes and tried to shut his head off. Plans for the Society, thoughts of Xhex, frustration at the whole feeding thing . . . His brain waves coalesced into a whirl, but his body was too exhausted to sustain consciousness.
Which was just as well--
It was as he sank down into sleep that he had the vision. Sharp and clear, it came into him, not to him, entering his mind from somewhere else and shoving all other preoccupations out of the way.
He saw himself walking the grounds of the estate he'd grown up on, going over the lawn toward the grand house. Inside, the lights were glowing and folks were moving around . . . exactly as they had the night he had gone in and murdered those two vampires who had raised him. These were not the profiles of people he knew, however. They were different. They were the humans who had bought the house.
To the right was the ivy bed that he'd buried his parents in.
He saw himself standing over the place where he'd dug the hole and dumped the bodies. It was still slightly uneven, although some gardener had planted it over with new ivy growth.
Kneeling down, he reached forward . . . only to see that his arm was not his own.
He was as his true father existed: a black, shimmering shadow.
For some reason, the revelation panicked him and he tried to rouse himself. In his motionless skin, he thrashed.
But he had sunk too low to get free of the pull.
Ricardo Benloise's art gallery was downtown, over near the St. Francis Hospital complex. The sleek, six-story building stood out amid its sister 1920s-era "skyscrapers" thanks to a face-lift that left it with a brushed-steel exterior and windows the size of barn doors.
Rather like a starlet seated next to a bunch of dowagers.
As John and the boys appeared on the sidewalk across from the facade, the place was hopping. Through those huge panels of glass, he could see men and women dressed in black carrying around champagne glasses as they inspected the art on the walls. Which at least from the street seemed to be a fusion between five-year-old finger painting and the work of a sadist with a rusty nail fetish.
John was not impressed with the cultivated avant-garde routine--and as always, he had no idea why he had an opinion about art. Like any of it mattered?
Trez had told them to head around back, so he and his boys walked down the block and cut into the alley that ran behind the gallery. Whereas the front of the place was all eye-catching and welcoming, the opposite was true for the business's ass. No windows. Everything painted matte black. Two flush doors and a loading dock that was locked up tighter than a chastity belt.
Based on the intel from Trez, piss-poor excuses for "art" like the ones being discussed by those self-important Warhol-wannabes weren't the only products going in and out of the place. Which was clearly why there was a fuckload of security cameras mounted over the rear exit.