Phury took a pull on his martini. Cold pizza, huh. So that's what was out there waiting for him. How inspiring.
"Shit, I don't mean to be a buzz kill. It's just better with the right person." Butch tossed back his Lag. As a waitress headed over to pick up for a refill, he said, "Nah, I stop at two now. Thanks."
"Wait!" Phury said, before the woman took off. "I'll have another one. Thanks."
Vishous knew the dream had come to him, because he was happy in it. The nightmare always started out with him in a state of bliss. He was, in the beginning, wholly happy, utterly complete, a Rubik's Cube solved.
Then the gun went off. And a bright red stain bloomed on his shirt. And a scream sliced through air that seemed dense as a solid.
Pain hit him like he'd been ripped into by bomb shrapnel, like he'd been doused in gasoline and matched up, like his skin had been taken off in strips.
Oh, God, he was dying. No one lived through this kind of agony.
He fell to his knees and—
V shot up from the bed like he'd been boot-licked in the head.
In the penthouse's cage of black walls and night-backed glass, his breath sounded like a hacksaw going through hardwood. Shit, his heart was pounding so fast he felt like he should put his hands up to keep it in place.
He needed a drink… now.
On sloppy legs he went to the bar, grabbed a fresh glass, and poured himself about four inches of Grey Goose. The long-tall was almost at his lips when he realized he wasn't alone.
He unsheathed a black dagger from his waistband and whirled around.
"It is only I, warrior."
Jesus Christ. The Scribe Virgin stood before him swathed in black robes from head to foot, her face covered, her tiny form dominating the penthouse. From beneath her hem a glow spilled out onto the marble floor, bright as the noonday sun.
Oh, this was an audience he wanted right now. Yup, yup.
He bowed and stayed put. Tried to figure out how he could keep drinking in this position. "I am honored."
"How you lie," she said dryly. "Lift thyself, warrior. I would see your face."
V did his best to marshal some hi-how're-ya onto his puss, in hopes of camoing the oh-fuck-me that was there. Goddamn it. Wrath had threatened to turn him into the Scribe Virgin if he couldn't pull it together. Guess that dime been dropped.
As he eased upright, he figured sucking some Goose would be perceived as an insult.
"Yes, it would," she said. "But do what you must."
He swallowed the vodka like it was water and put the glass on the wet bar. He wanted more, but hopefully she wouldn't be staying long.
"The purpose of my visit has naught to do with your king." The Scribe Virgin floated over, stopping when she was just a foot away. V fought the urge to step back, especially as she reached out her glowing hand and brushed his cheek. Her power was like that of a lightening bolt: deadly and precise. You didn't want to be her target. "It is time."
Time for what? But he kept a lid on himself. You didn't ask questions of the Scribe Virgin. Not unless you wanted to add being used as floor wax to your resume.
"Your birthday draws near."
True, he was going to be three hundred and three years old soon, but he couldn't think why that would warrant a private visit from her. If she wanted to fly him some birthday jollies, quick something in the mail would be just fine. Fuck it, she could rock out an e-card from Hallmark and call it a day.
"And I have a gift for you."
"I am honored." And confused.#p#分页标题#e#
"Your female is ready."
Vishous jerked all over, like someone had goosed him in the ass with a jackknife. "I'm sorry, what—" No questions, dumb ass. "Ah… with all due respect, I have no female."
"You do." She dropped her glowing arm. "I have picked her from among all the Chosen to be your first mate. She is the most pure of blood, the finest of beauty." As V opened his mouth, the Scribe Virgin steamrolled right over him. "You will be mated, and the two of you will breed, and you will also breed with the others. Your daughters shall replenish the ranks of the Chosen. Your sons shall become members of the Brotherhood. This is your destiny: to become the Primale of the Chosen."
The word Primale dropped like an H-bomb.
"Forgive me, Scribe Virgin… ah…" He cleared his throat and reminded himself that if you pissed Her Holiness off, they'd need barbecue tongs to pick up your steaming pieces. "I mean no offense, but I will take no female as my own—"
"You will. And you will lay with her in the proper ritual and she will bear your young. As will the others."
Visions of getting trapped on the Other Side, surrounded by females, unable to fight, unable to see his brothers… or… God, Butch… snapped the hinge on his mouth. "My destiny is as a fighter. With my brothers. I am where I should be."