When he came out of the bathroom, he found a tray with a roast beef sandwich and a big-as-your-head wedge of carrot cake on it. Nothing to drink, but Qhuinn knew that he was taking his liquid refreshment from Mr. Daniel alone.
John ate standing up in front of the bureau, naked as the day he was born, and when the food hit his stomach, it sucked the energy from him, draining everything from his head. Wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, he put the tray out in the hall and then headed for the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth only from habit.
Lights off in the bath. Lights off in the room.
Him and the Jack sitting on the bed.
As exhausted as he was, he was not looking forward to lying down. There was an inverse relationship between his energy level and the distance between his ears and the floor: Even though he was cross-eyed, the second his head hit the pillow, his thoughts were going to start spinning and he was going to end up wide awake and staring at the ceiling, counting hours and aches.
He polished off what was in his glass and propped his elbows on his knees. Within moments, his head was bobbing, his lids slamming down. When he started to list to the side, he let himself go even though he was unsure which direction he was going in, toward the pillows or the wadded- up duvet.
Pillows.
Shifting his feet up on the bed, he dragged the covers over his hips and had a moment of blissful collapse. Maybe tonight the cycle would break. Maybe this glorious sinking relief would suck him down into the black hole he was hoping for. Maybe he'd. . .
His eyes popped open and he stared into the thick darkness.
Nope. He was exhausted to the point of being jittery, not just wide awake. . . but goosed-in-the-ass alert. As he rubbed his face, he figured this contradictory state of things was the cognitive equivalent to bumblebees being able to fly: Physicists maintained it wasn't possible, and yet it happened all the time.
Rolling over onto his back, he crossed his arms over his chest and yawned so hard his jaw cracked. Tough to know whether to turn on the light. The darkness amplified the whirling in his skull, but the lamp stung his eyes until he felt like he was crying sand. Usually, he alternated between clicking on the bulb and turning it off.
From out in the hall of statues, he heard Zsadist and Bella and Nalla walk down to their room. As the couple talked about the dinner, Nalla cooed and squeaked in the way babies did when their bellies were full and their parents were right with them.
Blay came down the way next. Aside from V, he was the only other person who smoked in the house, so that was how John knew it was him. And Qhuinn was with the guy. Had to be. Otherwise Blay wouldn't have lit up outside of his own room.
It was payback for that receptionist at the tat shop and who could blame him?
There was a long silence out there. And then a final pair of boots.
Tohr was heading to bed.
It was obvious who it was by the quiet more than the sound--the footfalls were slow and relatively light for a Brother: Tohr was working on getting his body back into shape, but he hadn't been cleared for fieldwork, which made sense. He needed to put on another fifty pounds of muscle before he had any business going toe-to-toe with the enemy.
There wouldn't be anyone else coming down. Lassiter, a. k. a. Tohr's golden shadow, didn't sleep, so the angel usually stayed down in the billiard room and watched highbrow television. Like paternity tests on Maury and The People's Court with Judge Milian and Real Housewives marathons.
Silence. . . silence. . . silence. . .
When the sound of his heartbeat started to annoy him, John cursed and stretched up, turning on the light. As he settled back against the pillows, he let his arms flop down. He didn't share Lassiter's fascination with the boob tube, but anything was better than the quiet. Fishing around the empty bottles, he found the remote, and when he hit the on button, there was a pause like the thing had forgotten what it was used for--but then the picture flared.
Linda Hamilton was running down a hallway, her body bouncing with power. Down at the far end, an elevator was opening. . . revealing a short dark-haired kid and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
John hit the power button and killed the image.
Last time he'd seen that movie had been when he and Tohr had watched it together. . . back when the Brother had taken him out of his sad pitiful exisitence and shown him who he really was. . . back before all the seams in both their lives had gotten yanked apart.
At the orphanage, in the human world, John had always been aware he was different. . . and the Brother had given him the "why" that evening. The flash of fangs had explained it all.
Now, naturally, there had been a shitload of anxiety that came with finding out you weren't who or what you'd always assumed you were. But Tohr had stuck by his side, just chilling and watching TV, even though he'd been on rotation to fight and also had a pregnant shellan to look after.
Kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Coming back to reality, John pitched the remote onto the side table and it bounced around, knocking over one of the empties. As the last half inch of bourbon splashed out, he reached across and picked up a shirt to mop up the mess. Which, considering what a shambles the rest of the room was in, was like backing up a Big Mac and fries with a Diet Coke.
But whatever.
He wiped off the tabletop, lifting the bottles one by one, and then opened the little drawer to swipe across the--
Tossing his T-shirt onto the floor, he reached in and p