Lover Arisen (Black Dagger Brotherhood #20)(17)

And just like Dorothy with her ruby fucking shoes, he was up, up, and away, traveling in a scatter of molecules to the Other Side, to the Scribe Virgin’s Sanctuary, to the place from which his mahmen had run her little cult of personality for eons.

As he re-formed up on the perpetually green lawn, he wanted to avoid thoughts of the one who had given birth to him, so he got his walk on and tried to view all the white marble, Greco-Roman architecture as a disinterested third party might: From the bathing temple to the treasury to the library, the last time there had been so many columns in one place had been Seti I’s hypostyle hall at Karnak.

Yes, it was true, he’d been watching ancient Egyptian documentaries lately.

Anyway, all the buildings he passed by were empty, and it was with no small amount of satisfaction that he took note of the persistent vacancy. Ever since Phury had become the Primale and freed the Chosen from their servitude, the Sanctuary had been a ghost town—and good for those females. They were out living now, not tied to the black robes of his mahmen.

They had left even before the Scribe Virgin had. So maybe this ghost town thing was part of the reason she had quit her job and given the reins of the race’s existential shit over to the David Lee Roth of fallen angels.

Thanks, Mom.

On that note, there was one place up here that was inhabited—or rather, that had better fucking be. The Scribe Virgin’s private quarters had a new tenant, and that must be where Lassiter was.

Vishous stopped as he came up to the wall around his mahmen’s courtyard, and it took him a couple of deep breaths before he could enter. When he finally stepped inside, the twinkling sounds of the fountain should have been a peaceful concert of water droplets falling into a marble basin. Instead, it was like fingernails on a blackboard. A human two-year-old screaming after they were denied a cookie. A wounded badger.

Who knew that the only thing harder than having the Scribe Virgin around… was not having her around—

Jesus, that was Lassiter, too. That was exactly how he felt about Lassiter.

No wonder his mahmen had picked the guy to be her replacement. The pair of them were lockstep right from the jump of the new era.

Yay, he thought as he stared at the magical fountain.

Like everything in the Sanctuary, the damn thing ran itself, no electricity or cleaning required, the specially charged H2O originating from no discernible source, every gallon forever sparkling fresh. The whole of the refuge was like that, self-perpetuating in its perfection: The illusion of all these temples, like the Augusta-fairway-worthy grass and the stupid Easter-ish tulips and the milky-white illumination that made everything seem to have an Instagram filter on it was an eternal kind of thing.

And no doubt exactly how it had been the moment the Scribe Virgin had I-Dream-of-Jeannie’d it all.

Well, not exactly. Phury had added the color. Before him, it had been shades of white.

And Lassiter? He’d made his own special contribution to the place.

“Where are you, angel,” V said as he pointedly ignored the tree he had once packed with songbirds.

When there was no answer, he crossed into the colonnade. The doors to the inner space were closed and he had a thought that, all of his black-wax, BDSM extremism aside… he might not want to know what was going on behind any of this Privacy-please.

“Lassiter,” he snapped. “You know I’m here. Stop playing hard to get.”

As he took out another hand-rolled and lit up, the smoke left his mouth in a rush. Just as he was about to do something really aggressive—like curse and stomp his fucking shitkicker—a set of double doors opened like Miss America was going to stiletto out in her pageant wear.

What was on the other side was about as far from evening gown elegant as you could get. Unlike the rest of the Sanctuary, there was nothing ocularly peaceful about Lassiter’s crib. And P.S., Spencer’s at the Aviation Mall ca. 1982 was missing their supply of black-light’able zebra print. Probably half of their poster selection, too.

“Where have you been?” V said as he regarded the Technicolor bedding platform.

Lassiter, the fallen angel, successor to the Scribe Virgin’s authority, possessor of powers that could barely be comprehended, was lying back against a stack of hot-pink satin pillows, his Fabio-worthy blond-and-black hair flowing everywhere, his bare chest rising and falling evenly. His long legs were k’d out, the leggings done half and half with black and turquoise this time. No shoes, no socks.

Because why not flash your ugly flappers for all the world to see.

Oh, and he’d painted his toenails coral. How cute.

“Hello?” V prompted. “Do I have to toss a hand grenade at you?”

Please let me toss one at you? he dubbed in.

Annnnnnnd that was when he noticed the book that was propped up on the angel’s ripped abs.

“Who the fuck is René Brown?” V demanded.

Lassiter lowered the spine, his odd-colored eyes lifting from whatever paragraph he’d been Gorilla-glued to. “Oh, hey. Wassup—and it’s Brené.”

“What the hell are you doing with that baloney.” V nodded at Atlas of the Heart. “Sorry, I mean, bre-loney.”

“I’m transforming my life.”

V indicated the zebra print on the walls, the throw rug that should have been thrown out, the sheets that were a spicy cheetah print. “FYI, I’d start with a dumpster, not the library, if you’re looking to fix anything.”