J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [413]
She leaned down, getting right in his face. “Says. Who.” Her forceful voice seemed to get his attention. “Now tell me, where should we start cutting it back?”
When he began to shake his head, she clamped her hand on his jaw. “Where do we start.”
He blinked at her command. "Ah . . . it’s worst at the statues of the four stages . . .”
“Okay. Then we go there first.” She tried to picture the four stages . . . infancy, youth, middle age, and the eve of passing. “We will start with the infant. And what tools shall we use?”
The Primale closed his eyes. “The shears. We will use the shears.”
“And what shall we do with the shears.”
“The ivy . . . the ivy is growing all over the statues. You can’t . . . see the faces any longer. It . . . chokes the statues. They are not free . . .they can’t see. . . .” The Primale started to weep. “Oh, God. I can’t see anymore. I’ve never been able to see . . . past the weeds of that garden.”
“Stay with me. Listen to me—we’re going to change that. Together we’re going to change that.” Cormia took his hand and pressed it to her lips. “We have shears. Together, we’re going to cut free the ivy. And we’re going to begin with the statue of the young.” She was encouraged, as Phury took a deep breath, as if he were approaching a big job. “I’m going to peel the ivy from the face of the young and you are going to cut it. Can you see me?”
“Yes . . .”
“Can you see you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now I want you to cut the piece of ivy I’m holding. Do it. Now.”
“Yes . . . I will . . . yes, I am.”
“And you place what you’ve cut on the ground at our feet.” She brushed his hair back from his face. “And now you cut again . . . and again. . . .”
“Yes.”
“And again.”
“Yes.”
“Now . . . can you see some of the statue’s face?”
“Yes . . . yes, I can see the young’s face. . . .” A tear ran down his cheek. “I can see it. . . . I can see . . . me in it.”
In Lash’s house on the far side, John stopped on the stairs and thought maybe the creep factor in the Tudor had shorted his brain out.
Because that couldn’t possibly be Lash down below, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the foyer, a warping blur swirling around him.
While John’s brain tried to tease out what was reality and what couldn’t possibly be real, he noticed that the sweet smell of baby powder permeated the air, nearly turning the shit pink. God, it didn’t eclipse the nauseous bouquet of death—it enhanced that godawful rotting stench. The reason the scent had always made him sick was because it was just like the bouquet of death.
At that moment, Lash looked up. He seemed as shocked as John was, but then he gradually smiled.
From out of the malestrom, the guy’s voice drifted up the stairs, seeming to come from a distance greater than the number of yards between them.
“Well, hello, John-boy.” The laugh was familiar and bizarre at the same time, echoing strangely.
John palmed his gun, steadying it with both hands as he trained it on whatever was down there.
“I’ll see you soon,” Lash said as he went two-dimensional, becoming an image of himself. “And I’ll give your regards to my father.”
His form blinked on and off and then disappeared, swallowed up by the warping rush.
John lowered his weapon, then holstered it. Which was what you did when there was nothing around to shoot.
“John?” The beat of Qhuinn’s boots came from behind him on the stairwell. “What the hell are you doing?”
I don’t know. . . . I thought I saw . . .
“Who?”
Lash. I saw him right down there. I . . . well, I thought I saw him.
“Stay here.” Qhuinn took his gun out and hit the stairs, doing a sweep of the first floor.
John slowly went down to the foyer. He’d seen Lash. Hadn’t he?
Qhuinn came back. “Everything’s tight. Look, let’s go back home. You don’t seem right. Did you eat tonight? And while we’re at it, when was the last time you slept?”
I . . . I don’t know.
“Right. We’re leaving.”
I could have sworn . . .
“Now.”
As they dematerialized back to the mansion’s courtyard, John thought maybe his buddy was right. Maybe he should grab some