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Mr. D appeared in the doorway. “Suh? What’s wrong—”

Lash wheeled around and pegged the guy with his finger, not to make a point but to use another one of his real father’s gifts.

But then he took a deep breath. Dropped his arm. Straightened his suit.

“Make me . . .” He had to clear the rage out of his throat.

“Make me breakfast. I want to take it in the sunroom, not at the dining table.”

Mr. D left, and about ten minutes later, when Lash wasn’t seeing double anymore from fury, he went downstairs and parked it in front of a nice spread of bacon, eggs, toast with jam, and OJ.

Mr. D had squeezed the oranges himself, evidently. Which, considering how good the shit tasted, was justification enough for not having blasted the fucker right out of his combat boots.

The other slayers ended up all gathered in the sunroom’s entryway, watching him eat like he was pulling off a magic trick and a half.

Just as he took a good last long suck from his cup of coffee, one of them said, “What the fuck are you?”

Lash wiped his mouth with his napkin and calmly removed his jacket. As he stood up, he undid the buttons down the front of his pastel pink shirt.

“I am your motherfucking king.”

With that, he opened the shirt and willed his skin to slit down the sternum. With his ribs cranked wide, he bared his fangs and exposed his black, beating heart.

As a group, the lessers jumped back. One even crossed himself, the fucker.

Lash calmly closed up his chest and rebuttoned his shirt and sat back down. “More coffee, Mr. D.”

The cowboy blinked stupidly a couple of times, doing an excellent impression of a sheep confronted with a math problem. “Yes . . . yes, suh.”

Lash picked up his cup again and met the pale faces in front of him. “Welcome to the future, gentlemen. Now get your asses moving, I want the first floor of this place empty before the mailman comes at ten thirty.”

Chapter Fifty-four

The east caldwell community center was located between Caldie Pizza & Mexican and the Caldwell Tennis Academy, over on Baxter Avenue. Housed in a big old farmhouse that had been built way back when the surrounding acreage had been used to grow corn, the place had a nice front lawn and a flagpole and some swing sets out back.

When Phury materialized behind the facility, all he could think about was getting gone again. He checked his watch. Ten minutes.

Ten minutes of having to make himself stay.

God, he wanted a red smoke. His heart was doing laps in his ribs and his palms felt like dripping washcloths and his itchy skin was driving him nuts.

Trying to get out of his body, he looked at the parking lot. Twenty cars were in it, with no pattern in the makes or models. There were trucks and Toyotas and a Saab convertible and a pink VW Bug and three minivans and a MINI Cooper.

He put his hands in his pockets and walked over the grass to the sidewalk that ran around the building. When he reached the asphalt stretch that made up the drive and the parking lot, he took it over to the double doors under the aluminum-sided porte cochere.

Inside, the place smelled like coconut. Maybe from the floor wax on the linoleum.

Just as he was thinking seriously of taking off, a human man stepped out of a doorway, the sound of a toilet flushing fading as the door marked MEN eased shut behind him.

“Are you a friend of Bill W’s?” the guy asked as he dried his hands with a paper towel. He had kind brown eyes, like a retriever, and a tweedy jacket that looked heavy for summer. His tie was knit.

“Ah, I don’t know.”

“Well, if you’re looking for the meeting, it’s down in the basement.” His smile was so natural and easy, Phury nearly returned it before he remembered the dental differences between species. “I’m going there now if you want to come with me. If you want to wait a little, that’s fine too.”

Phury looked down at the man’s hands. He was still drying them, going back and forth, back and forth.

“I’m nervous,” the guy said. “Hands are sweaty.”

Phury smiled a little. “You know . . . I think maybe I’ll come