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, 69
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 picked up an ancient leather-bound book.
The diary had been in his possession for about six months now, but he hadn't read it.
It was the one thing he had of his father's.
With nothing else to do