a dirt lane that intersected cornfields.
The sedan did its best over the uneven trail, its shocks absorbing the craters created by puddles, but the trip would have been easier in a fucking four-wheeler. Eventually, though, a thick collar of trees appeared in the distance, and the farmhouse that formed the head around which they were crowded was in pristine condition, all brilliant white with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. Like something off a human’s Christmas card, smoke eased from two of its four chimneys, and the porch was set with rocking chairs and evergreen topiaries.
As they drew closer, they passed a discreet sign in white and dark green that read: TAOIST MONASTICAL ORDER, EST. 1982.
Mr. D brought the Mercedes to a halt, killed the engine, and made the sign of the cross over his chest. Which was so fucking dumb. “This don’t feel right.”
The thing was, the little Texan had a point. In spite of the fact that the front door was open with sunlight spilling onto warm cherry floorboards, something wrong lurked behind the homey facade. It was just too perfect, too calculated to set a person at ease and thus weaken his defensive instincts.
This was a pretty girl with an STD, Lash thought.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They both got out, and whereas Mr. D palmed his Magnum, Lash didn’t bother to reach for his gun. His father had given him many tricks, and unlike those instances when he dealt with humans, he had no problem bringing out his special skills in front of a symphath. If anything, putting on a show might help them see him in his proper light.
Mr. D positioned his cowboy hat. “This really don’t feel right.”
Lash narrowed his eyes. Lace curtains hung in front of every one of the windows, but as Clorox bright as the fabric was, the shit was creepy…. Whoa, was it moving?
At that moment, he realized it wasn’t lace, but spiderwebs. Populated by white arachnids.
“Them’s…spiders?”
“Yup.” Wouldn’t be Lash’s decor choice, for real, but he didn’t have to live here.
The two of them paused at the first of the three steps up onto the front porch. Man, some open doors were not welcoming, and that was so the case here—less hi-how’re-ya, more come-in-so-your-skin-can-be-used-to-make-a-super-hero-cape-for-one-of-Hannibal-Lecter’s-patients.
Lash grinned. Whoever was in this house was so his peeps.
“You be wantin’ me to go up and ring the doorbell?” Mr. D said. “If there is one?”
“Nope. We wait. They will come to us.”
And what do you know, someone appeared at the far end of the front hall.
What came down toward them had enough robes hanging from its head and shoulders to give a Broadway stage a run for its money. The fabric was an odd, shimmering white, one that caught the light and refracted it in the thick folds, and the weight of it all was captured by a stout brocaded white belt.
Very impressive. If you were into the monarch-as-priest thing.
“Greetings, friend,” came a low, seductive voice. “I am the one whom you seek, the leader of those cast away.”
The Ss were strung out until they were almost their own words, the accent sounding a lot like the warning tremble of a rattler’s tail.
A thrill went through Lash, tingling down into his cock. Power was, after all, better than Ecstasy as a turn-on, and this thing that came to stand between the jambs of the front door was all about authority.
Long, elegant hands reached up to the hood and eased the white folds back. The face of the symphaths’ anointed leader was as smooth as his spectacular robing, the planes of the cheeks and chin cast in elegant, soft angles. The gene pool that had spawned this gorgeous, effete killer was so refined that the sexes were almost as one, male and female characteristics blending, with a preference toward the female.
The smile was stone-cold, though. And the flashing red eyes were shrewd to the point of malevolence.
“Won’t you please come in?”
The snake’s lovely voice blended those words into one another, and Lash found himself liking the sound.
“Yeah,” he said, making his mind up on the spot. “We will.”
As he stepped forward, the king raised his palm.
“One moment, if you will. Please tell your associate to fear not. Nothing will harm you here.” The statements were kind enough on the surface, but the tone was hard—which Lash took to mean that they weren’t welcome in the house if Mr. D’s heat was in his hand.
“Put the gun away,” Lash said softly. “I’ve got us covered.”
Mr. D