we need to resolve the ahstrux nohtrum designation. He can't be watching John's ass as his primary directive anymore."
"Agreed. We'll tell John to release him - and I can't believe the answer will be no. After that, I'll have Saxton draw up the papers, and then following Qhuinn's induction, V, you take care of the ink on his face. Like if John had died of natural causes or some shit?"
There was a rustling of clothes, as if some of the Brothers were making the symbol of "Dearest Virgin Scribe forbid" over their chests.
"Roger that," V said.
Wrath crossed his arms over his chest. This was a historic moment, and well he knew it. Butch's induction had been legal because of the blood tie the male had with royalty. Qhuinn was a different story. No royal blood. No Chosen or Brotherhood blood, although he technically was an aristocrat.
No family.
On the other hand, that kid had proven himself again and again on the field, living up to a standard that, as far as the Old Laws currently stated, was reserved only for those of specific lineages - and that was bullshit. It wasn't that Wrath didn't appreciate the Scribe Virgin's breeding plan. The prescribed matings between the strongest males and the smartest females had in fact produced extraordinary results when it came to fighters.
But it had also resulted in defects like his blindness. And it restricted merit-based promotions.
Bottom line, this recasting of the laws concerning who could and could not be in the Brotherhood was not only appropriate in terms of the kind of society he wanted to create - it was a matter of survival. The more fighters the better.
Plus, Qhuinn had truly earned the honor.
"So be it," Wrath murmured. "Eight's a good number. A lucky number."
That low growl of agreement rippled through the air once again, the sound one of complete and utter solidarity.
This was the future, Wrath thought as he smiled and bared his fangs. And it was right.
Chapter Twenty-three
As Sola Morte stood in her "boss's" office, her body was poised for a fight. Then again, that was her SOP, and not anything specific to the environment - or the way the conversation was going.
The latter certainly didn't improve her mood, however.
"I'm sorry, what?" she demanded.
Ricardo Benloise smiled in his typical cool, calm way. "Your assignment is completed. Thank you for your time."
"I haven't even told you what I found out there."
The man eased back in his chair. "You may collect your fee from my brother."
"I don't get this." When he'd called her no more than forty-eight hours ago, it had been a priority. "You said - "
"Your services are no longer required for that particular purpose. Thank you."
Was he working with someone else? But who in Caldwell did the kinds of things she did?
"You don't even want to know what I found out."
"Your assignment has been terminated." The man smiled again in such a professional manner, you'd have sworn he was a lawyer or a judge. Not a lawbreaker on a global scale. "I'm looking forward to working with you again in the future."
One of the bodyguards in the back took a couple steps forward, as if he were getting ready to take the trash out.
"There's something going on in that house," she said as she turned away. "Whoever it is, is hiding - "
"I don't want you going back there."
Sola stopped and looked over her shoulder. Benloise's voice was as mild as ever, but his eyes were dead on.
Well, this was interesting.
And the only possible explanation that held any logic was that Mr. Mysterious in that big glass house had warned Benloise off. Had her little visit been discovered? Or was this the result of the kind of hardball that routinely went down in the drug trade?
"Getting sentimental on me?" she said softly. After all, she and Benloise went back quite a ways.
"You are a very useful commodity." His slow smile took the sting out of the words. "Now go and be safe, nina."
Oh, for fuck's sake...there was no reason to bicker with the man. And she was going to get paid - so what the hell did she care?
She gave him a wave, strode to the door, and proceeded down the stairwell. Out in the gallery space, she headed into the back of the house, where the legitimate employees worked during legitimate business hours. Bypassing the file cabinets and the desks, which looked Barbie-size thanks to the industrial ceiling fifty feet overhead, she went into a