that hovered in suspended
animation over the floor.
Her daughter. V's fraternal twin. Payne.
The Scribe Virgin had long subscribed to the notion that it was better and safer for her daughter
to so rest. But now she was unsure. The choices she had tried to make for her son had ended
badly. Perhaps it was the same for her young of a different sex.
The Scribe Virgin stared at her daughter's face. Payne was not like other females, hadn't been
since birth. She had her father's warrior instinct and urge for battle and was no more content to
dally with the Chosen than a lion could be caged satisfactorily with mice.
Perhaps it was time to free her daughter, as she had freed her son. It seemed only fair. Protection
had indeed proven to be a dubious virtue.
Still, she hated to let go. Especially as there was no reason to expect that her daughter would
have any greater love for her than her son did. So she would lose them both.
As she struggled under the weight of her thoughts, her instinct was to go out to the courtyard and
be soothed by her birds. There was no succor awaiting her therein, however. No cheerful calls to
ease her.
And so the Scribe Virgin stayed in her private quarters, floating through the still, silent air in an
endless track through the empty rooms. As she passed the time, the infinite nature of her
nonexistence was like a cloak of needles lying upon her, a thousand little pinpricks of pain and
sadness.
There was no escape or relief in sight for her, no peace nor kindness nor comfort. She was as she
had always been: alone in the midst of the world she'd created.
Chapter Fifty-four
Jane had been in Manny Manello's apartment once or twice. Not often, though. When they'd
been together it had always been at the hospital.
Boy, this was serious guy stuff here. Serious guy stuff. Any more sports equipment hanging
around and it would have been a Dick's.
Kind of reminded her of the Pit.
She went around his living room looking at his DVDs and his CDs and his magazines. Yup, he
would get along just fine with Butch and V: He evidently had a lifetime subscription to Sports
Illustrated, just like they did. And he kept the back issues, just like they did. And he liked his
liquor, though he was a Jack man, not into the Goose or the Lag.
As she bent down, she focused her energy so she could pick up the most recent issue of 57 and
realized that she'd been a ghost for exactly one day. It was twenty-four hours ago that she'd
appeared with the Scribe Virgin in V's room.
Things were working out. Sex as a member of the undead was just as good as it had been when
she'd lived. Matter of fact, she and V were meeting at his penthouse toward the end of the
evening. He wanted to be 芦worked out,禄 as he'd put it, his eyes shining with anticipation-and
she was more than willing to indulge her man.
Abso-fucking-lutely.
Jane dropped the magazine and paced around a little more, then took up waiting by one of the
windows.
This was going to be hard. Saying good-bye was hard.
She and V had talked over how to handle her departure from the human world. The car accident
he'd staged would provide some explanation of her disappearance. Sure, her body would never
be found, but the area the Audi had been left in was wooded and mountainous. Hopefully the
police would just close her file after a search was conducted, but it wasn't like the consequences
were material. She was never going back. So it didn't matter.
As for her shit, the only thing of value in her condo was a picture of her and Hannah. V had gone
back and gotten the photograph for her. The rest of her stuff would eventually get sold by the
lawyer she'd named executor of her estate two years ago in her last will and testament. The
proceeds would go to St. Francis.
She would ache for her books, but V had said he would get her new ones. And although it wasn't
quite the same, she had faith she would over time become connected to her new ones.
Manny was the only open issue??/p>
The jangle of keys going into a lock sounded, then the door opened.
Jane stepped back into the shadows as Manny came in, dropped a black Nike bag, and headed for
the kitchen.
He looked exhausted. And bereft.
Her first impulse was to approach him, but she knew the better course was to wait for him go to
sleep-which was why she'd come late, hoping he'd already be in bed. Clearly,
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