When his brother shook his head, Rhage released a tense breath, his whole body easing up with a relief that was all wrong. And then he had to tell himself not to get ahead of things. He and Mary were not adopting Bitty.
Really.
Yeah, ’cuz that would be crazy. Especially as he was basing the compatibility and interest on the kid’s part on the fact that a pair of chocolate-chip waffle cones had been ordered and consumed the night before at Bessie’s Best.
Vishous shrugged. “I checked every database, every contact down South that the Brotherhood has. I’m not saying there aren’t families under the radar, but there was nothing I could come up with that matched Bitty’s name, her mother’s, her father’s or the name of the uncle.”
Gripping the edge of the table, Rhage stared past the tips of his shitkickers to the linoleum floor.
“You and Mary thinking of taking her in?” As he glanced up in surprise, V gave him a well-duh. “It’s cool if you are. I mean, you were talking about kids the other night, and then asking about an orphan’s family situation. That math ain’t complex, true.”
Rhage cleared his throat. “You say nothing about this. To anyone.”
“Yeah, ’cuz I’m such a fucking gossip.”
“I’m serious, V.”
“Come on, you know me better than that. And I know what your next question is going to be.”
“What’s that.”
“You need to go talk to Saxton. He’ll be able to tell you what the requirements are to adopt her. I think in the old days, the King had to sign off whenever nobility was involved—and even though Bitty is a commoner, you, as a member of the Brotherhood, are aristocracy. I think a lot of that had to do with inheritance issues, but again, Saxton would know the ins and outs.”
Okay, that was good advice, Rhage thought. He hadn’t even considered that there might be paperwork involved, and how naive was that?
Oh, and yeah, it wasn’t like he’d spoken about all this to Mary. Or Bitty.
Shit. He was already so far ahead, wasn’t he.
“Thanks, V.” Feeling awkward, Rhage nodded at the rolled-up copy of what had to be the Caldwell Courier Journal. “What’s your other news? And I’m surprised you’re not online, my brother. Was it you or Egon Spengler who said that print is dead?”
“Both of us. Around the same time, actually.” V unfolded things and flashed the front page of the CCJ. “Fritz was the one who picked this hard copy up.”
Rhage whistled under his breath and held out his good hand to take the thing. “Annnnd we’re back in business.”
The headline read in bold letters, “Ritual Murder Scene at Abandoned Factory,” and lengthy columns of text were accompanied by pixilated photos of blood and buckets next to a broken-down manufacturing line of some kind. Rhage scanned the print and flipped to the interior to finish the article, the scent of the ink and the sound of sloppy pages flapping against one another making him think of days gone by.
He shook his head as he put the paper back together. “Not a very big scale, though.”
“Only twelve to fifteen new recruits. Clearly, there were some in the pipeline, and maybe the Omega hurried up the induction. But that’s not a huge scale.”
“Nope. We’re making progress.”
“I want to be there when the last one is poofed out of existence.”
Rhage narrowed his eyes. “The only way that’s going to happen is taking out the Omega.”
“I’ve been thinking about how to do that.” V took the newspaper back. “Trust me—”
A round of rapping on the door cut the brother off.
“Come in, Manny,” Rhage said. “Let’s get this—”
“Oh, hell, no,” V muttered as the panel was thrown wide.
Lassiter stood between the jambs in a yellow slicker that was big as a circus tent, an umbrella popped open over his head, and a pair of wellies on his feet. His legs were bare. Which was not a good sign.
“No, I do not want to buy a watch,” Rhage said, “so you can keep all that closed, buttercup.”
“Watches?” Lassiter came in, or tried to—the umbrella got caught on the jamb. “Screw that. I heard you had a little trouble with your Jacuzzi early this morning.”
He tossed his Mary Poppins back out into the corridor and did a ta-da! with something yellow in his palm. And then the bastard started to sing. Badly.
“Rubbbbber duuuuucky, you’re the one. . . . You make bath time looooots of funnnnnn. . . .”
V glanced over. “Are you shoving that up his ass or am I?”
“We can take turns,” Rhage shouted over the singing. “Hey, can I get a doctor in here!”
If he could just have his cast removed, it would make the beat-down of the angel so much easier. Plus the medical staff could help clean up the Lassiter pieces.
#perfect
* * *
When Mary got to Safe Place, she peeled off her layers in her office, put her purse on the floor by her chair, and signed into her computer.
Every night when she arrived, she checked that Facebook page—because she’d had to discipline herself not to do it on her phone or else run the risk of Internet vapor lock. And every night, right before the update hit the screen, her heart stopped and she held her breath.
She told herself it was because she desperately wanted to send the girl to some white-picket-fence situation in South Carolina with a dog, a cat, and a parakeet, and a set of mystical, Hallmark grandparents who turned out not to be dead.