“What the hell happened between you two?” Wrath asked.

“Nothing,” Cormia replied. “Absolutely nothing.”

The king so wasn’t buying it, which proved their fearless leader had half a brain, but at the moment Phury didn’t have enough left in him to argue for the truth. He just kept mopping up his busted mouth with the back of his forearm as Wrath kept talking and Cormia kept defending him, God only knew why.

Wrath glowered from behind his wraparounds. “Look, do I need to break something else to get you two to cut the shit? The hell it was nothing. John’s a hothead, but he’s not a-”

Cormia cut the king off. “John misinterpreted what he saw.”

“What did he see?”

“Nothing. I say it was nothing and therefore it is as such.”

Wrath gave her the once-over, as if checking for bruises. Then he looked hard at Phury. “What the fuck do you have to tell me?”

Phury shook his head. “She’s wrong. John didn’t misunder-”

Cormia’s tone was sharp. “The Primale is clothing himself in blame that is unnecessary. My honor was not impeached in any fashion, and I do believe that is my call to make, is it not.”

After a moment, the king inclined his head. “As you wish.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” She bowed deep and low. “Now, I shall be taking my leave of you.”

“Would you like me to send Fritz with some food-”

“No. I am taking my leave of this side. I am returning home.” She bowed again, and as she did, the blond hair that was still drying from her shower slipped off her shoulder and brushed the floor. “I wish you both the very best and proffer my kindest regards to the rest of the household. Your Majesty.” She bowed again to Wrath. “Your grace.” She bowed to Phury.

Phury leaped up off the bed and rushed forward in a panic… but she disappeared into the thin air before he reached her.

Gone. Just like that.

“Will you excuse me,” he said to Wrath. It wasn’t a request, but he didn’t give a shit.

“I really don’t think you should be alone right now,” Wrath said in a dark tone.

There was conversation at that point, some sort of back-and -forth, which must have reassured Wrath on some level, because the king left.

When he was gone, Phury stood in the middle of his room, still as a statue, staring at the imprint of that ashtray on the wall. On the inside he writhed, but on the outside he was utterly motionless: The choking ivy was growing underneath his skin, instead of over it.

With a flick of his eyes, he checked the clock. Only an hour before dawn.

As he headed into the bathroom for a cleanup, he knew he was going to have to be quick about this.

Chapter Forty-one

The caldwell police station had two separate faces to it: the front entrance on Tenth, with all the steps, which was where the TV crews filmed the shit you saw on the evening news, and the back one, with the iron bars, where business was taken care of. In truth, the Tenth Street facade was only marginally better-looking, because the 1960s-era building was like the profile of an aging, ugly woman. There were no good sides.

The squad car Lash was in the back of pulled to a stop right behind the rear entrance.

How the fuck had he ended up here?

The cop who’d arrested him came around and popped the door. “Step out of the car, please.”

Lash stared up at the guy, then shifted his legs, unhinged his knees, and towered over the human. Fantasies of ripping the man’s throat open and turning his jugular vein into a soda fountain were all but undeniable.

“This way, sir.”

“No problem.”

He could tell he made the SOB jumpy by the way the cop’s hand drifted over to the butt of his gun in spite of the fact that they were in full view of the CPD home team.

Lash was led through some double doors and down a linoleum hallway that looked like it had been installed when the shit had first been invented. They stopped at a Plexiglas window that was thick as an arm, and the cop yammered into a circular metal patch that was mounted on the wall. The woman on the other side was all business in her navy blue uniform, and about as attractive as the male cop.

But she took care of the paperwork quickly. When she was satisfied that she’d pulled together enough forms for them to fill out, she slid the stack under the window to the cop and nodded. The door next to them let out a beeeeeeeep and a clunk, as if it had burped open its lock, and then it was another beat-to-shit linoleum stretch that ended in a little room with a bench, a chair, and a desk.

After they were seated, the officer took out a pen and clicked it. “What’s your full name?”

“Larry Owen,” Lash said. “Just like I told him.”

The guy bent over the papers. “Address?”

“Fifteen eighty-three Tenth Street, apartment four-F for right now.” He figured he might as well go with the addy from the registration on the Focus. Mr. D was going to bring the fake driver’s license Lash had used when he’d lived with his parents, but he couldn’t remember exactly what was on it.

“Do you have any identification to prove you live there?”

“Not on me. But my friend will bring my ID.”

“Date of birth?”

“When do I get my phone call?”

“In a minute. Date of birth?”

“October thirteenth, 1981.” At least, he thought that was his fake one.

The officer shifted an ink pad across the desk, got up, and freed one of Lash’s cuffs. “I need to fingerprint you now.”

Good luck with that, Lash thought.

He let the guy take his left hand and pull it forward, watched as the pads of his fingertips were rolled and pressed onto a white piece of paper with ten squares in two rows.

The policeman frowned at what he saw and tried another finger. “Nothing’s coming up.”

“I was burned as a child.”

“Sure you were.” The guy did the roll and press a couple more times, and then gave up and redid the cuffs. “Over to the camera.”

Lash went across the room and stood still as a flash went off in his face. “I want my phone call.”

“You’ll get it.”

“What’s my bail?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“When will I be out?”

“Whenever the judge sets the bail and you pay it. Probably this afternoon, given how early in the a.m. it is.”

Lash was recuffed with his hands in front of him and a phone was pushed over to him. The officer hit a button for speakerphone and dialed Mr. D’s cell phone as Lash recited the digits.

The cop stepped back as the lesser answered.

Lash didn’t waste time. “Bring my wallet. It’s in my jacket in the back of the car. They haven’t set bail, but find some cash ASAP.”

“When do you want me to come?”

“Get the ID here now. Then it’s whenever the judge sets the bail.” He looked at the officer. “Can I call him again to let him know when to pick me up?”

“No, but he can dial our precinct line, ask for the jail, and find out when you’ll be released that way.”

“You hear that?”

“Yup,” Mr. D said through the tinny speaker.

“Don’t stop working.”

“We’re not.”

Ten minutes later, Lash was in a holding cell.

The thirty-by-thirty cinder-block room was standard-issue with its bars across the front and its anti-Kohler stainless-steel toilet and sink setup in the corner. As he went over to the bench and sat with his back to the cell wall, five guys checked him out. Two were clearly druggies, because they were greasy as bacon and had evidently had their brains pan-fried earlier in the night. The other three were his peeps, even though they were just humans: a guy with massive biceps and a good dozen prison tats in the opposite corner, away from everyone; a gangbanger with a blue do-rag doing the rat-in-a-cage pace at the bars; and a skinhead psycho who was twitching by the cell door.

Naturally, the druggies didn’t care that someone had been added to the mix, but the other ones sized him up like he was a lamb shank at a deli counter.