Chapter Thirty–Eight

CHAPTER THIRTY–EIGHT

N o, you can’t bring a clawhammer, either,” Tohr muttered as he went to Vishous’s glass door to leave. “You have to fucking chill if you’re coming to Whestmorel’s.”

“Fine. And as long as he behaves himself, I’ll behave myself, true?” V’s diamond eyes shifted over to his monitors. “Let me just sign out of—”

As the brother frowned and went silent, Tohr gave him a minute. Like . . . a whole frickin’ minute. “V? What’s going on?”

When there was no response, he raised his voice at the brother: “What’s happening?”

Okay, see, here was the problem with V. After all these centuries together, fighting in the war, keeping Wrath alive, getting through disasters and deaths that could not be borne, Tohr had seen this expression on the guy before—and it had never, ever been associated with good things.

“Vishous, son of the Bloodletter,” he snapped, “my nerves are fucking shot after the last two nights—”

“I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

Going around behind the desk, Tohr frowned. Then leaned forward—like that was going to do anything.

“What the hell is that?” he murmured.

On one of the massive screens, there was a composite image of . . . two-inch-by-two-inch tiles. And each one of them appeared to be a snapshot of a different part of a house that was—

“Jesus, could they use any more bark on shit,” V remarked. “And what’s with all the frickin’ animal heads.”

“Have you ever seen this before? This house?”

“Nope. I mean, it kind of looks like Rehv’s place up on Lake George. Same era, but . . . not it.” Vishous highlighted one of the little images and enlarged it, a study with a desk and shelves of books coming into better view. “What’s with all the duffle bags? And I think there’s sound—”

From out of the speakers, there was the subtle whirr of a heater.

“Why are you seeing this?” Tohr asked.

“Don’t know. It’s a pirate feed, routed through an external source that appears to be syncing with my cell phone number and getting forwarded here. Sophisticated stuff. I’m kind of impressed.”

Moving his mouse around, V clicked on random views, and each time, they got new rooms and different background noise.

“Nice kitchen,” Tohr murmured. Then he reached over the brother’s shoulder and pointed to an image in the center. “Try that one—I mean, can you make it bigger—”

On cue, the view of a bedroom took up almost all of the screen.

V kept clicking around, more close-ups called to the fore. “Yeah, this is some kind of storage platform for security feeds, but I don’t know why I have permission—”

“Hey, click down there. Someone’s coming in—”

V was already on it. As he called up that tile, the tone coming through the speakers changed, but there wasn’t any clear conversation. The males who were entering the home were speaking so softly, not much carried.

“Nice hoodies,” V muttered. “That hide their fucking faces.”

“Are we watching a robbery here?”

“It’s not a burglary. No B&E.”

Four of the intruders were in those black sweatshirts with the hoods, but there was also a guy in a suit, who seemed to know his way around.

“I don’t recognize him, do you?” Tohr asked.

“Nope. But I’m screenshotting the close-up as we speak.”

V continued to follow the group’s progress through the house, clicking on tiles.

“They’re not there to rob the place,” Tohr said.

“No, they’re on the premises to do some damage to someone, and they’re looking for whoever it is.”

As the group came together again in the front hall, the guy in the suit started pointing all around. One by one, the males took cover, sheltering themselves . . . and waiting.

Rubbing his eyes, Tohr braced a hip on the desk edge and felt sorry for whoever was going to walk into the attack.

“Fucking hell,” V said as he lit a hand-rolled. “This is Big Brother, in a bad way . . .”