by J. R. Ward
“Qhuinn did great, and the knife missed all the expensive real estate.” The surgeon shook his head. “It’s a miracle. As always, someone was watching out for him.”
Blay put his hand over his heart, and as his head swam with relief, he was glad he was sitting down. “Thank you so much. Oh, my God, thank you.”
“Our pleasure. We’re just closing now. You can see him in a little bit.”
As the surgeon ducked back into the sterile area, Blay rubbed his face and shuddered inside his own skin. Images of crystal glasses caught just as they fell off the edge of tables, and of fingers narrowly saved from the bite of car doors, and of land mines missed by millimeters, flashed through his mind. And now, as Qhuinn’s body was set to rights again, Blay’s own part of the healing process could begin. With the mortal danger over, he had to coax his brain back into risk-awareness hibernation: After every narrow-margin save and each near miss, he always had to stuff his panic back in its lockbox.
Otherwise, he’d be perpetually quaking in his boots.
The thing was, they were all at risk, every night they went out into the field—especially with the Omega gone, and the trainees and others seeing a new shadowy threat downtown. At least with the Lessening Society, they’d known what they were fighting—
Shuffling sounds brought his head up.
A hobbling figure in a terry cloth bathrobe was coming down the corridor, its weight braced on a cane, its gait as steady and regular as a case of the hiccups. The head was down; the dark hair, which had begun to thin and go gray, was wet; the scent of chlorine was pervasive.
“Luchas,” Blay said. “How are you?”
Qhuinn’s brother didn’t speak until he was right in front of Blay, and there was effort involved in lifting his head from its permanent loll.
“I am well, and yourself?”
The voice was reedy, but the accent was straight-up glymera, something between high-brow British monarchy and French diplomat.
“I’m okay, and so is your brother.”
Luchas’s gray eyes flared, and he looked to the closed door. “Is Qhuinn unwell?”
As a matter of fact, he’s just recovering from a case of poke-itis.
“He’s going to be fine.”
“He was injured whilst fighting, then?”
“It was minor.” Blay blinked away the image of that knife handle sticking straight up. “And you know, he’s a tough one.”
“Yes, he is.” Luchas lowered his head. “He has always been.”
It seemed apt that Luchas went to illness first rather than contusion or concussion. The aristocracy was not hardwired for physical combat or the realities of war, and the male’s perspective had not changed in spite of what had been done to him by the Omega’s son, Lash. And maybe Luchas’s abduction and torture were part of it. Even though he had been treated at the training center since he had been rescued from that oil drum, the Brothers and the fighters didn’t talk about the war anywhere around him.
He’d been through enough.
“How is your new prosthesis working out?” Blay asked.
That weight shifted in favor of the cane and a molded silicone foot presented itself from under the hem of the robe.
“It is what it is.”
“I’ll bet it just takes time to adjust.” As Blay made the comment, he was aware that he knew nothing about what being an amputee was like. “Have you talked to Phury?”
“He has been most helpful.” There was defeat in that voice as the molded foot was placed back on the concrete floor. “One is exhausted by so much, however.”
“You’ve come so far.” Blay tried not to notice the thinning hair and the lines that were etched deep into a face that should have been as youthful as his own. He also did not look at the mangled hand upon the head of the cane. “Truly, you have.”
“And yet I am no closer to where I wish I was. If you will excuse me?”
As if the male was uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone.
“Of course.” Even though Blay was sitting down, he bowed low in the manner of the aristocracy, bending himself over his outstretched legs. “I’ll tell Qhuinn you stopped by and asked for him.”
“Please do.”
In polite recognition of his departure, Luchas also inclined his torso—but a cracking sound let off as if his spine was not as flexible as it should have been. With a grunt of pain, his deformed hand tightened on the cane’s grip, and Blay jumped up and caught him as his balance listed sharply to the left.
“Forgive me,” Luchas said as he shoved his body back to level. “I am not my brother. I am not tough.”
“There are many who would disagree with that. And I am one of them.”
Eyes that were gray as a fog stared across the vast distance of experience and destiny between them. To think that they had both started in the same place: Healthy, first-born sons of the aristocracy. Now?
“I am sorry,” Luchas mumbled. “Did you tell me exactly what happened to my brother? I cannot recall. Lately, the pain has been making me fuzzy.”
As Blay hesitated, the male shook his head. “So it was in the field, was it not?”
“He is okay now.”
“You all protect me from things I very well know exist. The monsters are out from beneath my bed, dearest Blay, and not only has it been as such for quite some time, ne’er shall they return thereunder. I live with them in my head.” Luchas touched his temple. “I can assure you that there is no fact pattern you can report that comes close to what dwells here in my mind. Especially as my brother appears to have bested whatever attempt was made upon his life.”
Blay cleared this throat. “He was stabbed. In the stomach.”
That stare returned to the OR’s closed door. “He must have been in such agony.”
“He was… but he handled himself.”
“Of course he did. Survival is a learned trait that comes through the mastery of suffering. My brother suffered in our household for all of his most vulnerable years, so yes, he can get through any kind of pain. Endurance is what he learned to do best.” Luchas’s head relowered into its downward position. “On the other hand, I am not like my brother because I was not like him. I was nurtured and therefore have no strength. Or purpose, for that matter.”
“You are well loved here, Luchas. There are many who care for you.”
“Take care of me, you mean.” That prosthetic foot made a reappearance. “My needs far outstretch my contributions, I’m afraid.”
“That is not true.”
“And what exactly have I done for the race of late? Or any of you?” Before Blay could respond, Luchas shook his head. “Forgive me. I do not mean to sound churlish. It is just that Qhuinn is the male our parents should have found virtue in. Outward appearance is, after all, a very thin margin of judgment for character, is it not.”
“You are more than—”
“More than this broken mess?” Luchas indicated his body and then held up his hand. It was missing several fingers, courtesy of that asshole Lash. “You know, there are times when I believe this was all meant to be. My exterior frailty is simply a reflection of my internal failings. I have become aligned with my nature.”
“That’s not true.” What else could he say, Blay wondered. “Please know, it will get better.”
Luchas’s face registered the ghost of a smile. “It is apparent why my brother loves you. I quite believe you mean that.”
“I do.”
Those gray eyes lost their focus, as if the male were seeing something that only existed in his mind. “Alas, my future is what it is.”
“So much has changed, though. I mean, everything is different.”
“Not from what I witness. The glymera may be lesser in number because of the raids, but they are just as great as ever when it comes to censure. I lurk online amongst them and see what they do. As it was, so it continues to be.”
“You don’t need to have anything to do with them. You’re a part
of this community now, and with us, you have a future that is not bound by all those discriminations and rules. I mean, look at Qhuinn. Look at how far he’s come, he’s not only a Brother now, but he’s been promoted to the private guard of the King and—”
“I’m sorry.” Luchas stiffened. “What did you say?”
Blay frowned and looked around. Like the tunnel was going to help him out, though? “Ah, Qhuinn was elevated to Wrath’s personal guard. I thought… didn’t you know that?”
“No. I’m afraid I did not. When did this occur?”
“That’s not important—”
“When?”
“A little while ago?” Blay phrased it as a question, even though there was no lack of clarity around the date. Clearing his throat, he tried to smooth things over. “I’m sure he meant to share the news with you.”
“Indeed.” Luchas stared at the door to the OR. “As if being appointed to protect the King and First Family is something that easily slips one’s mind. ’Tis only the most venerable, august, and respected position within the race.”
“Qhuinn is a very brave fighter.”
“Of that I am very aware. And allow me to affirm that if there was e’er an individual to deserve such an honor, it is he. I am happy for him, and I can guess why he failed to bring it up. Quite a reversal of station he and I have had over the course of our lives.” There was a pause. “Well. I look forward to his full recovery, as I’m sure do you. And to his continued service unto the race.”
“Luchas, please…” Blay offered his open palms. Like a lame-ass. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Worry not, old friend.” Those gray eyes clouded over. “My brother chose wisely when he picked you. In truth, Blaylock, you are a male of worth.”
This time, Luchas did not try to bow as he turned away. Relying on that cane, he shuffled down the clinical area, the robe hem swinging side to side as weight was transferred back and forth, a load borne with unreliability. When he got to the door to his patient room, he tilted his head to the side in its downward position and looked back at Blay. And then he lifted his bony, mangled hand in a wave before disappearing into his private space.
With a curse, Blay remembered the male from before the raids, from before Luchas had been captured and tortured by the Omega’s son, Lash, and the Lessening Society. He had been so fit and healthy and perfect, the pride and joy of his parents, of the glymera as a whole.
A firstborn son of impeccable pedigree with all his fingers and toes.
And now here he was.
Even as Blay fought the tide of memory, images bubbled up and refused to be denied. Over all the centuries that vampires had fought against the Omega and his army of the undead, there had been countless truly tragic events. The raids, however, had been nuclear in nature, lessers attacking the hidden mansions of the aristocracy, slaughtering not just families, but whole bloodlines. Qhuinn’s had been among them, and he likely would have been killed that night, too, if they hadn’t kicked him out for his heterochromia iridum.
His blue and green eyes, long the bane of his existence, at least according to his parents and their ilk, had saved him.
At Qhuinn’s request, Blay had gone to the house and identified the bodies, and Luchas’s had been among them. Blay had seen the remains with his own two eyes—and that was supposed to be where it all ended, the terminal point of the catastrophic losses for that family, the bodies buried on the property. Except, no. Someone from the Lessening Society had returned.
And Lash had brought Luchas back.
The story had never been completely told, and no one had been inclined to press Luchas for details, but a year later, the male had been found in an oil drum at an abandoned site of the enemy’s, reanimated and preserved in a swill of the Omega’s vile essence. Qhuinn had been the one who found his brother, and the only identifier had been the gold signet ring Luchas been given by their sire the night after his transition.
The torture he’d been put through had been extensive, fingers cut off, broken bones all over his body, bruises, contusions, cuts. And then there had been the psychological trauma of it all. The Brotherhood had brought him here to the training center, and since then, Luchas had lost his lower leg as part of the continuing attempt to keep him alive and functioning.
Considering where the male had started out in life, it wasn’t how any of it was supposed to go. If the world had made any sense, if things had gone the way of history’s predictions, Luchas would likely be mated by now, or at least locked into an arrangement with a female of comparable breeding. He would be attending meetings of the Council with his sire, and enjoying grand functions and festivals. He would be rubbing shoulders with vampires like himself, secure in the knowledge that he had more money than he would ever need and an unassailable position in society.
But fiction could pale in comparison to destiny.
In ways both good and bad.
For instance, who’d have ever thought Qhuinn would have been made an official member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood?
Or that the male would ever have decided to settle down. With the best friend who had loved him since they were young.
Luchas was right about one thing. The two brothers had traded places.
It was just such a shame that the former’s fall from grace had been so devastating.
* * *
Paper cut.
Huge, weird, inexplicable paper cut.
As Qhuinn came out of anesthesia, his first thought was that someone had taken a manila folder, a crisp, brand-spanking-new manila folder, and whipped it right across his lower abdominals. It was the only way to explain the sweet sting striping between his hip bones, right below his belly button. Except… the discomfort wasn’t a surface kind of thing. The sensation was deep inside.
So maybe it was more like part of his intestines had decided to lick a Publishers Clearing House envelope.
Just as he was coming to the conclusion that he had been through so much worse in the owie department, his eyes flipped open.
The medical light fixture above him brought it all back, as did the beep, beep, beep that seemed to suggest that he had a heartbeat as regular as a metronome.
Another piece of good news—
Without warning, a face appeared above his own.
Manny Manello.
The dark-haired human had a surgical mask hanging loose in front of his neck, like a feed bag he’d emptied of grain. When he smiled, his fangless teeth were white and his dark eyes were kind.
“You’re all set.” Manny flashed a thumbs-up. “No internal damage, but it’s a good thing we already took out your spleen. It’s like your organs did some parkour and got away from the blade. Considering what could have been sliced? You’re very lucky.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Qhuinn cleared his throat, which was sore from the intubation. “Where are—”
“I’ll send your people in.”
“Is it okay for the—”
“Yup, the kids are fine to join you.” Manny patted his patient’s knee. “And you don’t have to stay down here for much longer. You’re cleared to head back to the big house as soon as you’re steady enough to walk.”
“Awesome. You’re amazing.”
“Please don’t stop with the compliments. And let’s get your family in here.”
The surgeon went over and opened the door, and Layla was the first to come in. The Chosen had Rhamp in her arms, and her beautiful face was worried—but that concern lifted instantly as Qhuinn clapped his hands.
“There’s my boy,” he said as he hit the button to raise the head of the hospital bed. “And the best mahmen there is.”
Blay was right behind her with Lyric, and the instant the little one saw her sire, she put out her arms, straining for contact.
“Oh, sweetie, Daddy’s okay.” Qhuinn took her first, putting aside the remote and settling her on the bedside as he kissed his mate. “It’s all good.”
Lyric crawled up his chest an
d snuggled in quick, all chubby and warm and perfect, finding her favorite place in his neck. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deep and smelled Desitin, fresh Huggies, and Aveeno baby wash—and when her little sock-covered foot dug into his belly, he mostly kept his wince to himself.
“No, I’ve got her,” he said to Blay. “I’m okay. And gimme another kiss.”
After a brief contact and a shared smile with his mate, Qhuinn reached up and touched his son’s soft and round face. Immediately, Rhamp grabbed on to the forefinger and yanked back and forth, as if he were making Qhuinn wave to himself.
“We were so worried,” Layla murmured.
“I don’t ever want to scare you guys.” Qhuinn smiled as Rhamp started talking, all the babbling like the kid was giving him a lecture to stay safe in the field. “Really? Tell me more.”
“He’s on a roll,” Blay remarked with a smile.
“When this big guy starts stringing actual words together, we’re going to have quite a ride.”
And he couldn’t wait. He wanted to know what his son had to say. His daughter, too.
“Where’s the last quarter of our fantastic foursome?” Qhuinn asked.
“Xcor’s still out in the field.” Layla sat on the foot of the bed and settled Rhamp on her lap. “He wanted to be here, but I told him you’d rather he stay on shift.”
“Damn right I would. We need everyone out there right now, and I can see him when the sun’s up.”
“That’s exactly how I thought you’d feel.”
“You know me too well.”
There was a momentary quiet, and then Blay and Layla started talking about the upcoming human holidays, and some kind of Party Planning Committee run by—God forbid—Lassiter. As they clearly made an effort to get back to normal, Qhuinn was glad things moved away from the drama. He’d had to work hard to keep his mind from going into the I’m-going-to-die swamp, and he’d just as soon start putting distance in whatever form it came in between him and the stabbing.
On that note, he shifted Lyric around so she lay cradled in the crook of his arm. Then he smoothed her Boston Red Sox onesie and gently poked her tummy. As she giggled, her newly acquired baby teeth showed, two on the top, two on the bottom.
