by J. R. Ward
“That’s not an answer.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
Qhuinn rubbed his face. “Let’s just do this.”
If he got caught up in the unfairness of it all right now, he was going to fucking explode.
Vishous, birthed son of the Scribe Virgin, nodded. And then he slowly lowered the terrifying power that somehow resided within his flesh.
Just before contact was made, Qhuinn had a spasm of doubt, of panic. He almost called it all off—but what had changed? Where else would they take Luchas?
“Oh, God…” Qhuinn breathed. “Oh, God, oh—”
The flare of light was intense, the release of energy so great that Qhuinn was thrown into Blay, the pair of them landing in the snow on a sprawl. And he had expected the final act of his blooded brother’s life to last awhile, but it was over… within seconds. Or at least that’s what it seemed.
There wasn’t even a scent. He’d braced himself to smell burning flesh and hair, but there was nothing of that sort and not because the wind had changed directions.
As the illumination started to fade, Qhuinn lifted his arm from the shield it had become over his face—he hadn’t even been aware of raising it.
There was nothing left.
In the spot where Luchas had lain, there was no robe, no cane, no prosthesis. There was no frozen body, no face or hands or foot. There was not a torso or a lower body.
Gone, gone, gone.
In the place of his brother, there was a precise outline of the position Luchas had died in, the exact contours of the limbs and the head and the robe represented in a bare spot with no snow or pine needles, even.
Just bald dirt.
Qhuinn extended his trembling hand over the place where the immolation had occurred. Curls of smoke rose up, riding currents of heat that dissipated quickly.
Until it was all stone cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Blay had never seen anything like it. V’s glowing hand had extended downward, and then a nuclear-bright flash had lanced through the night, so intense and far-reaching that the entire mountain had lit up like noontime. Or at least that was what it had seemed. And in the aftermath? It was an artist’s drawing of the body’s position on a strip of barren, snowless ground, wisps of smoke rising for a moment.
Followed by only dark stillness.
It was as if the whole world had stopped spinning: No movement among the forest fauna, no deer careful-footing it through the leafless underbrush or owls calling to each other. No snaps of sticks or quiet moans of a breeze through pine branches. Certainly nothing from the Brothers and fighters, who were as statues in and among the trees.
Meanwhile, Qhuinn was fixated on where his brother had been, his big body shuddering. Then the labored breathing came next, heavy, loud. Finally, the male rolled off to the side and propped himself up on bowed arms. The retching went on and on, but nothing came up and out of his throat.
With utter helplessness, Blay stayed beside his mate, his hand on that heaving back, his own eyes watering. As all that pent-up emotion was released, Blay kept looking back and forth between the bare spot and his one true love.
And then, when there was finally an easing of the pain to his bereaved male, he spoke up.
“Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s cold out here.”
As he helped Qhuinn to his feet, he wasn’t sure the guy had any clue where he was. Like a zombie, Qhuinn allowed himself to be led away from where his brother had died, his sneakers taking the path they had forged out here into the forest, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes focused in front of him. There was no telling what was going through his mind.
No, that was a lie.
Blay could guess and all of it was bad.
And that was why he was so compelled to get his mate back inside. There was nothing he could do to help with the maelstrom in Qhuinn’s heart and head, but at least he could get him warm and dry.
As they came up to the Tahoe, V materialized in their path from out of thin air and nodded to the SUV. Blay shook his head. Like the Brother had said, they were only a hundred yards out. That was as far as Luchas had made it. Besides, Qhuinn didn’t stop walking, his trudging stride unbroken as he zeroed in on the camouflaged entry to the cave.
When it was time, Blay jumped ahead and held the drape back, and Qhuinn ducked in. Only to stop dead, like he had no clue where to go next.
“Follow me.” Blay hitched an arm through Qhuinn’s and started walking again. “Not much farther.”
The hatch was closed tight, and Blay entered the code and opened things so Qhuinn could keep going. Then he checked over his shoulder. The Brotherhood had closed ranks, but they were holding back, just looking around the draping, not yet venturing in. This was good. Space was good.
Into the tunnel. Pause by the gear, where Blay stripped the parka off Qhuinn and hung it up.
As Qhuinn looked around with seemingly blind eyes, his face was ruddy from the dry heaves, from the cold, maybe from V’s flash of light. He looked utterly lost, a young in the body of an adult.
“I didn’t want him to go.”
“Of course you didn’t—”
“Oh, God, Blay, what if he knew, what if he knew…”
“Knew what?”
Qhuinn rubbed his eyes and then stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else. “What if he’d read my mind. I mean, I can’t tell you the number of times I sat at his bedside and thought to myself… what kind of life is this for him? How does he keep going? I couldn’t fathom how he handled it. They were hacking parts of him off to keep him alive. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t work his hands. He was down there in that patient room, all by himself.” Those mismatched eyes shifted over. “What if he read my mind? And knew…”
“It was not your fault,” Blay said through a tight throat. “You are not responsible for this.”
“But I am. I was the one who told them to take his leg. I was the one… maybe I could have done more, helped more.” Qhuinn dropped his face into his palms. “I thought I had more time with him. He was medically stable, so I thought there was time to talk. Time to help. Oh, fuck, this hurts.”
Blay didn’t know what to say. So he reached out and pulled his mate against him. As Qhuinn’s arms came around him and held on, he took that as a good sign. At least the connection between them was still there.
He had a feeling they were going to need it.
* * *
The next thing Qhuinn knew, he was in the mansion’s foyer. He didn’t remember the trip back to the grand, formal space, but he sure as shit hadn’t dematerialized his way here—and he was certain about this because: 1) too much steel to get through; and 2) no way he could have concentrated well enough to ghost out.
At this point, he wasn’t sure he could concentrate well enough to take a piss.
With a numb disassociation, he looked around and recognized the malachite columns, the staircase that rose with such great majesty to the second story, the sconces, the ceiling high above with its warriors and steeds. And beneath his feet? The mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom was just as it was supposed to be.
If Luchas had been moved up here, if he’d been given a proper guestroom with beautiful things and a marble bathroom… if he’d been treated like a member of the family, instead of an invalid who was nothing but his infirmity… would it have made a difference? Would he have held on a little longer?
“Why didn’t I ask him how he was?” Qhuinn turned to his mate. “I should have asked him.”
“You did, many times. I was there for a lot of them.”
“It feels like I didn’t do it enough.”
Every time he blinked, he saw his brother’s remains. Each time he breathed, the pain in his chest got worse. With every beat of his heart, he was boomeranged back to the past and then dragged forward to the present. Images assaulted him, memories battering around his head of him and his brother growing up in that house with their
parents and Solange, all the strictures, the discipline… and in Qhuinn’s case, the censure. And then there were more recent memories, of him sitting at Luchas’s bedside, the pair of them talking about nothing.
Why had he wasted those opportunities? They’d had two, maybe three, serious conversations where they’d gone deep into how Luchas was feeling about his injuries and what had happened to him. But most of their interactions had been kept on the surface. Safely on the surface.
Because Qhuinn had always thought he’d have more time. Sure, not an endless number of nights and days—it wasn’t like they were immortal—but he hadn’t pressed anything, had respected boundaries that might or might not have been there, had given space and kept things light… because he’d assumed there was a future readily available to cover the important things.
When it was time.
Whatever that meant.
And now he was here.
He was here on this heartbreaking side of the great divide that had opened up between them, a divide Luchas had chosen to create when he had walked out into that storm.
A divide that potentially was eternal, if that bullshit about taking your own life was true when it came to the Fade.
If only Qhuinn had known that the male was so close to a decision that could not be unmade. If he’d had a clue, he could have talked Luchas into staying in the land of living. He could have reminded him that he had people who loved him, and a niece and nephew who needed their uncle, and—
From out of the corner of his eye, he noted that someone was standing just inside the billiards room, a tall figure that was, at first, indistinct.
Oddly, what caused recognition to click was a memory from First Meal the night before… of Lassiter staring down the table at him, that odd expression on the angel’s face, his strangely colored eyes so grave.
Like he’d known what was coming.
All at once, Qhuinn’s emotions coalesced into a spearhead, the tip of which was everything he would have done differently if he’d known, if he’d gotten a heads-up, if he could have been down in the training center when it had mattered, standing outside Luchas’s room, the physical barrier that was in the way of his brother’s conclusion that his life was no longer worth living…
… so he was going to walk out and die in a snowstorm.
The sound that ripped out of Qhuinn’s throat was that of an animal, and then his body launched into an attack without any conscious direction from him.
He closed the distance and threw himself at the angel, grabbing on to the front of the male’s neck with one hand while swinging widely with his right fist. And as soon as he made that cracking contact with Lassiter’s face, he didn’t stop. He swung again, now from the left side, hitting whatever was in the way. Then he locked hold of the head and swung hard, casting the angel out into the foyer, onto the mosaic floor.
People were shouting at him. He heard nothing.
People were pulling at him. He shoved them off.
Qhuinn let loose with pounding fists and kicking legs, mounting the angel’s prone body and slamming Lassiter over and over again into the hard floor—
Without warning, Qhuinn was lifted off bodily, dragged back and held off, whoever it was strong enough to keep him from his target.
So he used his voice instead of his fists.
“You knew!” he screamed at Lassiter. “You knew what he was going to do—and you didn’t tell me! You cost me my brother!”
He fought against the iron bars that were under his armpits. They held steady.
“Or you could have stopped him!” Qhuinn’s voice rebounded all around, all the way up to the ceiling. “You’re an angel, you’re supposed to save souls—was he not good enough for you? Was my brother too broken for you to bother saving? Why! Why did you let my brother die!”
He was utterly unhinged, his tirade filling the house, calling all kinds of people into the doorways of other rooms. But like he fucking cared? And meanwhile, Lassiter just lay where he had sprawled, oddly colored eyes showing no emotion at all.
Qhuinn surged against whoever was holding him. “He deserved your help! He deserved to be saved—”
“Let him go.”
The angel’s voice, soft and low, cut through his hollering, and he abruptly became aware that there was silver blood all over the floor, all over his own fists… all over the male’s face from the split lip, the busted nose, that cut over his eyebrow.
The angel had not fought back.
He hadn’t even tried to protect himself.
“Let him go!” Lassiter yelled.
The constriction was released, and Qhuinn fell forward. Unable to catch his balance, he landed hard on all fours.
And still, Lassiter just looked at him, that silver blood flowing like melted sterling.
“You’re pathetic,” Qhuinn spat. “You’re not worth the effort to kill you. I hope you can live with what a fucking failure you are as the successor to the Scribe Virgin. You’re nothing but a goddamn lazy joke.”
Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled, pushed off someone’s hands—he didn’t know whose. He was alone as he went up the stairs.
That much he was clear on.
Good thing, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As Qhuinn stormed up the grand staircase, Blay stood at the base of the carpeted steps and watched his mate retreat. He wanted to go after him, but it was very clear that he was not welcome. He’d been shoved away.
He didn’t know what to do.
So he turned to Lassiter, who was still lying on the foyer’s floor and bleeding silver. Others had gathered around the angel, including V, who had actual medical training—but the bodies parted as Blay went over and lowered himself down.
“He didn’t mean any of that,” he said as he helped the angel sit up. “Truly, he didn’t. I have no clue what he was talking about.”
“Help me to my feet?” Lassiter asked as he wiped his face with his forearm.
Blay grunted at the weight of the male. It was as if gravity had a special interest in the angel, his body heavier than even his prodigious muscles suggested, his bones clearly made of solid gold or something.
“I don’t need medical help.” Lassiter shook his head as V stepped forward. “A little sun and I’ll be fine.”
“At least let’s clean you up,” Blay interjected. “Come this way.”
Blay took the angel’s arm and led Lassiter around to the left of the staircase. Tucked under the steps, the formal powder room was like a jewel box, with rare stone inlays and twinkling crystal fixtures, everything so lush and lovely. And talk about karats. The sink was gold, and so were the filigreed faucets and the tiny little lamps with the hand-tooled silk shades—which were like birthday candles for a tsar.
Pushing Lassiter down onto the silk-covered bench, Blay snagged a monogrammed hand towel. As he wetted a corner, he had a thought that it was a good thing Lassiter bled silver. The fine terry cloth was a pale gray.
Red blood would have ruined it.
“I’m really sorry,” he said as he leaned into the angel’s busted face.
Lassiter hissed at the contact. Then cleared his throat. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
“He’s still just…” Blay blinked and saw Luchas’s face in the snow. “I’m just really sorry. About everything.”
“As am I.”
Back to the sink. Running more warm water. Rinsing the hand towel out.
Returning to that face, Blay focused this time up by the eyebrow. As Lassiter cursed and jerked back, Blay murmured an apology. Which seemed to be his theme song.
About ten minutes later, most of the silver blood was gone, Lassiter’s classically handsome face re-revealed… for the moment. The swelling was coming, the bruising not black and blue, but a shimmering under the surface of the skin.
Blay backed up and leaned against the sink counter, crossing his arms. Focusing on his feet, he frowned at his Bally loafers. He’d had boots on, back when
he and Tohr had been dealing with the Christmas tree. When had he swapped those for such flimsy footwear?
That he’d taken out to find Luchas.
“I’ve ruined my shoes,” he said absently as he lifted one of his feet and inspected the wet leather. “Funny, I didn’t even notice the cold.”
On that note, he bent down and took off the loafer. The sock was next. What was revealed was bad news. His toes were a white color he never wanted to see again: They were exactly the same as Luchas’s frozen face—opaque, like marble.
Shying away from the image, he stared at his foot. The damn thing was going to hurt like hell when things started to warm up, but he welcomed the physical pain. It would be easier than what was in his soul.
“Here, let me help.”
Lassiter reached forward and put his palm underneath Blay’s sole. Instead of the fearsome energy that had exploded out of Vishous’s curse, this was a warm glow that enveloped and revived: Over the next minute or so, Blay watched as color returned to his flesh, the warm, healthy skin tone coming back.
“Give me your other one.”
Blay shucked his remaining shoe and sock, and extended the left side. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s a miracle.”
“That’s the plan.”
As the magic was worked on his other foot, Blay realized that the angel was not wearing one of his trademark crazy outfits. He was in all black, his wild blond-and-black hair likewise braided and out of the way. For a male who usually went around in spandex leggings, à la David Lee Roth, the reserve was yet another jarring shock.
Nothing was ever going to be normal again. Of this, Blay was quite sure.
“Can I ask you something?” he blurted.
“Anything.”
It was a while before Blay could frame the question. “What can I do to help him?”
Okay, fine, it was probably not fair to ask that of the angel, given the attack. But was anybody really thinking right tonight?
“You know the answer to that,” Lassiter said.
“No, I really don’t.”
The angel leaned down and picked up the shoes. The wetness on them receded as soon as he touched them, retreating from the tips and traveling to the heels. Unfortunately, there were stains left behind in the fine leather, that which had been unmarred before now marked with permanent discoloration.
