by J. R. Ward
Chapter Ten
"I shall do it. "
As No'One spoke up, the group of doggen she had sneaked in behind turned like a flock of birds, all at once. In their modest staff room, there were males and females both among the assembled, each dressed properly for his or her role whether it was cook or cleaner, baker or butler. She had found them when she had gone for an idle stroll, and who was she not to take advantage of an opportunity.
The one who was in charge, Fritz Perlmutter, looked like he was about to faint. Then again, he had been her father's doggen all those years ago, and had had particular struggles with her defining herself in a servile role. "My fine lady - "
"No'One. My name is No'One now. Please address me as that and that alone. And as I said, I shall take care of the washing down in the training center. "
Wherever that was.
Indeed, last night with that dress had been a benediction of sorts, the task busying her hands and giving her a focus that passed the hours with alacrity. It had once been the same on the Other Side, her manual labor the only thing that calmed her and imparted structure to her existence.
How she had missed having a purpose.
For truth, she had come here to serve Payne, but the female wanted none of that. She had come here to try to connect with her daughter, but the female was newly mated, with vital distractions. And she had come here in search of some kind of peace, only to be driven mad with inactivity since her arrival.
And that was prior to her near run-in with Tohrment early this morning.
At least he had taken the dress, though. It was gone from where she had hung it when he had answered her knock with such gruff -
Abruptly, she noted that the butler was looking at her expectantly, as if he had just said something that required a response.
"Please take me down there," she said, "and show me the duties. "
Given the way his old, wrinkled face fell even further, she gathered that was not the reply he had been hoping for.
"Mistress - "
"No'One. And you, or one of your staff, can show me now. "
The assembled masses all looked worried, as if mayhap rumors of the sky falling had suddenly become reality.
"Thank you," she said to the butler. "For your facilitation. "
Clearly recognizing that he was not going to win, the head doggen bowed low. "But of course I shall, mist - Ah, No - Er. . . "
When he couldn't get out her proper name, as if the appropriate title of "mistress" was required to blaze the trail up his windpipe, she took pity on him.
"You are most helpful," she murmured. "Now, lead on. "
After dismissing the others, he took her out of the staff room, through the kitchen, and into the foyer by virtue of yet another door that was new to her. As they proceeded, she recalled her previous, younger self, the haughty daughter of a bloodline of means who had refused to cut up her own meat, or brush her own hair, or dress herself. What a waste. At least now that she was no one and had nothing, she was clear on how to pass the hours meaningfully: work. Work was the key.
"We go through herein," the butler pronounced as he held wide a hidden door beneath the grand staircase. "Allow me to provide you the codes. "
"Thank you," she replied, memorizing them.
As she followed the doggen into the long, thin tube of an underground tunnel, she thought, yes, if she was going to stay on this side, she needed to busy herself with chores, even if it offended the doggen, the Brotherhood, the shellans. . . . Better that than the prison of her own thoughts.
They exited the tunnel by stepping through the back of a closet and passing into a squat room that had a desk and metal cabinets and a glass door.
The doggen cleared his throat. "This is the training center and medical facility. We have classrooms, a gym, locker room, weight room, physical therapy area, and a pool, as well as many other amenities. There are staff who take care of the deep cleaning of each section" - this was said sternly, as if he did not care that she was the guest of the king; she was not mucking about with his schedule - "but the doggen who took care of the laundry has gone upon bed rest, as she is mitte doggen and it is no longer safe for her to be on her feet. Please, we are this way. "
As he held open the glass portal, they went out into the corridor and headed to a double-doored room that was kitted up identically to the laundry she had used the night before in the main house. Over the next twenty minutes, she received a refresher on how to operate the machines, and then the butler reviewed with her a map of the facilities so she knew where to collect the bins and where to return what she had tended to.
And then, after a stiff silence, and stiffer adieu, she was blissfully alone.
Standing in the middle of the utility room, surrounded by washing machines and dryers and tables to fold upon, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Oh, the lovely solitude, and the fortunate weight of duty settling upon her shoulders. For the next six hours, she had nothing to think of but white towels and sheets: finding them, putting them in machines, folding them, returning them to their proper places.
There was no room for the past or her regrets here. Just the work.
Gripping a rolling bin, she wheeled the blue fabric receptacle out into the corridor and began making her rounds, beginning with the clinic and returning to the laundry when there was no more space left in her transport. After she got the first load into a deep-bellied washer, she went out again, passing into the locker room and finding a mountain of white. It took her two trips to get all those towels, and she made a pile of them in the center of the washer room, beside the drain in the gray concrete floor.
Her final stop took her to the very far left, all the way down the corridor to the pool. As she went along, the wheels on her cart made a little whistling noise, and her feet shuffled unevenly, her grip on the bin's lip giving her some added stability and helping her to go faster.
When she heard music coming from the swimming area, she slowed. Then stopped.
The strains of notes and voices made no sense as all members of the Brotherhood and their shellans were gone for the night. Unless someone had left the music on after they had finished their time in the water?
Pushing her way into a squat anteroom tiled with mosaics of athletic males, she got hit with a wall of warmth and humidity so heavy, it was as if she had stepped up against a velvet drape. And all around, there was a strange, chemical smell in the air, one that made her wonder what they treated the water with - on the Other Side, everything had stayed permanently fresh and clean, but she knew that was not the case on earth.
Leaving the bin to wait in the lobby, she walked forward toward a vast, cavelike space. Reaching out, she touched the warm tiles on the wall, running her fingers over the blue skies and rolling green fields, but skipping any of the loinclothed males, with their archery bows, and their fencing staffs, and their running poses.
She loved the water. The floating buoyancy, the easing of the aches in her bad leg, the sense of brief freedom -
"Oh. . . my. . . " she gasped as she turned the corner.
The pool was four times the size of the largest bath on the Other Side, and its water was a shimmering pale blue - likely because of the tiles that skinned its deep belly. Black lines ran lengthwise, denoting lanes, and there were numbers going down the stone lip, clearly marking depth. Up above, the ceiling was domed and covered in more mosaics, and there were benches against the walls, providing places to sit. Echoing around, the music was louder, but not overly so, and the mournful tune possessed a pleasing resonance.
Given that she was alone, she couldn't resist going over and testing the temperature with her bare foot.
Tempting. So very tempting.
But instead of giving in, she refocused on her duties, going back to her bin, rolling it over to a large wicker basket, and then transferring her body weight in damp terry cloth.
When she
turned to go, she paused and stared at the water again.
There was no way the first round of sheeting had finished its washing cycle. It had at least forty-five minutes left according to what the machine had reported.
She checked the clock that was mounted on the wall.
Perhaps just a few minutes in the pool, she decided. She could use the relief from the aching in her lower body, and there was nothing she could do relative to her job for the next little bit.
Grabbing one of the fresh, folded towels, she double-checked the anteroom. Went farther down and looked out into the corridor.
Nobody was about. And now was the time to do this - the staff would be concentrating on cleaning the second floor of the mansion, as they had to get that work done between First and Last Meals. And there was no one getting treated at the clinic, at least for the moment.
She had to make this fast.
Limping back to the shallow end, she unfastened her robe and drew off the hood, stripping down to her undersheath. After a brief hesitation, she removed the sheer liner as well - she would have to remember to bring a second with her if she wanted to do this again. Better to remain modest.
As she folded her things, she deliberately stared at her twisted calf, tracing the roping scars that formed an ugly relief map of mountains and valleys in her flesh. Once, the lower leg had worked perfectly and been as lovely as many an artist could have drawn. Now it was a symbol of who and what she was, a reminder of a fall from grace that had made her a lesser person. . . and, over time, a better one.
Fortunately, there was a chrome handrail by the steps, and she gripped it for balance as she slowly entered the warm water. Upon the descent, she recalled her braid and wound the heavy length around and around the top of her head, tucking in the loose end so that the beehive held in place.
And then. . . she glided.
Closing her eyes in bliss, she gave herself over to weightlessness, the water a temperate breeze wafting across her flesh, her body held kindly in the pool's peaceable palms. As she stroked out into the center, she threw away her resolve not to get her hair wet, and rolled over onto her back, sweeping her hands in circles to keep herself afloat.
For a brief time, she allowed herself to feel something, opening the door to her senses.
And it was. . . good.
Left behind at the mansion for the night, Tohr was off-roster, stuck inside and hungover: a bad-mood trifecta if he'd ever seen one.
The good news was that with most people gone or going about their business, he didn't have to inflict the toxicity on anybody else.
On that note, he headed for the training center, dressed in nothing but his swimming trunks. Having heard that most hangovers were caused by dehydration, he'd decided not only to go to the pool and submerge himself. . . but to bring some liquid refreshment with him. And how was that for healthy.
What had he grabbed? Oh, good, vodka - he liked that straight up, and hey, it looked like water.
Pausing in the tunnel, he took a swig of V's Goose, and swallowed -
Fuck. The sound of John's shitkicker hitting the floor, like some godforsaken bell tolling, was something he was never going to forget. Just like the kid's finger pointing at him.
Time for another swallow. . . and hey, how about one more.
As he resumed his trek toward what was probably going to be a drowning party, he recognized that he was a walking cliche: He'd seen his brothers in this shape from time to time, weaving around with a sour, fuzzy head, a bad attitude, and a bottle of knockout juice grafted to their palms. Back before Wellsie had been taken from him, he'd never really understood the whys.
Now? Duh.
You did what you had to do to get yourself through the hours. And the nights when you couldn't go out and fight were the worst - unless, of course, you were facing off against all the day's bright, glowing no-go. That was even more wretched.
As he came out of the office and zeroed in on the pool, he was glad he didn't have to fake the expression on his face, or watch his language, or chill his temper.
Pushing open the door to the anteroom, his blood pressure lowered as that warm, welcoming wave of humidity came over him. The music helped, too: From out of the sound system, U2 was filling the air, old-school The Joshua Tree echoing around.
His first clue that something was off was the pile of rags at the shallow end. And maybe if he hadn't been hitting the liquor, he might have put two and two together before he -
Floating in the center of the pool, a female was faceup on the top of the water, her naked breasts glistening, her nipples tight in the warm air, her head back.
"Fuck. "
Hard to know what made the bigger noise: his f-bomb or the Goose bottle hitting the tile floor. . . or the splash out in the middle as No'One jacked up and spluttered, covering herself while she tried to keep her head above water.
Tohr spun around and put his hands over his eyes -
On the pivot, broken glass sliced into the ball of his bare foot, the pain pitching him off balance - not that he needed any help with that, thanks to his having sucked face with the vodka. Throwing out a hand, he went to catch himself on the tile floor - and ended up slicing open his right palm as well.
"Fucking hell," he shouted, shoving himself free of the shards.
As he rolled onto his back, No'One scampered out of the water and dragged her robe around her naked flesh, that long braid swinging free as she jerked the hood into place.
With another curse, Tohr brought his palm up to check the injury. Great. Right in the center of his dagger hand, two inches long, and the bitch was a couple of millimeters deep.
God only knew what he'd done to his foot.
"I didn't know you were here," he said without looking up or over at her. "I'm sorry. "
From out of the corner of his eye, he got a visual of No'One approaching, her bare feet making appearances under the hem of her robe.
"Don't come any closer," he barked. "There's glass all over the place. "
"I shall be right back. "
"Fine," he muttered, as he brought up his foot for a look-see.
Fantastic - longer. Deeper. Bleeding more. And there was still bottle in it.
With a growl, he took hold of the little glass triangle and pulled the thing out. His blood on the shard was red as a blush, and he turned the piece from side to side, watching the light play through it.
"Thinking of taking up surgery?"
Tohr glanced over at Manny Manello, MD, human surgeon, mated hellren of V's twin. The guy had come with a first-aid kit, as well as his signature I-run-the-world attitude.
What was it with surgeons? They were almost as bad as warriors. Or kings.
The human crouched down beside him. "You're leaking. "
"No shit. "
Just as he was wondering where No'One was, the female came in with a broom, a rolling trash bin, and a dustpan. Without looking at him or the human, she began sweeping carefully.
At least she'd put shoes on.
Jesus Christ. . . she had been really fucking naked.
As Manello poked and prodded at the injured hand, and then started numbing and stitching, Tohr watched the female out of the corner of his eye - no direct viewing. Especially not after -
Jesus. . . like, really fucking naked -
Okay, time to stop thinking about that.
Focusing on her limp, he noticed that it was pretty damn pronounced, and wondered if she'd hurt herself in that great rush to get out of the pool and get clothed.
He'd seen her frantic before. But only once. . .
It had been the night they'd gotten her away from that symphath.
He'd killed the bastard. Shot her captor right through the head, dropping him like a stone. Then he and Darius had packed her into a carriage and headed back for her family's house. The plan had been to return her to them. Take her to her blood.
Give her to those who by all rights should have helped her heal.
Except when they'd gotten close to that stately mansion, she'd bolted out of the carriage even though the horses had been going at a clip. And he'd never forget the sight of her in that white nightgown, streaking across a field, running like she was being chased even though the capture part was over.
She'd known she was pregnant. That was why she'd taken off.
She'd had the limp then, too.
That had been her only attempt to escape. Well, until the one after the birth, the one that had worked.
God. . . he'd been nervous around her during the months they'd stayed together at Darius's. He'd had zero experience with females of any worth: Yeah, sure, he'd grown up around them while he'd been with his mother, but that had been as a child, as a pretrans. The instant he'd gone through his transition, he'd been ripped out of his home and thrown into the sink-or-swim pit of the Bloodletter's training camp - where he had been too busy trying to stay alive to worry about the whores.
He hadn't even met Wellsie in person at that point. His promise to her had been an obligation his mother had assumed for him when he'd been twenty-five, before she'd even been born -
With a jerk, he hissed, and Manello looked up from his needle and thread. "Sorry. You want more lidocaine?"
"I'm fine. "
No'One's hood shifted position sharply as she glanced over. After a moment, she resumed her broom work.
Maybe it was the alcohol kicking in, but he suddenly didn't give a shit about pretenses. He let himself openly stare at the female as the good doctor finished up on the palm.
"You know, I'm going to have to get you a crutch," Manello muttered.
"If you tell me what you need," No'One said softly, "I shall bring it here for you. "
"Perfect. Go to the equipment room at the far end of the gym. In the PT suite, you'll find the. . . "
As the guy gave her instructions, No'One nodded, that hood of hers moving up and down. For some reason, Tohr tried to picture her face, but it was hazy. He hadn't seen her properly in centuries - that brief flash just now didn't count, because it had been from a distance. And when she'd done the reveal to Xhex and him before the mating ceremony, he'd been too rocked to pay full attention.
But she was blond; he knew that. And she'd always liked the shadows - or at least, she had in Darius's cabin. She hadn't wanted to be looked at then, either.
"Okay, doing good," Manello said as he inspected his repair job. "Let's wrap this and move on to the next. "
No'One returned just as the surgeon was taping the tail end of the gauze in place.
"You can watch if you like. "
Tohr frowned until he realized that Manello was addressing No'One. The female was hanging back, and sure as if that hood of hers was a face with expressions, he could tell she was worried.
"Just a warning, though. " Manello moved downward. "This is worse than the hand - but the palm is more important, because that's what he fights with. "
As No'One hesitated, Tohr shrugged. "You can see anything you like, assuming your stomach's up for it. "
She went around and stood behind the doctor, crossing her arms into the sleeves of her robe so that she looked like some kind of religious statue. Except she was very much alive: When he winced as the needle went in with the anesthetic, she seemed to burrow into herself.
Like his being in pain affected her.
Tohr shifted his eyes away for the duration.
"All right, you're done," Manello said sometime later. "And before you ask, I'll give you a 'yeah, probably. ' Given how fast you guys heal, you should be good to go tomorrow night. For fuck's sake, you're like cars - take a beating, go into the body shop, next thing you know, back out on the road. Humans take so damn long to get over things. "
Uh-huh, right. Tohr wasn't quite ready to put himself in Dodge Ram territory. The exhaustion he was lugging around with him meant he needed to feed - and that these relatively minor injuries could take a while to repair themselves.
Aside from that one session from Selena, he hadn't taken a vein since -
Nope. Not going there. No need to open that door.
"No walking on this foot," the surgeon ordered on as he snapped off his gloves. "At least until dawn. And no swimming. "
"No problem. " Especially on the latter. After what he'd just seen floating in the middle of the goddamn thing, he might never go in the pool again. Any pool, for that matter.
The only thing that saved his having walked in on her from being a complete mess was the fact that there had been nothing sexual on his side. Yeah, he'd been shocked, but that didn't mean he wanted to. . . you know, bang her or some shit.
"One question," the doctor said as he rose up and held out his hand.
Tohr accepted the palm and was a little surprised to find himself pulled solidly to his feet.
"What. "
"How did it happen?"
Tohr glanced over at No'One - who looked away so quickly, she turned her whole body in the opposite direction.
"Bottle slipped out of my hand," Tohr muttered.
"Ah, well - accidents happen. " The yeah-sure tone suggested the guy didn't believe the fudge for a second. "Call me if you need me. I'm down in the clinic for the rest of the night. "
"Thanks, man. "
"Yup. "
And then. . . he and No'One were alone together.
