by J. R. Ward
Chapter Forty-Two
No'One was down in the training center, pushing along a bin full of clean linens to the recovery beds, when it happened again.
The phone rang in the main exam room, and then she heard through the open door Doc Jane talking fast and pointedly. . . and using the name "Tohr" -
What began as a hesitation turned into a dead stop, her hands tightening on the bin's metal rim, her heart beating hard as the world tilted wildly, spinning her round and round -
Down at the far end of the hallway, the office's glass door burst wide and Beth, the queen, skidded into the hallway.
"Jane! Jane!"
The healer stuck her head out of the examination room. "I'm on the phone with Tohr right now. They're bringing him in right away. "
Beth tore down the corridor, her dark hair streaming out behind her. "I'm ready to feed him. "
It took a moment for the implications to sink in.
Not Tohr, it wasn't Tohr, not Tohr. . . Dearest Virgin Scribe, thank you -
But Wrath - not the king!
Time became as a rubber band, stretching endlessly, the passing minutes slowing down to a crawl as people from the household began to arrive - except then suddenly, a terminal extension was reached and snap! everything became a blur.
Doc Jane and the healer Manuel flew out from the examining room, a rolling gurney between them, a black duffel bag with a red cross jangling off the male's shoulder. Ehlena was right with them, with more equipment in her hands. And so was the queen.
No'One whispered down the hall in their wake, running on the balls of her leather slippers, catching the heavy steel door that led out into the parking lot and squeezing through before it closed. At the curb, a van with blackened windows screeched to a halt, steam curling up from its tailpipe.
Voices - harried and deep - fought for airspace as the vehicle's rear doors were popped wide and Manuel the healer jumped inside.
Then Tohr got out.
No'One gasped. He was covered with blood, his hands, his chest, his leathers, everything stained red. Except he seemed otherwise all right. It had to be Wrath's.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, the king -
"Beth! Get in here," Manuel hollared. "Now. "
After Tohr helped the queen inside, he stood by the open doors with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his bleak stare trained on the treatment of the king. No'One, meanwhile, loitered on the periphery, waiting and praying, her eyes going back and forth from Tohr's horrible, fixed expression to the dark recesses of the van. All she saw of the king were his boots, tough, thick soled, and black, the tread on them deep enough to make grooves in set concrete - at least when a male as great as he was wearing them.
Would that he would walk tall once again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she was a Chosen, a sacred female who had a line to the Scribe Virgin, some way of approaching the mother of the race for special dispensation. But she was no one like that.
All she could do was wait with the ring of others who had formed by the van. . . .
There was no way of knowing how long they worked upon the king in that vehicle. Hours. Days. But eventually Ehlena repositioned the gurney as close as possible and Tohr hopped back in the rear.
Wrath was carried forth by his loyal Brother and laid out flat upon the white-sheeted mattress - which would not stay so pure for long, she feared, as she measured the king's neck: Red was already seeping through layers of gauze at the side.
Time was of the essence - but before they could roll him inside, the great male grabbed onto Tohr's ruined shirt and then started motioning to his throat. Abruptly he made a fist, and then opened his palm upward as if he were holding something.
Tohr nodded, and looked at the doctors. "You need to try to take the bullet out. We have to have that thing - it's the only way we're going to be able to prove who did this. "
"What if it compromises his life?" Manuel asked.
Wrath started shaking his head and pointing again, but the queen overruled him. "Then you will leave it right where it is. " As her mate glared at her, she shrugged. "Sorry, my hellren. I'm sure your Brothers will agree - you need to survive first and foremost. "
"That's right," Tohr growled. "The lead is less important - besides, we already know who's to blame. "
Wrath started working his mouth - except there was no speaking, because. . . there was a tube sticking out of his throat?
"Good, glad that's settled," Tohr muttered. "Have at him, will you?"
The healers nodded and off they all went with the king, the queen staying right with her male, speaking to him in soft, urgent tones as she jogged alongside. Indeed, as they passed through the doors into the training center, Wrath's eyes, pale green and glowing, were locked, but unfocused, on her face.
She was keeping him alive, No'One thought. That connection between the two of them sustaining him just as much as anything that the physicians were doing. . . .
Tohr, meanwhile, also stayed with his leader, passing by without even looking at her.
She didn't blame him. How could he see anything else?
Reentering the corridor, she wondered if she shouldn't try to get back to work. But no, there was no possibility of that.
She just followed the group down until the whole lot of them, including Tohr, disappeared into the operating room. Not daring to intrude, she tarried outside.
It was not long before she was joined by the rest of the Brotherhood.
Tragically so.
Over the next hour, the horrors of war were all too evident, the risks to life and limb made manifest by the injuries that presented themselves as the Brothers came in from the field at a trickle.
It had been a rabid gunfight. At least, that was what they said to their mates, all of whom gathered to comfort them, anxious faces, horrified eyes, panicked hearts drawing the couples tightly together. The good news was that each and every one of them came home, the males, and the lone female, Payne, all returned safe and got treated.
Only to worry about Wrath.
The last to arrive was among the worst injured but for the king - to the point that at first, she didn't recognize who it was. The thatch of dark hair and the fact that John Matthew was carrying him informed her it was likely Qhuinn - but one certainly wouldn't know that going by his face.
He had been beaten severely.
As the male was delivered to the second operating room, she thought of the mangled mess of her leg and prayed that the healing ahead for him, for them all, was nothing like hers had been.
Dawn eventually arrived, but she knew this only because of what the clock on the wall read. Intermittent glimpses of the various dramas were provided when OR doors were opened and closed, and eventually, those treated were released into healing rooms, or permitted to ambulate themselves back to the main house - not that any of them left. They all settled as she did against the concrete walls of the corridor, sitting vigil not just for the king, but for their fellow fighters.
Doggen brought food and drink to those who could eat, and she helped pass trays laden with fruit juices and coffee and tea. She brought pillows to ease strained necks, and blankets to cut the draft on the hard floor, and tissues - not that anyone was crying.
The stoic nature of those males and their mates was a kind of power in and of itself. Yet she knew, in spite of their forbearance, that they were terrified.
Still other members of the household arrived: Layla, the Chosen. Saxton, the lawyer who worked with the king. Rehvenge, who always made her nervous even though he had never been anything but perfectly polite to her. The king's beloved retriever who wasn't allowed into the operating room, but was comforted by all and sundry. The black cat, Boo, who snaked around the stretched-out boots, and padded over laps, and was petted in passing.
Late morning.
Afternoon.
Late afternoon.
>
At five-oh-seven, Doc Jane and her partner, Manuel, finally appeared, removing their masks from their exhausted faces.
"Wrath is doing as well as can be expected," the female reported. "But given that he was treated in the field, we've got twenty-four hours of watching for infection ahead of us. "
"You can deal with that, though," the Brother Rhage spoke up. "Right?"
"We can treat the shit out of it," Manuel said with a nod. "He's going to pull through - that tough bastard won't have it any other way. "
There was an abrupt war cry from the Brotherhood, their respect and adoration and relief so very obvious. And as No'One breathed her own sigh of relief, she realized it was not for the king. It was because she did not want Tohr to sustain any more losses.
This was. . . good. Thanks be to the Scribe Virgin.
