by J. R. Ward
Chapter Forty-Nine.
"Unhand me, you fool," Xcor blabbered as he felt himself lifted once again.
He was beyond finished with being manhandled: Up off his bunk he'd been resting on. Into the vehicle. Taken somewhere else. And now disturbed anew.
"Almost there," Zypher said.
"Leave me be. . . . " That was supposed to have come out as a demand. Instead, he sounded like a child to his own ears.
Ah, how he wished for his former strength, so that he could have pushed himself free, and stood upon his own legs.
But that time had passed. Indeed, he was well gone. . . and mayhap done for.
His dire condition was the result of no one particular injury from that fight with that soldier - it was the culmination of all of them, the wounds covering his head and his gut, the agony something rather like the beat of his heart, a force that existed and persisted within him, over which he had no control.
Initially, he had fought the tide under the masculine just-throw-it-off theory. His body had had other plans for him, however, and more sway than his mind and will did. Now it felt as if he was owned by this pall of disorientation and exhaustion -
Abruptly, the air he breathed was cold and clear, slapping some sense into him.
Struggling to focus his eyes, he was greeted by a meadow, a rolling meadow that rose to meet a magnificent autumnal tree. And there. . . yes, there under the branches that were cast in red and yellow was Throe.
Next to whom was a slim figure in a white gown. . . a female.
Unless he was seeing things?
No, he was not. As Zypher carried him closer, she became more distinct. She was. . . incalculably beautiful, with pale skin and blond hair that was twisted up upon the crown of her head.
She was vampire, not human.
She was. . . unearthly, an illumination spilling out from her form, one so bright it o'ershadowed the moon.
Ah, so this was a dream.
He should have guessed. After all, there was no reason for Zypher to take him into the farmland parts, risking their lives for some fresh air. No cause for any female to be waiting upon his arrival. No possibility that someone as fair as she would be out alone in the world.
No, this was just a product of his delirium, and therefore he relaxed into the iron arms of his soldier, recognizing that whatever his subconscious had coughed up was not going to matter at all, and he might as well let things play out. Eventually he would wake up, and mayhap this was a sign he had finally settled into a deep, healing sleep.
Besides, the less he fought, the more he could concentrate on her.
Oh. . . loveliness. Oh, virtuous beauty, the kind that turned kings into serfs and soldiers into poets. This was the sort of female worth fighting for, dying for, just to gaze for a moment upon her face.
Such a shame she was but a vision. . .
The first sign that something was off was that she seemed taken aback at the sight of him.
Then again, his mind was probably just going for realism. He was hideous uninjured. Beaten and starving? He was lucky she did not shrink away in horror. As it was, her hands lifted to her cheeks and her head shook back and forth until Throe stepped in as if to protect her delicate sensibilities.
Didn't that make him wish for a weapon. This was his dream. If she was going to be sheltered, he would take care of that. Well. . . assuming he could stand up. And she did not run away -
"He is failing," he heard her say.
His eyes fluttered back at the pure, dulcet sound. That voice was as perfect as the rest of her, and he concentrated hard, trying to get his brain to make her speak some more in his dream.
"Aye," Throe said. "This is an emergency. "
"What is his name?"
Xcor spoke up at this point, thinking he should be the one to make his own introduction. Unfortunately, all that came out was a croak.
"Lay him down," the female said. "We need to do this with speed. "
Soft, cool grass rose up to meet his broken body, cushioning him sure as if the palm of the earth was mittened in wool. And when he reopened the steel doors of his eyes, he got to watch her kneel beside him.
"You are so beautiful. . . " was what he said. What came out of his mouth was nothing more than a gargle.
And abruptly, he had difficulty breathing, as if something had burst in his interior, perhaps as a result of all the moving?
Except this was a dream, so why would that matter?
As the female brought up her wrist, he reached out a shaking hand and stopped her before she could score her vein.
Her eyes met his own.
In the periphery, Throe once again closed the distance, as if he were worried that Xcor would do something violent.
Not to her, he thought. Never to this gentle creature of his imagination.
Clearing his throat, he spoke as clearly as he could. "Save your blood," he told her. "Beautiful one, you save what makes you vital. "
He was too far gone for the likes of her. And that was true not merely because he was badly wounded and probably going to die.
Even in his imagination, she was far too good for even proximity to him.
As Layla fell to her knees, she found it difficult to speak. The male stretched out before her was. . . well, injured severally, yes, of course. But he was more than that. In spite of the fact that he was on the ground and clearly defenseless, he was. . .
Powerful was the only word that came to mind.
Tremendously powerful.
She could tell nearly naught of his features for the swelling and the bruising, and the same was true of his coloring, because of all the dried blood. But in physical form, although he appeared to be not as tall as the Brothers, he was every bit as wide, and thick of shoulder, with arms that were brutally muscled.
Mayhap the contours of his body were the seat of her impression of him?
No, the fighter who had called her forth to this meadow was of equal size, as was the male who delivered the wounded here to her feet.
This fallen soldier was simply different from the other two - and in fact, they did defer to him in subtle ways with their movements and their eyes.
Indeed, this was not a male to toy with, but rather, like a bull, capable of crushing anything in its path.
Yet the hand that touched her was light as a breeze and even less confining - she had the distinct impression that not only was he not holding her here, but that he wanted her to go.
She was not about to leave him, however.
In the strangest way, she was. . . ensnared. . . held captive by a deep blue stare that even in the night, and despite the fact that he was fully mortal, appeared to be lit with fire. And under that regard, her heart quickened and her eyes clung to him as if he were at once indecipherable and capable of her understanding -
Sounds came out of him, guttural and incomprehensible because of his wounds, urging her to to proceed with haste.
He needed to be cleaned. Cared for. Nursed back to health over a matter of days, perhaps weeks. Yet here he was in this field, with these males who obviously knew more about weapons than healing.
She looked at the soldier she knew. "You must take him in to be treated after this. "
Although she got a nod and an affirmation as a reply, her instincts told her it was a lie.
Males, she thought derisively, were too tough for their own good.
She refocused on the soldier. "You need me," she told him.
The sound of her voice appeared to put him further into some kind of thrall, and she took advantage of it. Weakened though he was, she had the distinct sense that he had more than enough power in his body to prevent her from bringing her vein to his mouth.
"Shhh," she said, reaching out and brushing his short hair back. "Be of ease, warrior. As you protect and serve the likes of me, allow me to return your service. "
So proud he was - she could tell by the hard thrust of his chin. And yet he appeared to listen to her, his hand dropping from her forearm, his mouth parting, as if he were hers to command.
Layla moved fast, prepared to take advantage of the relative surrender - for no doubt he would soon retreat from the submission. Biting into her wrist, she quickly brought her arm over his lips, the drops falling one by one.
As he accepted her gift, the sound he made was. . . nothing short of breathtaking: A groan laced with infinite gratitude and, in her opinion, baseless awe.
Oh, how those eyes of his held on to hers, until the field, the tree, the other two males faded away, and all she knew was the male she was feeding.
Compelled by something she was disinclined to argue with, she lowered her arm. . . until his mouth brushed her wrist: This was something she never did with the other males, even Qhuinn at this point. But she wanted to know what it felt like, this soldier's mouth upon her skin -
The instant contact was made, that sound he'd uttered returned, and then he formed a seal around the twin points. He did not hurt her; even as big as he was, as starved as he was, he did not ravage her. Not at all. He drew with care, keeping always his stare upon her own as if he were safeguarding her, in spite of the fact that he was the one who needed protection in his current condition.
Time passed, and she knew he was taking a great deal from her, but she did not care. She would have stayed forever in this meadow, beneath this tree. . . linked to this brave warrior who had nearly given his life in the war against the Lessening Society.
She could remember feeling something like this with Qhuinn, this incredible sensation of destination, even though she had not been aware she was traveling. But this pull put what she had once experienced with that other male to shame.
This was epic.
And yet. . . why should she trust such emotion? Mayhap this was just a heartier version of what she had felt for Qhuinn. Or mayhap this was simply how the Scribe Virgin ensured the survivability of the race, biology o'errunning logic.
Pushing such blasphemous thoughts aside, she focused on her job, her mission, her blessed contribution that was her only opportunity to serve now that the Chosen's role had been so diminished.
Providing blood to males of worth was all that was left of her calling. All that she had in her life.
Instead of thinking of herself, of the way she felt, she needed to thank the Scribe Virgin that she had come here in time to do her sacred duty. . . and then she had to return to the compound to find other opportunities to be of service.
