by J. R. Ward
Which was exactly what you didn't need when your head was pounding to begin with.
Then came the drawing of the curtains, even though there was no moon out tonight. The placement of the wastepaper basket right by the side of the bed. And the inevitable depression of the mattress as iAm took a load off next to him.
God, they had done this so many times.
"Promise me," Trez said into the darkness of his closed lids, "that you'll give her the job. I'm not going to go after her, I swear. I don't want to ever see her again, actually."
He was too liable to do something stupid again--
As the taste of her came back on his tongue, he moaned as his heart ached.
"I wish you'd take medication for these things." iAm cursed softly. "I hate to see you suffer like this."
"It'll pass. It always does. Hire the female, iAm. And I won't bother her."
He waited for something to come back at him from his brother, some kind of reply or argument, and when he didn't get anything, he popped open his eyes--only to wince and recoil. Even though the only illumination in the room was coming from the mostly shut door to the hallway, the shit was too much for his hypersensitive eyes.
"I know she's not Selena," he muttered. "Trust me. I know exactly how much she is not my female."
Hell, the implications of that kiss were the reason he'd gotten this fucking migraine. His regret had literally blown the top of his head off: guilt as a vascular event.
Doc Jane should write his ass up in a medical journal.
"Don't punish her for a mistake that's on me."
At least, that was what he'd meant to say. He wasn't exactly sure what came out of his mouth.
"Just rest," iAm said. "I'm going to get Manny to come up and check on you."
"Don't bother him." Or something to that effect. "But you could do something for me."
"What's that?"
Trez forced those lids of his to open and he lifted his head even though the world spun. "Get me Lassiter. Bring that fallen angel here."
--
"Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have a word with the Chosen upstairs."
As Wrath spoke, Layla wasn't fooled. His tone made it clear he was hardly asking Xcor for permission to talk to one of his own subjects.
If the King's voice had been any drier, it would have left dust all over the furniture.
But indeed, she wanted to speak with him in private as well, and as Wrath indicated the steps, she nodded. With a quick glance at Xcor, she hurried up the stairwell, opening the door at the top and bracing herself to meet Vishous in the eye.
She shouldn't have worried.
The Brother refused to look over at her from where he was standing by the table. He merely picked up the mug he was using as an ashtray and went out the sliding glass door.
The King came up more slowly, and she felt bad for not aiding him.
"My Lord," she said, "there is a table off to the right about fifteen feet--"
"Good." Wrath shut the cellar door. "You're going to want to sit down. Vishous outside? I can smell the fresh air."
"Ah..." Layla swallowed hard. "Yes, he's on the porch. Do you...shall I summon him for you?"
"No. This is between you and me."
"But of course." She bowed even though he couldn't see her. "And yes, I do believe I will sit down."
"Good call."
The King stayed exactly where he was, just over a bit from the door he'd shut--and for a moment, she tried to imagine what it would be like to go through life with no visual orientation at all. There could have been an open pit before him, or a scatter of thumbtacks over the floor, or...heaven only knew what.
Yet as she measured the set of his jaw, he certainly appeared capable of withstanding all and sundry. And how she envied him that.
"So sit, why don'tcha."
How did he know? she wondered as she hustled over and settled into one of the four chairs.
"Yes, my Lord?"
Wrath proceeded to speak in a calm, even voice, laying out a number of sentences filled with words that, under other circumstances, she would have readily comprehended.
In this case, however, nothing much after "Your young are..." sunk in.
"--every other night and day, tracking his rotation schedule. It's fair and equitable, and I believe balances everyone's interests. Fritz will be responsible for escorting you to--"
"I'm so sorry," she choked out. "Could you...please, could you repeat what you just said?"
The King's face seemed to soften. "I want you to have your kids every other night and day. Okay? You and Qhuinn will split physical custody fifty-fifty, and you will be jointly responsible for making all decisions pertaining to their welfare."
Layla blinked fast, aware that every part of her body was shaking. "So I am not cut off."
"No, you are not."
"Oh, my Lord, thank you." She covered her mouth with her palm. And then spoke around her hand. "I couldn't have gone on without them."
"I know. I get it, trust me. And the Sanctuary will ensure safety."
Layla recoiled. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You'll transport them to the Sanctuary and stay with them in the Scribe Virgin's private quarters--shit knows she's not using them anymore. It's the safest place for the three of you because it's not even on the planet, and Phury and Cormia have assured me that you'll be able to easily travel in the way of a Chosen up and back with the kids--all you have to do is hold them to you and off you go." Wrath shook his head. "Qhuinn is going to hit the fucking roof when I lay this on him, but there is no way he can argue about their welfare if they're up there. And when they're not with you...you're free to go wherever you want, be with whoever you want, and you can use this place as your home base."
There was a pause, and Layla flushed.
Because Wrath knew exactly what she was going to want to do and with whom. At least until Xcor departed for the Old Country.
"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, yes, indeed."
"One caveat--you have to bring them back down when it's time for Qhuinn to have them. Just like he's going to have to give them to you when it's your night. The schedule has to be honored by the both of you."
"Absolutely. They need their father. He's very important in their lives. I don't want to do anything to hamper that."
And Wrath was right. Now that she had been essentially pardoned of her treason charges, Qhuinn's main argument against her having contact with the young was going to be that she couldn't be in the Brotherhood house with them, and there was nowhere else, no safe house, no refuge, no structure, even if it was wired for security by a hundred thousand Vishouses, that was going to come close to the protection offered at that mansion.
The solution? Off the planet.
After all, there had been but one raid on the Sanctuary, some twenty-five years before. And that had been a coup staged by malcontents in the glymera who were no longer living.
She and Lyric and Rhamp would be well and happy there, too. All the flowers and the green grass, the marble fountain, the temples. There would be much to explore as they grew older and more mobile.
"It's perfect," she said. "My Lord, it's perfect."
"I'll head home and talk to Qhuinn now. I'm going to put him on rotation at nightfall tomorrow. You come to the mansion then and get the kids."
Layla lowered her head. "That's...so long to wait."
"It's the way it's going to be. Qhuinn is highly unstable and I don't want you there when we present him with the visitation schedule or when you come to take the kids. So the timing is what we've got. But I'll have Beth send you some more pics."
"Pictures?"
"Yeah, you haven't been getting them on your phone?"
"I didn't bring my cell with me...has she been taking photographs?"
"They all have. There's a loop and you're on it--or so I've been told. The females wanted to make sure you didn't feel like you were missing out."
"They are so..." Layl
a took a bracing breath. "That is very kind of them."
"They know what you're going through. Or have enough of a sense of it that they're fucking horrified."
Layla put her hands to her face. Like that was somehow going to help her hold herself together.
"Come here."
As the King motioned for her to approach him, she burst out of her chair and ran over. Embracing Wrath was like throwing her arms around a grand piano, everything hard and too big to accommodate.
But the King held her in return, patting her back. "Do me a favor?"
She sniffled and looked up at the hard jut of his chin. "Anything."
"Be careful with Xcor. Even if he doesn't kill you physically, he can still ruin you for life."
Layla could only shake her head. "He already has, my Lord. The damage, I fear, is already done."
TWENTY-EIGHT
As Throe searched the psychic's fabric-draped, candlelit office or room or whatever one would call it, he could hear nothing but the drumming beat of his own heart. It seemed as though he was alone, but every instinct in him was telling him otherwise. Tucking his hand into his coat, he palmed the butt of his gun and thought of the trio of humans he'd scared off down on the street.
He rather wished he was facing nothing more exotic than three thugs and a switch.
Swinging his eyes around, he searched for a source of that noise he'd heard, a trigger for his warning instincts, a--
Dearest Fates, what was this?
Nothing was moving in the space. Nothing...at all.
By some trick...or he knew not what...the flames on the candles were utterly stationary, as if they were in a photograph, no wax melting, no unseen drafts teasing at their gold licks of fire, no gentle fingers of smoke rising into the air.
With a feeling of utter dread, he lifted up his arm, pulled his sleeve back, and regarded his Audemars Piguet watch.
The hands, which had been oh-so-functional when he'd left his current abode, were likewise no longer circling their dial.
Falling into ambulation--just to prove to himself he could, he marched across to a window, pulled back the drapery, and looked down at the street. There were no cars coming or going. But then none were to be seen--
Across the way, in the walk-up directly opposite the one he occupied, there were a pair of humans sitting in ratty armchairs watching TV. Their heads were facing each other, and one was in the process of bringing a beer bottle to his mouth.
They were not moving.
Nor was the ad for KFC on the screen.
"Dearest Virgin Scribe..." He closed his eyes and rolled back against the wall. "What manner of insanity is this?"
He thought back to what the female who had sent him here had told him. A psychic downtown. A witch. A human witch who had portals to the other side.
The conversation had started around a dining table beset with high-society females, all nattering on about their "problems" and the solutions to such terrible issues as floors that were stained too light, too dark, too inconsistently, and Birkins that were showing wear on their bottom corners, and oh, what else...lovers who were inconsiderate and hellrens who could not understand the moral imperative that came with Chanel's new spring/summer collection.
At some point, one of the females had brought up psychics and tarot card readers, and how she'd been helped by this woman herein. How it had been spooky what the human witch had ascertained. How the female had eventually stopped going because "something hadn't seemed right."
Who knew that that had been a correct assumption.
Probably the only one the dear girl had of late.
Steeling himself for some sort of attack, Throe waited for some ghostly apparition to materialize out of a darkened corner, or a bat to fly around his head, or a zombie to drag-a-leg out of the back. And would that it be those last two as they were things his gun might be effective against.
When nothing happened, he began to feel foolish. At least until he regarded those candles across the way.
"You will release me," he said into the still air. "I shall go about my business, bothering you no more."
He had no idea to whom he spoke. And when there was no answer, he motivated himself, stepping forward toward the circular table. Closing in upon it, he resisted looking into the crystal ball, and checked over his shoulder--
A scratching sound, like a set of nails going across bare wood, drew his eyes to the left.
There was something on the floor.
He was cautious on his approach, and kept his gun up--and it wasn't until he was nearly upon the object that he recognized the contours for what they were.
A book. There was a book upon the floor, one that appeared to be of great age with a battered leather cover and thick pages that had rough edges.
Kneeling down, he frowned. A scorch pattern surrounded the thing, as if its presence contained heat sufficient to burn the wood fibers beneath its weight.
Was this the noise he'd heard? he wondered. Had its arrival on this plane of existence been announced with that loud slamming sound?
Reaching out, he touched the patterned cover--
With a hiss, he retracted his hand and, as he had done at the door when he had sought to enter, he shook his palm, trying to rid himself of an unpleasant tingling sensation--
The cover threw itself open without notice and Throe shoved himself back, landing on his arse.
As a puff of dust emanated from the parchment pages, he narrowed his eyes. The ink pattern was horizontal and filled with characters, but it was no language he could discern.
He leaned in...only to gasp.
What'er had been written was mutating, the hashes and tags of the ink shifting themselves around until...the text became the Old Language.
Yes, it was the Mother tongue.
And the passages appeared to be about...
Throe lifted his eyes. Looked around. Then, acting on an impulse that suddenly seemed as strong as that of survival itself, he closed the front cover and picked up the tome.
The tingling sensation was no longer unpleasant. Indeed, the volume seemed to be alive in his hand and approving of its holder, rather like a cat might curve and purr itself around an owner's arm.
And that was when it happened.
All at once, a distant siren sounded out, and as he glanced toward the windows, the candle flames in the corners of the room began to move in the drafts once more.
The door he had entered through let out a creak.
That which had been locked...was now open.
Throe held the book to his chest and bolted for the exit, running as if his life depended upon it. And he did not stop until he was once more down on the street, in the slush and the cold. For a moment, fear dogged him like a predator, but that did not last for long.
Buoyed by the book against his heart, he found that he was smiling when he dematerialized out of the neighborhood.
TWENTY-NINE
After the King departed, Layla went back down into the ranch's cellar, and she was not surprised to find Xcor up on his feet and pacing as he waited for her to return.
"So are they gone?" he asked.
"Yes. They are."
"Is there a security system herein? And are there any weapons in this house?"
"The security system control pad is up in the kitchen, and V told me how to engage it."
"Did you do so?"
It wasn't that he was being demanding, but he was incredibly intense, as if the only thing that separated them from...wolves, or something...was his ability to lock them down and gather armaments in the event of an attack.
"I did not."
Xcor smiled as if he wanted to make an effort not to seem unpleasant, but his eyes were anything but relaxed. "How do you activate the alarm?"
"I, ah, I'll show you."
She had a feeling that he was not going to be satisfied until he understood the way the thing worked and operated it himself. And she was right. He insisted on running through
the code and pushing the buttons.
Then, evidently, it was time to check every single door and window in the place.
Layla followed him as he went, one by one, through all the rooms and bathrooms, inspecting the locks on the windows and the stops that were on the sashes so that they couldn't be lifted more than an inch or two. Then it was the dead-bolt review. And he even checked out the garage doors, though he insisted she stay inside for that because it was cold.
Reentering the kitchen, he nodded as he set the alarm. "This house is well secured."
"Vishous takes care of these things."
"He does a fit job."
Xcor went across by the stove and began pulling open the drawers. "These will have to do."
One by one, he laid out all the knives he could find: a cleaver, a serrated blade, two little paring types, and a carving one. Putting them on a dish towel, he rolled them up in a bundle and then held his hand out to her.
"We go downstairs."
Layla approached him and shivered as their palms connected. And as the two of them descended, her body loosened.
When they got to the bottom of the steps, he stopped and stared at her.
She gave him a moment to speak. When he didn't, she whispered, "Yes, please."
He closed his eyes and swayed. Then he dropped his head. "Are you certain?"
"Never more than anything in my life."
His lids lifted. "I shall be gentle with you."
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him not to restrain himself: In truth, the last thing she wanted from him was to hold anything back because this could very well be the one and only time they were together.
But then her mind stopped functioning.
Because Xcor was drawing her against his body. With his free hand, the one that didn't have all those knives in it, he stroked her cheek and then brushed her lower lip with his thumb.
The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers, stroking, pressing in, caressing.
The kiss was as soft as a breath, and that was frustrating. She wanted more--and yet as she strained to get it, he moved back subtly, keeping control.
When he finally broke the contact, he smoothed his palm down her hair. "May I enter your bedroom, female?"
His eyes were so beautiful, shining and hot, the deep navy blue nearly black from the lust he had for her. And to her, his face was handsome, everything that was strong and masculine and powerful, the defect in his upper lip not anything she noticed or dwelled on. In fact, it was the whole of him that appealed to her, his power and his vulnerability, his savage nature and the polite effort he was making, the warrior in him and the protector who came out for her.
