by J. R. Ward
Chapter Twenty-six
When John woke up the following afternoon, he was afraid to move. Hell, he was afraid to open his eyes. What if it had been a dream? Bracing himself, he lifted his arm, cracked his lids, and. . . oh, yeah, there it was. Palm as big as his head. Arm longer than his thigh bone had been before. Wrist thick as his calf once had been.
He made it.
He reached for his cell phone and sent texts to Qhuinn and Blay, who hit him back at a dead run. They were totally pumped for him, and he grinned a big fat-bastard smile. . . until he realized that he had to use the bathroom, and glanced at the open door. Looking through the jambs, he saw the shower.
Oh, God. Had he really choked in there last night with Layla?
He tossed the phone onto the comforter, even though the thing was beeping that there were texts waiting for him. Rubbing his strangely broad chest with his new Shaquille O'Neal hand, he felt like hell. He should apologize to Layla, but for what? Being a lame-ass who went soft? Yeah, that was a conversation he was dying to have, as she was no doubt totally unimpressed with him and his performance.
Was it better to let it go? Probably. She was so beautiful and sensual and perfect in every way, there was no chance she'd ever think it was her fault. All he'd do would be embarrass himself into an aneurism as he wrote what he'd say if he'd had a voice box.
He still felt like hell, though.
His alarm clock went off, and it was just too fricking weird to reach over with this man arm and silence the thing. When he stood up it was even more freaky. His vantage point was totally different, and everything seemed smaller; the furniture, the doors, the room. Even the ceiling was shorter.
Just how big was he?
As he tried to take a few steps, he felt like one of those circus stilt-walkers; gangly, loose, in danger of falling. Yeah. . . a circus walker who had had a stroke, because the commands his brain gave weren't received properly by his muscles and bones. On his way to the bathroom he lurched all over the place, hanging onto drapes, the molding around windows, a dresser, the doorjamb.
For no particular reason he thought about crossing the river on his walks with Zsadist. As he went along now, the stationary objects he used as crutches were like the stones he jumped one to another to stay out of rushing water, little aids of big importance.
The bathroom was pitch dark, as the shutters were still down for the day and he'd turned all the lights off after Layla left. With his hand on the switch he took a deep breath, then flipped on the recessed lights.
He blinked hard, his eyes supersensitive and way more acute than they'd been before. After a moment, his reflection came into focus like an apparition, emerging from the glare, like a ghost of himself. He was. . .
He didn't want to know. Not yet.
John shut the lights off and went to the shower. As he waited for the hot water to get running, he settled back against the cold marble, wrapping his arms around himself. He had this absurd need to be held at the moment, so it was a good thing he was alone. Although he'd hoped the change would make him stronger, it appeared to have nancied him out even more.
He thought back to killing those lessers. Right after he'd stabbed them he'd gotten such clarity as to who he was and what kind of power he had. But that had all faded, so much so that he wasn't sure he'd ever really felt that way.
He pushed open the shower door and stepped inside.
Christ, ow. The fine spray was like needles going into his skin, and when he tried to soap up his arm that French-milled stuff Fritz bought stung like battery acid. He had to forced himself to wash his face, and though it was cool to have stubble on his jaw for the first time in recorded history, the idea of taking a razor to his puss was utterly repellent. Like drawing a cheese grater down his cheeks.
He was washing his body off, being as gentle as he could, when he got to his privates. Without thinking much of it he did what he had done all of his life, a quick sweep under his sac then down himself¡ª
This time the effect was different. He got hard. His. . . cock got hard.
God, that word seemed weird to use, but. . . well, that thing was definitely a cock now, something a man had, something a man used¡ª
The erection came to a halt. Just stopped swelling and lengthening. The curling ache in his lower belly went away, too.
He rinsed the soap off himself, determined not to open the can of worms about him and sex. He had enough problems. His body was a remote-controlled car whose antenna was broken; he was going to class, where everyone was going to stare at him; and it dawned on him that Wrath must know about the gun he'd had on him downtown. After all, he'd been brought back here somehow, and Blay and Qhuinn would have had to explain what was doing with the scene. Knowing Blay, the guy would try to protect John about the nine and cop to its being his, but what if that got the guy kicked out of the program? No one was supposed to have weapons when they were out and about. No one.
When John got out of the shower, toweling off wasn't an option. Even though it was cold as hell he let himself air-dry as he brushed his teeth and clipped his nails. His eyes were superacute in the dark, so finding what he wanted in the drawers wasn't a problem. Avoiding the mirror was, though, so he went into his bedroom.
Opening up his closet, he took out a bag from Abercrombie & Fitch. Fritz had turned up at his door with the thing weeks ago, and when John had taken a gander at the clothes he'd figured the butler had lost his mind. Inside were a pair of brand-new distressed jeans, a fleece the size of a sleeping bag, an XXXL T-shirt, and a pair of size-fourteen Nike Air Shox in a shiny new box.
Turned out Fritz, as usual, had been right. All of it fit. Even the boat-sized shoes.
As John stared down at his feet, he thought, man, those Nikes needed to come with PFDs and a frickin' anchor, they were so big.
He left his room, his legs working in a gawky gait, his arms swinging loose, his balance off.
As he got to the head of the grand staircase he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, with its depictions of great warriors.
He prayed he would be one. But he just couldn't see how in the hell he'd pull that off.
Phury woke up to the sight of the female of his dreams. Or maybe he was dreaming?
"Hi," Bella said.
He cleared his throat, and still his voice was reedy as he replied, "Are you really here?"
"Yes. " She took his hand and sat on the edge of his bed. "Right here. How are you feeling?"
Shit, he'd worried her, and that was not good for the young.
With what little energy he had he did a fast mental mop-up, an OxyClean of his brain, sweeping out the dredges of the red smokes he'd fired up, as well as the lethargy of injury and sleep.
"I'm fine," he said, bringing his hand up so he could rub his good eye. Not a great idea. In his fist was his drawing of her, crumpled up like he'd been hugging it in his sleep. He shoved the piece of paper under the covers before she could ask what it was. "You should be in bed. "
"I get to be up a little each day. "
"Still, you should¡ª"
"When do the bandages come off?"
"Ah, now, I suppose. "
"Would you like me to help?"
"No. " The last thing they needed was for her to find out he'd been blinded at the same moment he did. "But thank you. "
"Can I bring you something to eat?"
Kindness from her hit harder than a tire iron to the ribs. "Thank you, but I'll call Fritz in a little bit. You should go back and lie down. "
"I have forty-four minutes left. " She checked her watch. "Forty-three. "
He pushed himself up on his arms, tugging the sheets higher so less of his chest showed. "How do you feel?"
"Good. Scared but good¡ª"
The door swung open without a knock. As Zsadist walked in, his eyes locked on Bella as if he were trying to gauge her vital signs in her face.
"I thought I'd find you here. " He
bent down and kissed her on the mouth, then on both sides of the neck over her veins.
Phury looked away during the greeting¡ªand realized that his hand had burrowed under the covers and found his drawing. He forced himself to let it go.
Z's whole attitude was much more relaxed. "So how are you, my brother?"
"Good. " Although if he heard that question one more time from either of them, he was going to pull a Scanners, because his head would explode. "Good enough to come out tonight. "
His twin frowned. "You get cleared by V's doc?"
"Not up to anyone but me. "
"Wrath might have a different opinion. "
"Fine, but if he disagrees, he's going to have to chain me down to keep me here. " Phury throttled back, not wanting to get tense with Bella around. "You teaching the first half of tonight?"
"Yeah, figured I'd make some more progress on firearms. " Z ran his hand down Bella's mahogany hair, stroking it and her back at the same time. He did this without seeming to notice, and she accepted the touch with the same loving disregard.
Phury's chest ached until he had to open his mouth to breathe. "Why don't I meet you guys down at First Meal, okay? I'm going to shower, get the bandages off, dress. "
Bella stood up and Z's hand moved to her waist and tucked her into him.
God, they were a family, weren't they? The two of them together with their young in her belly. And in just over a year, if the Scribe Virgin saw fit, they would stand like this with their infant in their arms. Later, years later, their child would be by their side. And then their son or daughter would be mated, and another generation of their blood would carry the race forward: a family, not a fantasy.
To hurry them along, Phury shifted around like he was about to get up.
"I'll see you down in the dining room," Z said, his palm sliding around to his shellan's lower belly. "Bella's going back to bed, aren't you, nalla?"
She checked her watch. "Twenty-two minutes. I'd better get my bath in. "
Various goodbye-like words were exchanged, but Phury didn't pay much attention because he was dying for them to leave. When the door finally shut, he reached for his cane, got out of his bed, and went straight to the mirror over his dresser. He eased off the bandage's tape, then peeled free the layers of gauze. Underneath his lashes were so tangled and matted that he went into the bathroom, ran some water, and rinsed his face a number of times before he could get them apart.
He opened his eye.
And saw perfectly.
His total lack of relief at his fine and dandy sight was eerie. He should have cared. He needed to care. About both his body and himself. He just didn't.
Disturbed, he took a shower and shaved, then put his prosthesis on and dressed in his leathers. He was on his way out with his blade and gun holsters in his hand when he paused by the bed. That drawing he'd done was still wadded up in his sheets; he could see the white, crinkled edges in the folds of blue satin.
He pictured his twin's hand on Bella's hair. Then on her lower belly.
Phury went over, picked up the drawing, and flattened it out on the bedside table. He took one last look at it, then ripped it into small pieces, put the pile in an ashtray, and struck a match head with his thumb. With the flame flaring, he leaned into the paper.
When there was nothing but ash, he got up and left his room.
It was time to let go, and he knew how to do it.
