by J. R. Ward
Her final thought was that this was the precise, inevitable outcome she had predicted from the moment she had filled out the training center’s application. The only surprise? That it had come so fucking soon.
She’d been sure she would last at least a year or two.
As soon as Peyton saw that slayer sit up, he knew there was trouble. And then there was the flash of the dagger blade over the undead’s shoulder, that grotesque, gape-mouthed face stretching into a crazy grin of hatred.
It was forever and an instant at the same time.
He did not need precise arc measurements to extrapolate where that razor-sharp point was going to end up, and there was no stopping the inevitable. The weapon did its duty, impaling Novo in the chest, going right through her bulletproof vest, finding home in a horrible way—
The sound of a gun going off at point-blank range rang loudly in his ears and he jumped back. But it wasn’t the enemy. It was Paradise, standing strong and sure, doing her job: Her precisely put bullet blew apart the back of the slayer’s head, bits and pieces of it falling like confetti, the black blood becoming a fine rain that landed like soot on the white snow.
Except the fucking lesser fell forward, instead of back, going limp on top of Novo—and the dagger.
As the blade penetrated even deeper, she jerked, her hands flopping, her legs kicking. And then nothing about her moved at all.
“Call Manny!” Phury said as he lunged forward and pulled the lesser off. “Call the fucking—”
“I have him now!” Craeg cut in.
Peyton weaved on his boots as he saw the hilt of the dagger down tight to Novo’s leather jacket. The blade was in so deep, none of the steel showed. She was going to die—if she wasn’t dead already.
And this was all his fault. Thanks to him, Paradise had disabled that enemy way too late.
As his legs went out from under him, he was only aware of the structural failure of his lower body because his vantage point changed from high to ground level. Nothing in him registered—no physical sensations, that was. Emotionally…he was in a firestorm.
Meanwhile, Zsadist jumped over and stabbed the remains of the lesser back to the Omega, and as the pop! and flash of light faded, everyone else got in close to Novo, crouching down, settling on one knee or both in the bloodstained snow. Peyton couldn’t see much of her now, with Paradise and Craeg each taking one of her hands while Phury checked for a pulse and Boone settled in at her boots.
Oh, God, that dagger. Sticking right out of her chest.
Peyton swallowed through a dry throat. “Novo? Is she alive?”
Stupid fucking thing to say. Then again, anything from him was a waste—
Thundering footfalls. Coming up behind him.
Wrenching around, he looked to the source of the fresh attack. Except, no, there was no one there; it was his heart beating in his chest, the panicked rhythm rebounding in his ears with pressure.
Peyton raked his hand across his mouth and jerked open his leather jacket in the vain hope it would ease the suffocation in his lungs. Where was the fucking surgical unit?
Standing up, he leaned in to see over the heads of the other fighters…and nearly wished he hadn’t. Novo was as white as the snow, her eyes open and fixed on something in the middle distance above her. Was she seeing the Fade?
Come back to us, he wanted to scream. Look away from the other side…stay here!
And goddamn it, he hated the slayer blood on her face. He wanted to wipe it off her too-pale skin, cleaning her of the war, of his mistake, of these consequences.
With a curse, he paced around, gripping his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling at it. His brain told him that if he could just think clearly enough, and picture himself exactly where he’d been standing when he’d made the bad call, he could somehow implant himself earlier in time—and undo this outcome by not trying to protect Paradise.
And then they could all be still fighting—or maybe, with the skirmish having been won, they could be standing around in a flush of buzzy, trippy victory, preparing to find the next battle.
“Is she alive,” he said roughly. “Is she…”
Novo started to cough, and the red blood that came out made him so dizzy, he went down to the snowy ground again. Lowering his head, he braced both hands in front of himself and got ready to vomit. But nauseous as he was, he didn’t throw up.
The rumble of the mobile surgical unit coming around the corner was like a choir of angels singing, and to make way, Peyton pushed himself across the snowpack until his back hit the wall of the nearest building. As the RV punched to a stop, Manny Manello burst out from behind the wheel, a duffel bag in his hand, a stethoscope around his neck.
“Don’t move her,” the human barked.
Instantly, everyone went hands-off, as if they didn’t want to be the person who fucked shit up. And then they moved back to give the doctor room.
Peyton stayed where he was, his hands locking on either side of his head so he could hold the deadweight of his skull up. When he blinked from time to time, it was the only way he changed position.
He wasn’t even breathing.
A minute later, Ehlena materialized in the alley with a backpack of supplies. And then Doc Jane arrived. And more Brothers.
From time to time, he could feel eyes passing over him, and there were whispers that he knew were all about what he had done. He didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted to know Novo was going to live.
A pair of shitkickers marched across and stopped in front of him.
As Peyton looked up, the Brother Rhage said, “You didn’t mean it, I know.”
“Is she still alive?” Holy shit, that didn’t even sound like his voice. “Please…tell me.”
“I don’t know. But we need to get you out of here.”
“I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into them, hard. “I don’t want this.”
“I know, son. We gotta go back now, you and I.”
“What about her?” He dropped his hands. “What’s going to happen to her?”
“Manny, Ehlena, and Jane are doing what they can. But we want all trainees back to home base. The bus is here.”
Shit, he hadn’t even noticed it.
As he struggled to get up, Rhage’s big hand was there to help—and when he was on the level, the Brother started to pat him down.
“What are you doing?” he asked his teacher.
“Removing your weapons.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Rhage shook his head. “No, you’re looking really fucking suicidal.”
—
Peyton had no idea how long it took to get back to the training center. Time had ceased to be something that could be measured in any kind of unit—it was more like the vastness of space, never ending, incalculable, larger than himself and anyone else. He also wasn’t exactly sure how he came to be underground and in the Brotherhood’s facility. He had no memory of the bus ride in, or of entering the facility, and he didn’t recall how he’d ended up in the break room, sitting in a chair.
There must have been some ambulation involved. He sure as shit hadn’t dematerialized down the corridor or been carried here. His brain was flatlined—
Oh, God, he didn’t want to use that word.
Lifting his arms, he discovered that there was a bottle of booze in one of his hands—gin, this time, Beefeater. And the cap was off. And someone had had a quarter of what was in there.
With the resignation of a prisoner with a life sentence, he looked around the break room. He was alone, and the clock over there read that a couple of hours had passed.
How much longer would Novo be in surgery? he thought. Rhage had at one point come in and told him that she had been stabilized out in the alley, but that she needed more time in the OR here at the clinic.
Was she alive—
The door to the break room swung open, and when he saw who it was, he focused on t
he gin bottle. Ordering his arm to bring that open neck back to his mouth, he got frustrated when his limb refused to obey.
Interesting. It appeared that he had become paralyzed.
“How are…you doing?” Paradise asked from just inside the room.
As things could hardly get worse, he figured, what the fuck, and looked up at her. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying, her cheeks bright red from her having brushed away tears in the cold, and her hands were shaking as she zipped and unzipped and re-zipped her black fleece.
“Fine, and you?” he muttered.
“Peyton, come on.”
“What do you want me to say? They stripped me of my weapons because they thought I was going to off myself—and you know, I think that logic was very sound. Does that answer your question?”
When she just stared at him, he cursed. “Sorry.”
Lowering his eyes, he turned the bottle around in his hands until he could inspect the little English guard on the label. Man, if there was only a way to change places with a two-dimensional drawing—he’d rather like to be nothing more than an image.
“Any word about her?” he asked roughly.
“Not yet. We’re just out there pacing. Ehlena said it was still going to be a while.”
“Is that why you came in here? To tell me that.”
“I thought you had a right to know.”
“I appreciate that.” He took a shuddering inhale. “You know, I really should have just let you do your damn job.”
“Peyton…”
Dimly, he wondered if she was going to say his name like that for the rest of their lives. Like it was a sob with syllables.
She came forward and sat down in the chair opposite him. “It was a mistake. Some kind of knee-jerk reaction.”
“If she dies, I’m a murderer.”
“You are not.”
Peyton just shook his head. Then he looked at her and made his eyes stay put.
The wisps of blond hair that had escaped her low ponytail glowed in the recessed lights of the ceiling, giving her a halo—and that seemed apt. She was a saint, a female with a heart of gold.
And then he thought of that crackerjack shot that had blown that lesser’s head apart.
Okay, fine, she had a heart of gold and the marksmanship of a sniper.
With abrupt clarity, he remembered her back during orientation, helping him to keep going after he’d eaten those poisoned hors d’oeuvres and gotten sick, pulling him through until he had finally collapsed from exhaustion on the final leg of the brutal endurance test—after which she had kept going. He also had so many images of her in class, always paying attention, working so hard to prepare for tests, asking good questions. She brought the same focus and dedication to every part of the physical training, too, whether it was hand-to-hand combat, pumping iron in the weight room, or running obstacle courses.
She was utterly qualified to do the job she was in.
And what was more? He was willing to bet she never would have made the call he had back in that alley. She would never have stepped in where she wasn’t needed.
“Knee-jerk,” she had called his reaction.
No, it wasn’t that. He’d been protecting her as if she were his female. Putting himself in danger to save her—when in fact, she hadn’t required saving and wasn’t his to worry about. If it had been anyone else tackling that lesser? He would not have interfered.
With a frown, he noticed that she was fiddling with something at her throat. A little charm on a chain. She’d never worn anything like that before, and God knew, her mother’s jewelry was all statement pieces from major houses, not something so dainty and simple.
It had to be from Craeg.
White gold, probably, he thought. Not even platinum. And yet she no doubt thought it was priceless.
As he watched her slender fingers worry whatever the charm was on its delicate necklace, he had the very clear conviction that he needed to let go of his fantasy.
“Listen, Peyton, about what you said last night—”
“I said nothing. It was a joke. A bad-timed, stupid-ass joke.”
The silence that followed suggested she had done the math on his Gronk/linebacker move on her in that alley and knew he was lying. But at that moment, sure as if the conversation was being broadcast over loudspeakers, the door opened—and yeah, of course, it was Craeg.
“They’re closing her up now,” the male announced in a hard voice.
Wow, Peyton thought as the male glared at him. That stare could do as much damage as a hollow-point bullet—and he should know, ’cuz he’d been shot in the head in the field.
“Is she going to be okay?” Paradise said as she got up and went to her mate. “Is she?”
“I don’t know.” The embrace the two shared was all about the mutual support—and didn’t it make Peyton feel like an outsider. Appropriately. “She’s in critical condition. But they’re looking for volunteers she can feed from, which has to mean she’s got a chance. Listen, are you okay if I give her my vein—”
“Oh, my God, yes. Of course.”
Peyton spoke up. “She won’t want it from me.”
Those hostile eyes swung back his way. “No one is asking you.”
Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, Peyton thought. But it wasn’t hard to understand the guy’s position.
Fuck.
Before Craeg could throw down, Paradise put herself between them and pushed her boy back, palms to pecs. “Relax, okay? We do not need any more injuries on the team.”
She lowered her voice at that point and there was a private exchange between the two of them, all quick words at a shhh’d volume. And then Craeg punched the door back open and left.
Paradise took a deep breath. “Look…I think we need to talk.”
“No. We don’t and we aren’t.”
“Peyton. What happened tonight—”
“Will never happen again. Mostly likely because they are going to throw me out of the program, but even if they don’t, I’m not making this mistake again. You’re on your own.”
“Wait a minute. Excuse me? I don’t need you looking after me. I can take care of myself.”
“I know, I know.” He rubbed his face. Took another swig from the bottle. Wanted to scream. “It’s over, Paradise. Okay? It’s done—and stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what.”
“I don’t know.”
There was a long quiet. “Peyton, I’m sorry.”
“I was the one who made a mistake, not you.” To cover up the double meaning, he shook his head. “I’ll apologize to Craeg, too. You don’t have to tell me.”
The door swung open again, but this time, the Brother Rhage put his head in. “Okay, Novo’s out of surgery, and at least she’s alive. So you and I need to do an incident debriefing and then we’ll make an appointment for you to get psych eval’d.”
When Peyton didn’t respond, the Brother nodded at the corridor behind him. “Come on, son, you gotta follow me to the office.”
As Peyton got to his feet, he thought it was a sad commentary on your life when an interruption requiring you to justify an unjustifiable action was a step up from your other option—which happened to be a lively discussion about unrequited love with the object of your unreciprocated affections.
Ah, yes, choices, choices.
On his way to the exit, he put the Beefeater down on a side table, and as he came up to Paradise, he paused.
Reaching out, he put his hand on her arm and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry. For everything. It’s all on me, all my fault.”
Before she could respond, he released his hold and walked out.
In the concrete hall, the rest of the trainees, along with a number of Brothers, were milling around the clinical area, and everyone went statue as they saw him, shuffling boots halting, whispering words silenced.
He had no idea what to say to any of them.
So he just ducked h
is head and kept on going.
“You’re going to want to take a right up here at that fork in the road.”
As Saxton spoke, he pointed through the windshield even though the truck’s headlights were already showing the way. Next to him, Ruhn was behind the wheel, one of the male’s big hands resting comfortably at the twelve spot, the other palm on his thigh.
Bitty’s uncle was a consummate driver. Smooth, steady, in total control of the enormous Ford-whatever-the-heck-it-was even though there was enough iced-over snowpack on the road to rival Alaska.
It was good to feel safe.
And then there was the fact the male smelled amazing. A clean, powerful scent, which was soap and shampoo and shaving cream, but none of the fancy kind. Then again, on Ruhn? Palmolive was a cologne.
“Next time we can dematerialize,” the male said. “I’m sorry that I don’t know the ins and outs of Caldwell yet.”
Well, we could just have had you take my vein, and you could have followed me—
Saxton shut that thought process right down. “The drive hasn’t been bad at all. In fact, it’s been a while since I’ve ridden in a motorized vehicle. It’s quite pleasant, isn’t it.”
He’d forgotten how hypnotic automotives could be, the quiet hum of the engine, the steady stream of warm air at the feet, the softly blurred landscape—which in this case was all about gentle rolling farm fields covered in pristine snow.
“May I ask you something?” he heard himself say.
“Are you too warm?” Ruhn glanced over. “I can turn down the heat?”
As the male reached for the dials, Saxton shook his head. “The temperature is perfect. Thank you.”
After a moment, Ruhn looked across the interior again. “Am I going too fast?”
“No, you’re a terrific driver.”
Was that a blush hitting those cheeks? Saxton wondered.
“Anyway, I was just curious…” He cleared his throat and couldn’t pinpoint why this felt awkward. “I was unaware that you had a background that involved fighting. I’m assuming it was in the war—did you engage with the enemy down in South Carolina?”
