by J. R. Ward
Of dying.
Plus he was so damn embarrassed—breaking down in front of Z like that? Come on. What a fucking pussy.
“Mind if I take a look?” Doc Jane said as she approached the crowd.
Yeah, good idea. The whole purpose of this was because Z had been injured badly enough not to be able to dematerialize.
“Qhuinn?” the female said.
“I’m sorry?” Oh, he was in the way. “Here, let me get out of the—”
“No, not Zsadist. You.”
“Huh?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Am I?”
The doctor turned his hands over. “See?” Sure enough, his palms were dripping red. “You just wiped your face. You have a deep cut on your head.”
“Oh. Okay.” Maybe that was why he felt so spacey? “What about Z—”
“Manny’s already in there.”
Huh. Guess he’d missed that part. “You want to look at me here?”
She laughed a little. “How about we get you back to the house—if you can walk.”
“I’ll take care of him—”
“Let me get him—”
“I’ll take him—”
“Got him—”
The chorus of volunteers was a surprise, and so were all the helping arms that appeared from out of nowhere: He was literally enveloped by thick fighting arms, and all but carried away from the site like someone surfing the crowd at a concert.
He glanced back, hoping to see Blay, praying to meet the guy’s eyes, just to connect, even though that was crazy—
But Blay was there.
That beautiful blue stare was right there, so steady and true as it met his own that he felt like breaking down all over again. And he drew strength from those eyes, just as he’d done back when they’d spent so much time together. The truth was that he wished it were Blay getting him back to the mansion, but no one said shit to the Brotherhood when they kicked in en masse like this. And besides, no doubt the guy would feel like that was too close.
Qhuinn refocused on the way ahead. Holy…shit…
The garden was utterly decimated, half of the ten-foot-high hedge next to the house cut down, all kinds of trees knocked over, bushes mowed through, the remnants of the crash landing scattered around like bomb shrapnel.
Man, there was a lot of debris that looked like aircraft parts.
Oh, check it, a steel panel.
“Hold on,” he said, pulling himself free. Bending down, he picked the sharp-edged fragment out of where it had melted into the snow. He could have sworn the thing was still warm.
“I’m really sorry,” he said to no one in particular.
The king’s voice boomed from in front of him. “For keeping my Brother alive?”
Qhuinn looked up. Wrath had come out of the library with George on one side of him and his queen on the other. The male looked as big as the mansion behind him—and just as strong: Even blind, he seemed like a superhero in those wraparound shades.
“I fucking trashed your yard,” Qhuinn muttered as he went up to the royal male. “I mean…landscaped it in a bad way.”
“It’ll give Fritz something to do in the spring. You know how much he loves to pull weeds.”
“That’s the least of your problems. I’m pretty sure you’re in backhoe territory.”
Wrath came forward, meeting him halfway across the terrace. “This is the second time, son.”
“That I’ve ruined something mechanical in the last twenty-four hours? I know, right—next thing you know, I’ll be blowing up a battleship.”
Those jet-black brows sank low. “That is not what I’m talking about.”
Okay, this had to end right now. He really hated having the attention on him.
Deliberately ignoring the king’s statement, he said, “Well, the good news, my lord, is that I’m not looking for a three-peat. So I think we’re safe from now on.”
There was a lot of grumbling in agreement.
“Can I get him to the clinic now?” Doc Jane cut in.
Wrath smiled, his fangs flashing in the moonlight. “You do that.”
Thank God…he was so done with tonight.
“Where is Layla?” the doctor asked as they stepped into the warmth of the library. “I think you need to feed.”
Fuck.
As the mother hens in black leather behind him started clucking in support of that idea, Qhuinn’s eyes rolled back in his head. One crisis tonight was more than enough. The last thing he was interested in was explaining exactly why the Chosen could not be used as a blood source.
“You look woozy,” somebody said.
“I think he’s going over—”
Annnnnnd that was the last thing he heard for a while.
TWENTY-TWO
Across the river, at Havers’s clinic, Layla finally had to get off the examination table and wander around the little room. She had lost all track of time at this point. Indeed, it felt as though she had been staring at the four walls forever—and would be for the rest of her natural life upon the earth.
The only part of her that remained fresh and engaged was her mind. The unfortunate thing was that it relentlessly churned over what that nurse had said…that this was a miscarriage. That in all likelihood, she had conceived—
When the knock she’d been waiting for finally came, it was unexpected and made her jump.
“Come in?” she said.
The nurse who had been so kind entered…but appeared changed. She refused to meet Layla’s eyes, and her face was frozen in a mask. Draped over her arm was a bolt of white cloth, and she thrust the fabric forward while looking away. And then she dropped to a curtsy.
“Your grace,” she said in a shaky voice. “I…we…Havers…we had no idea.”
Layla frowned. “What are you—”
The nurse shook the robing, as if trying to get Layla to accept it. “Please. Put this on.”
“What is this about?”
“You have Chosen blood in you.” The nurse’s voice quavered. “Havers is…distraught.”
Layla struggled to comprehend the words. So this was not…about her pregnancy? “What— I don’t understand. Why is he…he’s upset because I am a Chosen?”
The other female blanched. “We thought you were…fallen?”
Layla put her hands over her eyes. “I may soon be—depending on what happens.” She did not have the energy for this. “Would someone just tell me what the test results are and what I need to do to take care of myself?”
The nurse fumbled with the draping, still trying to hand it over. “He can’t come back in here—”
“What?”
“Not if you’re…he cannot be in here with you. And he should never have—”
Layla jacked herself forward, her temper flaring. “Let me make myself perfectly clear—I want to talk to the doctor.” At the demand, the nurse actually looked up at her face. “I have a right to know what he found out about my body—you tell him to get in here now.”
There was nothing shrill in her voice. No high-pitched hysteria—just a flat, powerful tone she’d never heard come out of her mouth before.
“Go. And get him,” she commanded.
The nurse lifted the drapery up. “Please. Put this on. He’s…”
Layla forced herself not to yell. “I’m just another patient—”
The nurse frowned and squared her shoulders. “Excuse me, but that is not accurate. And as far as he’s concerned, he violated you during the exam.”
“What?”
The nurse just stared at her. “He’s a good male. A fine male who is very traditional in his ways—”
“What in the Scribe Virgin’s name does that have to do with anything?”
“The Primale can kill him for what he did to you.”
“During the exam? I consented—it was a medical procedure I needed!”
“It does not matter. He did something unlawful.”
Layla closed her eyes. She
should have just used the Brotherhood’s clinic.
“You must realize where he’s coming from,” the nurse said. “You are of a hierarchy that we don’t come in contact with—and moreover, should not.”
“I have a beating heart and a body that requires help. That’s all he—and anybody else—needs to know. The flesh is the same.”
“The blood is not.”
“He must come see me—”
“He will not.”
Layla refocused on the female. And then put her hand upon her lower belly. For all of her life, up until now, she had lived on the side of the righteous, serving faithfully, discharging her duties, existing within the prescribed parameters that were dictated by others.
No more.
She narrowed her eyes. “You tell that doctor he either comes and tells me in person what is going on—or I will go to the Primale and recite word-for-word what happened in here.”
She deliberately shifted her stare to the machine that had been used during her internal exam.
As the nurse blanched, Layla felt no joy at the leverage she used. But there was no regret, either.
The nurse bowed deeply and backed out of the room, leaving that ridiculous fabric on the shallow counter by the sink.
Layla had never considered her Chosen status as either burden or benefit. It simply was all she had known: her lot cast, the fate that she had been given made manifest through breath and consciousness. Others were clearly not so phlegmatic, however—especially down here.
And this was just the beginning.
Then again, she was losing the pregnancy, wasn’t she. So this was the end.
Reaching out, she took the white fabric and wrapped it around herself. She didn’t care about the physician’s delicate sensibilities, but if she covered herself up as they’d asked, maybe he would focus on her instead of what she was.
Almost immediately there was a knock on the door, and when Layla answered, Havers entered, looking like there was a gun to his head. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he only partially closed them in together before crossing his arms over his stethoscope. “If I had known your status, I would never have treated you.”
“I came to you willingly, a patient in need.”
He shook his head. “You are a holiness upon the earth. Who am I to intervene in such a sacred matter?”
“Please. Just put an end to my suffering, and tell me where I stand.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I cannot divulge that information to you.”
Layla opened her mouth. Shut it. “Excuse me?”
“You are not my patient. Your young and the Primale are—so I will speak to him when I can—”
“No! You mustn’t call him.”
The look he gave her suggested a disdain she imagined he usually reserved for prostitutes. And then he spoke in a low, vaguely threatening voice. “You are not in a position to demand a thing.”
Layla recoiled. “I have come here of my own volition, as an independent female—”
“You are a Chosen. Not only is it unlawful for me to harbor you, but I can be prosecuted for what I did to you earlier. A Chosen’s body is—”
“Her own!”
“—the Primale’s by law, as it should be. You are unimportant—naught but a receptacle for what you are given. How dare you come in here like this, pretending to be a simple female—you put my practice and my life at risk with such duplicity.”
Layla felt a wild rage tremble along every nerve ending in her body. “Whose heart beats within this chest?” She pounded on herself. “Whose breath is drawn here!”
Havers shook his head. “I will speak with the Primale, and only him—”
“You cannot be serious! I alone live within this flesh. No one else does—”
The physician’s face tightened in distaste. “As I said, you are but a vessel for the divine mystery in your womb—the very Primale is within your flesh. That is more important—and accordingly, I will hold you here until—”
“Against my will? I don’t think so.”
“You will stay here until the Primale comes to fetch you. I shall not be responsible for setting you loose upon the world.”
The two of them glared at each other.
With a curse, Layla threw off the draping. “Well, that’s a great plan as far as you’re concerned. But I’m getting naked right now—and I will be walking out like that if I must. Stay and watch if you like—or you could try to touch me, but I believe that would be considered another violation of some sort or another for you, wouldn’t it.”
The physician left so quickly, he stumbled out into the hall.
Layla didn’t waste a second, yanking on her clothes and rushing into the corridor. Although it was unlikely that there was only the one way in and out through the reception area—there had to be escape routes, in case of an attack—unfortunately, she had no clue about the layout of the facility.
So her only choice was to head up front. And she had to do it on foot—she was too pissed off to dematerialize.
Falling into a jog, Layla went in the direction she’d come from—and almost immediately, as if they had been instructed to do so, female nursing staff jumped in her way, choking the hall, making it impossible for her to pass.
“If anyone shall touch my person,” she hollered in the Old Language, “I shall regard it as a violation of my sacred sanctity.”
All of them froze.
Meeting each one in the eye, she came forward and forced them to part, a path forming among the still figures and then closing shut behind her. Out in the waiting area, she stopped in front of the reception desk and stared hard at the female who was sitting up in alarm.
“You have two choices.” Layla nodded to the reinforced exit door. “Either you voluntarily open that for me, or I blow it apart with my will—exposing yourselves and your patients to the onslaught of sunlight that is coming in”—she checked the big-faced clock on the wall—“less than seven hours. I’m not sure you can fix that kind of damage in time—are you?”
The click of the lock being sprung sounded loudly in the resonant silence.
“Thank you,” she murmured politely as she headed out. “Your acquiescence is much appreciated.”
After all, far be it from her to forget her manners.
Sitting behind his desk, with his leather-clad ass cozied in the throne his father had had made centuries and centuries ago, Wrath, son of Wrath, was running his forefinger up and down the smooth silver blade of a dagger-shaped envelope opener. Beside him on the floor, a faint snoring rose from George’s muzzle.
The dog slept only during rare moments of downtime.
If someone knocked or entered, or if Wrath himself moved in any way, that big head rose, and that heavy collar jingled. The instanta-lert also came if somebody walked by in the hall, or ran a vacuum cleaner anywhere, or opened the vestibule door down in the foyer. Or set a meal out. Or sneezed in the library.
After the head raise, there was a sliding scale of response from nothing (dining room activity, vacuum, sneeze) to a chuff (downstairs door opening, walk-by) to an at-attention sit-up (knock, entry). The dog never was aggressive, but rather served as a motion detector, leaving the decision about what to do to his owner.
Such a gentleman the guide dog was.
And yet, although a tame nature was as much a part of the animal as his soft, long fur and his big, rangy body, Wrath had seen glimmers from time to time of the beast inside the lovely disposition: When you were around a bunch of highly aggressive, heavy-nutted fighters like the Brotherhood, heads got hot from time to time—even toward the king. And the shit didn’t bother Wrath—he’d been with the motherfuckers too long to get riled at a little chest pumping or sac grabbing.
George, however, didn’t like that. If any of them got into meathead territory toward their king, the hackles on that gentle dog would rise and he would growl in warning as he pressed his body close to Wrath’s leg—like he was pre
pared to show the Brothers just how long real fangs were in the event things got physical.
The only thing Wrath loved more in his life was his queen.
Reaching down, he stroked the dog’s flank; then refocused on the feel of his finger on the letter opener.
Jesus Christ. Airplanes falling out of the sky…Brothers getting injured…Qhuinn saving the day again…
At least the night hadn’t been all drama of the heart-attack variety. In fact, they’d started out on a good note with the proof that they needed to move on the Band of Bastards: V had done his ballistics testing, and gee-fucking-whiz, the bullet that had come out of Wrath’s neck had started its journey in a rifle found at Xcor’s lair.
Wrath smiled to himself, his fangs tingling at the tips.
Those traitors were now officially on the hit list, with the full backing of the law—and it was time do to a little flushing.
At that moment, George let out a chuff—and the insistent knock that followed suggested Wrath might have missed the first bang on his door. “Yeah.”
He knew who it was before the Brotherhood even entered: V and the cop. Rhage. Tohr. Phury. And at last, Z. Who, going by the thump, seemed to be using a cane.
They shut the door.
When no one sat down or made small talk, he knew exactly why they had come to him. “What’s the verdict, ladies,” he drawled as he leaned back in the throne.
Tohr’s voice answered him. “We’ve been thinking about Qhuinn.”
He bet they had. After introducing the idea at the meeting earlier tonight, he hadn’t pressed them for a yes or no. There was plenty of shit that, as king, he was more than willing to cram down people’s throats. Who the Brothers were going to welcome into the club was not one. “And?”
Zsadist spoke up in the Old Language. “I, Zsadist, son of Ahgony, inducted in the two hundred forty-second year of the reign of Wrath, son of Wrath, hereby nominate Qhuinn, an orphan in the world, for membership unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood.”
Hearing formal words out of the Brother’s mouth was a shocker. Z, above all of them, thought the past was a bunch of bullshit. Not when it came to this, apparently.
