by J. R. Ward
The lesser looked back and forth between Assail and the cousins. “What if I want to buy more than this?”
Assail had considered this probability. He hadn’t spent the past twelve months getting middlemen to shoot themselves in the head for nothing—and he wasn’t about to cede his hard-won power to anyone. This was a unique opportunity, however. If the Lessening Society wanted to make some money on the streets, he was fine with providing them the drugs to do so. It wasn’t as if this foul-smelling son of a bitch was going to be able to get to Benloise because Assail was going to make sure that didn’t happen. More to the point, Assail had a rate-limiting issue inherent in his business model—with just the three of them, he had more product than he had sellers.
So it was time to start outsourcing. His stranglehold on the city complete, the next phase was to handpick some third parties for contract work, so to speak.
“We’re going to start slowly and see how it goes,” Assail murmured. “You need me. I’m the source. So it’s your choice how we proceed. I am certainly not…how do you say…disinclined to increase your orders. Over time.”
“How do I know you’re not working with the Brotherhood?”
“If I were, I would have them ambush you right now.” He indicated the bags at the feet of the slayer. “Further, as a gesture of good faith, and in recognition of your losses, I have credited you three thousand dollars in this delivery. One grand for each of our, shall we say, misinterpretations from last night.”
The slayer’s brows popped.
In the silence that followed, the wind blew around them all, coats sweeping out, the lesser’s jacket collar whistling.
Assail was content to wait for a reaction. There were one of two answers: Yes, in which case Ehric was going to throw over the package. No, at which time the three of them opened fire on the fucker, disabled him, and stabbed him back to the Omega.
Either was acceptable to him. But he was hoping for the former.
There was money to be made. For both sides.
Sola kept her distance from the quartet of men who had gathered under the bridge: lingering on the fringes, she used her binocs to focus on the meeting.
Mr. Mystery Man, a.k.a. the Great Roadside Houdini, was backed up by two huge bodyguards who were mirror images of each other. From all appearances, it seemed that he was running the meeting, and that was not a surprise—and she could guess at the agenda.
Sure enough, the twin on the left stepped forward and gave a package the size of a child’s lunch box to the man who was on his own.
As she waited for the deal to wind down, she knew she was taking her life into her own hands on this one—and not because she was under the bridge after dark.
Considering the run-in she’d had with the man the night before, it was highly doubtful he was going to appreciate her getting on his tail, following him out here, and playing third-party witness to his illegal activities. But she had spent most of the last twenty-four hours thinking about him—and getting pissed off. It was a free fucking country, and if she wanted to be out here on public property, she was allowed.
He wanted privacy? Then he should take care of business somewhere other than out in the goddamn open.
As her temper resurged, she gritted her teeth…and knew that this was her worst character defect at work.
For her entire life, she had been the type to do whatever she was told not to. Of course, when that involved things like, No, you can’t have a cookie before dinner, or, No, you can’t take the car out; you’re grounded, or…No, you should not go see your father in prison…the implications were very different from what was going down in front of her.
No, you may not go back to that house.
No, you may not watch me anymore.
Yeah, whatever, big shots. She was going to decide when she’d had enough, thank you very much. And at the moment? She had not had enough.
Besides, there was another angle to her tenacity: she didn’t like losing her nerve, and that was what had happened last night. As she’d pulled away from her confrontation with that man, it had been from a place of fear—and that was not going to be the way she ran her life. Ever since that tragedy, oh, so long ago, when things had changed forever, she had decided—vowed, was more like it—that she would never again be afraid of anything.
Not pain. Not death. Not the unknown.
And certainly not a man.
Sola tightened up the focus, closing in on his face. Thanks to the city’s glow, there was enough for her to see it properly, and yup, it was just as she remembered. God, his hair was so damn black, almost as if he’d colored it. And his eyes—narrowed, aggressive. And his expression, so haughty and in control.
Frankly, he looked too classy to be what he was. Then again, maybe he was cut from the Benloise cloth of drug dealer.
Shortly thereafter, the two sides went their separate ways: the single man turned and walked in the direction he’d come from, a collection of barely filled trash bags slung over his shoulder; the other three recrossing the pavement, returning to the Range Rover.
Sola jogged back to her rental car, her dark bodysuit and ski mask helping her blend into the shadows. Getting behind the wheel of the Ford, she ducked down out of sight and used a mirror to monitor the one-way that ran underneath the bridge.
The road was the only exit available. Unless the man was willing to risk a pullover by the CPD for going against traffic.
Moments later, the Range Rover passed her by. After allowing it to get slightly ahead, she hit her own gas and slid into position about a block behind.
When Benloise had given her the assignment, he’d provided her with the make and model of the man’s SUV, in addition to that address out on the Hudson. Not the name, though.
All she had was that real estate trust and its single trustee.
As she tracked the threesome, she memorized the license plate. One of her friends down at the police station might be able to help with that; although, given that the house was owned by a legal entity, she surmised he’d done the same with automobile.
Whatever. There was one thing she was sure of.
Wherever he was going next, she was going to be there.
FORTY-SIX
The shout blasted through the dim bedroom, loud, sharp, unexpected.
As it reverberated in her ears, Layla didn’t immediately know who had woken her up with it. What had—
Glancing down, she knew she was sitting upright, the sheets crushed in her tight hands, her heart pounding, her rib cage pumping.
Looking around, she found that her mouth was wide open…
Closing her jaw, she knew she must have made the sound. There was no one else in the room. And the door was shut.
Lifting her hands, she twisted her wrists so they were palm up, then palm down. The illumination in the room, such as it was, was not coming from her flesh anymore. It was the bathroom light.
Jerking herself to the side, she peered over the edge of the bed.
Payne was no longer lying in a heap. The female must have left—or been carried out?
Her first thought was to go and find Vishous’s sister, just jump up and start searching. Although she hadn’t understood exactly what had transpired between them, there was no doubt that it had cost the fighter dearly.
But Layla stopped herself, as worry for her own well-being took over: Her awareness shifted from the external to the internal, her mind burrowing into her body, searching out and expecting to find the cramping, the warm welling between her legs, the strange lagging aches that rode her bones.
Nothing.
As a room could go silent when all who were within it went quiet, so too could the corporeal form when all its component parts had no complaints.
Shifting the covers from herself, she moved her legs over so that they dangled off the edge of the high mattress. Subconsciously, she braced herself for the god-awful sensation of blood leaving her womb. When there was nothing of the sort, she wondered if
the miscarriage hadn’t concluded itself. But hadn’t Havers said that it would be another week?
It took courage to stand up. Even though she supposed that was ridiculous.
Still nothing.
Layla went into the bathroom slowly, expecting at any moment for the onslaught of symptoms to return and take her down to her knees. She waited for the pain to strike, for those rhythmic cramps to come back, for that process to once again establish dominance over her body and her mind.
I don’t know whether it will work, but if you’re willing, I’d like to do what I can.
Layla all but ripped off her clothing, shedding what covered her in a mad dash. And then she was on the toilet.
No bleeding.
No cramps.
Half of her went into a sorrow so deep, she feared there was no bottom to the emotion—in a strange way, during the process of the miscarriage, she’d felt as though she’d still had some kind of connection with her young. If it was over? Then the death was complete—even though logically she knew there was naught that had lived or was capable of survival; otherwise, the pregnancy wouldn’t have terminated itself.
The other half of her was struck by a resonant hope.
What if…
She took a shower quickly, in spite of the fact that she didn’t really know why she was rushing, or where she would go.
Looking down at her stomach, she ran her soapy hands over the smooth, flat stretch of skin.
“Please…anything you want, take anything you want…give me this life inside of me, and you can take anything else….”
She was talking to the Scribe Virgin, of course—not that the race’s mother was listening anymore.
“Give me my young…let me keep it…please….”
The desperation she felt was nearly as bad as the physical stuff had been, and she stumbled out of the shower, drying herself roughly and throwing on clean something-or-others.
From what she’d watched of the television, human women had tests they could take themselves, sticks and whatnot apparently designed to inform them of their body’s procreational mysteries. Vampires had nothing of the sort—at least, not of which she was aware.
But males knew. They always knew.
Bursting out of her room, she hurried in the direction of the hall of statues, praying that she ran into someone, anyone—
Except Qhuinn.
No, she didn’t want him to be the one who figured out whether a miracle had happened…or nothing had changed. That was just too cruel.
The first door she came to was Blaylock’s and she knocked on it after a hesitation. Blay had known about the situation all along. And at his core, he was a very good male, a strong, good male.
When there was no answer, she cursed and turned away. She hadn’t checked the time, but given that the shutters were up and there was no scent of dinner being served down below, it was probably in the middle of the night. No doubt he had gone fighting—
“Layla?”
She wrenched around. Blay was leaning through the doorway of his room, his expression one of surprise.
“I’m so sorry—” As her voice cracked, she had to clear it. “I…I—”
“What’s wrong? Are you—whoa, easy, there. Here, let’s get you to sit down.”
As something came up and caught her bottom, she became aware that he’d settled her on the gold-leafed bench just outside his room.
He knelt down in front of her and took her hands. “Can I get Qhuinn for you? I think he’s—”
“Tell me if I’m still pregnant.” As his eyes peeled wide, she squeezed his palms. “I need to know. Something…” She wasn’t sure whether Payne wanted her to talk about what had gone on between them. “I just need to know whether it’s over or not. Can you…please, I need to know….”
As she started to babble, he put his hand on her upper arm and stroked it. “Calm down. Just take a deep breath—here, breathe with me. That’s it…okay…”
She did her best to comply, focusing on the steady, even tone of his deep voice.
“I want to call Doc Jane, all right?” When she started to argue, he shook his head firmly. “You stay right here. Promise me that you won’t go anywhere. I’m just going to grab my phone. You stay here.”
For some reason, her teeth started to chatter. Odd, as it wasn’t cold.
A second later, the soldier came back and knelt down again. He had his phone up to his ear, and he was talking.
“Okay, Jane’s coming right now,” he said as he put the thing away. “And I’m going to hang here with you.”
“But you can tell, can’t you? You can tell, you can scent it—”
“Shhh…”
“I’m sorry.” She turned her face away, dropping it down low. “I don’t mean to drag you into this. I just…I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. You don’t worry about that. We’re just going to wait for Doc Jane. Hey, Layla, look at me. Look at me.”
When she finally glanced into his blue eyes, she was struck by his kindness. Especially as the male smiled gently.
“I’m glad you came to me,” he said. “Whatever’s wrong, we’ll take care of it.”
Staring into that strong, handsome face, feeling the reassurance he offered so generously, sensing the marrow-deep decency of the fighter, she thought of Qhuinn.
“Now I know why he’s in love with you,” she blurted.
Blay went positively white, all the color draining out of his cheeks. “What…did you say…?”
“I’m here,” Doc Jane called out from down by the head of the stairs. “I’m right here!”
As the doctor came running down to them, Layla closed her eyes.
Shit. What had just come out of her mouth.
Downtown, at the warehouse Xcor had spent the day in, the leader of the Band of Bastards finally emerged into the cold darkness of the night.
He had his weapons on his body, and his phone in his hands.
Sometime during the long daylight hours, the sense that he’d forgotten something had finally resolved itself, and he’d recalled that he’d told his soldiers to decamp from the location. Which explained why none of them came before dawn.
Their new lair was not downtown. And upon further reflection, it had been a miscalculation on his part to try to establish a headquarters in this part of town, even if things had appeared deserted: Too much risk of discovery, complication or compromising circumstances.
As they had learned the night before with that visit from the Shadow.
Closing his eyes briefly, he thought it was odd how events could cascade so far beyond one’s original intentions. If it hadn’t been for that Shadow’s intrusion, he wondered whether he would ever have been able to track his Chosen. And if he hadn’t followed her to that clinic, he wouldn’t have learned that she was with young…or made his discovery about the Brotherhood.
Casting himself into the brisk wind, he materialized on the rooftop of the highest skyscraper in the city. The gusts were vicious at the high altitude, whipping his full-length coat out around his body, his scythe’s holster all that kept it on his back. His hair, which had been getting longer and longer, tangled and obstructed his vision, obscuring the view of the city stretching out beneath his feet.
He turned in the direction of the King’s mountain, the great rise distant on the horizon.
“We thought you were dead.”
Xcor pivoted on his combat boots, the wind plastering his hair back from his face.
Throe and the others were standing in a semi-circle around him.
“Alas, as I live and breathe.” Except, in truth, he only felt dead. “How fare the new accommodations?”
“Where were you?” Throe demanded.
“Elsewhere.” As he blinked, he remembered searching that odd, foggy landscape, going around and around the base of that mountain. “The new accommodations—how are they?”
“Fine,” Throe muttered. “May I have a word with you?”
Xcor cocked a brow. “Indeed, you appear anxious to do so.”
The pair of them stepped to the side, leaving the others in the wind—and coincidentally, he happened to face the direction of the Brotherhood’s compound.
“You cannot do that,” Throe said over the loud, frosty gusts. “You cannot just disappear for the day again. Not in this political climate—we assumed you’d been killed, or worse, captured.”
There was a time when Xcor would have countered the censure with a sharp rebuff or something far more physical. But his soldier was correct. Things were different between the bunch of them—ever since he’d sent Throe into the belly of the beast, he had started to feel a reciprocal connection with these males.
“I assure you, it was not my intention.”
“So what happened? Where were you?”
In that moment, Xcor saw before himself a crossroads. One direction took him and his soldiers to the Brotherhood, into a bloody conflict that would change their lives forever for good or ill. The other?
He thought of his Chosen being held upright by those two fighters, as carefully handled as cut glass.
Which was it going to be.
“I was in the warehouse,” he heard himself say after a moment. “I spent the day in the warehouse. I returned there distracted, and it was too late to take myself anywhere else. I passed the daylight hours beneath the floor, and my phone had no reception. I came here as soon as I left the building.”
Throe frowned. “It’s well past sundown.”
“I lost track of time.”
That was the extent of information he was willing to give. No more. And his soldier must have sensed that line of demarcation, for although Throe’s brows remained tight, he followed up no more.
“I require only a short tally here and then we shall depart to find our enemies,” Xcor declared.
As he took out his phone, he could not read the screen, but he knew how to check his voice mails. There were some hang-ups—Throe and the others, in all likelihood. And then there was a message from someone he’d been expecting to hear from.
