by J. R. Ward
With the way shit was going, it was like he was going to float up here for frickin’ ever, overshooting the only landing strip they had—
Abruptly, the rattling resumed, and he checked the altimeter. They’d sunk down about twenty-five feet, and he had to wonder if they’d penetrated the barrier.
Lights. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, lights.
Out the side window, down below, he could see the glow of the mansion, and the courtyard. It was too far away to make out the details, but it had to be—yup, the small offshoot had to be the Pit.
Instantly, his brain three-dimensionalized and reoriented everything.
Fuck. His angle was wrong. If he kept going like this, he was going to land front to back on the property rather than down that long side. And the bitch of it was, he didn’t have enough lift to execute a nice fat circle to get them pointed in the right direction.
When you were out of options, you had no choice but to make it work.
His biggest problem remained missing the back lawn. There was only one clearing on the mountain. Everything else? Trees that were going to chew them up.
He needed to be lower, like now.
“Brace yourself!”
Even though it was counterintuitive, he shoved the drive shaft forward, and pointed them at the ground. There was an instant spike in speed, and he prayed that he could recover from it when he got into the strike zone. And shit, the intense shaking got even worse, to the point that it made him dizzy as hell, and his forearms stung from holding on to the wheel.
Faster. Closer. Faster. Louder. Closer.
And then it was time. The house and gardens were up ahead, and coming at them at a dead fucking run.
He pulled up hard, and the new velocity gave them a brief lift.
Over the house…
“Get ready!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
As slow-mo took over, everything was magnified: the sounds, the seconds, the sting in his eyes as he stared straight ahead, the feel of his body thrusting back into the seat—
Fuck. He didn’t have any kind of harness on.
He hadn’t bothered with it. Too much else to think of.
Dumb-ass—
At that very instant, they made contact with something. Hard. The plane bounced up, hit something else, ricocheted off-kilter, bounced again. All the while, his head smacked into the panels above him, and his ass got spanked by the seat, and his—
Cue the paint mixer.
The next phase of the landing from hell was a shake-rattle-and-roll that nearly threw him out of the cockpit. This was the ground—had to be—and damn, they were going fast. Lights whipped by the side windows, everything going Studio 54 until he was practically blinded. And given which side the strobe lighting was on, he figured they were in the garden—but they were running out of space.
Wrenching the wheel, he sent them into a tailspin, hoping that the same laws of physics that applied to out-of-control cars could translate here: no brakes, limited field, and the only way to slow their momentum was drag coefficient.
Centrifugal force slammed him against the side of the cockpit, and snow pelted his face; then something sharp.
Shit, they weren’t slowing down at all.
And that twenty-foot-tall, eighteen-inch-wide security wall was coming up fast.
Talk about your full stops….
TWENTY-ONE
Blay dematerialized to the mansion the instant the last slayer in that clearing was sent back to the Omega. With Qhuinn up in the air with Z, there was no reason to waste time waiting for another squadron to make an appearance.
Although really, like there was anything anyone could do to help the pair of them?
Re-forming in the courtyard, he—
Directly above him, making no sound at all, that godforsaken airplane blocked out the moon.
Holy shit, they’d made it—and goddamn, they were so close, he felt like he could reach up and touch the undercarriage of the Cessna.
The stone silence was not a good sign, however….
The first impact came from the tops of the arborvitae hedge that confined the garden. The plane bounced off the pointed stops, caught some air, and then went out of sight.
Blay dematerialized around to the back terrace just in time to see the Cessna slam into the snow, the crash like a fat man doing a belly flop in a pool, great waves of white kicking up all over the place. And then the aircraft turned into the biggest Weedwacker known to man, the combination of its steel body and too-fast velocity ripping through stands of fruit trees, and beds of flowers that had been secured for the winter, and shit, even the lineup of bird fountains.
But fuck all that. He didn’t care if the whole place got regraded, as long as that plane stopped…before the retaining wall.
For a split second, he was of half a mind to materialize in front of the thing and put his hands out, but that was crazy. If the Cessna didn’t seem even annoyed at the marble statuary it was now mowing down, it wasn’t going to give two shits about a living, breathing male—
For no apparent reason, all that out-of-control began to spin, the wing facing Blay swinging around as if Qhuinn was trying to steer. The fishtail was the perfect move—it went without saying that there were no brakes, and assuming the corkscrew stayed tight, it would give them more area to lose forward momentum in.
Shit, they were getting really close to the retaining wall—
Sparks lit up the night, along with a metal-on-stone scream that announced that “really close to the wall” had been replaced with “right up against”—but thanks to the wrenching turn Qhuinn had pulled off, they had skidded into a parallel position, rather than a head-on one.
Blay started running in the direction of the light show, and as he did, others joined him, a whole cast of people falling in line. There was no stopping this, but they could damn well be on hand when things—
Crunch!
—ended.
The airplane finally met an inanimate object it couldn’t get the best of: the shed that was used to keep some of the lawn equipment and gardening supplies in at the very rear of the garden.
Dead stop.
And it was way too quiet. All Blay heard was the pffing impact of his shitkickers traveling through the snow, and his breath punching out into the cold air, and the scramble of the others behind him.
He was the first to reach the aircraft, and he went for the door that by some miracle was facing outward and not into the concrete wall. Wrenching the thing open, and getting out his flashlight, he didn’t know what to expect inside—smoke? Fumes? Blood and body parts?
Zsadist was sitting rigid in a backward-facing seat, his big body strapped in, both hands locked on the armrests. The Brother was staring straight ahead and not blinking.
“Have we stopped moving?” he said hoarsely.
Okay, apparently even a Brother could feel shock.
“Yes, you have.” Blay didn’t want to be rude, but now that he was sure one of them had made it, he had to see if Qhuinn—
The male stumbled out of the cockpit. In the light of Blay’s beam, he looked like he’d been on a hard-core amusement ride, his hair slicked back from his windburned forehead, his blue and green eyes peeled wide in a face that was striped with fresh blood, every limb on him shaking.
“Are you all right!” he hollered, like maybe his ears were ringing in the aftermath of a lot of noise. “Z—say something—”
“I’m right here,” the Brother answered, grimacing as he pried one of his clawed hands off the armrest and held it up. “I’m okay, son—I’m all right.”
Qhuinn grabbed onto what was extended, and that was when his knees went out from under him. He just crumpled around their clasped palms, his voice cracking so much he could barely speak.
“I just…wanted you to be okay….I just…wanted you…to be okay—oh, God…for your daughter…I just wanted you to be okay….”
Zsadist, the Brother who never touched anyone, reached out and
put his free hand on Qhuinn’s bent head. Looking up, he said softly, “Don’t let anyone in here. Give him a minute, ’kay?”
Blay nodded and turned away, blocking the doorway with his body. “They’re all right—they’re all right….”
As he babbled at the crowd, the number of faces staring up at him was a good dozen, but Bella wasn’t among them. Where was she—
“Zsadist! Zsaaaaaaaaaaaaadist!”
The scream carried all the way across the glowing blue lawn as, up at the terrace, a lone figure shot out into the snow at a dead run.
Lots of people shouted back at Bella, but he doubted she heard a thing.
“Zsaaaaaaaaaadist!”
As she skidded into range, Blay immediately reached for her, concerned she was going to slam right into the side of the plane. And, oh, God, he was never going to forget the expression on her face—it was more horrific than any war atrocity he’d ever seen, as if she were being flayed alive, sure as her arms and legs were strapped down and pieces of her very flesh were being peeled from her body.
Qhuinn jumped out of the aircraft. “He’s okay, he’s all right, I promise you—he’s just fine.”
Bella froze, like that was the last thing she expected anyone to say.
“My nalla, come inside,” Z said in that same quiet tone he’d used on Qhuinn. “Come in here.”
The female actually looked at Blay like she needed a check-in that she was hearing correctly. In response, he simply took her elbow and helped her through the aircraft’s little doorway.
Then he turned away and once again blocked the portal. As sounds of a female weeping openly in relief emanated, he saw Qhuinn draw his hands over his eyes like the male was clearing his own face of tears.
“Holy shit, son, I didn’t know you could fly a plane,” somebody said.
As Qhuinn looked up and appeared to glance across the landscape, Blay did the same. Talk about your post-apocalyptic scenes: There was a gully extending all along the flight path, like the finger of God had drawn a little line right through the garden.
“Actually…I can’t,” Qhuinn mumbled.
V put his hand-rolled between his lips and extended his palm. “You got my Brother home in one piece. Fuck the rest of that shit.”
“Word—”
“Yeah, thanks be to God—”
“Hell, yeah—”
“Amen—”
One by one, the Brotherhood came forward, each putting his dagger hand out. The procession took time, but nobody seemed to worry about the cold.
Blay certainly couldn’t feel it. To the point that he became paranoid….
Reaching into the warmth of his leather jacket, he found his rib cage and pinched himself as hard as he could.
Ow.
Shutting his eyes, he sent up a silent prayer that this was reality…and not the horror that might have been.
* * *
All the attention was making Qhuinn jumpy.
And it wasn’t like his little flight of fancy had been a Zen frickin’ experience. The burn in his face from all that wind, the aches in his shoulders and his back, the wobbly legs—he felt like he was still up there, still praying to nothing he believed existed, still and forever on the verge.
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.
&n
bsp; 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.”
