B00T3PMJTS EBOK

by Tracy Tappan

  Thomal came to his feet, keeping a careful eye on the oversized Vârcolac. Where was a horse tranquilizer when a guy needed it? “My mate’s in surgery, so I’m—”

  “Pändra’s not your mate,” Nỵko snapped. “You heard what she said in the van on the way back from the mission. She’s a blood source to you. That’s it. So don’t you call Pändra a mate. Not till you’ve earned it.” Nỵko closed in on Thomal with several clipped strides and stopped nose to nose in front of him. Like in, literally, Nỵko’s nose touched his. “You hear me?”

  The flow of Thomal’s blood sped up, aggression sizzling in his veins, priming him for violence. Stupid, stupid. Nỵko outweighed him by at least the body weight of two extra warriors and his fists were each as large as Thomal’s head. He was likewise pumped up with Royal Fey blood and his every cell probably felt covered in cactus prickles. Best response would be to treat Nỵko like a wounded bull on steroid overdose: with caution and probably a prudent spoonful of fear. Buuuut…

  Worry had Thomal too hosed up right now to act wise and careful about anyone trying to hand him more bullshit. He stepped back, not in retreat, but to better clash eyes with Nỵko’s. “I appreciate the heads-up, brother, but last I checked, my marriage wasn’t any of your fucking concern.”

  Nỵko snarled, the noise making it sound like his Rău was jonesing for some flesh to munch. “I almost died saving Pändra. So I’m not letting your critical, unfeeling face be the first thing she sees when she wakes up. I’m not letting you”—he rammed his index finger into Thomal’s chest—“hurt her anymore.”

  Thomal snatched up Nỵko’s finger and bent it backward. Anybody else’s finger would’ve had the decency to break. Nỵko merely took his hand back and squared off for a punch, his eyes alive with fury.

  Thomal angled his body sideways and flexed his shoulder muscles in readiness, his weight poised on the balls of his feet. Bring it, you jumbo-sized bitch. Coldness gathered inside him.

  “Hey guys, what’s up?” Dev was standing in the doorway that led from the waiting room into the hospital’s main hallway, a hand still propping open one side of the swinging double doors. The man wasn’t fooling anyone with his casual tone. He knew exactly what was going down.

  Nỵko sniffed. “Only helping Thomal find the door. Deadbeat husbands who never do anything for their wives aren’t allowed to occupy this waiting area.”

  Heat rose from Thomal’s neck to his hairline. Rage split his head. “You did not just say that. You know I couldn’t go into the Hell Tunnels after my mate, but I gave you—”

  Nỵko threw a backhand blow, his bowling-ball-sized knuckles catching Thomal high on the face in a shock of ripping pain. The room went white as his chin snapped toward the ceiling, the skin along his cheekbone splitting open. Before he knew how he’d gotten there, he was sprawled on his hands and knees, Ferris wheels and tea cups spinning colorfully at the corners of his vision. He shook his head. Ow!

  Nỵko’s huge feet bulged on the linoleum floor at the corner of Thomal’s vision, carnival fun house feet. “What did I say about calling Pändra your mate?”

  Dev stepped into the waiting room. The door shushed once then vacuum-sealed shut. “Nỵko,” he said quietly. “C’mon, man. You’re not yourself right now.”

  A steady rivulet of blood poured off the cut on Thomal’s face and gathered on the linoleum. His fangs came down. Absurdly, he had the urge to squish his hands into the red pool and finger paint around with it. There was just so damned much of it.

  Nỵko’s clown feet angled toward Dev. “Somebody’s got to talk some sense into him, Dev, and you sure as heck aren’t doing it.” Nỵko made a disgusted huh sound. “You’ve watched how Pändra has worked for Thomal’s forgiveness. You know she’s earned a second chance from him. She almost died saving Beth, for God’s sake—Faith, too! But you’ve let Thomal treat Pändra like dirt. Do you think keeping your mouth shut for the last eight months has done Thomal any favors, Dev? You think that’s being a friend?” Before Dev could answer, Nỵko pivoted toward Thomal again and grabbed him by the back of the neck, hauling him to his feet.

  Thomal staggered a couple of paces before righting himself, then yanked out of Nỵko’s hold. “I’ve had just about enough of your shit, Nỵko.”

  “Too bad. More’s coming.” Nỵko fixed him with a baleful glare. “First and foremost, you’re a coward.”

  What little remained of Thomal’s good sense went the way of the dinosaur. “Excuse me?” His voice came from some dark, evil place. “What did you call me?”

  “Ah, crap,” Dev murmured.

  Ferocity boiled up in Thomal, uncontrolled, his pride short-circuiting important safety mechanisms in his brain as he bore down on Nỵko.

  Another backhand lashed out.

  Thomal blocked the punch, but, hell, that blow had been the decoy. The anvil that was Nỵko’s other fist slammed up under his chin in an excruciating uppercut.

  Air roared through Thomal’s ears as he toppled backward off his heels and met the floor with a near rib-cracking jolt. His mouth hung open. He stared mindlessly for a technical knockout count of eight, watching blue cartoon birdies do laps in front of his eyes. Tweety Bird’s, I tought I taw a putty cat, wonged through his ears.

  Nỵko stepped up to his side, looming over his supine form like heavy metal’s biggest and worst.

  Dev maintained his position by the door.

  Just gonna stand there, are you?

  Here was a man who knew how to employ caution when it was warranted. Probably the reason Dev had been promoted into leadership while Thomal remained a lowly swabby. But then again, Thomal had never known his friend to back down from a fight, no matter how big or crazy the opponent, so maybe Dev’s non-movement wasn’t a sign of caution so much as an indication that Dev was taking Nỵko’s lecture to heart and getting on board with the gotta-smack-some-sense-into-Thomal plan.

  Jagoff traitor.

  Thomal probed the inside of his sore cheek was his tongue. What to do, what to do? Too bad backing down wasn’t his style. No. Foolish feats of self-destruction apparently were. He laughed up from the floor. Maybe it was a cackle. Whatever it was, it sounded insane. “Thanks, Nỵko. I think you cured my TMJ.” He rolled onto his hands and knees, then took in a strengthening breath to keep himself from just sagging there. His eyeballs were doing some serious Chutes and Ladders inside his skull. He pushed to his feet. The room rolled sideways. Fun! “But, hey, I’m thinking before you get all righteous with your fists again, maybe you should consider this about the whole coward thing.” He narrowed his eyes, even though it hurt his cheek to do that. “It takes one to know one, brother. You forgettin’ there’s another woman in this hospital who went into Oţărât to escape a man who’s been a complete chump to her. Gee, I wonder who she is? Oh, yeah, it’s Faith.”

  Nỵko’s face reddened. Not any sort of red, but ripe plum red, raw meat red. Say-your-prayers red.

  Sighing expansively, Dev glanced over his shoulder, probably confirming that the emergency call button was still on the wall by the double doors.

  Thomal dug his heels in. This time he wasn’t worshiping the linoleum when Nỵko struck out.

  “You know what? You’re right,” Nỵko said, his voice weirdly calm.

  Confusion and surprise pressed in on Thomal’s temples. What’s this? No hitting? Couldn’t be. He’d probably passed out, after all.

  “I made all the wrong decisions about Faith,” Nỵko admitted. “But at least I made them, Thomal. Me, myself. You hate Pändra because Arc does. It’s the only reason, I think, because I’ve watched you watch her, and I get the sense that deep-down you’ve wanted to forgive her. But you didn’t, you don’t, because you’re too weak to defy your big brother. A coward, like I said, and it’s pathetic.”

  Scorching anger struck Thomal’s body like a lightning blast. He gave his nostrils a warning flare. “I’d rethink pissing in my Wheaties anymore, if I were you.” Or I’ll smash my face
into your knuckles some more. “You didn’t see what your half-Rău pal did to my brother. But I’m reasonably sure you do see how badly it’s screwed up Arc.”

  “That stuff is between Arc and Pändra,” Nỵko said. “It’s for them to work out. Stop letting it affect your relationship with her, Thomal. Get out from under Arc’s shadow. You’ve been living there for way too many years.”

  The accusation slammed into Thomal. Years?! He glanced over at Dev. His friend’s eyes dipped down. It was a stab in the heart.

  Nỵko shook his head, looking disgusted down to his very core. “Sack up and be your own man, will you? For once.”

  Thomal stood in place, mute and stiff as he tried to keep his anger churning so that the truth of Nỵko’s words couldn’t get in and hurt him. Didn’t work, entirely. He gritted his fangs against his bottom teeth. A humming sound invaded his head, and his body began to shake so hard, his vision bounced. Blood coated the side of his face and neck, slipping down to his shoulder and upper chest.

  Turning abruptly, he walked out of the hospital’s main entrance on numb feet.

  Chapter Forty

  First thing Thomal did when he returned to his Oslo bedroom in the mansion was throw up. Hanging over the rim of the toilet, he fed the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl, then dry-heaved a few more times as visions of the confrontation he’d just had with Nỵko swam around in his mind. Not the violent part. Fuck that! It was the shit about Thomal and Arc.

  You’re too weak to defy your big brother.

  Get out from under Arc’s shadow. You’ve been living there for way too many years.

  A lot of what Nỵko had said felt unpleasantly right—right: what a screwed concept. But something wasn’t fitting…or maybe missing, like a secret he and Arc had both conspired to maintain. Thomal had no idea what, though.

  Wiping a wrist across his mouth, Thomal hefted himself up from the toilet and got in the shower, weary beyond description. Sex club antics, followed by the Om Rău breach, insane worry over his wife when she’d been carried off by Jøsnic, the strident clang of his radar, more insane worry about Pändra when she’d shown up barely alive back in Ţărână, Nỵko beating some sense into him, and then being gutted by Nỵko’s accusations—it all might’ve, oh, stressed him out a bit. Head bowed, hands braced on either side of the shower handle, he let hot water sluice over him.

  Before Dad died, he made me promise to look after you.

  You’ve always had to work twice as hard as the other men for half the results, Thomal. Frankly, I’ve never agreed with your decision to go into the Warrior Class.

  I hate losing. You may be used to it, but I sure the fuck am not.

  Thomal’s head sagged deeper between his shoulder blades, water flooding his eyelashes. What had he been doing all these years? Did he even know who he was…who he wanted to be…who he was supposed to be? Had he been living the wrong life this whole time and that’s why he felt so pissed off? Cranking the shower hotter, Thomal squeezed his eyes until spots littered the backs of his lids. There were just too many possible boned-up answers to those questions for him to think about it right now.

  He concentrated on returning his appearance to normal, using the special soap Pändra had given him to scrub all the ridiculous shit off himself: the scorpion tattoo on his neck, the dye from his hair, and his paint shirt. The soap smelled vaguely of acetone, and by the time he was done, he stank like a damned nail salon.

  His wet feet slapped the tile floor as he stepped in front of the bathroom mirror. Normal? Riiiight. His golden boy appeal was gone for now, hidden beneath a leather mask of tension and confused hurt. His eyes looked like they’d been plucked out, rolled around in red glitter, then re-inserted into their sockets; like he’d been crying on the inside and it was bleeding out. A bizarre and uncomfortable thought. The cut on his cheekbone was still oozing blood. He opened his medicine cabinet, pulled out bandages, and butterflied the skin closed. He’d have a beaut of a bruise tomorrow. If he was lucky, the injury would turn into another scar: a daily reminder in the mirror about what a no-load he’d been these past eight months.

  You’ve watched how Pändra has worked for Thomal’s forgiveness. You know she’s earned a second chance from him.

  Dammit, he was a coward. He grimaced. Fuck, but he hated that word.

  He toweled off, and dressed in blue jeans, a green T-shirt, and Adidas running shoes, then grabbed his art pad and pencils out of his satchel, taking a seat at his desk. No more escaping, no more avoidance. He was going to pour everything in him out onto the page. Be real…or be whoever ended up on the sheet of paper. Maybe figure some shit out.

  An hour into the drawing, the realization hit him. Hard, like something between a bear trampling and an avalanche. He staggered to his feet, his stomach roiling with nausea again. Chucking his art pad on the desk, he took off at a run for his brother’s house.

  Barging inside without knocking, he stormed through the living room and found Arc and Beth in the kitchen.

  “I’m a dunce,” he panted, his lungs making tight grabs for air. “It took me nearly a year to figure this out, but I get it now, you know. It’s finally in my head”—he jabbed two fingers at his temple—“who you’re really angry with, Arc. Maybe I was too consumed by guilt before to see the truth, but now it’s clear as a full moon. I mean you have every right to be pissed as hell at Pändra. I’m not saying you don’t. I saw what she did to you, too.”

  Arc’s expression blackened. “Go upstairs Beth,” he said, his voice low and tight, sounding all kinds of full of suppressed violence.

  “Why?” Thomal bit out. “So you can keep your wife locked in more of your cold silence. You’ve told her exactly Jack and shit about what happened, haven’t you?”

  Arc leveled a heavy stare at him.

  White-faced, Beth left.

  Thomal sucked in a breath. “Let’s not pussyfoot around this thing anymore. The person you’re really enraged with is me.” He paced away a couple of feet, running a hand over his hair. “Nỵko told me I’ve been living in your shadow, and damn the hell out of me if it isn’t true. I just realized that I’ve done a real number on myself all these years, letting my insecurities about you and Dad rule me. You were always Dad’s favorite.” A weird grief clogged his throat. “His pride and fucking joy. And on some unspoken level I think you and Dad both agreed you were better than me. You had to look out for me, right? You were stronger. You were the tougher fighter than your silly doofus of an artist little brother. I’ve lived with doubts about myself my whole life because of that.”

  He braced his hands on his hips. “But, here’s something, Arc. When Jaċken created the Special Ops Topside Team—an elite military unit—he chose me to man it, didn’t he? Not you. And all that shit you said about me getting hurt all the time? I don’t lack talent, Arc. I go balls to the wall with everything I do.” He shook his head. “That night in the hotel with Mürk and Pändra, I saved your life. For the first time ever, I saved your life, big brother, and I think deep-down in a place you’re ashamed of, you hate me for it.”

  A muscle jumped in Arc’s face.

  “All this time,” Thomal forged on. “I thought I was feeling guilty because I didn’t kill Pändra when I had the chance. It made all my doubts about my choice to become a warrior rise up and bite my ass. But now I realize that this is what I’ve been feeling guilty about.” And if he was a poet, maybe he could appreciate the wretched irony of sacrificing himself to a loveless marriage so that Arc could go home to his wife and kids and have a long and happy life…only to have that very sacrifice be the thing that destroyed his brother. But Thomal wasn’t feeling particularly poetic at the moment. “And here’s another thing. Pändra didn’t deserve to die. There’s a lot of goodness in her—even that night I picked up on it. Look how far she’s come over the last months. While you and I remain the Last Angry Men. Well, I’m done. I want my marriage. And until you can get your negativity under control and stop giving
my mate the stink-eye, I want you out of my life.”

  The skin over Arc’s cheekbones flared red while the rest of his face went pale. “Don’t,” he said through tight lips.

  Thomal inhaled a shallow breath as pain drilled into his chest, coagulated, then dropped like a lead blob into his stomach, kept going and sagged into his legs. His knees went oddly nerveless. The relationship he’d always thought he’d had with his brother was gone. The support, camaraderie, the solid foundation they’d always shared as the almighty Costache brothers, two against the world, had only ever been a wax statue. Put under the extreme heat of intense scrutiny, it’d melted. What had they ever really been?

  Thomal braced a hand on the kitchen island before he fell down. “You’re not a bad man,” he said in a raspy voice. “The things you’ve said to me…I know you didn’t mean to hurt me on purpose. You just couldn’t stand to have the image of yourself as the better man destroyed, and…and that’s not your fault, either. Dad planted the idea in you.”

  Thomal licked his lips. “You also didn’t fail me the night with Pändra by not saving me, okay? Now that I’m seeing things more clearly, I’m grateful Pändra came into my life. Because if she hadn’t, I never would’ve figured out that I’ve been living a lie.” Thomal’s voice dropped lower, became more scratchy. “I love you, Arc, but I need to figure out who I am.” Be your own man, will you? For once. Could he be the warrior who also painted? Well, why the fuck not? “And I’m sorry, but that means I need to get some space from you for a while.”

  He couldn’t bear to see any more of his brother’s reactions to what he was saying. There was a good chance he’d waver. So he just turned around and walked out the door, gripping the handrail as he picked his way down the front steps, moving like he was one hundred fifty years old. He paused at the bottom, pulling a hand down his face. It’d been one helluva last twelve hours. If he had anything left in his stomach, he probably would’ve fertilized the fake plants at the bottom of Arc’s porch steps.