Lover Unleashed bdb-9

by J. R. Ward

  Pent-up and strangely panicked over nothing he could really point a finger at, he changed into his running gear and hit the elevator. Down in the gym, he nodded at the three other guys who were pumping iron or doing sit-ups, and got on the treadmill he usually used.

  He’d forgotten his damn iPod, but his mind was churning, so it wasn’t like there was silence between his ears. As he fell into his pace, he tried to recall what had happened after he’d taken his shower the night before . . . but he just came up with nothing. No headache, however. Which seemed to suggest his black hole was a natural one, courtesy of the alcohol.

  Through the course of the workout, he had to juice the machine a couple of times—some jackass had obviously tuned the damn thing up and the belt was sluggish. And when he reached the five-mile mark, it dawned on him that he didn’t have a hangover. Then again, maybe he had so much buzzing through his head, he was too distracted to care about any ow-ow-ow.

  When he stepped off the treadmill about fifteen minutes later, he needed a towel and headed for the stack by the exit. One of the lifters got there at the same time, but the guy backed off in deference.

  “You first, man,” he said, holding his hands out in offering.

  “Thanks.”

  As Manny mopped up and headed for the door, he had a moment’s pause as he realized no one was moving: Everybody in the place had stopped whatever he was doing and was staring at him. Quick check downward and he knew he wasn’t suffering from a wardrobe malfunction. What the hell?

  In the elevator, he stretched his legs and his arms and thought, Hell, he could go another ten . . . fifteen miles easy. And in spite of the hooch, he’d had a cracking night’s sleep apparently, because he felt wide-awake and full of energy—but that was endorphins for you. Even when you were falling apart, a running buzz was better than caffeine . . . or sobriety.

  Undoubtedly he was going to crash at some point, but he’d worry about that when the exhaustion hit.

  Half an hour later, he walked into the Starbucks on Everett that he and Goldberg had first met in years ago—only, of course, back then the little café hadn’t been taken over by the chain yet. The guy had been an alum of Columbia and applying for an internship at St. Francis and Manny had been on the recruiting team that had been convened to snag the bastard—Goldberg had been a star, even back then, and Manny had wanted to build the strongest department in the country.

  As he got in line to order a venti latte, he looked around. The place was packed, but Goldberg had already gotten them a table at the window. No surprise there. That surgeon was always early for meetings—he’d likely been here for a good fifteen, twenty minutes. He wasn’t scanning for Manny, though. He was staring into his paper mug as if he were trying to psychically stir his cappuccino.

  Ah . . . he had a message.

  “Manuel?” the guy behind the counter called out.

  Manny accepted what he’d ordered and threaded in and around the caffeine addicts, the displays of mugs and CDs, and the triangled whiteboard that announced specials.

  “Hey,” he said as he took the seat across from Goldberg.

  The other surgeon glanced up. And did a double take. “Ah . . . hey.”

  Manny took a sip of java and eased back in the chair, the curved back rail biting into his spine. “How you been?”

  “I’m . . . good. God, you look fantastic.”

  Manny rubbed his stubbled jaw. What a lie that was. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and he was in a fleece sweatshirt and blue jeans. Hardly pinup material.

  “Let’s cut through the pleasantries.” Manny took another pull on his latte. “What do you have to tell me.”

  Goldberg’s eyes shot off in all kinds of different directions. Until Manny took pity on him.

  “They want me to go on a leave of absence, don’t they.”

  Goldberg cleared his throat. “The hospital board feels that it would be best for . . . everyone.”

  “They asked you to be acting chief, yes?”

  Another throat clearing. “Ah . . .”

  Manny put his mug down. “It’s okay. It’s cool. I’m glad—you’re going to be great.”

  “I’m sorry . . .” Goldberg shook his head. “I . . . This just feels so wrong. But . . . you can always come back, you know, later. Besides, the rest has done you good. I mean, you look—”

  “Fantastic,” Manny said drily. “Uh-huh.”

  That was what people told folks they felt sorry for.

  The pair of them drank their coffees for a while in silence, and Manny wondered if the guy was thinking the same thing he was: Christ, how shit had changed. When they’d first been in this place, Goldberg had been as nervous as he was now, just for such a very different reason. And who’d have predicted that Manny would be getting benched. Back then, he’d been gunning for the top and nothing was going to stop him—or did.

  Which made his reaction to this request from the board a surprise. He actually wasn’t all that upset. He felt . . . unplugged somehow, as if it were happening to someone he’d once known, but had long since lost touch with: Yeah, it was a big deal, but . . . whatever.

  “Well—” The sound of his phone ringing cut him off. And the clue as to what really mattered to him was in the way he scrambled like his fleece had caught fire to get the thing out.

  It wasn’t Payne, however. It was the vet.

  “I have to take this,” he said to Goldberg. “Two secs. Yeah, Doc, how is—” Manny frowned. “Really. Uh-huh. Yeah . . . yeah . . . uh-huh . . .” A slow grin grabbed traction on his face and took over, until he was probably beaming like a headlight. “Yeah. I know, right? It’s a fuckin’ miracle.”

  When he hung up the phone, he looked across the table. Goldberg’s eyebrows were scaling the heights of his forehead.

  “Good news. About my horse.”

  And that pair of brows went even higher. “I didn’t know you had one.”

  “Her name’s Glory. She’s a Thoroughbred.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “I’m into racing.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah.”

  And that was about it for the personal convo. Which gave Manny a sense of how much they talked about work. At the hospital, he and Goldberg had gone for hours talking about patients and staff issues and the running of the department. Now? They didn’t have much to say to each other.

  Still, he was sitting across from a very good man . . . one who was probably going to be the next chief of surgery at St. Francis. The board of directors was going to do a nationwide search, of course, but Goldberg would be chosen, because the other surgeons, who spooked easily and thrived on stability, knew and trusted him. And they should. Goldberg was technically brilliant in the OR, administratively proficient and way more even-tempered than Manny had ever been.

  “You’re going to do a great job,” Manny said.

  “What—oh. It’s just temporary until you . . . you know, come back.”

  The guy seemed to believe it, which was testament to his kind nature. “Yeah.”

  Manny shifted in his chair, and as he recrossed his legs, he glanced around . . . and saw three girls across the way. They were probably eighteen or so, and the instant he made eye contact, they giggled and put their heads together like they were pretending that they hadn’t been staring at him.

  Feeling like he was back in the gym again, he double-checked himself. Nope. Still very much not naked. What the hell—

  When he looked up, one of them had gotten to her feet and come over. “Hi. My friend thinks you’re hot.”

  Um . . . “Ah, thanks.”

  “Here’s her number—”

  “Oh, no—nope.” He took the piece of paper she put on the table and forced it back in her hand. “I’m flattered, but—”

  “She’s eighteen—”

  “And I’m forty-five.”

  At this, the girl’s jaw dropped. “No. Way.”

  “Yes. Way.” He pulled a hand through h
is hair, wondering when he’d decided to channel Gossip Girl or some shit. “And I have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” The chippie smiled. “That’s cool—but ya coulda just said. You don’t have to lie about being an old fart.”

  With that she sauntered off, and as she sat back down, there was a collective groan. And then he got a couple of winks.

  Manny looked over at Goldberg. “Kids. I mean, honestly.”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  Okay, it was time to end this awkwardness. Looking out the window, Manny started to plan his exit—

  In the glass, he saw the reflection of his face. Same high cheekbones. Same square jaw. Same lip-and-nose combo. Same black hair. But there was something different.

  Leaning in, he thought . . . his eyes were . . .

  “Hey,” he said calmly. “I’m going to hit the loo. Will you watch my coffee before we leave?”

  “Of course.” Goldberg smiled in relief, as if he were glad to have both a departure strategy and a job. “Take your time.”

  Manny got up and went over to the single unisex bathroom. After knocking and getting no response, he opened the door, and turned on the light. As he locked himself in and the overhead fan came on, he stepped up to the mirror with its little EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS sign.

  The light was directly over the sink he was in front of. So by all that was right and proper, he should have looked like shit, all holloweyed from exhaustion, with bags you could pack for a week away, and skin the color of hummus.

  That was not what the mirror was showing. Even with the pisspoor fluorescent light shining down on him, he looked ten years younger than he remembered. He was positively glowing with health, like someone had Photoshopped an earlier version of his head onto his current body.

  Stepping back, he stretched his arms out in front of his chest and sank down into a squat, giving his hip an opportunity to stand up and holler. Or his thighs, which he’d run hard less than an hour ago. Or his back.

  No pain. No stiffness. No aches.

  His body was raring to go.

  He thought about what the head vet had said to him just now over the phone, the man’s voice confused and thrilled at the same time: She’s regenerated the bone and the hoof has spontaneously healed itself. It’s as if the injury never occurred at all.

  Holy . . . Christ. What if Payne had worked her magic on him? While they’d been together? Without either of them being aware of it, what if she’d healed his body in terms of time . . . turning the clock back not just months, but a decade or more?

  Manny grabbed the cross that hung from his neck.

  When someone knocked on the door, he flushed the empty toilet and then ran some water to make it sound like he wasn’t doing something skeevy. As he stepped out in a daze, he nodded to the round woman who wanted to get in, and headed back to Goldberg.

  Sitting down, he had to wipe his sweating palms on the knees of his jeans.

  “I have a favor,” he said to his former colleague. “It’s something I wouldn’t ask of anyone else—”

  “Name it. Anything. After all you’ve done for me—”

  “I want you to give me a physical. And take some scans of me.”

  Goldberg immediately nodded. “I wasn’t going to say it, but I think that’s a good idea. The headaches . . . the forgetfulness. You need to find out if there’s an . . . impairment.” The guy stopped there, as if he didn’t want to tee up an argument or get morbid. “Although God, I’m serious . . . I’ve never seen you look so good.”

  Manny snagged his coffee and rose to his feet, his sense of buzzing urgency having nothing to do with caffeine. “Let’s go. If you have the time now?”

  Goldberg was right with him. “For you, I’ll always have time.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Every once in a while, Qhuinn’s death came back to him. It happened in dreams. In rare moments when he was still and quiet. And sometimes just to fuck his head for kicks and giggles.

  He always tried to avoid the collage of sights and smells and sounds like the plague, but though he’d filed for a restraining order with his inner court, opposing counsel was being a little bitch and putting up objections . . . so the shit kept popping up.

  As he lay in his bed now, the foggy stretch of mental landscape that was neither sleep nor waking was like an open line for that horrible night to phone in, and what do you know, it did some dialing, the memories ringing his bells and somehow forcing him to answer.

  His own brother had been part of the honor guard who had come to beat him and the bunch of black-robed bastards had tracked him down at the side of the road as he’d walked away from his family’s mansion for the last time. He’d had the few things he’d owned on his back, and he’d had no idea where he was headed. His father had thrown him out and he’d been struck from the family tree, so . . . there you go. Rootless. Directionless.

  All because of his mismatched eyes.

  The honor guard was just supposed to have beaten him for his offense to the bloodline. They were not supposed to kill him. But shit had gotten out of hand, and in a surprising shift, his brother had tried to stop it.

  Qhuinn really remembered that part. His brother’s voice telling the others to stop.

  It had been too late, however, and Qhuinn had floated away not just from the pain but also from the earth itself . . . only to find himself in a sea of white fog that had parted to reveal a door. Without being told, he’d known it was the entrance to the Fade, and he’d also known that once he opened it he was donzo.

  Which had seemed like a great idea at the time. Nothing to lose and all that . . .

  And yet, he’d balked at the last moment. For a reason he couldn’t remember.

  It was the strangest thing. . . . For all that night was etched in his brain, that was the one piece he couldn’t recall no matter how hard he tried.

  But he remembered slamming back into his own body: As he’d regained consciousness, Blay had been doing CPR on him, and wasn’t that a lip lock worth living for—

  The knock that sounded on his door woke him up fully and he jacked off the pillows, willing the lights on so he was sure he knew where he was.

  Yup. His bedroom. Alone.

  But not for much longer.

  As his adjusting eyes slowly slid over to the door, he knew who was on the other side. He could catch the delicate scent drifting in, and he knew why Layla had come. Hell, maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to truly sleep—he’d expected to be woken up by her at any moment.

  “Come in,” he said softly.

  The Chosen slipped inside silently, and as she turned to him, she looked like hell. Worn-out. A wasteland.

  “Sire . . .”

  “You can call me Qhuinn, you know. Please do, I mean.”

  “Thank you.” She bowed at the waist and seemed to struggle getting herself upright. “I was wondering if I may avail myself once again of your kind offer to . . . take your vein. Verily, I am . . . depleted and unable to render myself back to the Sanctuary.”

  As he met her green stare, something percolated deep in his mind, some kind of . . . realization that took root and put out sprouts of I-almost-got-it, it’s-just-about-to-come.

  Green eyes. Green as grapes and jade and spring buds.

  “Why ever are you looking at me thus?” she said, drawing the lapels of her robe more closely together.

  Green eyes . . . in a face that was . . .

  The Chosen glanced back at the door. “Perhaps . . . I shall just go—”

  “I’m sorry.” Shaking himself, he made sure the covers were at his waist and motioned her over. “Just woke up—don’t mind me.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Abso, come here. Friends, remember?” He held out his hand, and when she got within range, he took her palm and urged her down into a sit.

  “Sire? You’re still staring at me.”

  Qhuinn searched her face and then trolled down her body. Green eyes . . .

 
; So what about the damn eyes? It wasn’t like he’d never seen them before—

  Green eyes . . .

  He swallowed a curse. Christ, this was like having a song in your head that you could remember everything but the words to.

  “Sire?”

  “Qhuinn. Say it, please.”

  “Qhuinn.”

  He smiled a little. “Here, take what you need.”

  As he lifted his wrist, he thought, Man, she was so damned thin, as she bent down and opened her mouth. Her fangs were long and very white, but delicate. Not like his. And her strike was as gentle and ladylike as the rest of her.

  Which the traditionalist in him thought was only proper.

  While she fed, he looked at her blond hair that was twisted into a complex weave, and her spare shoulders, and her pretty hands.

  Green eyes.

  “Christ.” When she made as if to pull out, he put his hand on the back of her neck and kept her at his wrist. “It’s okay. Foot cramp.”

  More like brain cramp.

  In frustration, he lifted his head and, in lieu of hitting the wall with it, rubbed his eyes. When he refocused, he was staring at the door . . .

  . . . Layla had just come through.

  Instantly, he was sucked back into the dream. But not about the beating or his brother. He saw himself standing at the entrance unto the Fade . . . standing in front of the white panels . . . standing with his hand out, about to reach for the knob.

  Reality warped and pulled and went taffy-twisted until he didn’t know whether he was awake or asleep . . . or dead.

  The swirl started to form in the center of the door, as if whatever it had been made of had liquefied to the consistency of milk. And from out of the tornadic center an image coalesced and came forward, more as a sound would carry than as if something visual would take shape.

  It was the face of a young female.

  A young female with blond hair and refined features . . . and pale green eyes.

  She was staring out at him, holding his eyes sure as if she had captured his face in her small, pretty hands.

  Then she blinked. And her irises changed color.

  One became green and the other blue. Just like his.