by J. R. Ward
Great, so the slut was a comedian, and Blay liked his jokes.
Fantastic.
Yup.
On that note, Saxton went up the stairs. Blay, on the other hand, came around the—
Shit. Qhuinn wheeled away and lunged for the door, hands scrambling to get the latch free.
“Hi.”
Qhuinn’s hands stilled. His body stilled. His heart… stilled.
That voice. That soft, deep voice he’d heard nearly all his life.
Straightening his spine, he fucked off the escape idea, turned around, and faced his former best friend like the male he was. “Hi. Have a good night?”
Shit, he wanted to take that one back. As if the guy hadn’t?
“Yes, and you?”
“Yeah. Good. John and I went out. He’s back now, and we’re going to go hit the weight room. He’s getting changed.”
Tough to know whether the lying or the burn in his chest was making him so chatty.
“No Last Meal for you?”
“Nah.”
Cue crickets in the background. The Jeopardy! theme. A nuclear bomb—not that Qhuinn would have noticed even a mushroom cloud at this point.
God, Blay’s eyes were so damned blue. And… holy crap, the two of them were actually alone. When was the last time that had happened?
Oh, yeah. Right after Blay had hooked up with his cousin for the first time.
“So you’ve taken out your piercings,” Blay said.
“Not all of them.”
“Why? I mean… they were always, like, you, you know?”
“Guess I don’t want to be defined that way anymore.”
As Blay’s brows popped, Qhuinn’s kind of wanted to do the same. He’d expected something else to come out of his piehole. Something like, “Meh.” Or, “Whatever.” Or, “I still got ’em where it counts, don’t you worry.”
After which he could honk his package, and snort like he had balls the size of his head.
No wonder Saxton seemed attractive.
“So, yeah…” he said. Then cleared his throat. “So how are things with… you guys?”
Cue second trip to the heavens for those red eyebrows. “I’m good—we’re… ah, good.”
“Good. Ah…”
After a moment, Blay glanced over his shoulder, toward the door into the butler’s pantry. Clearly, it was the beginning of a back-away.
Hey, as you leave, Qhuinn wanted to say, will you do me a favor? I think my left ventricle is on the floor, so don’t step on it as you pull out? Thanks. Great.
“Are you feeling okay?” Blay murmured.
“Yeah. I’m going to go work out with John.” He’d already said that. Fuck. This was a train wreck. “So there you go. Where you headed?”
“I’m going to go… get some food for Sax and myself.”
“No Last Meal for you guys, either. Guess we have that in common.” Someone bust out the pom-poms and cheer for the team. Yay. “So, yeah, enjoy yourself. Selves, I mean—”
Across the foyer, the vestibule door swung wide and John Matthew came in. “Son of a bitch,” Qhuinn muttered. “The bastard is finally back.”
“I thought you said he was—”
“I was covering. For us both.”
“You weren’t together? Wait, you get caught without being with him—”
“It was not my choice. Trust me.”
As Qhuinn beelined for Mr. Independent, Blay was right with him, and John took one look at the pair of them and his ahh-satisfied expression got ghost sure as if someone had booted him in the ass with a nine iron.
“We need to talk,” Qhuinn hissed.
John glanced around like he was looking for a bunker to jump into. Yeah, well, tough balls for him; the foyer was essentially empty of furniture, and the dumb bitch couldn’t jump far enough to reach the dining room.
Qhuinn, I was going to call—
Qhuinn grabbed the guy by the back of the neck and shoved him face-first into the land of pool and popcorn. Just past the threshold, John pushed free and went gunning for the bar. Picking up a bottle of Jack, he ripped the thing open.
“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” Qhuinn jabbed at the tattooed tear that was under his eye. “I’m supposed to be with you every second of the night and day, asshole. I’ve been lying for you for the last forty minutes—”
“It’s true. He has.”
As Blay spoke up from behind, it was a surprise. And kind of nice.
I went to see Xhex, okay. Right now, she’s my priority.
Qhuinn threw up his hands. “Great. So when V is stabbing my pink slip into my chest, you can still feel good about yourself. Thanks.”
“John, you can’t light-head stuff like this.” Blay went around and grabbed a glass, like he was afraid their buddy was going to suck the bottle down whole. “Give me that.”
He took the booze, poured a healthy dose, and…
Drank it himself.
“What,” he muttered as he got stared at. “Here, take it back if you want.”
John took a swig and then stared into space. After a moment, he shoved the Jack in Qhuinn’s direction.
Rolling his eyes, Qhuinn muttered, “At least this is the kind of apology I’ll accept.”
As he took the bottle, it dawned on him that it had been ages since the three of them had been together. Back before their transitions, they’d spent every night after training in Blay’s old room at the guy’s parents’ house, pissing away the hours playing video games and drinking beer and talking about the future.
And now that they were finally where they’d wanted to be? Everyone was going in a different direction.
Then again, John was right. The guy was properly mated now, so of course his focus was somewhere else. And Blay was having a rockin’ good time with Saxton the Slut.
Qhuinn was the only one pining for the GODs.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered to John. “Let’s just forget it—”
“No,” Blay cut in. “This is not okay. You cut the shit, John—you let him come with you. I don’t care if you’re going to be with Xhex or not. You owe this to him.”
Qhuinn stopped breathing, focusing everything he had on the male who had been his best friend and his never-been lover… and the ever-after that was never going to happen.
Even after all the things that had gone on between them, and all the fuckups on his end, which were legendary, Blay still had his back.
“I love you,” Qhuinn blurted into the silence.
John lifted up his hands and signed, I love you, too. And I’m really fucking sorry. This thing with Xhex and I has…
Blah, blah, blah. Or, Blah, blah, blah, as the case was with the ASL.
Qhuinn wasn’t hearing a thing. As John went on and on, explaining his sitch, Qhuinn was tempted to interrupt and cop to not just what he’d said, but who he’d said it to. Except all he could think of was Blay coming in with Sax, and that f-in’ blush.
It took everything he had in him to look at John and squeeze out, “We can work it out, all right? Just let me follow you—I won’t look, I promise.”
John was signing something. Qhuinn was nodding. Then Blay started pulling away, taking a step back and then another and then a third.
More conversation. Blay talking.
And then the male turned and strode out. To get food. To go up to Saxton.
A low whistle made him shake himself and focus on John.
“Yeah. Sure.”
John frowned. You want to have a parking ticket stapled to your forehead?
“What?”
Sorry, I had a feeling you weren’t tracking. Guess I was right.
Qhuinn shrugged. “Look at it this way, I don’t feel like coldcocking you anymore.”
Oh, good. Bonus. But Blay is right. I won’t do this again.
“Thanks, man.”
Drink?
“Yeah. Good idea. Great one.” He headed around the bar. “Matter of fact, I’ll get my own bott
le.”
NINETEEN
“She’s dead.”
At the sound of the male voice, Lassiter looked over his shoulder. Across his bedroom, Tohr was standing in the doorway, holding himself up by the jambs.
Lassiter put down the fleece he’d been packing. The suitcase routine wasn’t because he could take any of his shit with him, but rather, because it seemed only fair to get his stuff in order for the summoning that was coming: After he got sucked back into the In Between, the staff was going to have to ditch the clothes he’d worn and the few things he’d collected.
The Brother entered and shut them in together.
“She’s dead.” He limped over and sat on the chaise lounge. “There, I said it.”
Lassiter lowered his ass down on the bed and stared at the guy. “And you think that’s enough.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
He had to laugh. “Please. If I were running this show, you’d have had her back down here months ago and I’d be long fucking gone.”
Tohr laughed a little in surprise.
“Aw, come on, my man,” Lassiter muttered. “I don’t want to screw you. You’re too flat chested, for one thing—I’m a boob man. And for another, you’re a good guy. You deserve better than this.”
Now Tohr looked downright shocked.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lassiter got up and went back to the open drawers of the dresser. Pulling out a pair of leathers, he messed them up, and then folded them again.
Futzing around with his hands was supposed to help his brain focus. Didn’t work all that well, though. Maybe he should just slam his head into the wall.
“Going somewhere?” the Brother asked after a while.
“Yeah.”
“Giving up on me?”
“I told you. I don’t make the rules here. I’m going to get pulled out, and it’s going to be sooner rather than later.”
“Pulled out to where?”
“Where I was.” He shuddered, even though it was a pussy move. But an eternity of isolation was hell for a guy like him. “It’s not a trip I’m looking forward to making.”
“Would you be going where… Wellsie is?”
“I told you, everyone’s In Between is different.”
Tohr put his head in his hands. “I can’t just turn myself off. She was my life. How the hell do I—”
“You can start by not trying to castrate yourself with a fist when you get a hard-on for another female.”
When the Brother didn’t say anything, Lassiter had a feeling the guy had teared up. And yeah, wow, didn’t that make things awkward. God. Damn.
Lassiter shook his head. “I’m the wrong angel for this job, for real.”
“I never cheated on her.” Tohr inhaled sharply through his nose, the sniff entirely manly, as sniffles went. “Other males… even bonded ones, I mean, they look at females from time to time. Maybe they screw around a little on the side. Not me. She wasn’t perfect, but she was more than enough to keep me satisfied. Hell, when Wrath needed someone to keep an eye on Beth back before they were mated? He sent me. He knew I wouldn’t come on to her, not just out of respect for him, but because I wasn’t going to be interested in the slightest. I have literally never had an instant when I thought of anyone else.”
“You did tonight.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Well, at least he copped to it. “Which is why I’m about to take my one-way trip to Never-coming-back Land. And your shellan is staying where she is.”
Tohr rubbed the center of his chest like it hurt. “Are you sure I didn’t die and go to this In Between already? Because this sure as shit feels like what you’ve described. Suffering but not Dhund.”
“I don’t know. Maybe some people aren’t aware they’re in it—but my directive was clear as a bell, and it was all about you letting go so she could move on.”
Tohr dropped his hands like he was so done with the world. “I never thought there was going to be something worse than her dying. I couldn’t fathom any course of events that would hurt more.” He cursed. “I should have known that fate is sadistic as well as endlessly inventive. Imagine—my fucking some female gets the one I love into the Fade. Fabulous equation. Just frickin’ fantastic.”
That wasn’t the half of it, Lassiter thought. But why bring it up now.
“I have to know something,” the Brother said. “As an angel, do you believe that certain people are cursed from the start? That some lives are just doomed right out of the box?”
“I think…” Shit, he didn’t go this deep. This was not him. “I—ah, I think that life runs on a set of odds that are spread out over the heads of every living, breathing bastard on the planet. Chance is unfair by definition, and random.”
“So what about this Creator of yours? Doesn’t He play a role?”
“Ours,” he muttered. “And I don’t know. I don’t put much stock in anything.”
“An angel who’s an atheist?”
Lassiter laughed a little. “Maybe that’s why I keep getting into trouble.”
“Nah. That part’s because you can be a real asshole.”
They both chuckled. Then sat in silence.
“So what’s it going to take?” Tohr asked. “Honestly, what the hell is destiny going to want from me now?”
“The same as any endeavor. Blood, sweat, and tears.”
“That’s it,” Tohr said dryly. “And here I was thinking it could just be an arm or a leg.”
When Lassiter didn’t reply, the Brother shook his head. “Listen, you gotta stay. You have to help me.”
“It’s not working.”
“I’ll try harder. Please.”
After an eternity, Lassiter felt his head nod. “Okay. Fine. I will.”
Tohr exhaled long and slow, like he was relieved. Showed what he knew; they were all still in trouble.
“You know,” the Brother said, “I didn’t like you when I first met you. I’ve thought you were a jackass.”
“The feeling was mutual. Although not the jackass part—and it wasn’t personal. I don’t like anyone, and as I said, I don’t really believe in anything.”
“Even though you’re staying to help me?”
“I don’t know… I guess I just want what your shellan does.” He shrugged. “End of the day, the quick and the dead are the same. Everyone’s just looking for home. Plus… I don’t know, you’re not so bad.”
Tohr went back to his own room sometime later. When he got to his door, he found his crutch propped against the panels.
No’One had returned it to him. After he’d left it behind on the Other Side.
Picking the thing up, he went into his room… and half expected to find her naked on his bed, ready for some sex. Which was completely ridiculous—on too many levels to count.
Parking himself on the chaise lounge, he stared at the gown that Lassiter had handled so roughly. The fine satin was bunched up in waves, the disorder creating a wonderful, shimmering display over on the bed.
“My beloved is dead,” he said out loud.
As the sound of the words faded, something was suddenly, stupidly clear: Wellesandra, blooded daughter of Relix, was never filling out that bodice again. She was never going to put the skirting over her head and wriggle into the corset, or free the ends of her hair from the lace-ups in the back. She wasn’t going to look for matching shoes, or get pissed off because she sneezed right after she put her mascara on, or worry about whether she was going to spill on the skirting.
She was… dead.
How ironic. He’d been mourning her this whole time, and yet somehow missing the point that was most obvious. She was not coming back. Ever.
Getting up, he went across and gently gathered up the dress. The skirting refused to obey, slipping out of his hands and jumping back down to the floor—doing what it wanted and taking control of the situation.
Just as his Wellsie had always done.
When he had a moderate hand
le on everything, he carried the gown over to the closet, opened the double doors, and hung the glorious weight on the brass rod.
Crap. He was going to see it every time he went in here.
Pulling it free, he shifted it over to the other side, so it was in the darkness behind the two suits that he never wore and the ties that had been bought for him not by his mate, but by Fritz.
And then he closed the closet up tight.
Back at the bed, he lay down and shut his eyes.
Moving on didn’t have to involve sex, he told himself. It just didn’t. Accepting the death, letting her go to save her, that he could do without the benefit of… any kind of naked-female thing. After all, what was he going to do? Head out into the alleys, find a whore, and fuck her? That was a bodily function like breathing. Hard to see how that was going to help.
Lying still, he tried to picture doves being released from cages, and waters bursting from dams, and wind blowing through trees, and…
Fucking hell. It was like the insides of his eyelids were playing the goddamn Discovery Channel.
But then just as he was drifting off, the images changed, shifting to water, lazy blue-green water that had no current. Calm. Warm water. With humid air all around.…
He wasn’t sure exactly when he fell asleep, but the image turned into a dream that started with a pale arm, a lovely pale arm floating on the water, the lazy blue-green water that had no current. Calm. Warm—
It was his Wellsie in the pool. His beautiful Wellsie, her breasts peaked as she floated, her tight stomach and flaring hips and bare sex licked with wetness.
In the dream, he saw himself breaching the pool, walking down short steps, the water getting into his clothes—
Abruptly, he stopped and looked at his chest.
His daggers were strapped on. His guns under his arms. His ammo belt locked on his hips.
What the hell was he doing? This shit got wet and it was useless—
That wasn’t Wellsie.
Holy shit, that was not his shellan.…
With a shout, Tohr jacked upright, ripping free of the dream. Slapping his hands on his thighs, he expected to find wet leather. But no, none of it had been real.
His arousal was back, however. And a thought he refused to give credence to surfaced and stank in the back of his mind.
