by J. R. Ward
He, however, was smarter than that: If Wrath was mortally injured, or if that was his body, Xcor was going to need his band of bastards for the second phase of his takeover.
“Retreat,” he barked into his shoulder piece.
He hauled back his combat boot and kicked that downed, mismatched-eyed motherfucker on the ground—to make sure the male stayed where he was.
Then he closed his eyes and forced himself to calm… calm… calm.…
Life and death turned on whether he could get himself into the right frame of mind—
Just as another bullet whizzed by his skull, he felt himself take wings… and fly.
“How we doing back there?”
Tohr yelled out the question as he forced the van into yet another curve in the road. The POS cornered like it was on a coffee table with bad legs, rocking to and fro until even he felt a little nauseous.
Wrath, meanwhile, was playing marble-in-a-jar in the back, the king rolling around and flailing his arms to catch himself.
“Any chance—” Wrath lurched in the other direction and coughed some more. “You can slow… this bus down?”
Tohr looked in the rearview mirror. He’d kept the partition open so he could keep an eye on the king, and in the glow from the dashboard, Wrath was white as a sheet. Except for where the blood stained the skin of his throat. That was red as a cherry.
“No slowing down—sorry.”
If luck was on their side, the Brotherhood was keeping the Band of Bastards fully occupied at the house, but who the fuck knew. And he and Wrath were on the wrong side of the Hudson River with a good twenty minutes of driving in front of them.
And no backup.
And Wrath… shit, he really didn’t look good.
“How you doing?” Tohr called out again.
There was a longer pause at that point. Too long.
Gritting his teeth, he triangulated the distance to Havers’s clinic. Fuck, it was nearly equidistant—so gunning for that facility in the hopes of finding somebody, anybody with medical training wasn’t going to save much time.
From out of nowhere, Lassiter appeared in the passenger seat—right out of thin air.
“You can put your gun down,” the angel said dryly.
Shit, he’d pulled his heat on the guy.
“I’ll take the wheel,” Lassiter ordered. “You deal with him.”
Tohr was out of that seat belt and doing the driver shuffle in a heartbeat, and as the angel took over, it was clear the guy was fully armed. Nice touch. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. And here, let me shed some light on the subject.”
The angel began to glow, but only toward the back. And… goddamn… when Tohr stepped through the partition, what he saw in the golden illumination was death on four hooves coming for the king: Wrath’s breathing was shallow and coming in puffs, his neck cords straining with the effort it was taking him to get oxygen down into his lungs.
That gunshot in the neck was compromising the airway above the Adam’s apple. Hopefully it was just swelling; worst case, he was bleeding from an artery and drowning in his own blood.
“How far from the bridge,” he barked out to Lassiter.
“I can see it.”
Wrath was running out of time. “Don’t slow down. For anything.”
“Got it.”
Tohr knelt beside the king and ripped off his own leather jacket. “I’m going to see if I can help you, my brother—”
The king grabbed his arm. “Don’t… get… panties… in a wad.”
“I’m not wearing any, my lord.” And he was not being paranoid about the danger they were facing. If the king didn’t get some help with the breathing thing, he was going to die before anyone addressed whatever else was wrong.
Snapping into action, he tore open the king’s coat, stripped off the front of the Kevlar vest—and was only mildly reassured to find nothing doing on that big chest. The problem was the neck wound, and yup, closer inspection suggested the bullet was lodged in there somewhere. Christ only knew precisely what was wrong. But he was pretty sure that if he could open up an air access point below the injury, they might have a fighting chance.
“Wrath, I gotta get you breathing. And please, for the love of your shellan, don’t fight me about the trouble you’re in. I need you to work with me, not against me.”
The king fumbled with his hand at his face, eventually finding his wraparounds and shoving them out of the way. As those incredibly beautiful, bright green eyes locked on Tohr’s own, it was as if they worked.
“Tohr? Tohr—” Clicking, desperate clicking as the king tried to draw breath. “Where… you?”
Tohr captured that flapping palm and squeezed it hard. “I’m right here. You’re going to let me help you breathe, okay? Nod for me, my brother.”
When the king did, Tohr shouted up to Lassiter, “Keep it real steady up there until I say so.”
“Hitting the bridge right now.”
At least they had a straightaway.
“Real steady, angel, we clear?”
“Roger that.”
Unsheathing one of his daggers, he put it on the carpeted floor by Wrath’s head. Then he shed his water pack and ripped it apart: Taking the flexible plastic tubing that snaked from the mouthpiece to the bladder, he drew the thing out flat and cut it at both ends; then he blew the water out of the inside.
He leaned down to Wrath. “I’m going to have to cut it into you.”
Shit, the breathing was even worse, nothing but hitches.
Tohr didn’t wait for consent or even acknowledgment. He palmed his knife and, with his left hand, probed the soft, fleshy field between the terminals of the king’s collarbones.
“Brace yourself,” he said hoarsely.
It was a damn shame he couldn’t sterilize the blade, but even if he’d had a bonfire to draw it through, he didn’t have time for the thing to cool down: Those jerking breaths were getting quieter, instead of louder.
With a silent prayer, Tohr did exactly as V had trained him: He pressed the sharp point of his dagger through the skin to the tough tunnel of the esophagus. Another quick prayer… and then he cut deep, but not too deep. Immediately thereafter, he shoved the flexible hollow tubing into the king.
The relief was fast, the air rushing out with a little whistle. And right thereafter, Wrath sucked in a proper breath, and another… and another.
Planting a palm on the floor, Tohr focused on keeping that tube right where it was, sticking out of the front of the king’s throat. When blood started to seep from around the site, he ditched the prop-up routine and pinched the skin around the plastic lifeline, keeping the seal as tight as possible.
Those blind eyes with their pinprick irises found his, and there was gratitude in them, like he’d saved the guy’s life or something.
But they’d have to see about that. Every subtle bump that registered through the van’s suspension made Tohr mental, and they were still too far from home.
“Stay with me,” Tohr murmured. “Stay right here with me.”
As Wrath nodded and closed his eyes, Tohr glanced over at the Kevlar vest. The damn things were designed to protect vital organs, but they were not a home-safe guarantee.
On that note, how the hell had they managed to get the van out of there at all? Surely Xcor’s soldiers would have been manning the garage—those bloodthirsty bastards would have known that that was the only escape route for an injured king.
Somebody must have covered it—no doubt one of the Brothers arriving in the nick of time.
“Can you drive any faster?” Tohr demanded.
“I got the pedal to the metal.” The angel looked back. “And I don’t care what I have to mow over.”
FORTY-TWO
No’One was down in the training center, pushing along a bin full of clean linens to the recovery beds, when it happened again.
The phone rang in the main exam room, and then she heard through the open door Doc Jane talki
ng fast and pointedly… and using the name “Tohr”—
What began as a hesitation turned into a dead stop, her hands tightening on the bin’s metal rim, her heart beating hard as the world tilted wildly, spinning her round and round—
Down at the far end of the hallway, the office’s glass door burst wide and Beth, the queen, skidded into the hallway.
“Jane! Jane!”
The healer stuck her head out of the examination room. “I’m on the phone with Tohr right now. They’re bringing him in right away.”
Beth tore down the corridor, her dark hair streaming out behind her. “I’m ready to feed him.”
It took a moment for the implications to sink in.
Not Tohr, it wasn’t Tohr, not Tohr… Dearest Virgin Scribe, thank you—
But Wrath—not the king!
Time became as a rubber band, stretching endlessly, the passing minutes slowing down to a crawl as people from the household began to arrive—except then suddenly, a terminal extension was reached and snap! everything became a blur.
Doc Jane and the healer Manuel flew out from the examining room, a rolling gurney between them, a black duffel bag with a red cross jangling off the male’s shoulder. Ehlena was right with them, with more equipment in her hands. And so was the queen.
No’One whispered down the hall in their wake, running on the balls of her leather slippers, catching the heavy steel door that led out into the parking lot and squeezing through before it closed. At the curb, a van with blackened windows screeched to a halt, steam curling up from its tailpipe.
Voices—harried and deep—fought for airspace as the vehicle’s rear doors were popped wide and Manuel the healer jumped inside.
Then Tohr got out.
No’One gasped. He was covered with blood, his hands, his chest, his leathers, everything stained red. Except he seemed otherwise all right. It had to be Wrath’s.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, the king—
“Beth! Get in here,” Manuel hollared. “Now.”
After Tohr helped the queen inside, he stood by the open doors with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his bleak stare trained on the treatment of the king. No’One, meanwhile, loitered on the periphery, waiting and praying, her eyes going back and forth from Tohr’s horrible, fixed expression to the dark recesses of the van. All she saw of the king were his boots, tough, thick soled, and black, the tread on them deep enough to make grooves in set concrete—at least when a male as great as he was wearing them.
Would that he would walk tall once again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she was a Chosen, a sacred female who had a line to the Scribe Virgin, some way of approaching the mother of the race for special dispensation. But she was no one like that.
All she could do was wait with the ring of others who had formed by the van.…
There was no way of knowing how long they worked upon the king in that vehicle. Hours. Days. But eventually Ehlena repositioned the gurney as close as possible and Tohr hopped back in the rear.
Wrath was carried forth by his loyal Brother and laid out flat upon the white-sheeted mattress—which would not stay so pure for long, she feared, as she measured the king’s neck: Red was already seeping through layers of gauze at the side.
Time was of the essence—but before they could roll him inside, the great male grabbed onto Tohr’s ruined shirt and then started motioning to his throat. Abruptly he made a fist, and then opened his palm upward as if he were holding something.
Tohr nodded, and looked at the doctors. “You need to try to take the bullet out. We have to have that thing—it’s the only way we’re going to be able to prove who did this.”
“What if it compromises his life?” Manuel asked.
Wrath started shaking his head and pointing again, but the queen overruled him. “Then you will leave it right where it is.” As her mate glared at her, she shrugged. “Sorry, my hellren. I’m sure your Brothers will agree—you need to survive first and foremost.”
“That’s right,” Tohr growled. “The lead is less important—besides, we already know who’s to blame.”
Wrath started working his mouth—except there was no speaking, because… there was a tube sticking out of his throat?
“Good, glad that’s settled,” Tohr muttered. “Have at him, will you?”
The healers nodded and off they all went with the king, the queen staying right with her male, speaking to him in soft, urgent tones as she jogged alongside. Indeed, as they passed through the doors into the training center, Wrath’s eyes, pale green and glowing, were locked, but unfocused, on her face.
She was keeping him alive, No’One thought. That connection between the two of them sustaining him just as much as anything that the physicians were doing.…
Tohr, meanwhile, also stayed with his leader, passing by without even looking at her.
She didn’t blame him. How could he see anything else?
Reentering the corridor, she wondered if she shouldn’t try to get back to work. But no, there was no possibility of that.
She just followed the group down until the whole lot of them, including Tohr, disappeared into the operating room. Not daring to intrude, she tarried outside.
It was not long before she was joined by the rest of the Brotherhood.
Tragically so.
Over the next hour, the horrors of war were all too evident, the risks to life and limb made manifest by the injuries that presented themselves as the Brothers came in from the field at a trickle.
It had been a rabid gunfight. At least, that was what they said to their mates, all of whom gathered to comfort them, anxious faces, horrified eyes, panicked hearts drawing the couples tightly together. The good news was that each and every one of them came home, the males, and the lone female, Payne, all returned safe and got treated.
Only to worry about Wrath.
The last to arrive was among the worst injured but for the king—to the point that at first, she didn’t recognize who it was. The thatch of dark hair and the fact that John Matthew was carrying him informed her it was likely Qhuinn—but one certainly wouldn’t know that going by his face.
He had been beaten severely.
As the male was delivered to the second operating room, she thought of the mangled mess of her leg and prayed that the healing ahead for him, for them all, was nothing like hers had been.
Dawn eventually arrived, but she knew this only because of what the clock on the wall read. Intermittent glimpses of the various dramas were provided when OR doors were opened and closed, and eventually, those treated were released into healing rooms, or permitted to ambulate themselves back to the main house—not that any of them left. They all settled as she did against the concrete walls of the corridor, sitting vigil not just for the king, but for their fellow fighters.
Doggen brought food and drink to those who could eat, and she helped pass trays laden with fruit juices and coffee and tea. She brought pillows to ease strained necks, and blankets to cut the draft on the hard floor, and tissues—not that anyone was crying.
The stoic nature of those males and their mates was a kind of power in and of itself. Yet she knew, in spite of their forbearance, that they were terrified.
Still other members of the household arrived: Layla, the Chosen. Saxton, the lawyer who worked with the king. Rehvenge, who always made her nervous even though he had never been anything but perfectly polite to her. The king’s beloved retriever who wasn’t allowed into the operating room, but was comforted by all and sundry. The black cat, Boo, who snaked around the stretched-out boots, and padded over laps, and was petted in passing.
Late morning.
Afternoon.
Late afternoon.
At five-oh-seven, Doc Jane and her partner, Manuel, finally appeared, removing their masks from their exhausted faces.
“Wrath is doing as well as can be expected,” the female reported. “But given that he was treated in the field, w
e’ve got twenty-four hours of watching for infection ahead of us.”
“You can deal with that, though,” the Brother Rhage spoke up. “Right?”
“We can treat the shit out of it,” Manuel said with a nod. “He’s going to pull through—that tough bastard won’t have it any other way.”
There was an abrupt war cry from the Brotherhood, their respect and adoration and relief so very obvious. And as No’One breathed her own sigh of relief, she realized it was not for the king. It was because she did not want Tohr to sustain any more losses.
This was… good. Thanks be to the Scribe Virgin.
FORTY-THREE
At first, Layla could not comprehend what she was looking at. A face, yes, and one that she supposed she knew by shape. But its composite features were distorted to such an extent that she would not have been able to identify the male had she not known him so well.
“Qhuinn…?” she whispered as she approached the hospital bed.
He had been stitched up, little lines of black thread snaking down his brow and across his cheek, his skin shiny from swelling, his hair as yet matted with dried blood, his breathing shallow.
Looking to the machines over the bed, she heard no alarms ringing, saw nothing flashing. That was good, yes?
She would feel better if he replied to her. “Qhuinn?”
On the bed, his hand turned over and released its tight crunch to reveal his broad, flat palm.
She put her own upon it and felt him squeeze. “So you are in there,” she said roughly.
Another squeeze.
“I need to feed you,” she moaned, feeling his pain as her own. “Please… open your mouth for me. Let me ease you.…”
As he complied, there was a cracking sound, as if the joints of his jaw weren’t working properly.
Scoring her own vein, she carried her wrist to his bruised, parted lips. “Take from me.…”
At first, it was clear he had difficulty swallowing, so she licked one of the puncture marks shut to slow the flow. As he gained momentum, she bit herself once again.
She fed him for as long as he would let her, praying that her strength would become his own, and be transformed into a healing force.
