by J. R. Ward
Besides, she could always catch the guy on the exit. Chances were good he’d come in through the back, and would leave the same way: He was cagey, and his visit was not about the frickin’ art.
Good thing, too, as it was difficult to see Q-tips glued to a Tupperware bowl mounted on a toilet seat as anything other than trash.
Heading deeper into the building, she slipped through a staff-only door and found herself in a concrete-floored, concrete-walled warehouse space that smelled like chalk dust and crayons. Up above, caged fluorescent lights were set into the high, unhung ceiling, and exposed ductwork and electricals burrowed through joists like moles in a lawn. Desks were set back, and file cabinets were out to the sides, the center of the space remaining clear, as if large installations were regularly rolled in from the rear alleyway.
The double doors straight ahead were made of steel and had security alarm contacts on them—
“May I help you.”
Not an inquiry.
She turned around.
One of the bouncers had followed her inside, and he was standing with his feet spread and his blazer open like he had a gun in there.
Rolling her eyes, she waved a hand and put him in a temporary trance. Then, placing a thought in his mind that there was nothing unusual going on, she sent him back to his post—where he would relate to his big-ass buddy that, in fact, there was nothing unusual going on.
Not exactly rocket science with these Homo sapiens. But just to be on the safe side, she fritzed out the security cameras as she went toward the back doors. Shit. One look at the way the steel panels were wired and she decided not to push on through and risk an incident involving the police.
If she wanted to be in the alley, she was going to have to work for it.
With a curse, she headed back for the party. It took her a good ten minutes to weed her way through all the denizens of questionable taste and undeniable ego, and as soon as she was out in the night air, she dematerialized up to the roof and walked to the far side.
Assail’s car was parked down in the alley below, facing out.
And she wasn’t the only one looking at it.…
Holy… crap…
Xcor was in the shadows, waiting for the male as well.
Had to be him—whoever it was had a lockdown on his inner core to such a degree, there was little superstructure to be read: By habit or by trauma, or likely some of both, the three dimensions had shrunken in on each other until they formed such a gnarled, tight mass, it was impossible for her to get a bead on any emotion whatsoever.
Man, she’d seen imprints like this from time to time. They usually meant real trouble, as the individual was capable of anything.
For example, you’d need precisely this kind of knotted center to have the balls to make a run at the king.
This was her target. She knew it.
And now that she had locked into that mangled grid, she backed off, dematerializing to the roof of a tall building a block away. She didn’t want to spook the son of a bitch by getting too close, and from here, she still had an adequate sight line to the Jag.
Shit, if only her radar had greater reach: She could go maybe a mile with her symphath side, but that was pushing it, her instincts strong, just short-range. So if he dematerialized a great distance away? She was going to lose him.…
As she waited, she wondered once again about Xcor’s connection to Assail. Unfortunately for that aristocrat, if he was funding the insurrection, even indirectly, he was going to find himself in the crosshairs.
Not a good place to be.
About a half hour later, Assail emerged from the gallery’s ass and looked around.
He knew the other male was there… and he addressed some sort of comment to precisely where Xcor stood.
The cold breeze and ambient noise of the city killed the sound track of whatever exchange occurred between the pair, but she didn’t need dubbing to get the gist: Assail’s emotions shifted around until she had to approve of the dislike and mistrust he felt toward whoever he was talking to. The closed-up male, naturally, gave nothing away.
And then Assail took off. And so did the other grid.
She trailed the latter.
Like so many things in life, in retrospect, what happened to Autumn around eleven o’clock that evening made sense. The clues had been there for months, but as was rather often the case, when you were going about your life, you misinterpreted the guideposts, misread the compass needle’s position, mistook one thing for another.
Until you were at a destination that was nothing you would ever have chosen, and not something you could get away from.
She was down in the training center, taking out a pile of hot sheets from the dryer, when the storm hit.
Later, much later, a lifetime later, she would remember with clarity the feel of that soft heat against her torso, the warmth burrowing into her gut and making sweat break out on her forehead.
She would remember forever turning to the side and putting the fluffy white sheets on the counter.
Because when she stepped back, her needing hit for the second time in her life.
At first, it just felt as though she were still holding on to the sheets, the warmth remaining with her, along with a weight upon her belly sure as though she was as yet carrying the load.
As perspiration dripped down the side of her face, she glanced over at the thermostat on the wall, thinking that it was malfunctioning or set too high. But no, it read seventy degrees.
With a frown, she looked down at herself. Although she wore naught but a T-shirt and a pair of what they called “yoga” pants, it was as though she had on the parka she wore out with Xhex—
A curling cramp gripped her lower abdomen, fisting up around her womb, her legs wobbling until she had no choice but to allow herself to go down onto the floor. And this was a good thing, at least temporarily. The concrete was cold and she stretched out on it—until the next big crunch grabbed hold of her.
Pressing her hands into her pelvis, she balled up and strained, throwing her head back as she tried to escape whatever had o’ertaken her body.
And then it started.
Her sex, which had been throbbing a bit ever since Tohr and she had been together for those rough, intense matings before he’d left, gained its own proper heartbeat, the core of her begging for the only thing that would give it relief.
A male—
The sexual craving hit her so viciously, she couldn’t have stood if she’d had to, couldn’t have thought of aught else had she chosen to, couldn’t have spoken intelligible words had she wanted to.
This was so much worse than it had been with the symphath.
And this was her fault… this was all her fault…
She hadn’t been going over to the Sanctuary. It had been… Dearest Virgin Scribe, it had been months since she had tarried at the Far Side to regulate her cycle. Indeed, there had been no need to refresh herself for blood, because Tohr had been feeding her, and she hadn’t wanted to miss even a moment with him.
She should have known this was coming—
Gritting her teeth, she panted hard through another peak. Then, just as it relented and she was about to yell for help, the door was thrown wide.
Dr. Manello stopped short, his face a mask of confusion. “What the—”
He sagged against the doorjamb, and abruptly covered the front of his hips with his hands. “Are you okay—”
As the craving crescendoed again, she caught a fleeting image of him going loose where he stood, but then her lids clamped down and her jaw locked and she was momentarily lost.
From a distance, she heard him say, “Let me get Jane.”
Seeking more of the cold floor, Autumn rolled over onto her back, but as her knees wouldn’t unhinge, she didn’t have enough surface contact. Back to the side. Then over onto her stomach, even though her legs wanted to recurl against her chest.
Pushing down with her hands, she tried to take control of the sens
ation and manipulate her position, tried to find another arch or breath or stretch of the arms or thighs to bring relief.
There was none to be had. She was at the center of a lion’s den, great teeth of need biting into her, tearing at her flesh, racking her bones. This was the culmination of those hot flashes that she had mistaken for spikes of passion, and the bursts of chills that she had chalked up to premonitions, and the bouts of vague nausea that she had blamed on big meals. This was the exhaustion. The appetite. Probably the hot sex that she had been having of late with Tohrment.
As she moaned, she heard her name being said and thought someone was talking to her. But it wasn’t until the craving ebbed that she could open her eyes and see that yes, in fact, she was not alone.
Doc Jane was kneeling before her. “Autumn, can you hear me?”
“I…”
The healer’s pale hand brushed tangled strands of blond out of her face. “Autumn, I think this is your needing—would that be right?”
Autumn nodded until the wave of hormones resurged, robbing her of everything but the overwhelming need for sexual relief.
Which her body knew could only come from a male.
Her male. The one she loved.
Tohrment…
“Okay, okay, we’ll call him—”
Autumn threw out a hand and grabbed the other female’s arm. Forcing her eyes to work, she pegged the healer with a hard demand. “Do not call upon him. Do not put him in that position.”
It would kill him. To service her in her need? He’d never do that—sex was one thing, but he’d already lost a child—
“Autumn, honey… that’s his choice, don’t you think?”
“Don’t call him… don’t you dare call him.…”
FIFTY-SIX
Qhuinn hated nights off. Absolutely despised them.
As he sat back on his bed, staring at a TV that wasn’t on, it dawned on him he’d been watching nothing for close to an hour now. Still, getting the remote and picking a channel just seemed like a lot of fucking hassle for not much in return.
Damn it, there were only so many miles you could run down in the gym. Only so much surfing you could do on the Internet. A limited number of trips you could take up and down to the kitchen…
Yeah, and that last one was especially true, given Saxton was still using the library as his own personal office. That “supersecret king stuff” was taking him for frickin’ ever.
Either that or he was getting distracted a lot. By a certain redhead—
Okay, not going there. Nope.
Qhuinn glanced at his watch again. Eleven o’clock. “Fucking hell.”
Seven thirty tomorrow night was an eternity away.
Shifting his eyes to the flat wall across the way, he was willing to bet John Matthew was next door, locked in the same grind. Maybe they should head out and have a drink somewhere.
Then again, meh. Did he really want to go to the effort of getting dressed just to have a beer around a bunch of drunk, horny humans? At one point in time, it would have sexed him up. Now, the prospect of all that pathetic, alcohol-induced yearning depressed the shit out of him.
He didn’t want to be home. Didn’t want to be out.
Christ, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to be fighting, for that matter. The war just seemed like a slightly more interesting slice of empty.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, what was his problem—
His phone beeped beside him and he picked it up without any real interest. The text made no sense: All males stay in main house. Do not enter training facility. Thanx, Doc Jane.
Huh?
He got up, grabbed a robe, and went over to John’s. The knock was answered immediately by a whistle.
Putting his head in, he found his buddy in the same position he’d just been rocking—except the plasma screen was on. 1000 Ways to Die on Spike TV. Nice.
“Did you get that text?”
Which one?
“From Doc Jane.” Qhuinn tossed his cell over. “Any ideas?”
John read it and shrugged. Not a clue. But I’ve already worked out. You?
“Yeah.” He walked around the room. “Man, is it me or is time dragging.”
The whistle he got in reply was a big fat yup.
“You want to go out?” he asked with all the enthusiasm of someone suggesting a trip to a nail parlor.
Movement on the bed drew his eyes around: John was up on his feet and heading for his closet.
Across his back, deep in his skin, the name of his shellan was carved in the Old Language:
XHEXANIA
Poor bastard…
As the male pulled on a black button-down and covered his bare ass in leather, Qhuinn shrugged. Guess they were going for a beer.
“I’ll go get clothes and be right back.”
Stepping out into the hall, he frowned… and followed a compelling instinct down to the open landing that overlooked the foyer.
Leaning over the gold-leafed railing, he called out, “Layla?”
As the name echoed, the female emerged from the dining room. “Oh, hello.” Her smile was automatic and meaningless, the expressional equivalent of a blank wall. “How fare thee?”
He had to laugh. “You’re blowin’ me away with all that happy joy-joy.”
“I’m sorry.” She seemed to snap out of her distraction. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Don’t worry about it. What are you doing here?” He shook his head. “What I mean is, were you summoned?”
Had someone come home injured? Blay, for example…
“No, I have naught to do. I’m just waffling about as you would say.”
Come to think of it, ever since the fall, she had been doing that a lot, just hanging around in the periphery, loitering as if she were waiting for something.
She was different, he thought abruptly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but lately she had changed: Grave. Less quick to smile. Serious.
To put it in human terms, he supposed she’d been a girl for as long as he’d known her. Now she was starting to look like a woman. No more wide-eyed wonder about everything this side of the divide had to offer. No more glowing enthusiasm. No more…
Shit, she looked a lot like he and John did. Worn out by the world.
“Hey, you want to come out with us?” he asked.
“Out? As in…”
“John and I are going to go have a drink. Maybe two. Maybe more. I think you should come with us. After all, misery loves company.”
She linked her arms over her chest. “Is it so obvious?”
“You’re still beautiful.”
Layla laughed. “You’re being charming.”
“Lady in distress, you know the drill. Come out with us—let’s just kill some time.”
She looked around. Then she picked up her skirting and ascended the stairs. When she got to the top, she stared at him. “Qhuinn… may I please ask you something?”
“Long as it’s not multiplication tables. I suck at math.”
She laughed a little, but quickly lost the levity. “Did you ever think life would be so… empty? Some nights, I feel as though I could choke on the void.”
Jesus, he thought. Yeah, he did.
“Come here,” he told her. As she stepped into him, he pulled her in close, tucking her against his chest and resting his chin on the top of her head. “You are such a good female, you know that?”
“You’re being charming again.”
“And you are still in distress.”
She relaxed in his arms. “You are very good to me.”
“Back at you.”
“It’s not you, you know. I’m not pining over you anymore.”
“I know.” He rubbed her back as a brother would. “So tell me you’re coming out—but be warned. I might just have to get you to tell me who you are missing.”
The way she pulled back and ducked his eyes told him, yup, there was a male involved, and nope, she wasn’t volunteering any info
rmation. “I shall need some clothes.”
“Let’s try the guest room. I think we’ll find ’em there.” He put an arm around her shoulders and led her down the hall. “And as for this Joe Shmoe of yours, I promise not to beat him—unless he breaks your heart. Then I might have to do some dental work on the bastard.”
Who the hell could it be? he wondered. Everyone in the house was hooked up.
Maybe it was someone she’d met up north at Phury’s great camp? But who would the guy be letting in?
Could it be one of the Shadows? Hmm… those bastards were males of worth, to be sure, the kind of thing that could definitely turn a female’s head.
Man, he wished it was something else, for her sake. Love was hard, even if good people were involved.
In the guest room, he found her some black jeans and a black fleece. He didn’t like the idea of her in some miniskirted nightmare—not just because it offended his delicate sensibilities, but he didn’t need the Primale doing any cosmetic dentistry on him.
When they came out, John was waiting in the hall, and if he was surprised to be joined by the Chosen, he didn’t show much of the reaction. Instead, he was kind to Layla, mouthing small talk with her as Qhuinn threw some proper clothes on.
About ten minutes later, the three of them dematerialized downtown—not to the bars, though: Neither he nor John was interested in escorting a Chosen into Screamer’s or the Iron Mask. Instead, they ended up in the theater district, at a dessert place that was open until one a.m. and served liquor along with chocolate thingies draped in whatever topped with blah-blah-blah on a bed of poached uh-huh, yeah. The tables were small, the chairs likewise, and they sat in front of the emergency exit in the back, hunkering down as the waitress continued to blabber about the specials, none of which were appealing.
The beer selection was mercifully short and to the point.
“Two black and tans for us,” he said. “And for the lady?”
As he glanced at Layla, she shook her head. “I can’t decide.”
“Get both of whatever appeals.”
“All right… I’ll take the crème brûlée and the moon pie. And a cappuccino, please.”
