Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 36 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

SIXTY-SIX

The Caldwell Galleria Mall was open until ten o’clock at night.

As Xcor materialized in a hidden corner of its vast chain of parking lots, he then strode past the lines of parked cars, his long strides eating up the distance to an entrance that had some giant red sign over a multitude of doors.

He had no idea what he was doing here. About to walk around humans. With a purpose that, had one of his soldiers put such forth, he would never have let them get over it.

Pushing in through the glass portals, he frowned. Female clothes abounded on the left and the right, all manner of cheery colors—that made him think fondly of unleashing a flamethrower to put his retinas out of their misery.

Up ahead, there was section after section of glass cases with sparkling oddities in them, scarves hanging from racks, and mirrors—goddamn, there were mirrors everywhere.

Passing them by, he ducked his eyes. He didn’t want the reminder of his ugliness. Especially not this night—

Did they even have what he was looking for in this place?

Prowling around the first floor, he could feel the eyes of the proper customers on him—and it was clear they were wondering if they were going to end up on the evening news in a bad way. He ignored them all and proceeded upward on a set of moving stairs.

It was on the second floor that he found the menswear department.

Yes, herein, all manner of masculine shirts and pants and sweaters and jackets were arranged on hangers and display tables. And just as with down below, music thumped in low tones overhead, whilst light streamed from the ceiling to set off the merchandise.

What the hell was he doing here—

“Hey, can I help you—whoa!”

As he wheeled around and settled into his attack stance, the black human salesperson jumped back and put his palms up.

“Forgive me,” Xcor muttered. At least he hadn’t outed one of his weapons.

“No problem.” The handsome, well-dressed man smiled. “You looking for something specific?”

Xcor glanced around, and nearly walked back to that fancy stairwell. “I require a new shirt.”

“Oh, cool, you got a hot date?”

“And pants. And socks.” Come to think of it, he never wore underwear. “And undergarments. And a jacket.”

The salesman smiled and raised a hand as if he were going to clap his customer on the shoulder—but then caught himself as he clearly rethought the contact.

“What kind of look are you going for?” he asked instead.

“Clothed.”

The guy paused like he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. “Ah … okay, I can work with non-naked. Plus it’s legal. Come on with me.”

Xcor followed, because he didn’t know what else to do—he’d gotten this ball rolling; there was no reason not to follow through.

The man stopped in front of a display of shirts. “So I’m going to go with the it’s-a-date thing, unless you tell me otherwise. Casual? You didn’t mention a suit.”

“Casual. Yes. But I want to look…” Well, not like himself, at any rate. “Presentable.”

“Then I think what you’re going to want is a button-down.”

“A button-down.”

The guy regarded him steadily. “You’re not from here, are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I can tell by the accent.” The salesman passed a hand over the dizzying array of folded-up squares with collars. “These are our traditional cuts. I can tell without measuring you that the European stuff isn’t going to do you right—you’re too muscled in the shoulders. Even if we could get the neck and arm size right, you’d bust out of them. Do you like any of these colors?”

“I don’t know what to like.”

“Here.” The man picked up a blue one that reminded Xcor of the backdrop on his phone. “This is good with your eyes. Not that I go that way—but you gotta work with what you got. Do you have any idea of your size?”

“XXXL.”

“We need to be a little more exact.” The salesman got out a cloth tape measure. “Neck? Arms?”

As if to help the whole cognition thing, the man made a little circle in front of his own throat.

Xcor looked down at himself. He was wearing nothing but the cleanest muscle shirt he had, a pair of military combat pants, and his boots.

“I do not know.”

The man reached out with the tape, but then hesitated. “Tell you what, how ’bout I give this to you—just wrap it around your neck and I’ll read the number.”

Xcor took the thing and did as asked.

“Okay, wow.” The salesman crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you won’t be wearing a tie, right?”

“Tie?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Will you let me measure your arm?”

Xcor extended his left one and the man moved fast. “That’s almost normal in length at least. Width? You’re talking the Rock territory, easy. But I have an idea.”

A minute and a half of rifling later, Xcor had three different shirts to try on.

“What about slacks?” the salesman asked.

“I do not know my size or preference.” Might as well be efficient. “The same is true about jackets.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that. Come with me.”

Before he knew it, he was buck naked in a dressing room, jacking his body into the clothes, his weapons hidden under the pile of things he’d worn walking in.

“How is it?” his new best friend asked on the far side of the door.

Xcor glanced at himself in the mirror and felt his brows rise. He looked … not good, no. That would never be him. But he didn’t appear as stupid as he felt—or as rough as he’d been in his own wardrobe.

Taking off the dark jacket that had been suggested to him, he strapped on his guns and knives and then put the thing back on. It was a little tight in the back, and he couldn’t quite button it—but it was so much better than his bloodstained leather duster. And the pants stretched across his thighs only slightly.

Stepping out, he handed over the two other shirts. “I shall take all this.”

The salesman clapped his hands. “Nice. Big improvement. You need shoes?”

“Mayhap later.”

“We’re having a sale at the end of the month. Come back then.”

Xcor followed him over to the checkout, and took a pair of scissors out of a pen holder to cut the tags that were hanging off his wrist and his waist. “Do you have scent?”

“Oh, you mean cologne?”

“Aye.”

“That’s another department—across the way. I can show you where they are—actually, check this.” He pulled open a drawer. “I have some samples here—yeah, old-school Drakkar. Égoïste—that’s a good one. Polo—the original. Oh, try this.”

Xcor accepted a small vial, popped the lid and breathed in. Fresh, clean … what handsome would smell like if it had a fragrance.

Basically everything he wasn’t.

“I like this one.”

“Calvin Klein Eternity. Very traditional—and the honeys like it.”

Xcor nodded as if he knew what he was talking about. Such a lie.

The salesman rang up everything. “Okay, your total’s five oh one ninety-two.”

Xcor took out the bills he’d shoved in his back pocket. “I have this,” he said, fanning the money out in his open palms.

The salesman’s brows popped. “Yeah, it’s not that much at all.” There was a pause. “Do you … yeah, okay, I need five of those, four of these, and two of the little guys.”

Xcor tried to facilitate the process of the man pulling specific denominations out that—apparently—meant something.

“And here’s your change and receipt. You want a bag for your old stuff?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

A big white bag with a red star was passed over the console. “Thanks for coming in—my name’s Antoine, by the way. If you want to come back for shoes.”

After shoving his former clothes inside, Xcor found himself bowing at the waist. “Your assistance has been much appreciated.”

Antoine raised his palm like he was getting ready to do a clap on the shoulder again. But once more, he caught himself and smiled instead. “Knock her dead, my man.”

“Oh, no.” Xcor shook his head. “That shan’t be necessary. This one I like.”

* * *

Layla left the mansion at eleven forty-eight by sneaking out the library’s French doors. No one seemed to notice; then again, Rhage and John Matthew were keeping an eye on the workmen in the billiards room, Wrath was up in his study with Saxton, Beth was at rest, the other Brothers were fighting, and Qhuinn and Blay were enjoying some quiet time on their night-off rotation.

Oh, and the staff were busying cleaning up after a celebratory First Meal.

Not that she was keeping track of everybody in the house.

Nah.

Dematerializing off the back terrace, she traveled to the meadow she was becoming so familiar with and re-formed at the base of the maple tree.

Dressed in her traditional robing, she had an overcoat on to keep warm, in the pocket of which she had put some Mace.

Qhuinn had insisted on teaching her self-defense as well as how to drive. So in case that other male showed up, she was prepared.

Slipping her hand into the coat pocket and palming the squat cylinder, she was careful to walk all the way around the tree. And note carefully the expanse of snow-covered meadow.

She was alone.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, was she really—

Down at the base of the rise, a figure presented itself out of thin air—and as the breeze shifted directions, she caught the scent.

It was him. And … something else? Some kind of fragrance that was at once masculine … and delicious.

Xcor took a long time to approach, his strides even and unhurried as he mounted the hill and came up to her, carrying something under his arm. Her body responded instantly to his presence, her heart racing, her palms sweating, her breath going short.

She told herself it was fear. And overwhelmingly, that was true. But there was something else …

His clothes were different, she realized as he arrived before her. More refined. Attractive.

As if mayhap he had dressed for her?

Trying to relieve the burning in her lungs, she inhaled deeply and frowned. “You smell … different.”

“Bad?”

She shook her head. “No. Not at all. And your clothes … you look very well.”

He made no response and his face gave nothing away—so she could not draw any conclusion.

Silence stretched out. Until she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Well …?”

At least he didn’t pretend to misread her prompting. “I have thought over everything that you have offered me.”

And now her heart beat so loud, she could barely hear his deep voice.

“What say you?” she demanded in a hoarse voice.

“I agree to your terms.”

It was what she had expected. And yet even still, she began to shake uncontrollably.

“In exchange for the use of you, I shall call off all of my efforts with regard to the throne.”

At least there was solace to be had in that, except then she knew she had to live up to her end of the bargain.

“Worry not,” he said gruffly. “It shall not be this eve.”

Her relief came out in a very loud exhale—that made his face darken.

“Your reprieve is not indefinite.” He took what he carried out from under his arm. “You will give me what I want sooner or later.”

With a quick flap, he shook free what proved to be a blanket and laid it flat upon the ground.

Staring down at it, Layla didn’t know what to do.

“Sit,” he commanded. “And put this around you.”

As she complied and was handed another wrap, she wondered what he was going to—

Xcor sat beside her and wrapped his arms around his knees. Staring ahead, his expression was inscrutable.

Taking his cue, she did the same. Even mirroring his pose.

At least she had saved Wrath. And provided her young was safe, she would continue to do whatever she had to for her King.

No matter what it cost.

SIXTY-SEVEN

The following evening, Beth lay back in her mated bed and held an extraordinary piece of cloth in her hands. “This was made by someone?”

“Yeah, the foreman’s shellan.”

Squinting, she tried to imagine how the incredibly fine and even weave could have been done by anything other than a machine. “It’s totally amazing.”

“I told them we’d use it for our son when he’s born.”

With a wince, she tried to ignore the spear of pure terror that shot through her. Wrath, who’d been panicked about the whole birthing thing before they’d conceived, seemed to be forgetting about that part for the moment. Her, on the other hand? More than making up the slack.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured. “I love the color.”

“I just had to do something for the two of them. He’s a good guy. I didn’t expect anything in return…”

As Wrath walked out of the closet, he was dressed in his uniform, and she had to take a second to admire the view. His hair was swinging loose, almost to his tight ass. His magnificent arms were showing every muscle they had, thanks to the wife beater. And those leather pants …

“So I guess she’d worked on that for a year—”

“Are you ever going to have sex with me again? Or do I have to wait five months?”

Stopped. Dead.

But at least she knew her husband was paying attention. “Come on, Wrath. Like I said yesterday, I’m pregnant, not broken.”

“Ah…”

She stared at his hips, watching his arousal take shape, wanting that long, hard erection of his.

“Well, at least I know you want me,” she murmured.

“Don’t ever doubt that.”

“So how ’bout now. Because you look … very fine.” Her eyes did another up-and-down. “Did you get bigger all of a sudden? I mean, is that a baseball bat in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Come over here and let me sample your goods, big guy.”

He let his head fall back. “Beth…”

“Whaaaaaaat. What’s the problem—look, we gotta talk about this. This abstinence thing is not good for you and me.”

“My son’s in there, okay? And it just—it doesn’t seem … right.”

Beth didn’t mean to laugh, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I’m sorry.” She put her hands up as he frowned like he was pissed. “Honestly, I’m not making fun of you.”

“Oh, really.”

“Come here.” She held her arms out. “And no, I’m not going to seduce you. Scout’s honor.”

He walked over in his bare feet, his black socks hanging from his deft hands. It seemed ludicrous to sit the King of the vampires down and give him a pep talk—especially when he was built the way he was. But she was going to go nuts if she couldn’t have that sexual connection. And so was he.

“I’d like to be with you,” she said, “but only if you’re comfortable with it. It’s not going to hurt the baby—you can call the doctor and ask her yourself. Or talk to Z—he and Bella were together while she was pregnant. She told me so. Talk to whoever you need to, but please rethink where you’re at. Being with you has to have a place in all this.”

As he cracked his knuckles like he was considering things, she stared at the tattoos that ran up his inner forearms.

She tried to imagine a son of hers with a set of those and reached out, turning one of his hands over so she could run her fingertips across the symbols.

“Will he get these, too?” So many names, she thought. “Or because I’m his mother, is he not allowed—”

“Fuck that shit. He can abso get them—and I’ll have V do it. But only if he wants them.”

“I’m surprised.”

“About?”

“How much I want him to. I want him to be just like you.”

There was a long pause and Wrath had to clear his throat. “That’s just about the best compliment anyone’s ever paid me.”

“I don’t know … I just feel like you’re the perfect man.”

“Now you’re making me blush.”

She laughed in a rush. “It’s true.”

“I curse. Constantly. I have a short temper. I order people around—including you.”

“You’re also a great fighter. Great lover—although my son will never, ever have sex—nope, not going there, and if we have grandchildren, they will be immaculately conceived. Wait, where was I—oh, yeah, so you’re also very loyal. You’ve never looked at another woman.”

Wrath put his index finger up. “And that would be true even if I could see.”

“And you’re smart. Great-looking—”

He leaned in. “Are you trying to butter me up so I’ll have sex with you?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.” He kissed her lips softly. “Just give me a little time. Only yesterday you were rushed to the doc’s because you were throwing up.”

She ran her hand down his cheek and his hard jaw. “I’ll wait for you. Always.”

“I’m glad.” He sat back. “So how’s the stomach? You want food? The doctor said we need to put some weight on you, right?”

“Nothing appeals. But I will try some of those saltines and ginger ale in a bit. Layla swore by them.”

“Good deal. When do you go back to the doc again?”

“Well, that was the other part of the appointment. iAm had to work a little magic on the poor woman—naturally, my bloodwork was nothing they’d ever seen before, although the pregnancy hormone numbers turned out to be right enough. She wanted me back in a month, unless anything changes. Doc Jane said she was going to try to get an ultrasound machine for the clinic—they have some portable equipment for ortho stuff, but there isn’t one specifically for pregnancy that does three-D imaging. Unfortunately, that stuff’s going to be hella expensive—”

“Whatever they need, they get.”

Beth nodded and fell into silence.

After a moment, she picked up her husband’s big hand and rubbed her thumb up and over that black diamond of his.

“What are you going to do tonight?” Even though she knew the answer.

“I’m going to hit my desk.”

She smiled. “I love when you say that now.”

“You know … me too.” He shrugged. “It’s funny, I felt really inadequate in that job. You know, when compared to my father, blah, blah, blah. But I was the one who didn’t approve of me, not him. And I don’t know, I’ve kinda let that bullshit go.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing.” He frowned. “I just wish there was some way to—I don’t know, I liked helping that foreman. And there are more like him out there—there have to be. I don’t know how to get to them, though. My father used to be all in with that shit, talking to people—real people, not that glymera bullshit—”

Beth sat up in a rush. “I have an idea. I know exactly what to do.”

He glanced over at her—and the slow smile that hit his face was the sexiest thing about him. “You know what?” he said. “I love your mind. I totally do.”

* * *

Wrath swung his leg out and around, bringing it in a full circle. And contact was made exactly where he wanted it—high up, and in the face.

Tohrture went with the impact, swinging in a circle, wielding his sword in concert so that the blade flashed right up close to Wrath’s chest. Except it didn’t quite make the distance. No blood was drawn, no clothing cut.

But Wrath knew better than to enjoy the small victory. Flipping backward off his feet, he somersaulted in midair and landed solidly, setting his fighting stance, raising both his daggers—

“Drop both blades,” Ahgony barked.

Without missing a beat, he threw them away, confronting his opponent barehanded.

Tohrture came at him holding nothing back, neither speed nor strength, and Wrath became very still. At the last second, as the Brother’s war cry was sounded out and echoed in the torchlit cave, Wrath flattened to the ground and caught the fighter at the ankles with an explosive lunge.

Tohrture fell forward—and as Wrath had learned, the last thing you wanted was a Brother with a sword in his hands on top of you. Scrambling himself out of the way, he jumped back to his feet. This was critical. Always back to your feet.

Tohrture was the same, upright a moment later, sword held high, eyes level. Both of them were breathing hard, and now, after how many fortnights into training, Wrath wasn’t the only one with bruises.

The sword made a throaty whistle as Tohrture began to twirl it front to back on both sides of his massive upper body.

Wrath wasn’t even aware of the assessments he was making—where the weight of his opponent was apportioned, where those eyes were looking, how the small muscle groups were contracting. But it was all part of his training, things that had once seemed foreign and were becoming second nature—

From out of nowhere, he was attacked from the back, an enormous weight taking him down to the floor. Before he could draw air, he was flipped over and held by the throat as a spiked glove made a fist.

Crack!

The impact stunned him senseless, his arms flopping to the packed-dirt floor.

“Call!” Ahgony yelled out.

Instantly, the weight was off him, Night jumping back out of the way, his face showing concern the now, not aggression.

Wrath forced himself to roll over and brace his upper body off the ground. Struggling to breathe through his bleeding mouth, he let the sanguinary rush clear out onto the dirt flooring with gravity’s aid.

The pain had flared red-hot in his face, and as he waited for it to fade, he remembered back in the beginning of all this—how the sensation of injury had once flustered him, scared him, distracted him. No more of that. Now he knew the pattern of relief: how the numbness would inevitably come, how soon enough his mind would clear and he would be back on his feet.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

His blood was bright red as it formed a widening puddle under his face.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Ahgony announced. “Fine effort, sire.”

Wrath pushed himself up upon his knees so his torso was upright. He knew better than to attempt to stand yet. His skull was too light for that. Wait … wait …

“Here, sire, allow me,” Night said, offering his palm.

“Shall we call for the healer?” someone said.

Wrath closed his eyes and felt his body caving in. But then he pictured his beloved shellan, lying on their bedding platform, her skin the color of clouds.

Standing up on his own, he spit the remaining blood out of his mouth. “Again,” he told the assembled. “We do it … again.”

There was a beat of pause, the torchlight flickering over the other males in the secret training cave.

And then the Brothers bowed unto him in a way he had noticed they had recently started doing—not courtly, no, as it was not when greeting and leaving, as was aristocratic custom.

This was with respect.

“As you wish, my lord,” Ahgony said. Before shouting once again, “Call!”