Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

TWENTY-TWO

iAm regained consciousness, but kept his eyes closed. What woke him up was the shooting pain in the back of his head—that and the ice-cold floor his naked body was lying on. For a moment, he considered playing possum and trying to get an idea of where he was through his hearing, sense of smell, and instincts, but there was no reason to.

He knew exactly where they’d put him.

Fucking double-crossing bastard.

Opening his lids, he saw a whole lot of nothing much. Then again, he was on his stomach, one arm trapped under his torso like he’d been thrown in—

A door opened over in the corner behind him. And he knew that not by any hinge creaking, but by the sudden addition of voices and footsteps in the cell.

“Why would I check his marking?” a male asked. Not s’Ex.

“It is procedure.”

Yup. Nothing had changed.

iAm reclosed his eyes and stayed perfectly still except for breathing shallowly as the footfalls came closer.

There was a gasp. And then fingers palpated the small of his back, as if they were stretching the skin where he had been marked, as all males were, when they were six years of age.

“That cannot be right.”

The footsteps left in a hurry, and he assumed the panel was shut again.

Lifting his head, his vision blurred and came back into focus. There was no one else in the well-lit twenty-by-twenty cell, the glossy white walls so slick he could see his dark reflection in the panels of marble.

His head hurt so damned much, he was forced to lay it back down again, his cheek finding the exact spot on the stone that had been warmed to the temperature of his body while he’d been out of it. His arm was killing him, the limb both numb and painful at the same time, but he lacked the energy to move the thing free of his upper body’s weight. Lying there, breathing, existing, he had no idea how long he’d been out, what they were going to do to him, or whether he was going to get out of this bright idea he’d had alive.

From out of nowhere, he had a mental image of him leaving Sal’s the night before, stepping free of the restaurant he loved, talking to the waiters.

He found himself wanting to rewind time and go back to that incarnation of himself, his memories of the way the night had been cool on his face, and how the smoke from his waiters’ cigarettes had curled up off of the lit tips, so clear that, for a moment, it seemed impossible that he could not return to that place in time . . . step into the shoes he had been wearing then . . . reassume his suit of skin just as he re-formed after dematerializing.

But of course, time didn’t work like that. And memory was but a television show of your own life, a movie screen you could play witness to, but not interact with, change the course of, redirect.

Desperation for Trez, the great motivator in his life, had propelled him back into the heart of the enemy he and his brother shared.

And there was a very good chance this shit was going to get the best of him.

With a groan, he rolled himself onto his side and blinked a couple of times. His weapons, like the robing he had been wearing, were long gone. And there was nothing else in the cell—

The door opened, the panel sliding soundlessly into the wall. And what came in was robed from head to foot in black folds of cloth, the face covered, the feet covered, even the hands gloved.

Was it the Grim Reaper? he wondered. Had he passed out and was dreaming—

A subtle scent registered.

But not in his nose. Through his body.

Like a lick of electricity.

The door was shut behind the tall, robed figure. And as the male approached, iAm did his best to assume some kind of defensible position.

He didn’t make it far at all with that one.

A gloved hand reached out; he was rolled back over; and then he felt a touch on the base of his spine.

“I will . . . kill you . . .” iAm mumbled. “Hurt you . . .”

How, he hadn’t a clue. But he was going out fighting, that was for damn sure.

The figure stepped back. Tilted its head as if it were considering the method of death that would be used.

In the s’Hisbe, most prisoners were tortured first. Tenderizing, iAm had always thought. Then they were slaughtered and either buried or eaten by s’Ex and his guards, depending on the offense.

The latter was a proud tradition. Also took care of the whole what-to-do-with-the-body problem.

iAm curled up fists and braced himself for whatever came at him.

Except the figure simply regarded him for a long moment. And then backed over to the door and left.

Oh. Okay. They’d verified who he was, and there was no reason to kill him before they got Trez back here. That would be a waste of leverage.

Shit.

Relaxing his muscles, he tried to get himself to go loose and prayed that his body’s natural healing abilities took care of the concussion quickly.

He was going to need to be able to back up his fighting words with more than an inert body and limbs made of lead.

Goddamn it, he should never have trusted s’Ex.

* * *

Back in Caldwell, Paradise sat on her bed, legs tucked under her, eyes on the night sky on the far side of her closed, locked windows.

“So you’re going to do it?” she said into her cell phone.

Peyton laughed. “Hell, yeah, are you kidding me? I’m dying to get out of here. Ever since the raids I’ve been on lockdown, and the fact that my parents are letting me go into that training program is a miracle.”

She focused on the latches on her own bedroom door, which were, as a matter of fact, in the locked position.

“Wonder if my dad would let me,” she murmured.

There was a pause. Then a laugh. “Oh, my God, Paradise. No. Uh-uh. No way.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. He’s really protective—”

“That program is not a place for females.”

She frowned. “Excuse me. The letter from the Brotherhood said we were welcome to try out.”

“Okay, number one, ‘try out’ does not mean ‘accepted.’ Have you ever even done a push-up?”

“Well, I’m sure I could if I—”

“Number two, you’re not your average female. I mean, hello, you’re a member of a Founding Family. Your father is First Adviser to the King. You need to be preserved to breed.”

Paradise’s mouth dropped open. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

“What? It’s true. Don’t pretend the rules are the same for females like you. Like, if some scrub civilian who happens to wear a skirt wants to give it a shot, fine. That loss means nothing to the species. But, Parry, there aren’t many of you left. For males like me? We don’t want to get mated to anyone but you, and there are like, what, four or five of you left?”

“That is the most reductive reasoning I’ve ever heard. I gotta go.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that.”

“Fuck you. I’m more than just a pair of ovaries you can put a ring on.”

She hung up and thought about throwing her phone across the room. When she couldn’t manage to follow through on the impulse, she then got worried that all the manners that had been inbred and reinforced in her meant Peyton was right.

She was just a hothouse flower, good for nothing but tea parties and young and—

As the cell started ringing again, she tossed it onto her duvet, got down on her floor, and planted her palms flat on her needlepoint rug. Kicking out her legs, she balanced on the balls of her feet.

“Right,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Up and down. Like a hundred times.”

She got the down right on the first try, her arms more than willing to oblige. And as her nose came in contact with the depiction of a vase of flowers, she was in full-on beast mode, ready to punch it up and hit this hard.

Up was . . . only okay.

Down again to the carpet. Annnnnd up.

Sort of. The muscles in her upper arms started to tremble; her elbows wobbled; her shoulders ached.

She did three. Or, like, two and a half. Before she collapsed on the—

“What are you doing?”

With a yelp, Paradise flipped herself over. Her father was in the doorway to her bedroom, putting away the key he’d used to open things up—and his eyebrows had popped so high on his forehead, they were all the way to the base of his hairline.

“Push-ups,” she said as she panted.

“Why-ever for?”

Ask him, she thought. Just come right out and say, I want to join the Brotherhood’s training center program—

Her phone started to ring again.

“Do you need to get that?” her father asked.

“No. Father, I have a—”

“Something has arisen, dear one.” He shut and relocked the door. “And I must be frank with you.”

Paradise brought her legs up and circled her arms around them. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Oh, indeed no.” He shook his head as he looked at her. “You are the very best daughter any male could e’er ask for.”

As her phone went silent, she had to wonder how many of Peyton’s views her father shared. And how many times Peyton was going to try to call her back.

“I need you to pack up some things,” he said.

Paradise recoiled. “Why?”

“I’m going to ask you to leave the house for a couple of weeks.”

A cold flush went through her. “What did I do?”

“Oh, love.” He came over and knelt down. “Nothing. It is just, I think you might enjoy having a job.”

Now she was the one with the mile-high eyebrows. “Really?”

She had broached the subject a number of months ago, when yet another night taking piano lessons and doing complicated, multi-stitched needlepoint had made her feel like she was losing her mind. But he had carefully denied her in the interest of her safety—a point she had both respected and been frustrated by.

It was hard to argue that the world wasn’t a very dangerous place for vampires.

“What’s changed?” Then she thought about their distant relation. “Wait, is that male going to continue to stay here?”

“It has naught to do with him. Rather, my work as First Adviser is growing more complicated and burdensome and I require someone I may trust with the King’s business to help me. I can think of no one more appropriate than yourself.”

“Really,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “There isn’t some other reason?”

“For truth. I promise you.” He smiled. “So what do you say—would you like to work with me?”

With a sudden lunge of happiness, she tackled her father in a hug. “Oh, thank you! Yes! I’m so excited!”

He laughed. “Okay, but you’ll have to move into the King’s audience mansion. Worry not, you shall not be alone. You may take your maid doggen, and the Brotherhood have the building fully staffed—”

Paradise leaped up to her feet and ran to her walk-in closet. Throwing the doors open, she started pulling out pieces from her set of monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage.

“I’ll be ready in a half hour! Fifteen minutes!” She yanked out built-in drawers, fisting up underwear, bras, tank tops. “Oh, will you get Vuchie? She’ll be so excited!”

Dimly, she heard her father chuckle. “As you wish, my lady. As you wish.”

TWENTY-THREE

Rhage re-formed on the lawn of Darius’s former mansion and strode up to the front entrance. The second he came into the house, he heard a series of gasps, and glanced to the left. In the parlor, there were a number of civilians clustered in an awkward, standing group, like they didn’t feel comfortable sitting on all the fancy silk-covered furniture—and their eyes were popped large at the sight of him.

Yeah, his reputation still preceded him.

Geez, you’re a slut for a couple of centuries, and people just can’t let that shit go after you get properly mated.

It was a PITA, and on an ordinary night, he would have gone over and introduced himself just to bring his Mary up in conversation.

Tonight, though, he headed to the closed doors of what had once been the dining room. Knocking twice, he said, “It’s me.”

Tohr opened things up with a “What’s doin’,” and Rhage stepped into the cavernous, mostly barren room: All they had in there were a bunch of armchairs, a desk with an office chair, and some ancillary seats in case an audience had a lot of guest ass to accommodate.

“No explosives,” Wrath was saying from one of the armchairs. “No traps.”

V was in the process of lighting up a hand-rolled, and as he exhaled, the scent of Turkish tobacco drifted over. “Hollywood and I went through the place with a fine-toothed comb. They had been there, clearly. Had just left as far as we could tell. But they hadn’t bothered to try to fuck us.”

With his dagger hand, Wrath stroked the boxy blond head of the golden retriever who helped him get around. George, ever adoring of his master, had his face turned to the King, his throat offered freely. “So Throe didn’t lie.”

“Not about that at least,” V muttered.

“Interesting.”

Rhage glanced around at the faces of his brothers. Z and Phury were standing together as they always did. Qhuinn was next to Z, and then Blay and John Matthew, even though the males weren’t members, were beside him. Butch was opposite the King, propping his forearms on top of an armchair and leaning his weight in; V was behind him. Tohr stayed by the door.

“So what next,” Rhage asked.

“We wait.” Wrath bent down further and scratched at the dog’s ruff. “If he’s got shit to stir, he’ll hang himself. The aristocracy will have to be monitored—we need an inside source there. Any ideas?”

At that moment, there was another knock. Tohr put his ear to the panels and then cracked the door. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

Abalone leaned in. “My lord? I’m sorry to intrude, but may I please make the presentation of mine blooded daughter prior to us getting started with tonight’s audiences?”

Wrath gestured the male forward with his free hand. “Yeah. Bring her in.”

Abalone ducked out and there was a hushed conversation. Then he reappeared, ushering in a sapling of a female. With her blond hair, slight build, and long legs, she was on the Arctic Princess spectrum of the fairer sex.

Pretty. Very pretty. Maybe even beautiful—although she didn’t hold a candle to his Mary.

Abalone walked the girl forward, one hand at her elbow, his fatherly pride plumping up his chest. “My esteemed ruler, great King of all—”

“Yeah, yeah, enough with that,” Wrath cut in. “Paradise, I understand you’re moving into my shellan’s and her brother’s house here. Welcome.”

As the black diamond was offered, Paradise bent at the waist, her hands shaking so badly they seemed to shimmer in the light from the chandelier.

“My lord,” she whispered before kissing the stone.

Releasing his hand, she straightened and stared at the floor, her shoulders curling into her chest, her feet locked together.

“You want to meet my dog?” the King asked.

George, ever up for a good head rub, thumped his tail on the floor, the sound like someone was beating a rope into the hardwood.

“Pet him,” Wrath said. “You’re allowed.”

The girl glanced around at the Brotherhood, her eyes sticking to the shitkicker level. And that was when Rhage felt sorry for her. A lot of the aristocracy sat on their females so hard, they were rarely around males they were not related to—so this was no doubt the first time she had been in the same room with so much testosterone.

“G’head, George. Go say hi.”

At Wrath’s urging, the dog padded forward and sat his fluffy butt down right in front of her, his ears pricking, that tail sweeping back and forth.

“Is . . . he a boy?” she asked softly as she lowered herself to the floor and reached up to all the fur.

“Yup.” Wrath looked up. “All right, assholes, introduce yourselves, will ya? And keep it classy.”

Cue the throat clearing. At least until Phury stepped forward and did the intros. Probably best—he was the closest to a gentlemale they had.

“Glad you’re here,” the Primale said. “I’m Phury—we love your dad, by the way. Good guy.”

Annnnnd now Abalone was levitating right out of his Bally loafers.

She looked up into those yellow eyes and offered him a shy smile. “Hi.”

“Over there is my twin.” He indicated Z—and Zsadist, ever aware of what he looked like with that scar down his face, stayed way back, lifting his hand as Paradise recoiled. “Zsadist’s mated and has a daughter named Nalla. She’s gorgeous—here’s a picture.”

As Phury flashed his cell phone, the girl looked at the image. Glanced at Z. Went back to the snapshot.

“My baby girl,” Z said in a deep voice. “She’s two, and she got her mahmen’s looks.”

Instantly, the girl relaxed. Then Phury intro’d Vishous, who just nodded, and Butch, who gave her a Bostonian, “Hi, hawre ya!” John Matthew, Blay, and Qhuinn were up next, and then Phury indicated Rhage.

“And Brad Pitt over there is Hollywood.”

He smiled. “Glad you’re here.”

Paradise’s stare stayed on him, her eyes getting big, but not because she was scared. Far from it.

“Yeah, he’s a looker,” someone said. “Until you get to know him.”

“Aww, come now,” Rhage tossed back. “Don’t hate.”

Talk sprang up, with Wrath asking Paradise some questions to get her talking about herself. As the girl refocused on the King, Rhage thought back to before he’d met his Mary. No doubt he would have made a run at that innocent—and would have been successful. He’d had a zero failure rate as he’d controlled his beast by fucking anything and everything that had moved. Which had been good for him. Not so hot for females who’d wanted to keep their virtue.

And he had no doubt Paradise was one of those.

So yeah, he was glad he was meeting her now, when there was absolutely no chance of him getting with her. He had mated his Virgin, just as Vishous had said he would, and his life had been saved.

For some reason, a sick feeling came over him.

Shoving his hand in his pocket, he took out his cell phone. Checked his texts.

Trez, the poor bastard, still hadn’t gotten back to him yet. It seemed stupid to bother the guy again, given everything that was on his plate, but it was hard not to reach out one more time.

Rhage wished there was more to be done to help the guy and his Chosen.

He truly did.

* * *

There was no doing any kind of turn signal.

As Layla drove her Mercedes back to the Brotherhood mansion, she had her injured arm propped on the middle console between the seats, a spare jacket wadded up to increase its height and provide some extra cushioning.

The pain was stunning, the kind of thing that was so bad, it registered in her gut.

So no, there was no signaling left or right.

At least there was nobody else out on the country roads this late at night.

It was hours, maybe years, before she made it to the turn off to the compound’s mountain, and the mhis was a nightmare. V’s distortion of the landscape, a security measure to keep them safe, meant that everything was blurry, as if a fog had overtaken the forest. Exhaustion from fighting the urge to vomit, combined with her vision beginning to fail, meant that she felt utterly lost, and her instinct was to lean in and get closer to the windshield—not that that helped.

All that did was just piss her arm off even more.

When the glowing lights of the mansion finally came into view, she prayed, prayed that the Brothers were all out fighting and she could make it to her room without anybody seeing her. Pulling around the just-winterized fountain, she parked next to Rhage’s purple GTO and Butch’s new toy, a black Mercedes that looked like a bread box.

She had to reach around the wheel and push the gear lever in to get the engine into park—and discovered she had to stretch even more to hit the Stop/Start button to turn the sedan off. Then it was a case of breathing shallowly through her mouth as she recovered from the effort. Looking in the rearview mirror, she caught sight of the entrance to the mansion . . . and had no clue how she was going to get over there. Much less haul herself up to her room.

There was no other choice. Either she did it on her own, or she had to ask someone to lie for her: There was no hiding the injury, not as fresh as it was. And she couldn’t let Qhuinn find out what had happened.

Or, even worse, what she’d really been doing when she’d fallen.

Damn it, this situation was the punishment for her double life—her two opposing realities slamming together, knocking her senseless, exposing her.

Potentially.

Time to go inside.

Layla got a fresh lesson in pain as she opened her door and tried to straighten up from the leather seat, her arm letting out a scream as the broken bone ground against itself.

Recovery breath. A number of them.

And then somehow, she got herself out of the car.

Had the mansion always been so far from the parking area?

Walking around the fountain wasn’t so much a case of putting one foot in front of the other, but shuffling over the cobblestones and trying not to pass out. When she got to the stone stairs that led up to the cathedral-size doors, she wanted to cry. Instead, she surmounted them one at a time.

Pulling open the vestibule’s door, she realized she’d made two mistakes: She had left her car door unshut . . . and she was, in fact, going to have to interact with someone—there was no getting into the house this way without putting your face in the security camera and waiting for an answer.

Glancing back at the Mercedes, she didn’t have the energy to go back there and close things up.

And trying to get around to the staff entrance by the garage was—

That was where things ended.

As her mind labored over her limited options, her body pulled its own plug out of the consciousness socket: Lights-out and gravity did their business on her, the stoop rushing up to greet her with a hard, hard embrace.

That she did not feel.