Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

THIRTY-ONE

No sleep.

Paradise had gotten absolutely, positively no sleep whatsoever in the beautiful house. At first, it had been because she was so excited to have the run of the place that she’d gone through every parlor, bedroom, and bathroom, marveling at the art, the furnishings, the decor—twice. Then it had been a case of picking a bedroom underground (she’d chosen the one on the left) and unpack, unpack, unpack.

Her beloved doggen, Vuchie, had started to lay a pallet for herself out in the short, stone-walled corridor between the two subterranean suites, but Paradise had insisted her maid go across the way and stay in the other actual bedroom. This had led to a series of protests, whereupon her servant, trapped between a direct order and her discomfort at staying in such luxury, had nearly had a nervous breakdown.

In the end, though, and as usual, Paradise had gotten her way.

At which point, she’d retreated to “her” bedroom, changed into nightclothes and discovered the further good news that the Wi-Fi didn’t require a password. Stretching out on the velvet duvet, she’d checked Twitter, Facebook, a couple of blogs, and the New York Post and Daily News—and continued to ignore texts from Peyton. When her eyelids had finally started to drop, she’d put her phone aside and dragged half the covers over on top of herself, her Syracuse b-ball sweatshirt and her yoga pants the kind of pj’s she had slept in many, many times.

Annnnnd that was when the no-sleep thing had gotten its groove on.

Even as she’d closed her eyes, her mind had buzzed with what her father had told her she’d be doing at nightfall to help him with the King.

And then there was the fact that that long-lost cousin was alone with her father back at their house. What if he hurt her dad?

So, yup, she thought as she stepped in front of the mirror in the bathroom. No shut-eye . . . even when her lids had been down.

The good news was that the wait was over. And her father had texted her that his ETA was in about fifteen minutes—so clearly, he’d made it through the day okay, too.

Funny, she was shocked by how badly she needed to see him. After so many years of praying for some freedom, she had found the actual experience marked by a whole lot of homesick.

“But now I get to work.”

Turning to the side, she straightened her navy-blue blazer. Tugged at her white blouse. Fiddled with her strand of pearls.

As she stepped back, she decided she looked like a 1960s stewardess for PanAm. Like the ones they’d had in Catch Me If You Can.

“Ah, come on.” She yanked out the tie she’d pulled her hair back with, and fluffed things out. “Oh, yeah. That’s really different.”

Not.

Hair down so did not improve the situation. But she was out of time, and more to the point, who did she have to impress, anyway?

Okay, bad question to ask in any form if you were about to try to hold down your first job and it was not only for your father, but for the King of your entire race, and his personal guard of straight-up killers.

It was enough to get her praying to the Scribe Virgin.

Stepping out of her—

“Please, mistress. Allow me to make you some breakfast.”

Vuchie was standing just inside the room, dressed in her perennial gray-and-white uniform, her weight going back and forth between her crepe shoes. The doggen had brown hair, brown eyes and skin the color of white bread, but she was lovely in her own way—and probably only fifty years older than Paradise. The two had known each other since Parry could remember—as with many daughters of aristocratic parents, the pair of them had been matched with the hopes of a lifelong mistress/servant relationship being formed. In a lot of cases, one’s maid was the most important thing taken to your new home when you were mated to a male of similar privilege and breeding.

It was your tie to the past. Your sanity. And, a lot of times, the only person you could trust.

Boy, she much preferred this current relocation—that was because of a job, not some overbred hellren type.

“I’m fine, Vuchie.” She tried to smile. “Are you hungry yourself?”

“Mistress, you did not have Last Meal, either.”

Parry had no intention of coming clean with the truth—namely that if she had so much as half a nook or a quarter of a cranny, she was going to go golf sprinkler all over her stewardess-ness. That kind of candor was only to going to lead to a fight over bed rest, and likely, Vuchie calling in her father for R&R reinforcement.

“You know what I would love?” Parry forced a smile. “If you could prepare something for me to eat at my desk.” She went over and linked arms with Vuchie. “Come on, let’s do this.”

“But . . . but . . . but—”

“I’m so glad you agree. I just love it when we’re on the same page like this.”

Up at the top of the curving, rough-cut stone staircase, they stepped through a life-size portrait of a French royal into the parlor, where the receiving area was located.

“It’s so quiet,” Paradise said, stilling.

The room, like the rest of the house, was just so beautifully decorated, antiques everywhere, silks and satins on the walls and the floors, even the chairs people were to wait in covered in rich fabrics. It reminded her of articles she’d read in Vogue and Vanity Fair about Babe Paley and Slim Keith, the scale of the furnishings so perfect, the objets d’art little whimsies of jade and gold and brass, the colors restrained, but not weak.

“I guess Father isn’t here, yet.”

As if on cue, the automatic shutters rose from all the windows, the subtle whirring sound making her jump.

“I shall go attend to the kitchen,” Vuchie said. “And prepare your First Meal.”

As her maid walked off, Paradise nearly called the female back. But for God’s sake, the doggen was not a security blanket.

Determined to get herself ready, even though she didn’t know what she was going to be doing, she went over and sat down behind the desk and . . . played with the mouse, which got her to a password-protected screen she didn’t bother trying to crack.

Wi-Fi underground was one thing. The computer here? Was going to be locked and then some.

One by one, she opened the drawers, finding nothing but stationery supplies, stationery supplies . . . and yeah, wow, more stationery stuff—

She heard the voices first. Deep. Low. Very masculine.

Then the front door opened. And there was the bass chorus of many, many heavy feet in boots crossing the threshold—

Paradise’s first thought was to hide under the desk.

Members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood filed into the house, all of them dressed in black leather, each one of them armed with brutal-looking weapons.

They were bigger than she remembered from her introductions the previous night. And it wasn’t like she’d filed the memory of them in the pipsqueak category, either.

“. . . pump a couple of rounds off in their head,” one of them said.

There was some laughter, and another added, “Or their ass. I ain’t too proud.”

Cue the proverbial tire squealing as they all stopped short and looked at her. Thank God she was sitting down. And the desk added a barrier of sorts between her and all that warrior.

“Hey,” one of them said, the one with the Ben Affleck accent. “Your first night, huh?”

As she started to nod, her father flashed in through the open door.

“I am here, I am here!” Her dad pressed through the group. “Paradise, how fare you?”

As he came up to her, she got to her feet and hugged him hard. She could do this, she told herself. She could absolutely, positively do this.

Really.

Honest.

God, there were a lot of males in the house.

* * *

Twins. She was having twins.

As Layla lay in the hospital bed, she rubbed her belly with her free hand, the one that was not hanging out the end of the cast that ran up to above her right elbow. Her aches from her two falls had faded, and the bone break that Manny had taken care of was already knitted back together. The plaster or nylon or whatever it was was going to be cut off in a little bit.

Twins.

Even though she’d had all day to try to get used to the news, she was still stunned—and making things worse, she and Qhuinn hadn’t really talked about it.

Or what he’d gotten so interested in when it came to those clothes she’d been wearing.

By the time he’d come back with a flannel nightie and her favorite pink robe, she’d been asleep. He’d been good enough to lay the robe over her and leave her be.

Was he mad at her? Had he guessed that she’d been lying about where her car trips had been taking her?

Goddamn, as the Brothers would say—

The knock on her door brought her head up. “Yes?”

Sure as if he’d read her mind, Qhuinn leaned his heavy upper body into the room. “Hey. I just wanted to check in with you before I left tonight. How’re you feeling?”

Layla took a deep breath and tried to have nothing show in her face.

“I’m well. How are you?”

“Good.”

Long pause. That got her heart beating hard.

“So, thank you for the robe.” She stroked the fuzzy length. “I really appreciate it. I just woke up, but I’m going to put it on.”

After a moment, he came in and eased the door shut. His mismatched eyes went up and down her body, and for once, they were reserved.

“So how are you doing?” he said. “You know, with the twin thing.”

“Fine. I mean, it’s a shock . . .” She shrugged. “But I’m adjusting. I’m happy. Two, what a blessing. I mean, yes.”

“Good. Yeah. Uh-huh.”

Silence. That was filled by him shoving his hands into the front pockets of his leathers, and her playing with the lapels of the damn robe.

As well as breaking out in a cold sweat under the hospital sheets.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” Qhuinn asked.

The pounding in her ears was so loud, she was almost sure she answered him in a shout. “About what?”

“What you were doing last night?”

She forced herself to hold his stare. “I went for a drive.”

“Why were your clothes covered with leaves?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. Last night. When I took them upstairs, there were dirt and leaves on them. If you walked across the courtyard and fell in the vestibule, why were they like that?”

She dropped her eyes from his even though she knew that made her seem guilty. Then again, she was guilty.

“Layla?” He cursed softly. “Look, you’re a grown female. Even though you’re carrying my young, I don’t have any right to know what’s doing in your life except for pregnancy-related stuff. I just want to make sure you’re safe. For your sake. For the young.”

Shit.

Now was the time, she thought. Now . . . had to be the time.

“I feel trapped,” she heard herself say.

Between Xcor and the Brotherhood. Between danger and safety. Between desire and damnation.

“I kind of figured that.” Qhuinn nodded. “The drives. You’re going out a lot.”

“I walk.”

“Where?”

“Outside.” In her head, she tried on a variety of come-clean confessions, swapping out nouns and verbs, trying to find a way for her to describe what she was doing without having him lose his shit all over the place. “Out . . . in the country.”

Qhuinn walked across the room and straightened the already straight framed picture of a weeping willow. “People do that when they’re working on something. In their head.”

You got that right, she thought.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she wanted to tell him. She really did . . . but the revelation was stuck in her throat.

For the first time, she started to get pissed off. At herself. At Xcor. At the whole goddamn thing.

“Did you trip and fall while you were walking?” he said.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I was stupid. I fell over a root.”

So close to the truth. Just with all the salient parts left unspoken.

Man, this was killing her.

“Most females . . .” Qhuinn came over to the foot of her bed, put his hands on his lean hips and stared down at her feet. “Most females have a partner they can go through this with. I want to be that for you. So does Blay. We don’t want to let you down.”

Great, now she got teary that he might ever doubt how supportive he was. “You are incredible. Both of you are. You are utterly amazing. It’s just . . . there’s a lot going on.”

At least that was not a lie.

“More now with twins.” He shook his head. “Twins . . . can you believe it?”

“No.” She rubbed her belly. “I don’t know how they’re going to fit. I already feel huge, and I have how many more months to go?”

“Listen, please know, I got you. I’m here for you, anything you need—”

As a shrill alarm started to sound next door, the two of them frowned at the same time and looked around for the source of the noise.

“Is that coming from Luchas’s room?” she asked. “Oh, my God, is that . . . ?”

Shouting out in the hall. Running footsteps. Jane’s voice barking out orders.

“Fuck, I gotta go see,” Qhuinn said as he pivoted and lunged for the door. “I gotta go help . . .”

As he bolted for his brother’s room, Layla sat up. Got to her feet. Steadied herself.

Whatever was happening next door was bad news. And she was damned if Qhuinn was going to face it alone.

THIRTY-TWO

As Selena sat in the back of the giant Mercedes, the one that Fritz drove and was, in fact, driving, she was smiling so widely, her cheeks were numb and her jaw hurt.

Up ahead of the sedan, the skyscrapers of Caldwell glowed like the mythical sentries of some fantasy realm, and she leaned into her windshield, trying to see the particular one they were going to, the tallest of the giants, the pinnacle of them all.

“I can’t wait to see what the view is like.” She turned back to Trez. “I’m so excited.”

When he didn’t reply, but just kept staring at her, she smiled even harder. The male hadn’t looked away from her since she’d come down the stairs, his eyes roaming, always roaming, over her lips, her breasts, her thighs and calves, back up to her hair, her face, her throat.

His arousal was straining the front of his black slacks. And even though he kept trying to put his jacket or his arm or a casual hand across his hips, she could sense his sex as clearly as if he were naked.

She leaned in, getting close. “Kiss me?”

“I don’t trust myself.”

“Sounds dire.” Stretching up, she nipped the lobe of his ear. “Dangerous . . .”

The groan that vibrated out of his chest was the most erotic sound she’d ever heard.

“Maybe we should take care of this?” As she put her hand on his sex, he jumped and cursed. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

While he braced himself against the seat and ground his hips into her hand, she glanced to the front of the car, which, due to the vehicle’s size, seemed to be in another zip code. Fritz was focused on the road, his old, lined face preoccupied. Maybe they could—

Without taking those dark eyes off of her, Trez flopped his hand around his door. A split second later, there was a whhhrrrrring sound and an opaque partition went up, closing them off from their kind chauffeur.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” she said as she pushed his arm out of the way.

“Not gonna need it.”

From out of a chest pocket, he pulled a white, folded handkerchief and, with a quick shake, freed it of its ironed rigor.

As she freed his erection.

She was of half a mind to lower her mouth to him, but he took her face between his bare palm and the one that was now covered with fine cloth and kissed her, his tongue shooting in deep, meeting her own.

He was hard and hot, velvety and thick, and she slid a grip around his shaft, pumping him. The more she stroked, the crazier the kiss got, until his pelvis was jerking up against her, and his chest was thrashing, and she was breathing as hard as he was.

When he orgasmed, he barked out her name and shoved the handkerchief onto himself—and she was so turned on, so giddy with the feel of his mouth on hers and the pump, pump, pump of her palm against his sex, that she felt a welling between her own thighs, an answer to what she was doing—which was so much less than what they both really wanted.

Her own release was a surprise, but she welcomed it, absorbing the sharp grabs of pleasure, making them stronger by squeezing her thighs together and rocking. Meanwhile, she continued her stroking rhythm, squeezing at his head, working his length.

When it was finally done, Trez fell back against the seat, his lids oh, so low, those lips of his parted, his head lolling to the side as if he didn’t have the strength to hold the thing up.

“Was that a quickie?” she whispered as she pressed her breasts against his chest and kissed him.

Before he could answer, she ran her tongue along his lower lip, then sucked the flesh in. Easing back, she said, “Hmm? Was it?”

“Be careful, female, I’m liable to fuck you out of that dress you’re wearing.”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“If any other male sees you naked, yes.” He smiled and ran a fang over her lower lip. “I’m protective.”

“You’re still hard, too, aren’t you.”

With a quick grab of the back of her neck, he pulled her in tight and kissed the daylights out of her. Although she had been in control of the first part, now he took over, dominating her body, sweeping a hand between her knees and up, up, higher to her—

She orgasmed against his fingers as they sunk in deep, her core firing off round after round of pleasure.

“That’s my queen,” she heard him say from a vast distance. “Come for me . . .”

There was no knowing how many times he plied her with that talented touch of his, but eventually, she became aware of the car taking a fat turn that shifted her in the seat. Focusing her glazed eyes through the darkened window, she saw that they were getting off the highway, about to enter the complicated asphalt arteries that fed the countless skyscrapers.

“I ruined your lipstick,” he said with satisfaction as he tidied himself up. “Did you bring more?”

Now she was the one with the case of the huh-what’s? “Let me see if there’s some in here.” She fumbled with the slim black purse Marissa had given her. “Yup, they’ve got us covered.”

As if the females had known exactly what kind of trouble she was likely to get into, there was a tiny packet of tissues, the lip liner they had taught her how to use, and the fabulous red lipstick they’d put on her.

“There’s a mirror up there.” Trez stretched out his long arm and popped something down from the ceiling. “And it’s lighted.”

She checked herself out and had to laugh. “Yup, I think you cleaned it all off.”

A tissue took care of the smudging and then it was a case of carefully making a line around her mouth—while the car bumped over a road that was mostly, but not completely, even.

“Shoot,” she said, going for another tissue as she ended up with a rose-colored streak headed into her nose. “Let me try—”

Trez took her hand and brought it down. As she looked over at him, his eyes, his soul-shattering, deep black eyes, seemed to be memorizing everything about her.

“You don’t need it,” he told her. “I like you better without it.”

Selena smiled shyly. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” His stare went down her body. And came back up. “This is wonderful. You look amazing. You’re the most beautiful female in the city tonight, and when we get to that restaurant, waiters are going to be dropping their trays. But you need to know, my very favorite look on you?”

When he paused, she found herself having to swallow hard. “What?” she whispered.

“Your very best look, my queen, is the one you were born with. As far as I’m concerned, perfection can’t be improved upon by either man nor God.” Leaning in, he kissed her softly. “Just thought you’d want to know what your male’s been thinking as I’ve been staring at you.”

Selena started to smile, especially as she realized that sometimes “I love you” could be said without those particular three words lined up in a row.

“See?” she said softly. “I told you this was going to be the best night of my life.”

* * *

Riding shotgun in Manny’s RV ambulance, Rhage was eating Doritos out of the bag—and totally disagreeing with the doctor. “Nah, I’m not a Cool Ranch guy. Original only for me.”

“You are missing out.” Manny hit the directional signal to get off the highway. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are so closed-minded when it comes to a snack food staple.”

“But that’s my point. Why improve on a gift from God?”

Tilting the bag, he looked inside and wanted to curse. He was coming to the end of the big chips, nothing but the broken parts and cosmic orange dust left. Which was not to say he wouldn’t eat it all, and cap things off with a tip-up of the bottom above his gaping maw. But this was the unfun finger-dexterity part of the experience.

Munching along, he refocused on the ass of Fritz’s third-world-dictator car. That Mercedes was so big, so black, and so completely tinted, it tended to get more attention as it drove by rather than less. And for shits and giggles, Rhage imagined what the humans would think if they knew there were vampires in the back.

And that the thing was being driven by a centuries-old butler with a foot that would make Jeff Gordon get a case of the jels.

“Do we turn right up here?” Rhage asked as they approached an intersection.

“That’s a one-way.”

“Like I said, do we turn?”

Manny looked over. “Not if we don’t want to get arrested.”

“We’re in an ambulance.”

“Yeah, but they’re not.”

Oh, right. Bummer. “You know, I really just want to hit the lights on this bitch.”

Although the instant he said that, his rib cage shrunk around his lungs, and he ended up having to put the window down a little so he could get some air.

“Did you just leave nacho all over my door.”

Rhage rubbed the bright orange spot away with his forearm. “Nope.”

They kept to Fritz’s bumper tight as a stamp on an envelope, turning left, heading away from the river, going right so they were in the heart of the financial district. No dirty alleys. No Dumpsters. No slush even during the wet months. And no nasty smells from the rotting remains of cheap restaurants.

This was the fancy part of town, where people wore suits and rushed around, channeled like cattle in chutes to their places of Urgent, Important Work.

The skyscraper that housed the restaurant they were gunning for had been completed only a couple of years before, its developers touting the enormous vertical rise as the tallest building in Caldwell. Jam-packed with the headquarters of big businesses, to him, it was nothing more than a filing cabinet for humans, each of them locked into their little slots.

Snooze.

“You okay?”

Rhage looked over at the doc. “Huh?”

“What’s wrong.”

“Nothing.”

“Then why have you stopped eating. Bag’s not empty.”

Rhage glanced down. Sure enough, he’d left the detritus where it was—and he didn’t have any impulse to finish. “Ahhh . . .”

“Watching your weight?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

As he crushed the bag, he left orange prints all over the labels and marketing, until the thing looked like it had bruised that color from the rough handling.

Then he was stuck orange-handed. “Shit. I don’t have anything to wipe off with.”

“Are you kidding me?” Manny tossed a gauze roll at him. “We could do a buff and shine on half this city with what I got in here.”

Rhage unraveled and cleaned up; then crammed everything into the wastepaper basket that was bolted to the floor between the bucket seats.

Manny slowed down as they came up to the glass building, and then he parked on the opposite side of the street as Fritz stopped completely at the flashy entrance, the taillights of the Merc glowing red.

A moment later, Trez got out and went around behind the sedan, the stiff wind catching his jacket before he did the buttons up, flashing the twin forties he had holstered under both of his arms.

With a gallant move, he opened the door for his female, and Selena emerged from the back, her incredible hair sweeping away from her body, a dark flag that teased this way and that.

“Good-looking couple,” Manny said quietly.

“She doesn’t even seem sick.”

“I know.”

Trez tucked her arm into his and escorted her up the gray granite steps, and as another couple came out of the revolving doors, both of the humans stopped and stared.

“Manny.”

“Yeah?”

“You gotta do something, my man. You just have to figure this shit out for them.”

Manny hit the gas and the souped-up RV’s engine revved, taking them onward so they could go around the block to the back.

“You hear me?” Rhage demanded.

“Yeah, I did.” Manny took a deep breath. “You know what the hardest thing to learn about medicine is?”

“Biochem.”

“No.”

“Human anatomy. ’Cuz it’s gross.”

The blinker made a nuk-nuk-nuk sound as the good doctor announced to the world, or at least this street, that they were taking another left around the skyscraper’s footprint.

“It’s that there are situations where there’s nothing you can do.”

Rhage rubbed his eyes. Something out of his subconscious was coming back to him, something he didn’t want.

“Rhage?”

“Huh?”

“You made a funny noise there.”

As Manny came up to the service bays, he pulled a neat little driver’s-ed-style K-turn so that he was able to back that ass right against the building. Shutting things down, he turned in his seat.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh-huh.”

“You don’t look right. And check out what I’m wearing. Scrubs. You know what that means.”

“That you like having your pj’s on all night?”

“That I’m a doctor and I know what I’m talking about.”

“Don’t get paranoid, big guy.”

There was a heartbeat or twelve of silence. Then Manny said, “There is nothing I won’t do to keep her with him. Nothing.”

Now Rhage was the one pulling the pivot. “That’s what I needed to hear, Doc.”

“Just don’t put your faith in miracles, Hollywood. That’s a dangerous bet.”

“It happened for me and Mary. When we needed one, we got one.”

Manny stared out the front windshield—and didn’t appear to see anything of the darkened street ahead. “I’m not God. And neither is Doc Jane.”

Rhage resettled in his seat. “You need to have hope. They just have to have hope.”