Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

THIRTY-THREE

As the prison cell’s door panel slid back into the wall, iAm wheeled around. But it still wasn’t s’Ex. And it wasn’t another bedding platform. And it wasn’t more books he would not read or blankets he would not use or pillows he could give a rat’s ass about.

It was that maid with another meal.

“Oh, come on,” he spat, throwing up his hands. “Where the fuck is s’Ex!”

The female said nothing; she simply walked forward with that tray of hers as the door slid back into place, locking them in together.

As she lowered herself to her knees, he wanted to scream. So he did.

“I’m not fucking eating that! Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people!”

The only thing that stopped him from marching over, picking up that frickin’ food, and slinging it across the room was the fact that it wasn’t the maichen’s fault. s’Ex blowing him off had nothing to do with her, and terrorizing the damn maid wasn’t going to get him any closer to freedom and returning to Trez.

She was an innocent third party caught up in this bullshit just like he was.

Exhaling in a burst, he hung his head. It took him a couple of heartbeats before he was under any semblance of control. “I’m sorry.”

At that, her head jerked up to level, and for a moment, especially as that scent of hers reached him, he wished he could see her eyes.

What shape were they? What did her lashes look like? Were the irises as dark as his—

Why the fuck was he thinking like this?

Breaking off from her, he started walking around. “I gotta get out of here. Time is running out.”

As her head tilted to the side in inquiry, he thought, no. Not gonna go there.

He nodded down at the tray. “If you want to leave the food, I’ll flush it down the toilet so that you don’t get in trouble for not feeding me.”

And that was when she spoke: “It is not poisoned.”

For absolutely no good reason, those four run-of-the-mill words stopped him dead. Her voice was deeper than he had expected; all her subservience seemed better paired with some high-octave, super-feminine tone. And there was a husky undertone . . . which made him think about sex.

Raw sex. The kind that left females hoarse from calling out the name of their lover.

iAm blinked.

All at once, he had the urge to cover his naked body. Which was kind of bullshit, wasn’t it. He’d known she was a female all along and it wasn’t like he’d ever had any clothes on in front of her.

Giving in to the impulse, he went over behind the screen, to the stack of towels that had been placed by the inset tub. As he wrapped one around his hips, he felt like apologizing for ever having aired his junk at all.

When he came back around, she was sampling the soup and the bread again.

“You can stop,” he said. “I’m not going to eat.”

“Why?”

Again, with that voice. Even on only one word this time.

“I gotta get out of here,” he muttered. For a whole fucking lot of reasons. “I have to get out.”

“Does something await you?”

He thought of Trez and Selena. “Just death. You know, no big fucking deal or anything.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I gotta talk to s’Ex. That’s what I need to do. Did you tell him?”

Although it wasn’t as if she had any pull.

“Who is dying?”

“Nothing. No one. Nobody—”

“Who is passing? Not your brother?”

“Look, I need you to go. And not come back unless you’re bringing s’Ex with you.”

“Who.”

Annnnnd he stopped again. Maids were never imperious, but that was what she sounded like. Then again, his emotions were running so goddamn high, he was capable of reading into just about anything right now—and jumping to the wrong conclusion.

“I came back here for help, okay.” He threw up his hands. “s’Ex told me he would get me into the palace so I could look through the healers’ texts.”

“For whom?”

“My brother’s mate.”

The maid’s head came up sharply. “He is to mate the Princess here, though, no? I heard that he is the Anointed One.”

“He fell in love.” iAm shrugged. “It happens. Or so I’ve heard.”

“And she is the one who is dying?”

“She’s not doing well.”

As he resumed his prowling, he could feel the eyes behind that mesh track him. “So that’s why I need to get out. My brother needs my help.”

“He is in mourning. The executioner.”

iAm glanced over, and then resumed stalking the cell. “Yeah. I know, but he had enough free rein to meet me on the outside. Shorter trip now that I’m in the palace itself.”

“But that is the issue. He left and no one knew where he had gone. The palace wanted him to participate. The palace . . . insisted that he attend to the Queen. He is with her now.”

Just his luck. “There are breaks in the rituals, though, aren’t there? Can you catch him then?”

“Well . . . maybe I can take you to the texts?”

iAm cranked his head around slowly. “What did you say?”

* * *

Longest. Elevator. Ride. Of. His. Life.

As Trez stood next to Selena in a glass-walled torture chamber, he was resolutely facing the closed doors—and praying for some kind of Dr. Who time warp thingy that had him stepping out of the goddamn thing rightfuckingnow.

Eyeballs locked on the glowing line of numbers above the chrome doors, he wanted to vomit.

L . . . 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50.

“44” had yet to light up because they were in the screaming-fast, liver-in-your-loafer, express part of the joyride.

“Oh, you should look out here,” Selena said, pivoting toward the all-access pass to vertigo. “This is so much fun!”

A quick glance over his shoulder and he nearly hurled. His beautiful queen had not just gone over to the glass, but put her palms on it and leaned into the ever-higher view.

Trez snapped back around. “Almost there. We’re almost at the top.”

“Can we go down and come up again? I wonder what the descent is like!”

Actually, maybe they should head back to the lobby. He was fairly sure he’d left his manhood there when this rocket ride had ignited.

“Trez!” Tap, tap, tap on his forearm. “Look at this.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s incredible. Yeah. Abso.”

They were never getting to the four hundred and forty-fourth floor. Much less level fifteen thousand gabillion where the cocksucking restaurant was.

McDonald’s, he thought. Why couldn’t she have wanted Mickey D’s. Or Pizza Hut. Taco Hell—

Beep!

At the sound, he braced himself for a Die Hard moment where some mastermind in a bespoke English suit blew up the rooftop.

Nope. Beep! Forty-five. Beep! Forty-six.

And more good news came as the bum rush to the heavens slowed.

“Trez?”

“Mmm?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Just really psyched for dinner. Oh, my God, I can’t wait to get there.”

She tucked her arm through his and leaned her head against his triceps. “You really know how to treat a female.”

Damn right he did. For example, he was very clear that it would be considered highly unromantic to go fetal and suck your thumb because you were nut-less when it came to heights.

Bing! And the doors opened.

Thank you, baby Jesus, to use a Butch phrase.

Now, he told himself, get your shit together, you sack-less wonder, and focus on your female.

Flashing his queen a Cary Grant plus fangs, he escorted Selena off the deathtrap and into a black marble lobby that for a split second took him back to his nightmare at the s’Hisbe: so much glossy black stone on the floors, walls, and ceiling, with lights inset up high—and nothing else.

“Trez?”

Shaking himself, he smiled down at her. “You ready for this?”

“Oh, yes.”

A discreet black-on-black sign with an arrow indicated the way to the restaurant, but his keen senses of hearing and smell had already given him that information, thanks. As they started off, a human couple steamed toward them, the female’s high heels like the F-word being used with every step she took.

“. . . no reservation?” she hissed. “How could you not get us a reservation?”

The man next to her was staring straight ahead. Like you would if you were stuck next to a three-year-old on a bus.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get us a reservation. And we had to walk out like that. In front of all the other . . .”

As she continued to marching-band it to that theme song, the man’s eyes locked on Selena—and the poor bastard recoiled in awe as if a living angel had appeared in front of him.

After Trez pointed out to his inner bonded male that an appropriate entrée didn’t include Filet o’Fucktard, he realized that he, too, had failed to call ahead and lock down a time for a two-top. Shit. He’d totally forgotten to ask Fritz to make the damn call. And mind control worked on humans, including snotty maître d’s, but what it couldn’t fix was rank unavailability of empty seats.

Ahh . . .

“You know, I’ve heard the food isn’t all that,” he said numbly.

“That’s okay. I’m really here for the view.”

The entrance to Circle the World was not marked with any signage, like if you needed to ask, you didn’t need to be there. All there was was a pair of smoky glass doors as wide and tall as a one-story house.

Getting a jump on the black handles, he pulled one half open and let Selena go ahead.

Total restraint.

That was the first impression of the place: Glossy black everywhere, from the tables and the geometric chairs to the square supports that held the ceiling up overhead. No flowers. No candles. Nothing fussy. And the dark night beyond all those windows? Black as well, so that it looked as if there was no divide between the sky and interior.

The only touch of whimsy? The curling LED lights that hung from that lofty ceiling on black wires, their twinkling illumination reflecting off of all the high-gloss.

Oh, and there was a soprano singing over in the corner, her dulcet voice piped in throughout the place.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Selena whispered. “It’s like there are stars everywhere.”

He looked around. “Yeah.”

Okay, where was the gent in the penguin suit who was in charge of turning people with good money away? There was no maître d’ stand. Just thirty feet of black carpet that led to the first lineup of minimalist tables.

“They’re looking at us.”

On the whispered words, he frowned and focused on the diners. Well, what do you know. Every one of the humans at the tables seemed to have stopped eating and was looking in their direction—

From out of nowhere, a woman rushed over. Like the decor, she was all in black, and even her hair was a cap of stick-straight high-gloss.

“How do you do,” she said with a broad smile. “Welcome to Circle the World.”

And we will now self-destruct in three . . . two . . . “Yeah, I didn’t call ahead—”

“Oh, Mr. Latimer, yes, you did. Your representative, Mr. Perlmutter, let us know you would be gracing us with your presence. We are so pleased to accommodate you at the windows.”

Fuuuuuck.

Thank you, thank you, Fritz, butler lifeboat supreme—who had clearly overheard something.

As his queen beamed, the woman indicated the way across the open room—and as they followed her, Trez realized that they had stepped onto a vast, slowly revolving plate: The entire restaurant moved around the center core of the elevator shaft and what must have been the kitchen space.

They went right to the edge. To a table for two that had one of its generous four sides directly against the glass.

Under which the entire city of Caldwell stretched out, about four hundred thousand feet below.

Time to sit, he thought, praying his sudden case of the wonks didn’t wipe out his knees before he did his queen proper.

Helping Selena into her seat, he kept his eyes averted as he went over and fell down into a seat that was hard as rock.

The maître d’ cast her pale hand over the table to the godforsaken windows. “This will be the spice to the courses of your meal.”

No, that would be nausea, sweetheart.

She turned back to the rest of the place. “The interior is designed to be the night, the perfect background for savoring what the chef will provide for your pleasure.”

When they were alone, Selena shifted herself toward the windows. “It’s . . . incredible. The lights of the buildings. They’re like fallen stars.”

Trez wiped his sweaty palms on his napkin. Bracing himself, he glanced over and found that—well, yes, it was as bad as he had thought. Peering out the utterly clean glass, it was as if nothing separated him from a fall to the death, the lack of a ledge turning even a split second of eye contact into a terrifying swoop into the abyss.

Time to put the napkin to the brow.

“Trez?” She looked over at him. “Are you all right?”

Pulling it together, he reached out and took her hand.

“Have I told you how beautiful these are?” he murmured.

Her smile was radiant. “Yes, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

“So beautiful.” He smoothed his palm over hers. Then bent in and pressed a kiss to her skin. “Long and lovely. Strong, too.”

When he finally looked up, it was into her eyes, and that was when things got better. One single heartbeat later, and he wasn’t worried about his terror of heights, and he wasn’t thinking about the humans around him, and he couldn’t have given a shit that the twinkling view was subtly circling below them.

With her hand in his and that beautiful face of hers staring across at him, he was transported away from it all.

“I love you,” he said, rubbing his thumb on the inside of her wrist. “No one could do this to me.”

“Do what?”

“Make me forget all my fear.”

She flushed. “I didn’t want to bring it up, but why didn’t you tell me you don’t like heights? I thought you were going to jump out of your skin in just the elevator. We could have gone somewhere else.”

“This was where you wanted to go. And like I wouldn’t suck it up for you?”

“I want us to both enjoy tonight.”

He lowered his lids. “I had fun in the car. Already looking forward to the trip home.”

As her scent flared, she let out something that sounded like a purr.

Later, much later, he would remember this moment between them . . . the way it seemed to last forever, stretching into the divine infinite. All of the details would stay with him, too, from the sparkle in her eyes to the shine of her hair, from the way she smiled at him to the flush on her cheeks.

Memories were especially dear, when they were all you had left of a loved one to hold on to.

THIRTY-FOUR

“What’s happening! What is . . . what’s that alarm mean?”

Layla was right behind Qhuinn as he burst into his brother’s hospital room and started talking. Over his shoulder, she saw Doc Jane standing by the bed, and Luchas down flat, his johnny ripped down to his waist, the covers shoved off his prone body, the pillows scattered on the floor.

Some piece of medical equipment had been rolled over and Ehlena was initiating something on its computer as Doc Jane grabbed a pair of handles that were connected by curlicue cords.

“Clear!” she barked, and then put metal paddles directly on Luchas’s chest.

There was a juicing sound, and then a mini-explosion on the bed, his torso jerking upward.

And still the alarm sounded, a single note that was a mechanical kind of scream.

“Luchas!” Qhuinn yelled. “Luchas!”

Something told Layla to hold him back, and she wrapped her arms around his broad torso, pressing her belly into him. “Stay here,” she said in a voice that croaked. “Let them do . . .”

“Clear!” Doc Jane called out.

The bed shook while Luchas’s torso seized again, and as he flopped back down, Layla’s own heart thundered. She couldn’t believe she was seeing this once more. Yesterday, it was Selena, now it was—

Beep. Beep. Beep—

“I have a heartbeat.” Doc Jane ditched what had been in her hands, throwing the paddles at the machine. “I need you to . . .”

Ehlena responded to the commands as fast as the physician gave them, providing medicine-filled syringes one after another before slipping an oxygen mask over Luchas’s face and adjusting even more equipment.

About ten minutes—or it could have been ten hours—later, Doc Jane came over. “I need to speak with you.” She nodded toward the hall beyond. “Out here, please.”

As they all stepped from the room, Doc Jane rushed the door shut, even though it was trying to close on its own. “Qhuinn, I don’t have time to sugarcoat this. I’ve barely got his blood pressure and heart rate stabilized, and he’s not going to stay this way. If he’s going to survive, I need to take that lower leg, and it’s going to have to be now. The infection is killing him and that’s the source of the problems. Hell, even if I do amputate below the knee, it may be too late. But if you want to give him a chance, that’s what I’ve got to do.”

Qhuinn didn’t blink. Didn’t curse. Didn’t argue. “All right. Take the goddamn thing.”

Layla closed her eyes and put her hand to the base of her throat.

“Okay. I want you to stay out here. You don’t need to see this.” As Qhuinn opened his mouth, the doctor cut him right off. “No. Not an option. If it comes to it, I’ll let you say good-bye. Stay out here.”

This time the door closed on its own, easing back into place.

Closing her eyes briefly, Layla could not imagine what they were doing in there. There had been plenty of surgical equipment with them, though—as if Doc Jane had been prepared for this.

And given Qhuinn’s quick response, so had he.

“He’s going to kill me,” he said roughly. “If he survives.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I could let him die.”

“Could your conscience handle that?”

“No.”

“So there’s no choice.” She put her palms to her face and tried to get the image of Luchas on that bed out of her head. “God, how has it come to this?”

“Maybe I should tell her to stop it.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

They were out in the hall forever, and Layla tried not to hear the sounds from the other side of that door, especially when there was a subtle whrrrrring that seemed really close to a miniature chainsaw firing up. Whereas she stayed still, Qhuinn paced back and forth, his head down, eyes on his boots, hands on his hips. After a while, he stopped and looked at her.

“Thank you. You know, for not leaving me here alone.”

Stepping up to him, she held her arms wide and he came to her, leaning down, putting his head on her shoulder. As they waited together, she held him because that was all she could do.

It didn’t feel like enough.

* * *

Approximately ten blocks over and fifty floors down from Circle the World, Xcor was standing flush against a sweaty brick wall.

The lesser he and Balthazar had been tracking was behind and to the left of where they stood, the stench of its body floating down on a breeze that carried a sting of industrial grit and grime along with it.

His body was itching for a fight, everything that had happened with Layla the night before making his inner demons ride him until he had been so nasty, all of his soldiers had left him underground alone during the daylight hours.

Better to face the risk of sunshine than deal with his mood.

At least he had a good killing to look forward to.

On his signal, Balthazar ghosted over the damp pavement, becoming one with the shadow of the building across the way. There was a clear night sky overhead, but the added moonlight was a largely irrelevant complication. Caldwell’s downtown had enough ambient illumination that he could have read a novel even here in this narrow alley.

Assuming he were magically literate.

Staying in the shadows was not only part of the vampire myth, but a very prudent reality for them all.

With a practiced movement, he withdrew his scythe from its holster, freeing the weapon from the strap that ran across his back. Balthazar, on the other hand, preferred the more conventional double-dagger armaments, the pale blades flashing as he sank down on his thighs.

Footfalls came at them. Fast, multiple, but not at a run.

Two human males, hands in pockets, feet moving quickly, came down the alley. They paid no attention as they passed, and that probably saved their worthless little lives.

And then it was a waiting game.

A single set of footfalls now, at a much slower speed. Accompanied by the stench that preceded the undead.

As the lesser came into view, rounding a corner and hitting their straightaway, he, too, was paying no attention to them. He had cash in his hands, the sum of which he appeared to be obsessed with, counting, recounting, as he went by.

Xcor stepped out in his wake. “How much did you get for blowing them?”

The lesser wheeled around, shoving the money away into a baggy coat. Before it could respond, Balthazar sprang from his position, leaping high into the air and landing dagger-first. The slayer screamed as those blades penetrated his shoulder and throat, proving that though soulless and heartless, the bastards had central nervous systems that registered pain quite efficiently.

And that was when the bullets started flying.

Xcor was twisting around, prepared to swing his beloved scythe wide as soon as Balthazar rolled himself free, when a telltale popping sound echoed down at him. And then another.

And then a fury of them.

The discharging was too quick for even autoloaders.

The first hit he took was in the shoulder. Second was in the thigh. Third grazed his ear, leaving a burning that felt as if he had a bright red car blinker up there.

Balthazar was hit as well.

They had no choice but to run and pray. Was it humans? Unlikely, but not unheard-of. It could not be slayers; they were so pitifully armed, the heaviest firepower any of them brought into the alleys were nine-millimeters, and very few at that.

A quick dodge to the right and he and Balthazar were in a narrower lane, temporarily out of the onslaught. That would change as soon as the shooter or shooters got to the corner they had wheeled off around.

“Left!” Balthazar barked.

Sure enough, there was another opportunity in the maze of streets to pare off, and they ghosted down the next alley, ironically running past the pair of humans who had sauntered by previously. The two men were likewise going as fast as they could, having clearly heard the racket. Their speed was much slower, however.

So, as the machine gun came around the corner, they provided some vital cover.

Screams, deep throated and terror-filled, exploded as the next round of fire came down at them, the humans taking the brunt of the impacts.

“Left!” Xcor said, leaning into the turn.

His thigh was going numb, but he didn’t waste time glancing down to measure any damage. That would come later, assuming he survived.

Another bullet came close, the sound as it whistled by his ear loud enough to overpower even his sawing breath and thunderous boots.

Balthazar was right beside him, that big body going at a dead run.

More discharges pinged off of a Dumpster as they passed it. Off the brick wall. Off the pavement. From time to time there were pauses, as if the gun or guns were being reloaded—or mayhap there were a pair of them working together, one handing off the ammo as the other shot.

Keep going. It was all they could do.

None of the alleys they were coming upon offered anywhere meaningful to hide; in fact, there were not even doors to break through.

It was strictly a question of outrunning the number of rounds the shooters had brought with them. Assuming he and his fighter didn’t get gunned down first.

As the next rounds came at them, he knew without looking over his shoulder that it had to be the enemy and not humans in pursuit.

Only slayers could run this fast, this far . . . and appear to have energy stores sufficient to keep going.

It was possible, he noted in the back of his mind, that he and his soldier might be in trouble.