Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

FORTY-ONE

“No. Here. Put him by the fire—”

Xcor broke himself loose of the holds upon his arms. “I am not an invalid.”

As he limped across the shallow room of the cottage he had bought for Layla, he kept to himself the fact that he was cold to the bone, and he did, in fact, appreciate the warmth of the flames that boiled around the logs at the hearth.

“Your leg is broken,” Zypher said.

Whilst he settled himself upon the sofa, a sharp nausea threatened to empty his stomach, but he buried that response as well, swallowing down the risen bile. “It shall mend.”

“There are victuals here.”

He didn’t know who said that. Did not care. “Where is the liquor?”

“Here.”

As a bottle of God only knew what appeared before him, he took what was proffered, shucked the cap, and brought the open mouth to his lips. Vodka it was, the white bite burning the back of his throat and lighting a second set of flames in his gut.

It had been a very, very long trip home, with him dematerializing mile by mile because they had no motorized conveyances at their disposal. And now, all he wanted was to be left alone—and he feared, given that all of them were here and worrying over him, it was going to take more energy than he had to get his soldier to go in peace.

“You were nearly killed,” Balthazar said from by the door.

He drank more of the spirit. “Yourself as well—”

“Someone is here,” Syphon said by the bay window. “A car.”

Immediately, all guns were unholstered and trained upon the glass—except for his. Beneath his thin jacket, his arm was hanging limp, the joint most likely dislocated.

And he was not putting down the vodka.

“Who is it,” he demanded, thinking it was likely the doggen he had sought to hire.

“’Tis a female,” someone breathed. “And not of the servant class.”

Instantly, Xcor wrenched around and bared his fangs. But he didn’t need visual confirmation. There was only one female who knew about this place, and who would come in a car.

“Leave us,” he commanded. “Now.”

When his Band of Bastards just stood in a semi-circle, transfixed by what was out that fucking window, he released a lion’s growl. “Leave us!”

Zypher cleared his throat. “She is bonny, indeed, Xcor—”

“And she shall be the last sight e’er you behold if you don’t get out of here!”

One by one, the soldiers grudgingly dematerialized . . . such that, when his female knocked upon the door, he was by himself.

Seeking further fortification from the bottle, he drank hard; then rousted himself off the couch, walked over and opened the panels wide.

The second Layla looked at him, she exclaimed, “You’re hurt!”

The shock in her face was such that he glanced down at himself and his bloodstained clothes. “Yes, it would appear I am.” Funny, now that she was before him, he felt no more pain. “Won’t you come and warm yourself by the fire.”

As if there were nothing wrong. As if she hadn’t blown him off when they were supposed to have met at midnight—so she could give him her decision.

He knew her answer, however. Her previous absence was all the reply required—she had clearly come to her senses.

Layla stepped inside, her eyes going up and down his body. “Xcor, what happened?”

“Nothing.” He closed them in. “I thought you indicated you could not get away.”

“I saw what happened downtown. And I had to . . .”

“Had to what? Come here to see if I had died and thus set you free of your obligation?” When she didn’t answer, he chuckled and returned to the couch. “Pardon me, but I need to sit.”

He was acutely aware of that stare of hers tracking him. And no doubt her keen ears caught the groan that he did his best to hide.

“You should go to a doctor.”

Xcor laughed and took another drink from the bottle. “You think this warrants attention? The Black Dagger Brotherhood must have a different standard for injury than we do. I have had much, much worse happen upon me in the course of centuries. This is naught of consequence, nothing that shall not be cured upon the night’s fall.”

“When was the last time you fed?”

Abruptly, his body stilled. “Are you offering.”

As she got busy looking everywhere in the cottage but at him, he laughed softly again. “I’ll take that as a no. Besides, you already aided and abetted the enemy once, and we all know how well that turned out.”

“Why are you baiting me?”

He drank anew, swallowing hard. “Because I feel like it. And I’m a bastard, remember? A bastard who has forced you to come unto my presence night after night whilst you become heavy with another male’s young.”

“You are in pain.”

“Actually, now that you are here, I am no longer.”

That quieted her for a moment.

And then he was shocked when she took steps forward, approaching the couch . . . because as she came forth, she pushed up the sleeve on her right arm.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I am going to give you my vein.” She stopped before him. Close enough to grab. Near enough so that if he wanted, he could have yanked her into his lap. Found her breasts with his hands, his mouth. “You are worse off than you think.”

“Oh, aye,” he said harshly. “You are right. But not about my injuries.”

She put her wrist to him. “You were hit by a vehicle of the Brotherhood’s, weren’t you.”

“So you feel you owe me this? Interesting change in affiliation.”

“You do not deny it, then.”

“I cannot fathom where you are going with this, female. You had no comfort being treasonous before. What has changed?”

“You didn’t attack them tonight, did you. You had a chance when the fighting happened to go after members of the Brotherhood, but instead of ordering your soldiers to target Manny and Rhage, or the other Brothers who were down there, you left the theater without hurting any of them.”

Aye, he thought. He had gathered that the RV was the Brothers’.

He had caught that scent dematerializing out of it—and no other vampire group could afford such a luxury.

Xcor cracked a hard laugh. “Have you not heard of self-preservation? If I was injured as badly as you think I am, I left to save myself.”

“Bullshit. I know your reputation. You had an opportunity tonight and you didn’t take it. Matter of fact, you’ve had the chance to attack our compound for almost a year and you’ve done nothing.”

“Must I remind you of the nature of our arrangement here?” he asked in a bored tone. “You show up and indulge mine eyes, and I don’t slaughter them all.”

“A vow given to a female would never stop you. You are the Bloodletter’s son.”

Oh, but a vow to you would, he thought to himself.

Her voice grew strong. “You are not going to agress on them, are you. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not a year from now. And not because I’m coming here to see you—otherwise, you would have killed one or more of them in the alleys this eve. That would be outside the scope of our agreement, would it not?”

As he stared up at her, her eyes were so shrewd that he felt diminished in stature—and not because he was sitting down and she was standing over him.

“For whatever reason, they are no longer a target for you, are they,” she said. “Are they.”

* * *

As Layla stood above Xcor, she spoke aloud the realization that had formulated in her head during the drive from the Brotherhood compound here to the cottage.

It was as if she had been walking at a steep incline and had suddenly reached a clearing in the brush that showed her the vista that she had been a part of, and yet unaware of.

“Answer me,” she demanded.

He cocked a brow. “You said I am a male of no honor, that the vow to a female would not curtail my actions. Why do you want me to give you any reply when it cannot be trusted.”

“What’s changed? I know it has nothing to do with me, but something has shifted.”

“Since you are so good at filling in my responses, I believe I shall just sit back and allow you to hold both sides of this conversation.”

As he continued to stare up at her, his face as calm and composed as a mask, she knew he was going to give her nothing further. And perhaps he was right: She could not trust what he said.

She would, however, put faith in his actions.

“Take from me,” she said, extending her wrist. “And heal.”

“You are a perverse female. What about your young?”

“Females can safely feed a male, provided they do not take overmuch.”

She had fed Qhuinn and Blay up until about a month ago, when they had switched to Selena out of an over-abundance of caution. And anyway, she herself had taken a vein a mere twelve hours ago, so she was at her very strongest.

And he was not.

“You have not fed properly since you took my vein, have you.”

His eyes flicked away to the fire. “Of course I have.”

“You lie.”

“Please make use of that car of yours and spirit yourself back to the Brotherhood.”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed to a glare as he looked back at her. “You are trying my patience.”

“Because I’m right about all of this—”

Just like that, he was up on his feet, and even though he had a limp, he still managed to press himself against her, forcing her to take a step back or fall off her heels. And another. And another.

Until she was up against the wall.

And held there by his body.

“You might want to rethink your conclusion, Chosen.”

Layla found it difficult to breathe, but not because he was putting any direct pressure on her chest. “I know something else.”

“And what might that be.”

She thought back to over-hearing what Blay and Qhuinn had said about the night before, about how Rhage, V, and the twins had gone out to where the Band of Bastards had stayed.

“I know that you had yet another chance to kill them. I know they went to the house you had been living in, and you didn’t leave anything behind that could hurt them. You could have either ambushed them there, or set up some kind of offensive, and you did not.”

At that, he broke off from her.

It was painful to watch him limp around, see his bloodstained, torn clothes, witness the exhaustion.

Grimly, she said, “So I’m not exactly feeding the enemy anymore, am I?”

Eventually, he stopped before the fire. Putting one hand upon his hip, he stared down at the flames and seemed curiously defeated.

“Just go,” he said.

“Why would you choose to hide what for me is good news?” The idea that he might not be trying to kill the Brotherhood or Wrath anymore would be a tremendous relief. “Why?”

“If we did not have our arrangement, would you come and see me.”

Layla felt a strange warmth come over her, and she was dimly aware that they were, once again, approaching some kind of divide.

All of their nights thus far had been a dance defined by the role of manipulator and victim.

And there had been a perverse safety for her in the position she took.

It meant she could hide behind doing a duty for the Brotherhood.

It meant she could pretend that she was forced into this.

The truth . . .was far more complicated than that.

An image of him from the night before, standing where he was now before the hearth, made her want to take off her fleece; if she had been hot before, she was now afire.

Xcor looked over his shoulder. As the flickering light filtered over his features, his facial deformity seemed even more prominent. And yet though he might have been ugly to some . . . he was not to her.

She tried to picture him without his clothes on.

“So,” he taunted. “Would you still come here? And do not worry about hurting my feelings. The very female who birthed me did not want me. I am well familiar with feminine disregard.”

After further silence, he slashed his arm through the air. “I believe that is your answer, then—”

“I would,” she said forcefully. “I would come to see you.”

She found herself putting her hands to her swollen belly, and wishing she could spare her unborn young this reality.

His eyes flared in shock. Then narrowed. “Why.”

His voice was strident, a demand that challenged her to speak some other truth.

“I don’t know why.” She shrugged. “But reasoning doesn’t change the fact, does it.”

There was another long silence.

When Xcor spoke next, it was so softly that she was unsure what he said. But it sounded like, “I wasn’t looking to be transformed.”

She didn’t bother to ask him to repeat whatever it was. No doubt, if he had intended her to hear the words, he would have made things louder.

“Take my vein.”

In issuing the order, she knew there was no going back. Having crossed into this realm that lacked pretense and was all about choice, she was very aware that her destiny was changing. But at least it wasn’t through some random and irrelevant decision to go left or right.

This was conscious. So conscious that it was as if the cozy room in this picturesque little cottage had been bolded with color and infused with scents more vivid than her nose could handle. Her hearing, too, was acute to the point of pain, every crackle from the fire or breath from her mouth or his resonating into some great canyon’s echo.

This time, when he came over to her, it was not fast and it was not with aggression.

His eyes were on her, but they were wary, as if the predator was now in fear of his prey.

Stepping in beside her, Xcor offered his forearm. When she just looked at it, he said, “I saw them once do this. A gentlemale to a female of worth?”

“Yes,” she said roughly. “It is done thusly.”

After she slipped her own arm into his, he led her over to the sofa and sat her down on the worn cushions. Then he turned around and left the room.

“Where are you going?” she called out.

FORTY-TWO

“You have the most beautiful hands.”

As Trez lay in his bed with Selena beside him, they were both naked and totally exposed. The sex had been so heavy-duty, the covers were on the floor, their hot skin only now beginning to cool in the subtle air currents of the dark room.

“You’ve mentioned that before,” she said with a smile.

He made an mmmm-hmmmm in the back of this throat. “I like them on me. I like to look at them. I like the feel of them.”

Smoothing his palm over hers, he felt the contact all over his body. So peaceful, he thought. This was so peaceful.

“I like to see the stars,” she said, after a while. “Through the window over there.”

“Yeah.”

As it was just before five a.m., the shutters were about to come down for the day. With fall getting a grip on not just the weather, but the sunlight, dawn wasn’t arriving until later these days.

“You know, I’ve never had this before,” he heard himself say.

She turned over on her side, propping her head up on the hand he’d been attending to. And like she knew he missed the contact, she gave him her other one to play with.

“Had what?” she asked.

“This kind of quiet.”

During all those years of empty orgasms, he wished he’d known such profound communion was waiting for him. It would have made that nutrition-less gorging totally unnecessary.

“Do you want some music or something?” he asked abruptly, in case he was the only one enjoying the quiet.

“No, this is . . . perfect.”

At that, he had to twist around and kiss her on the mouth. Then it was a case of resettling back against the pillows and resuming this new kind of hand job . . . where he traced each of her fingers with his, stretching them up and pulling them out, before playing with the strong, blunt tips.

“I love the stars,” she said as if she were speaking to herself.

“I have an idea about tonight.”

“Do you?”

He threw out another mmmmm-hmmmm. “It’s a surprise. You’re going to need to put off our boat ride, though.”

And he was probably going to want a valium. But she was going to love it.

“Trez?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to do something for me.”

He smiled in the darkness. “Does this involve my tongue, by any chance? Just name the body part, my queen.”

“No.”

The change in her voice stopped him. And for a split second he wanted to say, Please, no. We can talk about it at nightfall. Let’s leave the day hours for the fantasy of forever.

But as always, he could deny her nothing. “What is it?”

Selena took a while to answer, and that probably meant she was choosing her words carefully.

He tried to stay calm. “Take your time.”

“My sisters.” She hesitated. “The ones who have passed . . . they’re put up in a cemetery. You know, right where you found me?”

That hedgerow, he thought. The one that he had looked through to see those marble statues . . . which now he feared weren’t made of marble at all.

“Yes, I remember.”

“Don’t let them take me up there.” She took her hand away from him and sat up. As she stared down at him, her long, beautiful black hair poured over her shoulders, covering one of her breasts, touching the skin of her thighs. “They’re going to want to. You’re supposed to pick a position . . . you know, when the time comes, they can put you in any position you want. Then they plaster over your hair and your face and your body. It’s a ritual. That’s why they’re all different up there—in different poses, I mean.”

Trez rubbed his face. Which did nothing to relieve the lancing pain in his chest. “Selena, let’s not talk about this—”

She grabbed his arm. Hard. “Promise me. I won’t be able to advocate for myself when that time comes. I need you to do that for me.”

Again, he could deny her nothing—and as a bonded male, that not only seemed right, but healthy. Except with this request? It broke him in half to nod.

“All right.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, I’ll make sure of it.”

At once, her body relaxed and she let out an exhale. Then, as she resettled beside him, she shook her head. “I know this is against everything I’ve been taught and all the traditions of my service . . . but a part of me is paranoid that they’re stuck in there.”

“I’m sorry—what? You mean, your sisters?”

She nodded. “How do we know for a fact that the Fade is real? What if everything we’ve been told is true is actually not? As with everyone else in the Sanctuary, I have always tried to avoid that cemetery—I hate the silence and the stillness inside, and, God, those poor females, some of whom I knew and shared meals with and worked alongside in service to the Scribe Virgin.” She cursed softly. “They’re stuck in that cemetery, not just frozen in their bodies, but forgotten by the rest of us because we can’t stand how we feel when we’re with them. What if they can see us? What if they can hear us? What if time just stretches out into forever with them imprisoned . . .” Selena shuddered. “I don’t want that. When I go, I want to be free.”

Her eyes returned to the window, to the twinkling stars so high above.

“Every species has a version of an afterlife,” he said. “Humans have Heaven. Vampires the Fade. For Shadows, it is the Eternal. We can’t all be wrong—and each one is a version of the same. So it would seem to make sense that there’s something after all this.”

“But there’s no guarantee—and you won’t know until it’s too late.” She seemed to retreat into herself. “You know, when I’m in the Arrest, I can hear things . . . when I’m in that place where my body is just . . . out of my control, I can hear and smell, I can see. My awareness is with me, I am there, but I can’t do anything. As I’ve said before, there’s no greater panic than what you feel when your brain is functioning and nothing else is.”

Don’t lose it, he told himself. Don’t you dare lose it.

You pull your shit together and you be there for her. Right here, right now.

As she grew quiet, he put himself in that place she had described, aware of everything, but unable to respond or speak or react.

Reaching over, he stroked her long hair back. And then he was kissing her, softly, slowly. A moment later, he rolled on top of her and found her sex with his own. As the penetration happened, as that familiar yet ever shocking tightness of her gripped him, he gave her his vow through the physical act.

Sometimes, the evil you fought wasn’t anything you could hit or shoot or dismember. Sometimes you couldn’t even hurt it.

And that was really fucking awful.

As his hips rocked and she wrapped her arms around him, he kept the rhythm sweet and careful so that he could kiss her the entire time.

Halfway through, he caught the rainwater scent of tears.

They were both crying.

* * *

Down in the training center’s gym, Rhage was running like he was being chased by his own beast.

The treadmill was not feeling it. He was pretty sure that the scream coming from the belt—which was loud enough that he could hear it over the T.I. he was pumping into his ears like the shit was heroin—meant the machine was going to check out at any moment. But he didn’t want to break stride long enough to move to the one next door.

When the thing began to smell like a lesser, however, he knew the decision had been made for him. Jumping to the side rails, he pulled out the red Stop card and the slow-down was pretty instantaneous. Either that or he had timed his get-off with the machine’s functional demise.

Catching his breath, he mopped his face with one of the scratchy white quarter towels. The things were pretty much sandpaper, but they all preferred ’em that way. Fritz had tried, from time to time, to switch the old schools out to something softer, but he and his brothers always protested. These were gym towels. They were supposed to be thin and mean, the terry-cloth equivalent of coyotes.

When you were sweating like a pig and couldn’t feel the bottoms of your feet from exertion, you didn’t want to pat yourself down with a Pomeranian.

Had he really done twenty-four miles?

Shit, how long had he been down here?

Popping off his Beats, he realized that not only had his high-steppers gone numb, but his groin muscles were on fire, and that shoulder he’d injured a good five nights ago was cranked off.

He ended up parking it on one of the wooden benches that ran down the far side of the room. As his breath gradually came back to him, he felt as if he were surrounded by his brothers even though he was alone: Whether it was the bench press that was still set to the six-hundred-pound load Butch had put it at yesterday or the barbell that Z had been doing curls with or the chin bar that Tohr had been crunching up and down on, he could picture each of the fighters with him, hear their voices, see them walk by, feel their eyes on him as they talked.

And all that should have made him feel more connected, instead of less so.

But the reality was, even if the forty-by-sixty-foot space had been crammed tight with all those big bodies, he would still have felt isolated.

Passing that towel over his face again, he closed his eyes and was transported to a different place, a different time . . . to a memory that he knew now was what he had been trying to put behind him ever since it had threatened to resurface.

Bella’s white farmhouse. That porch of hers, the wraparound one that was so New England cozy you wanted to either vomit . . . or cop a squat and eat some apple pie on the bitch. Him walking out that front door, head hanging like he had been decapitated and only the gristle of his neck was keeping his basketball still on.

His beloved Mary upstairs in that bedroom, having just told him to fuck off.

Although, of course, she hadn’t been so crude.

His life had been over as he’d left that house. Even though he’d been ostensibly alive, he had been a dead male walking . . .

. . . until suddenly she had exploded out of that doorway in her bare feet.

I’m not okay, Rhage. I’m not okay. . . .

“Why are you thinking like this, buddy.” He rubbed that hard towel over his face once more. “Just drop that shit . . . come on, think about something else. . . .”

Except his brain wouldn’t be rerouted. And the next memory was even worse.

A hospital room, but not one here at the compound, or even at Havers’s clinic. A human hospital room, and his Mary was in the bed.

Shit, he could still remember the color of her skin. Wrong, all wrong. Not just pale, but beginning to go gray.

To save her, he had done the only thing he could think of, thrown the only Hail Mary he had: He had sought out the Scribe Virgin. Had left that human hospital and gone home to his room, and lowered himself down on cut diamonds until his knees had run red with blood.

He had prayed for a miracle.

With a curse, he stretched out on the bench, leaning his torso back on the unforgiving wood while keeping both feet on the floor on either side.

His Mary wasn’t coming home today. She was staying at Safe Place.

The mother of that child had been taken back to Havers’s. After slipping into a coma.

The staff had decided to keep the young at the house for the day, and Mary wanted to be with the girl.

God, he remembered that anguish of daylight when Mary had been sick in the hospital. It hadn’t been safe for him to be with her during the sunshine hours, and he had been terrified she would die when he couldn’t get to her.

Guess they could drive that young over to see her mahmen if shit came to that. As a pretrans, she could go out even at high noon.

Staring up at the ceiling, he thought of Trez and Selena. Their date. Their escape from downtown. The fun they’d had evading the human police.

That was so worth fighting for. All of it.

His Mary wasn’t coming home today, and he didn’t know how he was going to make it through the next twelve hours until he saw her in person again. And that was even knowing he could call or text, or Skype with her at any moment for as long as he liked.

That little girl was probably going to lose her mahmen.

And Trez was probably going to lose Selena.

Rhage was pretty sure all of them were praying for a miracle just as he had. And maybe that was what he was having problems with.

Why had he gotten lucky? Tohr hadn’t. Well, yes, the brother had found Autumn, and that was a blessing beyond measure. But as much as he loved that female, his losing Wellsie had nearly killed him.

He just didn’t get it. Unless the Scribe Virgin stepped in again, or someone found a cure . . .

Why had he and Mary been spared?

As his brain began to cramp up on that one, he had to shut the thoughts down. He didn’t want to go mad down here all by himself.

Yeah, he thought wryly. ’Cuz it was so much better to share that with your loved ones.

Scary times. Scary times.

If deaths came in threes . . . he thought numbly. Who was going to be the third one?