Текст книги "The Shadows"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

SEVEN

Standing in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, Layla tried to pull the supposedly loose coat around herself, but getting what seemed like its copious folds across her belly was like asking a throw blanket to cover a king-size bed.

Looking down, she could no longer see her feet, and for once in her life, her breasts were big enough to create some serious cleavage beneath her robing.

Given the breadth of her, it was hard to believe she still had months to go with the pregnancy.

Why couldn’t vampires be more like humans? Those rats without tails took nine months to do this. Her species? Try eighteen.

Glancing over her shoulder, she checked herself out in the dresser’s mirror across the way. According to the various human birthing shows she’d watched on TV, she was supposed to feel all aglow. Revel in her body’s changes. Embrace the miracle that was conception, incubation, and impending expulsion.

Guess humans really were a different race.

The only positive thing she took from this experience—and arguably it was the only thing that mattered—was that her young was active and seemingly healthy. Regular checkups with Doc Jane had indicated that things were progressing with perfect order, milestones met and surpassed, stages entered and departed with grace.

That was it for the positives. The rest of the experience? No, thank you kindly. She detested the way she had to heave herself to her feet. The big melons sitting on her chest made it hard to breathe. The swelling in her ankles and hands turned elegant limbs into tree trunks. And then there were the surging hormones. . . .

That made her want to do things she felt pregnant females really shouldn’t do.

Especially given who she wanted to do them with—

“Stop it. Just stop it.”

Dropping her head into her hands, she struggled with the piercing guilt that had been her shadow these past months, dogging her close as her own skin, heavy as a suit of chain mail.

Unlike the pregnancy, which had a termination date for all the discomfort and worry, there was no relief to be had with her other situation. No terminal event—at least not one that came with any joy.

She had made her bed, however. Now she must lie in it.

Going over to her door, she cracked the panels and listened for footsteps. Voices. The sound of vacuum cleaners. When there was nothing, she stepped out into the hall of statues and looked left and right. A quick check of her watch told her she had about an hour and a half before dawn would force her return to the Brotherhood mansion.

Stepping out, she wanted to jog, but she could barely manage a fast walk as she headed in the direction of the staff quarters.

Her route to the exit was preplanned and well-utilized, and she had the timing down to a science. Six minutes for her to get down the back stairs and out into the garage. Two minutes to the car that she’d been given to use and had told people she was taking out on a regular basis to “clear her head.”

Sixteen-minute drive into the tracks of farmland east of town.

Two-minute walk up that field to the maple tree.

Where she would find—

“Layla?”

She tripped over her own feet as she wheeled around. Blay was at the head of the hall of statues and in his fighting dress, his leathers stained and his face exhausted.

“Ah—hello,” she replied. “Have you come off the field?”

“Are you heading out?” Blay frowned. “It’s awful late.”

“Just for a short drive,” she said smoothly. “To, you know, clear my head.”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she hated the lying.

“Well, I’m glad I caught you. Qhuinn’s not doing so well.”

Layla frowned and walked back toward the fighter. The father of her young was one of the most important people in her life, as was Blay. The mated pair were her family. “Why?”

“Luchas.” Blay stripped his dagger holster off his chest. “He’s refusing to feed, and Qhuinn’s just hit the wall with it.”

“It’s been almost a month.”

“Longer.”

Ordinarily, if a healthy male vampire took the vein of a Chosen, he could easily go several months between feedings, depending on his activity level, stress, and general health. However, for someone who was as ill as Luchas? Much more than a week or two could quickly become a death sentence.

“Where is Qhuinn now?”

“Down in the billiards room. They called me off the streets early because . . .” Blay shook his head. “Yeah, he’s not doing well.”

Layla closed her eyes and put her hand on her belly. She had to go. She had to stay . . .

“I have to take a shower.” Blay glanced over at the door to the room he and Qhuinn shared. “Is there any way you could sit with him until I get down there?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Blay reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “You’re going to need to help me with him. This is getting . . .”

“I know.” She took off her coat and didn’t bother putting it back in her room. She just tossed it on the floor in front of her own door. “I’ll head down right now.”

“Thank you. God, thank you.”

They embraced for a split second and then she waddled off, heading for the grand staircase and the male who had given her the most priceless gift of this child she carried within her womb.

There was nothing she would not do for Qhuinn or his hellren.

She was, however, very aware of the male who was waiting for her at this very moment, under that maple tree, out in that field.

Her conscience tortured her, especially as she passed by the open double doors of the King’s study. Through the regal doorway, she saw the throne behind the great carved desk . . . and was reminded of why she had struck the deal she had.

Selling her body to the head of the Band of Bastards had been done to keep all of them safe here at the mansion. The deal had not yet been consummated on account of her pregnancy, however—something that had surprised her at first. Xcor was a brutal warrior, one who not only had the reputation, but the actual character, for doing harm to others—and enjoying it. And yet with her, he seemed content to bide his time before he collected his due.

On a regular basis, they met beneath that tree and talked. Or sometimes simply sat in silence, his eyes roaming all over her as if . . .

Well, sometimes she thought that he seemed to take strength from just staring at her, as if the visual connection was a kind of vein from which he needed to draw regularly.

Other times, she knew he was picturing her naked—and she told herself to be offended by that. Scared by that. Worried over that.

Lately, however, a strange curiosity about him had taken root under her fear, a curiosity tied to his powerful body, his narrowed eyes . . . his lips, even though the upper one was ruined . . .

She blamed it on her hormones—and tried not to dwell on the urges. The only thing she needed to keep in mind was that as long as she continued to meet with him, he had sworn on whatever honor he had that he would not raid the compound.

After all, the only reason he knew where they were was because of her. Indirectly, perhaps, but it felt like the security leak was solely her fault.

The whole thing was a deal with a devil, executed to keep those whom she cared for most safe. She hated the lies, the double life, the guilt . . . and the fear that sooner or later she would have to live up to her end of the bargain.

But there was nothing she could do.

And tonight, her family had to come before her fraud.

* * *

Down in the training center’s main exam room, Trez was having an out-of-body experience as the whirling transportation stopped and he once again had to recalibrate his location. Thank God they’d made it over in one piece. Now, if only there was help to be had here.

Cradling Selena’s stiff, contorted body in his arms, he glanced over his shoulder. Doc Jane, V’s shellan, was standing off to the side in full doctor garb: blue scrubs, green nitrile gloves, little booties on her feet.

She didn’t approach Selena, however. She just stayed where she was, staring at them, for what seemed like forever.

Shit. Trez was no doctor type, but generally speaking, when someone with the big “DR.” in front of their name had to take a TO when they first saw a patient?

Not a good sign.

Rhage and V were across the way, and they were likewise gawking at him and Selena, as if they also had no clue how to help.

Doc Jane cleared her throat. “Trez . . . ?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Will you let me look at her?”

Trez frowned. “Yeah—come on.” When Doc Jane didn’t move, he started to lose his temper. “What the hell’s the problem—”

“Your fangs are bared and you’re growling. That’s the problem.”

He pulled a quick self-check, and discovered—gee-whiz, he had in fact gone all Cujo on them, sinking his weight down into his thighs, flashing his hardware, and making a sound like an industrial mower in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, sorry.” At that point, he noticed that he’d also backed into a corner and was holding Selena to his chest like someone was going to try to take her from him. “So I should put her down on the table.”

“That would be a good place to start,” V pointed out.

His body took its own sweet time as he gave it the command to move forward, and in the end, only the fact that she needed treatment by someone who had half a brain and a stethoscope got him anywhere close to the center of the room. Leaning down, he put her on the stretch of stainless steel—and he shuddered because he might as well have been handling a wooden chair: her body stayed in the exact same position she had been in when he’d found her, legs outstretched, torso twisted, arms curled up to her chest. And almost worse? Her head remained at that bad angle, wrenched around in the opposite direction of her shoulders as if she were in great pain.

His hand shook as he brushed her hair from her face. Her eyes were open, but he wasn’t sure she was conscious. She didn’t seem to focus on anything, periodic slow blinks the only indication she might be awake.

Might be still alive.

Trez put his face in her line of sight. “You’re at the training center. They’re going to . . .”

As his voice faltered, he ordered himself to get the fuck away and let Doc Jane do her job.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he backed off until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Rhage. And Trez was pretty sure that the gesture was part compassion, part insurance in case the bonded male in him decided to grab the reins again.

“Let them do their thing,” Hollywood said as Ehlena, who was Rehv’s shellan and the nurse, burst through the door. “Let’s just see where we are.”

Trez nodded. “Okay. Yeah.”

The good doctor leaned down and looked into Selena’s opaque eyes. Whatever she said was too soft to hear, but Selena’s pattern of blinking changed—although it was hard to know whether that was a good or a bad thing.

Blood pressure. Pulse. Pupils. The first three checks went quick, but Jane didn’t waste time announcing what the results were. She and her nurse just kept working fast, taking Selena’s temperature, putting an IV into the back of her hand because the crooks of her elbows were locked up.

“I want an EKG, but I can’t get to her chest,” Doc Jane said. Then she glanced over her shoulder at her mate. “Do you know any syndrome that causes this? It’s like a full-body seizure except her pupils are reactive.”

“I don’t. You want me to call Havers for a consult?”

“Yes. Please.” As V stalked out of the room, Jane shook her head. “I need to know what’s happening in her brain, but we don’t have an MRI here or a CT scan.”

“So we’re taking her to Havers,” Trez said.

“He doesn’t have that technology, either.”

“Fuck.” As Rhage’s hold tightened on him, Trez focused on Selena’s face. “Is she in pain? I don’t want her in pain.”

“Honestly?” the doctor said. “I don’t know. And until I get a handle on her neurological state, I don’t want to give her any drugs that would depress function. But I’ll move as fast as I can.”

It seemed to take an eternity, time grinding to a halt as all he could do was watch the complicated medical dance going on around that table. And Rhage stayed right next to him, playing babysitter sentry while Trez straddled the extremes of Shitting in His Pants and Wanting to Blow His Brains Out with no grace whatsoever.

And then the Chosen Cormia burst through the door.

The instant the female saw Selena, she gasped and brought both hands up to cover her mouth. “Dearest Virgin Scribe . . .”

Doc Jane looked over from taking a blood draw from a vein on the back of Selena’s other hand. “Cormia, do you know what could have—”

“She has the disease.”

Everyone went still. Except for Cormia. The Chosen rushed to her sister’s side and smoothed Selena’s dark hair, murmuring to her in the Old Language.

“What disease?” Doc Jane asked.

“The Old Language translation is roughly ‘the Arrest.’” The Chosen wiped at her eyes. “She has the Arrest.”

Trez heard his voice cut into the silence. “What is that?”

“And is it communicable,” Jane interjected.

EIGHT

As sunrise threatened in the East, Xcor, leader of the Band of Bastards, reassumed his form in front of a modest colonial. The house, which he and his soldiers had been using as a lair for nearly a year, was located on the far side of a boring cul-de-sac in a neighborhood full of middle-class humans halfway through their journey to the grave. Throe had secured the rental with an option to buy on the theory of hiding in plain sight, and the property had worked satisfactorily.

There were lights on in the interior, illumination bleeding out around the seams of the pulled drapes, and he imagined what his warriors were doing inside. Fresh from fighting lessers in the alleys of downtown Caldwell, they would be shedding their black blood-stained clothes and partaking of the victuals contained in the icebox and the cupboards of the kitchen. They would be drinking as well, although not blood to make them stronger, and not water to rehydrate them, but rather alcohol as an internal salve to treat fresh contusions, cuts, abrasions—

Abruptly, the nape of his neck began to tingle in warning, informing him, as if the burning of the exposed skin upon his hands did not, that he had little time to get safely indoors.

And yet he had no interest in going in there. Seeing his soldiers. Consuming food before he retired upstairs to that nauseating raspberry bedroom suite.

He had been denied that which he had counted down the hours for, and the disappointment was like his body’s response to the gathering dawn: His skin ached. His muscles twitched. His eyes strained.

His addiction had not been served.

Layla had not come this night.

With a curse, he took out his cellular device and dialed a number based on a pattern he had memorized on the numerical screen. Putting the phone up to his ear, he heard his heart pounding over the ringing.

There was no personalized voice-mail greeting activated on the account, so after six tones, an automated announcement detailing the number came over the connection. He did not leave a message.

Heading over to the door, he braced himself for an onslaught of noise and chaos. His bastards would inevitably be riding waves of adrenaline, the afterburn of their high-octane existence taking a while to dissipate.

Opening things up—

Xcor froze halfway across the threshold.

His five fighters were not, in fact, talking over one another as they passed around bottles of alcohol along with surgical tape and gauze for their wounds. Instead, they were seated on the available furniture that had been rented to them along with the home. There was no drink in any hand, and not even the metal-on-metal sound of guns being cleaned and daggers getting resharpened.

They were all there: Zypher, Syphon, Balthazar, Syn . . . and Throe, the one who hadn’t belonged, but had become indispensable.

None of them were meeting his eyes.

No, that was not true.

Throe, his second in command, was the only male staring at him. Also the only of the group who was standing.

Ah, so he had been the one to organize this . . . whatever it was.

Xcor shut the door behind himself. And kept his weapons on.

“Have you something to say?” he inquired, staying by the door, meeting Throe’s stare straight on.

His second in command cleared his throat, and when he spoke his accent was that not just of the upper class, but of the highest of vampire social orders: that of the glymera.

“We are concerned about your direction.” The male glanced around. “Of late.”

“Indeed.”

Throe appeared to wait for something further in response. When none came, he uttered a curse of frustration. “Xcor, where has your ambition gone? The King has a single, half-breed heir and you suddenly forget about our collective quest for the throne? You put our goals aside as if a bowl now empty of its contents.”

“Battling the Lessening Society is a full-time endeavor.”

“Mayhap if you were in fact fighting.”

“The slayers I killed tonight were of my imagination, then?”

“That is not all you do at night.”

Xcor bared his fangs. “Be of care where thee tread the now.”

Throe cocked his brow in challenge. “Shall I not say it in front of them?”

As he felt his males’ eyes swing over to him, he wanted to hit something. He had thought his meetings with Layla had been unwitnessed. Clearly, that was a miscalculation.

And if he told Throe to stay silent? He might as well condemn himself to something worse than what he had been doing.

“I have nothing to hide,” he growled.

“I beg to disagree. You spend too much of your time under that maple tree, like some lovesick—”

Xcor materialized in front of the male, such that a mere inch separated their faces. He did not touch Throe, but the soldier stepped back nonetheless.

His second in command did not back all the way down, however. “Do you wish to tell them who she is? Or shall I.”

“She is irrelevant. And my ambitions are restrained by no one.”

“Prove it.”

“To whom.” Xcor tilted his head and jutted out his jaw. “To them? Or is it you who has the problem.”

“Prove that you are not going soft.”

In the blink of an eye, Xcor withdrew his steel dagger and pressed it to the male’s jugular. “Here? Now?”

As Throe gasped, the sharp tip nicked his flesh, a line of bright red blood gracing that oh, so shiny pale blade.

“Shall I prove myself on you,” Xcor said darkly. “Would that suffice.”

“You are distracted,” Throe snapped. “By a female. You are weakened by her!”

“And you are deranged! I choose not to kill the rightfully elected King of the Race—and that is a crime over which you attempt to secure a mutiny among my fighters?”

“You were so close! We nearly had the throne! The dominoes were aligned, the glymera was going to do your bidding—”

Xcor pressed that dagger in again, ending the tirade. “Is this traitorous meeting about my ambition—or yours? Permit me to inquire precisely whose loss you are mourning.”

“You are not leading us anymore.”

“Let us ask them.” Xcor broke off and stalked around the room, looking at the bent heads of his soldiers. “What say you all. Are you going with him or staying with me?” As curses broke out in the tense air, he pivoted to Throe. “Because that is what you’re doing, is it not? Presenting them with a choice—either you or me. So, I say, let us proceed to the endgame with all due haste. Where dost thou stand, bastards mine?”

There was a long pause.

And then Zypher lifted his eyes. “Who is she?”

“That is not the question I posed to you.”

“That’s the question we want answered.”

Xcor felt his temper rise. “She is none of your business.”

There was no way in hell he was going to explain the liaisons with his Chosen.

Zypher’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Jesus . . . you’ve bonded with her.”

“I have not.”

“I can smell it, too,” someone said. “Who is she?”

“She is of no consequence.”

Throe spoke up, loud and clear. “She is a Chosen. Who lives with the Brotherhood.”

Annnnd herewith the chaos he had previously anticipated: The room erupted with male voices, all of them talking over one another, snippets of the Old Language mixing with English and German curse words.

Meanwhile, Throe took out a pristine handkerchief and pressed the white square to the wound at his throat. “I fail to understand why she meets with you—just what do you have over her? There must be some kind of inducement—money? Or is it a threat of some kind?”

Xcor let the insult stand, as it wasn’t just close to the truth; the male had hit the nail on the head. The only reason the Chosen Layla met with him was that he knew the location of the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s mansion, and she was terrified he was going to sack the property: There had been one night, nearly a year ago, when he had followed her blood trail and stumbled upon the great secret. And Throe was right—he had leveraged the discovery to his benefit.

She had promised him her body in exchange for his keeping the site sacrosanct.

And though he had yet to call upon her in a carnal way, out of respect for her pregnancy, her virtue, and her station . . . he would have her.

Eventually, he would take what was his and mark her as his own—

Shit, had he bonded?

Xcor refocused on Throe and his Bastards. “Let us concern ourselves with this mutiny and not anyone’s imagination. So what say you. All of you.” There was a long pause. “Any of you.”

He supposed, as he awaited a response, the fact that Throe remained upright and breathing was proof that Xcor had, in fact, somewhat softened. Trained by the Bloodletter, he had not forgotten what he had learned in the war camp, but of late, he had come to realize that brute force and bloodshed were simply one means to an end—and there were others that could be more effective.

For example, Wrath had proven the point with the way he had handled the final assault against his throne. That king and his mate had shut down even the most foolproof attack against his rule—and they had done so not only without one life being lost, but with a castration so complete, the very powers of the glymera had been stripped away.

And Wrath, as a leader now chosen by his people, had unassailable power.

Throe broke the silence, addressing the fighters. “I believe I have made myself clear. I feel strongly that we should resume the quest for the throne. We shot Wrath once—we can get at him again. He might be democratically elected, but he cannot continue to rule if he isn’t breathing. And then we need to remarshal support within the now-disenfranchised glymera. By coordinating a constitutional strategy with the former members of the Council, we can argue that Wrath overreached his powers and—”

“You are a fool,” Xcor said quietly.

Throe spun around and pegged him with a hostile glare. “And you are a failure!”

Xcor shook his head. “The people have spoken. They chose to put Wrath on the throne he had previously inherited, and there is no fight to be won when there is not one front, but one thousand. Traditional laws and cultural norms are flimsy mantles of power and influence. Democracy, however, when it is truly exercised, is a stone fortress that cannot be surmounted, blown asunder, or burrowed under. What you fail to understand, second in command, is that there is nothing further to battle with—assuming that you are conducting this assault with any hope of prevailing.”

Throe narrowed his eyes. “Tell me something, has your Chosen been educating you? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything close to that come out of your mouth before.”

Xcor forced himself to stay quiet.

He and his fighters had been banded together long before Throe had come into the mix. But if those males could not see past this ill-fated ambition? Then Throe could have them all.

Xcor would bow to none herein.

In the silence that followed, Throe looked around at the fighters who had once shunned him for his dandy weakness, but had grown to respect him as a warrior over the last two centuries. “Manipulation is most successful when waged by one of the female sex. Think not that he speaks propaganda the now? Fed to him by precisely that which can most seduce his mind, his body, his emotions? You have smelled the bonding for yourself. Know that the soul follows the heart, and his is no longer with us, with our goals, with what we may accomplish. This is not strength that addresses you, but the sort of weakness he once deplored in others. See? Even now, he stays quiet!”

Xcor shrugged. “I have no taste for pontificating.”

“Did you even know the definition of that word six months ago?” Throe countered.

“What say the lot of you?” Xcor glanced around with a sense of abiding boredom. “The choice is yours, but know this. Once it is made, like ink in the skin, it is indelible.”

Zypher was the first to get to his feet. “I have but one allegiance.”

With that, he went over to his gear and unsheathed his steel dagger. Slicing his own palm open, he approached Xcor and put out his hand.

Xcor shook what was proffered and found that he had to clear his throat. Balthazar was next, taking the same knife and cutting himself, putting forth his blood—and Syphon moved with equal efficiency, pledging himself.

Syn watched it all with lowered lids, staying still. He was, as always, the wild card—but even he rose and came across to Xcor. Taking the blade, he stabbed his palm and twisted, his upper lip curling up as if he liked the pain.

Xcor accepted the last of his soldiers’ vows and then he looked over at Throe. Bringing his dripping red palm up, he bared his fangs and hissed, biting his own flesh and then licking the combined blood clean.

“As if this would go another way.” He smiled cruelly. “You have never been one of us.”

Throe’s handsome face twisted into a nasty expression. “You forced me to join you. You did this to me.”

“But you shall undo it, is that correct? Fine, I gave you your freedom a year ago. Let your ambition exercise your destiny if you wish, but once you walk out that door, it is a permanent closure. You are dead to us, your deeds your own and no one else’s.”

Throe nodded once. “So be it.”

The male marched across and picked up his holsters and his coat; then went to the door. Pivoting, he addressed the group. “He is wrong about much, but most especially the throne. A war with a thousand fronts? I think not. All that must needs be done is eliminate Wrath. Then the mantle shall be assumed by the strongest hand—and that male is no longer among this group.”

The fighter closed the door behind himself with a clap.

Xcor ground his molars, knowing damn well Throe must have set up a contingency plan before he made his bid to them all—or he wouldn’t have been so nonchalant about leaving with mere minutes before dawn.

Throe had gambled and lost—except only when it came to the lot of them. Where would this take him next? Xcor had no idea.

But Wrath should well be worried.

There was some shuffling around. Throat clearing. And then, of course, commentary.

“So,” Zypher blurted. “You gonna tells us what color her eyes are?”

“’Tis the least you could do,” Balthazar interjected. “Paint us a picture.”

“A Chosen?”

“How in the world did you—”

All at once, the house was back to normal, male voices crowding the air, drinks being summoned and poured, bandages coming out to wrap up those injured fighting hands.

Xcor exhaled in a relief he was shocked to feel—but he wasn’t fooled. Though his fighters had stood by him, he now had a new enemy against whom to fight—and Throe, thanks to Xcor’s very own training of the male, was dangerous indeed.

Taking out his phone, he glanced down . . . and found that his call had not been returned.

Given the state of Throe’s defection? It was imperative that he get hold of his Chosen—and now he worried that mayhap Throe had gotten to her first and that was why there had been a no-show.

“So?” Zypher said. “Whatever is she like?”

Cue a sudden silence, which seemed to have crashed through the noise.

And he was shocked to find that he wanted to tell them. He had held this in for how long?

With halting words, he said, “She is . . . the moon in my night sky. And that is the beginning, middle, and end of it. There is no more to be told than that, and never shall I speak of her again.”

As he departed and went o’er to the stairs, he could feel their eyes on him—and they were not regarding him with disdain. No, try as they might to hide it, there was pity flowing from them all—an acknowledgment of the ugliness of his face, and the mismatched nature of a romance for him with any female, much less one of Chosen status.

He paused with his hand on the balustrade. “By sunset tomorrow, have all provisions and property packed up. We must needs leave this location and find another. This house is no longer secure.”

Mounting the stairs, he heard the acquiescence of his fighters. And felt a stinging gratitude that they had picked him to continue to lead them.

In opposition to Throe’s more obvious intelligence, breeding, background . . . and looks.

Let us hear it for the deformed, he thought as he shut himself in his bedroom. Though much had been lost to him over the centuries of his life, courtesy of his harelip and his coarseness, those soldiers below valued him.

And he valued them in return.