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Thanks be to the Scribe Virgin.

FORTY-TWO

Layla wasn’t sleeping, of course.

When she’d told Qhuinn to go, she had meant the things she’d said about not wanting to keep up a front with him around. But the funny thing was, even with nobody in the room with her, she didn’t get hysterical. No tears. No cursing.

She just lay on her side with her arms and legs curled up, her mind receding deep into her body, the constant monitoring of every ache and cramp a compulsion that was making her crazy. There was no changing that, however. It was as if some part of her was convinced that if she could only know what stage she was in, she could somehow have some control over the process.

Which was, of course, bullshit. As Qhuinn would say.

The image of him in the clinic, with his dagger at the healer’s throat, was like something out of one of the books in the Sanctuary’s library—a dramatic episode that was part of someone else’s life.

Her vantage point on the bed, however, reminded her that that was not the case….

The knock on her door was soft, which suggested it was a female.

Layla closed her eyes. As much as she appreciated whatever kindness was awaiting a response, she would have so much preferred that whoever it was stayed out in the hall. The queen’s brief visit had been taxing, even though she’d appreciated it.

“Yes.” When her voice didn’t carry farther than her own ears, she cleared her throat. “Yes?”

The door opened, and at first she didn’t recognize who it was from the shadow that filled the space between the jambs. Tall. Strong. Not a male, though…

“Payne?” she said.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

As Layla went to sit up, the warrior female motioned her to lie down, and then shut them both in together. “No, no, please…be at ease.”

One lamp had been left on over at the bureau, and in the gentle light, the blooded sister of the Black Dagger Brother Vishous was quite fearsome, her diamond eyes seeming to sparkle out of the strong angles of her face.

“How ever are you?” the female asked softly.

“I am very well, thank you. And yourself?”

The fighter came forward. “I’m very sorry about…your condition.”

Oh, how Layla wished this was something Phury or the others had not shared with anyone. Then again, her exit from the house had been rather dramatic, the sort of thing that would be cause for concerned questioning. Still, her privacy would have had her avoid this unwelcome, though compassionate, intrusion.

“I thank you for your kind words,” she whispered.

“May I sit down?”

“But of course.”

She expected the female to rest upon one of the chairs that had been arranged with a sense of decorum. Payne did not. She came over to the bed and lowered her weight beside Layla.

Compelled to at least appear to be a good hostess of sorts, Layla pushed herself up, wincing as a set of cramps froze her halfway.

As Payne cursed softly, Layla had to lie back down. In a rough voice, she said, “Forgive me, but I cannot have visitors at this time—no matter how well intended you are. Thank you for your expression of sympathy—”

“Are you aware of who my mother is,” Payne cut in.

Layla shook her head against her pillow. “Please just leave—”

“Do you know?” the female said roughly.

Abruptly, Layla wanted to cry. She just didn’t have the energy for any conversation at this point—but most certainly not about mahmens. Not when she was losing her own young.

“Please.”

“I am birthed of the Scribe Virgin.”

Layla frowned, the words registering even through the pain, mental and physical. “I’m sorry?”

Payne took a deep breath, as if the revelation were not something she rejoiced in, but rather a kind of curse. “I am of the Scribe Virgin’s very flesh, born of her long ago, and hidden from the records of the Chosen and the eyes of all third parties.”

Layla blinked in shock. The female’s appearance up above had been a mystery of sorts, but she had certainly asked no questions as it was not her place to. The one thing she was clear on was that there had never been any mention of the race’s holiest mother having e’er birthed a child.

In fact, the entire structure of the belief system was predicated upon that not having occurred.

“How is this possible?” Layla breathed.

Payne’s brilliant eyes were grave. “It was not what I would have wished. And it is not something I speak of.”

In the tense moment that followed, Layla found it impossible not to see the truth in what the female spoke. Nor the strident anger, the cause of which one could guess at.

“You are a holy one,” Layla said with awe.

“Not in the slightest, I assure you. But my lineage has provided me with a certain…how shall we say it? Ability.”

Layla stiffened. “And that would be?”

Payne’s diamond eyes never wavered. “I want to help you.”

Layla’s hand went to her lower belly. “If you mean get this over with sooner…no.”

She had her young for such a precious short time within her. No matter how long the pain went on, she was not going to sacrifice one minute of what was no doubt her one and only pregnancy.

She would never put herself through this again. In the future, when her needing hit, she would be drugged, and that was it.

Once in a lifetime was too much for the loss she was sustaining now.

“And if you believe you can stop this,” Layla tacked on, “it is not possible. There is naught that any may do.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Payne’s eyes were rapt. “I’d like to see if I can save the pregnancy. If you’ll let me.”

At the abandoned Brownswick School for Girls campus, Mr. C had taken up res in what had once been the headmistress’s office.

The cracked sign outside in the hall told him so.

As there was no heat, the ambient air temperature was exactly that of the great outdoors, but thanks to the Omega’s blood, cold was not a problem. And thank fuck for that: Across the overgrown, snow-covered lawn, in the main dormitory on the ridge, nearly fifty lessers were sleeping the sleep of the dead.

If those bastards had required BTUs or food, he’d have been shit out of luck.

But nah, all he had to do was provide them with shelter. Their inductions took care of the rest—and the fact that they needed to unplug from consciousness every twenty-four hours was a relief.

He needed time to think.

Jesus Christ, what a mess.

Compelled by an urge to pace, he went to push his chair back, and then remembered that he was sitting on an overturned drywall bucket.

“Goddamn it.”

Looking around the decrepit room, he measured the plaster that was hanging in sheets from the ceiling rafters, the boarded-up windows, and the hole in the floorboards over in the corner. Place was just like the bank accounts he’d found.

No money anywhere. No ammo. Weapons that could be used for blunt-force trauma, and that was about it.

After his promotion, he’d been so fucking pumped, full of plans. Now he was staring at a whole lot of no cash, no resources, no nothing.

The Omega, on the other hand, was expecting all kinds of results. As had been made amply clear during their little “visit” late last night.

And that was another problem. He hated that shit.

At least he could do something about the rest of it.

Stretching his arms over his head and cracking his shoulders, he thanked God for two things: One, that the cell phones hadn’t been cut off—so he could communicate with his men in the field, and had Internet access. And two, that all those years on the street had given him an iron fist when it came to controlling dumb-ass young idiots in the drug trade.

He had to bring in some paper. Stat.

He’d had a fucking plan for that, too, sending the Society’s last nine thousand, three hundred dollars off with three of his boys at midnight last night. All those bastards had had to do was make the buy, get the dope, and bring it back here, where he’d cut the shit, then parcel it out to the new inductees for sale on the street.

Trouble was, he was still waiting for the fucking delivery.

And he was getting pretty goddamn impatient waiting to find out where either the drugs or his money had gone.

It was possible the cocksuckers had run off with one or the other, but if that was the case, he was going to hunt them down like dogs and show all of the others what happened when you—

As his phone rang, he picked the thing up, saw who it was, and hit send.

“It’s about fucking time. Where the fuck are you and where is my shit.”

There was a pause. And then the voice that came over the connection was not anything like that of the pimple-faced pusher he’d given the cell, the cash, and the last working gun the Society had to.

“I have something you want.”

Mr. C frowned. Very deep voice. Laced with an edge he recognized from the streets, and an accent he couldn’t place.

“It’s not the piece-of-shit phone you’re calling me on,” Mr. C drawled. “I got plenty of those.”

After all, when you didn’t have anything in your hand, your holster or your wallet, bluffing was your only option.

“Well, good for you. Have you plenty of what you sent to me, too? Money? Manpower?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I’m your enemy.”

“If you took my fucking cash, you bet your ass you are.”

“Actually, ’tis a simplistic answer to what is a rather complex problem.”

Mr. C burst to his feet, knocking over the bucket. “Where’s my fucking money, and what did you do with my men?”

“I’m afraid they can’t come to the phone anymore. That’s why I’m calling.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Mr. C bit out.

“On the contrary, you are the one at that particular disadvantage—as well as so many others.” When Mr. C was about to snap, the guy cut him off. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call you at nightfall with a location. You, and you alone, are going to meet me there. If anyone comes with you, I will know, and you will never hear from me again.”

Mr. C was used to feeling disdain for others—came with the job when all you dealt with were two-bit street thugs and strapped drug addicts. But this guy on the other end of the connection? Self-controlled. Calm.

A professional.

Mr. C dialed back his temper. “I don’t need to play games—”

“Yes, you do. Because if you want drugs to sell, you need to come to me.”

Mr. C got quiet. This was either a lunatic with delusions of grandeur, or…somebody with true power. Like, maybe the one who’d been killing off all the middlemen in the Caldwell drug trade over the last year.

“Where and when?” he said gruffly.

There was a dark laugh. “Answer your phone at nightfall, and you’ll find out.”

FORTY-THREE

Layla couldn’t speak as Payne’s words sank in.

“No,” she said to the other female. “No, Havers told me…there is nothing that can be done.”

“Medically, that may well be true. I may have another way, however. I don’t know whether it will work, but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to do what I can.”

For a moment, Layla could only breathe.

“I don’t…” She felt the flat plane of her stomach. “What will you do to me?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” Payne shrugged. “In fact, it hadn’t even dawned on me that it might help your situation. But I have been known to heal that which needs healing. Again, I’m not sure whether it applies here. We could try, though—and it won’t hurt you. That I can promise.”

Layla searched the fighter’s face. “Why…would you do this for me?”

Payne frowned and focused elsewhere. “You do not need to know the whys.”

“Yes, I do.”

That profile grew positively cold. “You and I are sisters in my mother’s tyranny—casualties of her grand plan for the way things must be. We were both jailed by her in different ways, you as a Chosen, myself as her blooded daughter. There is nothing I will not do to aid you.”

Layla lay back. She had never before considered herself a casualty of the mother of the race. Except…as she considered her desperation for a family, her sense of rootlessness, her very lack of identity outside of her service as a Chosen…she had to wonder. Free will had led her here to this horrid spot, but at least she had picked the route and the means. As a member of the Scribe Virgin’s special class of females, she had had no such choice, about anything in her life.

Anything at all, really.

She was losing the pregnancy; this was self-evident. And if Payne thought there was a chance of…

“Do what you will,” she said roughly. “And I thank you no matter the outcome.”

Payne nodded once. Then she brought up her hands, flexing them, the fingers flaring wide. “May I touch your stomach?”

Layla pushed down the covers. “Must I take off my shirt altogether?”

“No.”

Just as well. Even the shift of the duvet heralded a further cramping, the minute change in weight cause for—

“You are in such pain,” the other female murmured.

Layla didn’t answer as she exposed the skin of her stomach. Clearly, her expression had already said enough.

“Just relax. This shouldn’t cause you any distress—”

As contact was made, Layla jerked her head up. The fighter’s hands were warm like bathwater as they landed ever so softly on her lower abdomen. Soothing like bathwater as well. Strangely soothing, as a matter of fact.

“Does this hurt you?” Payne asked.

“No. It feels…” As another cramping geared itself up, she gripped the sheets, bracing herself—

Except the crest of the pain didn’t rise as it had previously, surely as if the sensation were a great, cragged mountain, the top of which had been sheared off.

It was the first relief she’d gotten since it had all started.

With a groan of submission, she let her head go lax, the pillows cushioning a sudden weariness that told her just how much discomfort had been in her body.

“And now we begin.”

All at once, the lamp across the room flickered…and then went out.

Its illumination was soon replaced, however.

From Payne’s gentle hands, a soft glow began to emanate, the warmth of her touch intensifying, that strange, wondrous easing seeming to penetrate beneath the skin, and the muscle, and any bone that was in the way…going directly into Layla’s womb.

And then there was an explosion of sorts.

With a hiss, she gave herself up to the great surge of energy that abruptly burrowed into her, that heat never burning and yet boiling away the pain, lifting the agony up and out of her flesh surely as the steam from a pot rose and drifted away.

But it was not over. A great flush of euphoria sped throughout her body, its golden tendrils pulsating out of her pelvic area and flowing up through her torso to her mind and her very soul as her legs and arms tingled as well.

Oh, great, poignant relief…

Oh, incredible power…

Oh, sweet saving grace.

The healing was still not over, however.

In the midst of the maelstrom, Layla felt a…what was it? A shifting in her womb. A tightening, mayhap? But not a cramping, no, not that. More as if that which had been lagging found a bracing strength.

She became gradually aware that her teeth were chattering.

Looking down her body, she saw that everything was trembling, and that was not all.

Her physical form was glowing. Every inch of her skin was as a shade on a lamp, revealing the light beneath, her clothes acting as frail barriers to that which was streaming from her.

In the illumination, Payne’s face was harsh, as if there were a great cost to her in transferring the wondrous healing to another. And Layla would have moved away, stopped this, if she could have—because the other female began to look positively haggard. There was no way to break the connection, however; she had no control of her limbs, no way of even speaking.

It seemed to last forever, the vital communion between them.

When Payne finally jerked back, breaking the link, she slumped off the bed, landing in a heap on the floor.

Layla opened her mouth to shout. Tried to reach for her savior. Strained against her body’s still-glowing deadweight.

But there was naught she could do.

The last thing that registered before she lost consciousness was her concern for the other female. And then all went dark.

FORTY-FOUR

Qhuinn woke up with a hard-on.

He lay on his back, his hips moving on their own, the rolling motion stroking that erection against the weight of the duvet and the sheets. For a moment, as he lingered in that half-awake stage before true consciousness arrived, he imagined it was Blay creating the friction, the male’s palms sliding up and down…in a preamble to some mouth action.

It was when he reached out to bury his fingers in that red hair that he realized he was alone: His hands found only sheets.

In a fit of hope-springs-eternal, he threw out an arm, patting the space next to him, ready to find that warm, male body.

Just more sheets. That were cold.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Opening his eyes, the reality of where he was hit hard and deflated his arousal. In spite of the hookups, those two amazing, pounding sessions, Blay was right now, at this very moment, waking up with Saxton.

Probably having sex with the guy.

Oh, God, he was going to throw the hell up.

The idea that Blay was touching another, riding another, licking and stroking another—his fucking cousin, as a matter of fact—was nearly as unbearable as the Layla shit. The fact of the matter was, courtesy of what had gone down, any attraction Qhuinn had for the guy had been magnified instead of diminished.

Great. Another round of good news.

It was with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever that Qhuinn dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He didn’t want to turn the light on, had no interest in seeing that he looked like dog shit, but shaving with nothing save touch to go by was not the brightest idea.

As he flicked the switch, he blinked hard, a headache starting to pound right behind both his eyes. No doubt he needed to eat again, but for fuck’s sake, his body’s relentless demands were getting him down.

Starting the water in the sink, he picked up his Edge shaving gel and filled his palm with a little swirl. As he rubbed his hands together to puff the stuff up, he thought about his cousin. He had a feeling, although he didn’t know it for certain, that Saxton would use an old-fashioned brush to suds his jaw and cheeks up. And no Gillette razors for him. Probably had a barber’s thing with a mother-of-pearl handle.

Qhuinn’s father had had one of those. And his brother had been given one with initials on it after his transition.

Along with that signet ring.

Well, good for them. Besides, given that those two were both dead, it wasn’t like they were shaving anymore.

When his face was covered with white, just like the landscape outside, he picked up his regular, pedestrian Mach 3 with its disposable head….

For no apparent reason, he thought maybe he should put a new one on.

Yeah, like a fresh, super-sharp, clean one.

Qhuinn rolled his eyes at himself. Nothing like having your self-worth wrapped up in three little blades and a moisturizing strip. Real fucking logical, that one.

Self-administered ass slap aside, he started rummaging through the drawers under the counters, pulling them out, inventorying all manner of bath and beauty crap that he never used, never looked at.

Pulling out the last drawer, the one closest to the floor, he stopped. Frowned. Bent down.

There was a little black velvet box in there, the kind of thing you put jewelry in. Except he didn’t own any, and certainly not from Reinhardt’s, that highbrow place downtown. As no one else stayed in his room, he wondered if maybe it had been there since he’d moved in and he’d just never seen it?

Taking the box out, he flicked the lid and—

“Son of a bitch.”

Inside, like they were worth something, were all his gunmetal gray earrings, as well as the hoop he’d always worn in his lower lip.

Fritz must have collected them when cleaning one night, and put them in the box. Only explanation—because Qhuinn certainly hadn’t bothered with them after he’d taken them out one by one. He’d just tossed them in the back of one of the bathroom cabinets.

Qhuinn fingered the steel links, thinking back to when he’d bought them and put them in. His father had been mortified; his mother, too—to the point where she’d excused herself from Last Meal and taken to her private quarters for a full twenty-four hours after he’d waltzed into the dining room wearing them.

The piercing place had told him not to put the hoops in until the studs that had been used to make the holes had had a chance to heal up. But that advice was for humans. Within a couple of hours, everything was good to go and he’d done the swap.

In Blay’s loo, as a matter of fact.

Qhuinn frowned, remembering the moment he’d stepped out into the guy’s bedroom. Blay had been over on the bed, nursing a Corona, watching TV. His head had turned, his expression open and relaxed—until he’d taken a look at Qhuinn.

His face had tightened up ever so subtly. The kind of thing that, unless you knew a person really, really well, you wouldn’t notice. But Qhuinn had.

At the time, he’d assumed it was because the obvi-Goth shit had been a little much for Mr. Conservative. But now, thinking back on it, he recalled something else. Blay had refocused on the plasma screen…and casually taken a pillow and put it on his lap.

He must have gotten hard.

As Qhuinn recast that whole scene in his head, his own sex thickened again.

Except that was a waste of time, wasn’t it.

Staring at those goddamned earrings, he thought about his rebellions and his anger and his fucked-up idea of what he had to have to be happy in life.

A female. If he could find one who’d take him.

What…a lie…that would have been.

Funny, cowardice came in many forms, didn’t it. You didn’t have to be shrinking in a corner, shaking like a pussy and sniveling. Hell no. You could be a big, loud noise with a tough attitude and a face full of piercings and a snarl to show the world…and still be nothing but a cocksucking coward. After all, Saxton might wear three-piece suits and cravats and loafers, but the male knew who he was, and he wasn’t afraid of having what he wanted.

And what do you know, Blay was waking up in the guy’s bed.

Qhuinn closed the lid and put the piercings back where he’d found them. Then he glanced up into the mirror. What was he doing again? he thought as he looked at his face.

Oh, yeah. Shaving.

That was it.

About twenty minutes later, Qhuinn left his room. Walking down the hall of statues, he passed by the closed doors to Wrath’s study and kept going.

As he continued onward, it was hard to stare into the second-story sitting room, hard to stay cool as that couch came into view.

Never going to look at that piece of furniture in the same way. Hell, maybe even all sofas were ruined for him, forever.

At Layla’s door, he leaned in and put his ear to the panels. When he didn’t hear anything, he wondered exactly what he thought he’d find out that way.

He knocked quietly. When there was no answer, he was gripped at the throat by an irrational fear, and without conscious thought, he threw open the door.

Light poured into the darkness.

His first thought was that she had died; that Havers, the son of a bitch, had lied, and the miscarriage had gotten out of hand and killed her: Layla was unmoving as she lay against the pillows, her mouth slightly open, her hands clasped over her chest as if she’d been arranged by a funeral director who had respect for the dead.

Except…something was different, and it took him a minute to figure out what it was.

There was no overwhelming scent of blood. In fact, only her delicate, cinnamon fragrance marked the air, freshening it in a way that brightened the whole room up.

Was the miscarriage finally over?

“Layla?” he said, even though he’d told her that if he found her asleep, he would let her stay that way.

It was a relief to see her brows twitch as her name registered to her brain, even under the veil of sleep.

He had the sense that if he were to say it again, she would wake.

Seemed cruel to force consciousness on her. What did she have to greet her when she woke up? The pain she’d been feeling? The sense of loss?

Fuck that.

Qhuinn quietly ducked out, shut the door and just stood there. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Wrath had told him to stay home, even if John Matthew went out—he guessed it was a kind of compassionate leave from the ahstrux nohtrum thing. And he did appreciate it. There was so little he could do to help Layla—at least he could stick around in case she needed anything. Soft drink. Aspirin. Shoulder to cry on.

You did this to her.

Going by the chiming that floated out from that godforsaken sitting room, he figured he’d missed First Meal. Nine p.m. Yup, he’d slept through it, and just as well. If he’d had to sit at the table and spend forty-five minutes in the company of nearly two dozen people who were trying not to stare at him, he’d lose his fucking mind.

The sound of someone walking down below in the foyer brought his head up.

Without any particular thought or plan, he wandered over to the balustrade and looked down.

Payne, V’s ass-kicking sister, was coming out of the dining room.

He didn’t know the female all that well, but he respected the shit out of her. Impossible not to, given the way she handled herself in the field…tough, really tough. At the moment, however, Dr. Manello’s shellan looked like she’d been beaten up in a bar fight: She was walking slowly, her feet shuffling across the mosaic floor, her body stooped, her grip on her mate’s arm all that appeared to be keeping her upright.

Had she been injured in some hand to hand?

No scent of blood.

Dr. Manello said something to her that didn’t carry, but then the guy nodded in the direction of the billiards room—like he was asking her if she wanted to go in there.

They headed that way at a snail’s pace.

Given that he didn’t appreciate people staring, Qhuinn backed off from the railing and waited until the coast was clear. Then he jogged down the grand staircase.

Food. Workout. Recheck on Layla.

That was going to be his night.

Heading for the kitchen, he found himself wondering where Blay was. What he was doing. Whether he was out fighting or in for the evening and…

Given that he didn’t know where Saxton was, he stopped that line of inquiry right there.

If Qhuinn had been off rotation, and able to spend some P-time with the guy, he knew what he’d be doing.

And Saxton, his cocksucking cousin, was no fool.

FORTY-FIVE

Assail’s lack of feeding finally caught up with him about five hours after night fell. He was putting on his shirt, a pale blue button-down with French cuffs, when his hands started to shake so badly, there was no fastening the damn thing closed over his chest. And then the exhaustion hit, so overwhelming that he swayed on his feet.

Cursing under his breath, he went over to his bureau. On the polished mahogany top, his vial and spoon were waiting, and he took care of business in two quick inhales, one for each nostril.

Nasty habit—and one he fell back into only when he really needed it.

At least the blow took care of the tiredness. But he was going to have to find a female. Soon. Indeed, it was a miracle he’d lasted this long: The last time he’d taken a vein had been months ago, and the experience had been less than enthralling, a fast-and-dirty with a female of the species well versed in providing sustenance to needful males. For a price.

What a nuisance.

After arming himself and retrieving a black cashmere overcoat, he headed down the stairs and unlocked the steel sliding door. As he opened the way into the first floor, he was greeted by the sounds of guns being checked.

In the kitchen, the twins were running several forties through their paces.

“Have you made the call?” Assail asked Ehric.

“As you said.”

“And?”

“He’s going to be there and he’s coming alone. Do you need weapons?”

“Have them.” He picked up the keys to the Range Rover from a silver dish on the counter. “We’re taking my vehicle. In the event someone is injured.”

After all, only an idiot took the word of an enemy, and his SUV came with an undercarriage device that could be very helpful if there was a mass attack.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14