A Warm Heart in Winter

by J. R. Ward

  After the brother left, Qhuinn stared at the toes of his shitkickers. He hated to break the news to the fighter, but he hadn’t been all that helpful.

  Figure out how to cope.

  Yeah, like that was a map with clear markings. It was as specific as someone standing on the shores of the Old Country, and pointing west to say, Yeah, the New World is over thataways a little bit.

  Qhuinn went across to the chair, took a load off, and spun the propeller on the toy plane. As the thing fell into a blur, he thought of the nature of travel and destinations. Then he thought of all the things a person could buy on Amazon. Luggage. Extra socks and underwear. Hiking boots, hats, and gloves.

  You couldn’t buy a real airplane, but who knew what the future might hold. Maybe in another decade, a person could have an eco-friendly bi-wing land on their front yard. For seventy-five thousand easy payments of $12,798.99. Free financing if you pay it off in under fifty years—

  Qhuinn frowned as he realized the weird riff his brain was going off on was normal for him. It was the kind of shit his mind did whenever he had downtime, his thoughts just making up little stupid hypotheticals about absolutely nothing important.

  Maybe it was a sign he was coming back some.

  He glanced over to the bed and remembered curling in on himself and wailing. Man, he’d fucking lost it.

  So no, absolutely not—he was not going hard into the therapy. Or even lightly. Z could keep all that shrink-couch bullcrap with the Kleenex box and the stories of Mommy and Daddy and how everyone had been mean to him because of his fucked-up eyes. He was not going to talk about that shit—and certainly not going to… what was the term?… oh, right, “unpack” the night of his brother’s death and how he’d felt as he’d gone from place to place, each time expecting to see the male and being let down, the ever more violent spikes of fear bungee-cording him around in his own skin.

  Nope. He wasn’t cracking again.

  But he was willing to buy in to Z’s cope stuff. The question was where to begin, and maybe it made him a pussy, but he couldn’t start with the hardest thing. That… he just could not manage. He did know that the brother was right, though. He couldn’t just stay in this limbo.

  As he considered various possibilities, it was hard to know exactly when the plan hit him, but he took out his phone and—

  Blay had texted him. To let him know that he’d gone to see his parents.

  Qhuinn let his head fall back against the armchair’s cushioned contours. With a fresh wave of sadness, he pictured that lovely house Rocke and Lyric had built after the raids, the one set all the way in the back of that human development, by a pond. It was a new-built designed to look old, and Lyric had made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled with that part of things. Rocke, on the other hand, loved having all of the mechanicals under warranty.

  In a lot of ways, the couple was old-fashioned, the traditional sex roles not just embraced years before, but lovingly maintained: Rocke earned the money and paid the bills; Lyric cooked and cleaned; and their home, no matter what house it was encapsulated in, was always warm, inviting, and serene.

  He thought of the twins. The good news was that they could choose who they wanted to be. After all, traditional roles were fine, if they weren’t forced. He didn’t want either of his kids locked into any kind of social rules or expectations. He’d had plenty of that growing up—and the failures he’d racked up, though in large part nothing he’d had any control over, had nearly killed him.

  Qhuinn glanced back to the bed. Refocusing, he called up a blank text message, and then tried to figure out what he was trying to say.

  In the end, he could only plainly state his request of Vishous.

  Not all journeys were literally on foot. Whether they were or were not, however, there was always a first step. And after that?

  Qhuinn looked across to the rolling tray.

  Abruptly, he frowned. Figuring he was seeing things, he got up and went over… to inspect the two burgundy bundles that had been left on the bedside table, next to the remote to the TV, the call button for the nurse’s station, and a blue Bic pen.

  Which undoubtedly had been the writing instrument used by Luchas when he’d composed his last letter—which remained unopened, exactly where it had been left.

  Qhuinn reached out and picked up one of the burgundy wads. Unfurling it, he saw that it was a sock, a cashmere-and-silk-blend sock.

  He recognized whose it was, but he checked the tag that had been sewn inside anyway.

  “Blaylock,” he said softly.

  * * *

  Blay returned to the mansion right before Last Meal. He’d ended up helping his mahmen in the basement for hours, rearranging plastic tubs of seasonal clothes, family mementos, and decorations. It had been pretty clear from the outset that there was a make-work component to the effort, but he’d been so grateful for the distraction and the parameters of the job. The project had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and it required not only physical effort, but just enough mental concentration that he couldn’t juggle the tasks at hand along with worrying about Qhuinn.

  There had even been a break for another meal in the middle, and a cup of satisfaction cocoa, as his mahmen always called it, at the end.

  He had wanted to stay the day, especially after Qhuinn had not responded to his text about where he was going. But Wrath had called a meeting, and however brokenhearted Blay was, his duty to his King was a responsibility he was honor- and duty-bound to carry out.

  Hitting the grand staircase, he was fifteen minutes early, so there was time to put his coat away and gather his thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about running into Qhuinn. The male would be downstairs in Luchas’s room. That was where he always went after he worked out, and for the last four nights, he had stayed there until well after Last Meal.

  Blay had tried not to take the withdrawal personally. And failed.

  At the top of the stairs, he looked through the open doors of Wrath’s study. The Brothers were already gathering, and he lifted his hand in greeting. Several nodded in his direction, and he flashed them a pair of fingers, the universal language for: I’ll be back in two minutes.

  Maybe Qhuinn would join them all tonight.

  Maybe Santa Claus was real.

  Heading down the Hall of Statues, Blay stripped off his parka and then zipped up both of the side pockets so his gloves didn’t fall out. As he opened the door to his room, the familiar scent that greeted him was fresh, not faded… and the male who was sitting on the edge of the bed was not a ghost.

  Blay stopped dead.

  “Hi,” the figment, who certainly seemed to be Qhuinn, said. In the correct voice.

  Blay stepped in and closed the door. “Hi.”

  “I, ah, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Keeping a recoil of surprise to himself was a difficult camo job. “You should have called. Or texted. I would have come right away.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your visit. How are the ’rents?”

  For some reason, the fact that Qhuinn was using the casual term he always did felt like some kind of positive portent. Which was nuts.

  “They’re good. They send their love—and their condolences.”

  “I appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked at his hands. “Listen, I just want to apologize—”

  “Please don’t move out—”

  They both stopped. And said “What?” at the same time.

  “Look,” Blay rushed in, “I’m trying to give you the space you require. I really just… want to be whatever you need at this tough time. But please, don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”

  And don’t hate me for my role in your brother’s death, he tacked on to himself.

  When there was only silence coming back at him, Blay cleared his throat and hugged his parka to his chest. “I’ll… I mean, I can leave, if you want me to, and go back to my parents—”

  Qhuinn burst up from the bed and came over. And the next thing Bl
ay knew, they were holding on to each other, the first physical contact in what felt like forever.

  “I’ve missed you,” Qhuinn said roughly.

  Blay squeezed his eyes closed. “I’ve been here all along.”

  “I know. I’ve been the one who was gone.”

  They stayed where they were for a while. Maybe it was long as a year. And then Qhuinn stepped back. For a moment, tension coiled up Blay’s spine, making him stand even straighter. But come on, you didn’t tell someone you’ve missed them and then say you’re leaving.

  Right?

  Oh, and fuck that meeting in Wrath’s study. The Brotherhood could come and drag him out of here kicking and screaming if they wanted to: Under any circumstances other than that hog-tied hypothetical, he wasn’t moving from the room.

  “Come here,” Qhuinn said.

  As Blay felt his hand get taken, he was content to be led anywhere—just as long as Qhuinn wanted him to stick around. And yes, that was pathetic. But he was feeling like this whole unexpected meet-and-greet was like having a bump on your arm and going to see the doctor about it—only to discover that the person in the white coat with the medical degree actually wasn’t all that worried it was cancer.

  His brain had sure been convinced the freckle was stage-seventy terminal.

  They sat down together, and then Qhuinn reached over and picked something off the bedside table—

  It was the letter.

  From Luchas.

  Next to which were the socks Blay had worn the night the remains had been found, the ones that had been left wet when Lassiter had warmed his frostbitten feet and dried his ruined loafers, a pair of afterthoughts that had ultimately been forgotten.

  “I found those in my brother’s room,” Qhuinn said.

  Blay put his hands up. “As I told you, I didn’t touch anything. Not one thing. I saw the letter and left.”

  “I know.” Qhuinn picked up the envelope, holding it in his palms as if it were in danger of shattering. “I talked to Manny earlier tonight. He said you told him no one but me was to go into that room.”

  “It’s your private family business.” Blay ran a hand through his hair and glanced around at all the neat-as-a-pin, vacuum-and-dusted. “I love the doggen here, they’re so wonderful—but sometimes they’re almost too good at their jobs. I thought it was important that everything be exactly the way it was left for you.”

  “I really appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked over, his blue and green eyes luminous. “And I’ve decided to do the hard thing first, after all.”

  “What?”

  “I, ah, I wanted to open this with you. If that’s okay?”

  As Blay’s throat tightened, he swallowed with difficulty. “Absolutely.”

  He might as well learn the truth about his complicity at the same time Qhuinn did. But more than that… Qhuinn’s stare had dropped back down to the envelope, and it was clear he was terrified—and the fact that he was letting his fear show was so significant. The male didn’t share that shit with just anybody.

  “It’s hard to explain why I’ve left this for as long as I have,” Qhuinn murmured as he stroked over the two words on the front. “But this is my last piece of business with Luchas. Whatever he wrote is our final… thing.”

  Blay nodded, but stayed silent.

  “Did I ever tell you about Seinfeld?” Qhuinn asked. “Or The Office?”

  “The, ah, the TV shows, you mean?”

  “Yeah.” Qhuinn took a deep breath. And then laughed a little. “Not The Sopranos, though. That I couldn’t resist.”

  Blay put his parka aside and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not following here?”

  Qhuinn turned the letter over so that the flap that had been glued shut was face-up. “I have this weird thing about my favorite TV shows that have ended. I did it for Home Improvement, too, come to think about it. See, I refuse to watch the last season. It’s this weird thing. Like, back when we had DVDs? I always kept the last season in its wrapper.” His thumb went back and forth on the flap. “That way they’re never finished, you know? I can pretend in my mind that they go on forever, that they’re infinite—because the definition of infinity is no ending. And if I don’t watch the ending there hasn’t been one.” There was a pause and Qhuinn looked up. “That’s nuts, right?”

  “Not at all.” Blay wanted to stroke the male’s back, but kept his hands clasped in front of him. “It makes all the sense in the world.”

  “Now you’re just humoring me.”

  “No, I’m really not.”

  A ghost of a smile hit Qhuinn’s lips, but was quickly lost. “I feel the same way about whatever’s in here. As long as I don’t read it, my brother isn’t gone. Because that’s how it works with people, you know? The folks I live with, you, the kids, Layla and Xcor, everybody else in the household… I mean, I have countless unfinished conversations, and pool games that need to be played to even out scores, and meals that are up and coming, and nights out in the field. It’s all in the middle. We’re all in the middle because we’re all alive. And there’s power in the middle. There’s power and potential and this weird, illusory stability that feels so permanent, even though it isn’t because any one of us can die at any time. Yet because death happens so rarely, we get used to the middle. We take the middle for granted. We only see how beautiful, how magical… how tenuous it is… when the end comes.”

  Qhuinn tapped the envelope in his palm. “When the end comes, the fog of habit lifts, and only then do we see how rare and special the landscape of the in-between is.”

  After a moment of silence, the male laughed awkwardly. “I’m babbling, aren’t I.”

  Blay shook his head. In a rough voice, he said, “No, you’re really not.”

  They both took a deep breath. Maybe it was for the same reason, maybe for different reasons, but that was the nice thing about being with someone you loved. Often, you came to the same corner, even if it was from opposite directions.

  “So…” Qhuinn tapped the envelope again. “What do you say we open this… together.”

  As that mismatched stare lifted to Blay’s, he did what he had been wanting to do. He put his hand on his mate’s back and made a slow circle—that he hoped was as reassuring as he intended it to be.

  Some seminal moments were anticipated: Births, matings… deaths, too. As well as anniversaries and festivals, graduations and fresh starts. Yet some of the most important moments in your life crept up on you, no less revelatory or significant for their lack of advance notice and fanfare.

  This was one of the most significant moments in Qhuinn’s life: And he’d waited, maybe for hours, just so Blay could come home and share it with him.

  Blay meant to hold the words in, as he still wasn’t sure where they stood. But the emotion in the center of his chest chose its method of expression—and it was a conventional one. Tried and true.

  “I love you so much,” Blay said in a voice that cracked.

  Qhuinn lifted his hand up, the hand that had been on the letter his brother had written. And as he brushed at the side of Blay’s face, it was tenderly.

  “Don’t cry,” Qhuinn whispered.

  “Am I?”

  Qhuinn nodded. “I’m going to try to get through this. I don’t know what I’m doing, though, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”

  Blay put his hand over Qhuinn’s, and then he kissed that palm. “However long you need, I will wait. Whatever you want from me, I will do. Wherever you go, I will be right there with you. If you still want me like that.”

  Those beautiful blue and green eyes closed. “I love you so much right now, too.”

  Instantly, all of the tension disappeared, not just in Blay’s own body, but in the air between them. What had been stuck was now unjammed, and the release was so great, Blay trembled.

  The kiss they shared was soft. Reverent. More of a vow than anything else.

  And then they eased apart, and both stared down at the let
ter.

  Dear God, Blay thought. He hoped that what was in there… didn’t drive them apart all over again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Qhuinn’s hands started to shake as he eased a finger under the envelope’s flap. There was a lot of resistance, and somehow he wasn’t surprised that his brother had taken care to make sure it was properly sealed. Luchas was precise like that.

  Had been precise like that.

  Opening the envelope slowly, Qhuinn pulled out… a single sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven copier paper. The page had been folded in thirds, and there was only writing on one side—and at first, his eyes just focused on the handwriting. The pen was the same Bic that had been used for Brother Mine, the same one that was on the bedside table, and the cursive script was beautiful, flowing, yet easy to read, each letter executed perfectly.

  “He had such wonderful penmanship,” Qhuinn murmured as he ran his thumb down one of the margins. “And look at how straight the lines are. I don’t think he used a ruler. I think he just…”

  Did it the right way, as he’d been trained.

  Before Qhuinn started reading, he had a thought that his brother was so much better than multi-purpose office paper. Luchas should have had personalized stationery, embossed with his name and address at the top. Maybe with a pen-and-ink drawing of the family house as a header.

  As Qhuinn trained his eyes on the salutation, he considered reading the letter out loud—but his throat was too tight for that. So instead, he leaned forward and moved the sheet of paper so that it was in between him and Blay.

  Dearest Brother Mine,

  Firstly, allow me to apologize. You have always been far braver than I, and I believe that what is about to happen proves this truism once again. I am sorry that I am not strong enough to continue upon this path from which I cannot escape, but I am tired. I am bone weary of the pain and the restlessness, and of late, the unchanging nature of my body’s compromises. All has worn me down, whereas you would have persevered. I am weak, however—and the biggest regret of this weakness is that in my actions you may search for, and feel that you find, some sort of personal culpability. Allow me to assuage your conscience. This is naught to do with you.