by J. R. Ward
Jesus, he was winning all kinds of awards here for self-expression. And the technical terms he was throwing around? He was one step away from being an M.D. like her.
Fuck.
But at least Doc Jane seemed to recognize that his conversational airplane was out of runway: "I think you're asking about postpartum depression." When he nodded, she continued, "And I can tell you that it's not uncommon in vampires, and it can be debilitating. I've spoken with Havers about it before, and I'm really glad you're raising the issue. Sometimes the new mom isn't even aware of it becoming an issue."
"Is there a test for the...or a...I don't know."
"There are a couple of different ways of assessing what's going on, and behavior is a big one. I can absolutely talk with her, and I can run some blood tests to check her hormones. And yes, there are a lot of things we can do to treat her and support her."
"I don't want Layla to think I'm going behind her back or anything."
"Totally understandable. And, hey, I was going to go up and see her and the young anyway. I can frame everything in terms of routine assessments. I won't have to bring you into the discussion at all."
"You're the best."
With his business done, he supposed it was time to go back to his mate and the billiards tournament. But he didn't leave. For some reason, he couldn't.
"It's not your fault," Doc Jane said.
"I got her pregnant. What if my..." Okay, yes, she was a doctor, but he still didn't want to say the word sperm around her. Which was nuts. "What if my half is the cause--"
The door opened wide and Manny put his head in. "Hey, you ready--oh, sorry."
"We're almost done here." Doc Jane smiled. "And you didn't see the two of us together."
"You got it." Manny knocked on the jamb. "If there's anything I can help with, let me know."
And then the guy was gone as if he'd never been.
Doc Jane got up and came over. She was shorter than Qhuinn was, and not built like a nearly three-hundred-pound male. But she seemed to tower over him, the authority in her voice and her eyes exactly what he needed to calm his irrational side.
As she put her hand on his forearm, her stare was steady. "It's not your fault. This is nature's course sometimes and with some pregnancies."
"I put those young in her."
"Yes, but assuming this is a case of her hormones regulating themselves following birth, no one is to blame. Besides, you've done the right thing coming here, and you can also do a lot to help her by just talking to her and giving her the time and space to talk to you in return. And honestly, I'd already noticed that she hasn't been coming to meals. I think we need to encourage her to join the rest of us so she knows how much we all are there for her."
"Okay. Yeah."
Doc Jane frowned. "May I give you a piece of advice?"
"Please."
She squeezed his arm. "Don't feel responsible for something over which you have no control. It's a recipe for stress that will make you insanely miserable. I know that's easier said than done, but try to keep it in mind? I've seen you be with her every step of the way during the pregnancy. There's nothing you haven't done or wouldn't do for her, and you're a fantastic father. Only good things are ahead, I promise you."
Qhuinn took a deep breath. "Yeah."
Even as his worry persisted, he reminded himself that over the course of Layla's pregnancy, he had learned he could trust Doc Jane. The healer had helped him walk the life-and-death road, and she had never let him down, never led him astray, never lied to him or offered bad advice.
"It's all going to be okay," she promised.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, the good doctor was wrong.
But then she had no control over fate.
And neither did he.
FOUR
The young was ruined. Possessing naught but a mutated, ugly version of Hharm's features, the upper lip all wrong, like that of a hare.
Hharm dropped the babe upon the cave's dirty ground, and the thing made no sound as it landed, the arms and legs barely moving, its flesh of blue and gray, the cord still linking it with the female. It was going to die, as all results against the rules of breeding and nature should--and that outcome was not cause for indignation.
The fact that Hharm had been cheated, however, was. He had wasted these eighteen months, these number of hours, that moment of hope and happiness on a monstrosity that was untenable. And what he knew for sure? It wasnae his fault.
"What have you wrought?" he demanded of the female.
"A son!" She arched back as if in agony anew. "I have brought forth--"
"A curse." Hharm rose to his full height. "Your womb is foul. It has corrupted the gift of my seed and produced that--"
"Your son--"
"Regard it for yourself! See with thine eyes! 'Tis an abomination!"
The female strained and lifted her head. "He is perfect, he is--"
Hharm shoved the young with his boot, causing it to jerk its tiny limbs and let out a weak cry. "Even you cannot deny what is in plain sight!"
Her bloodshot eyes latched onto the young, and then widened. "It is..."
"You did that," he announced.
Her lack of argument was an inevitable capitulation, for the defect was undeniable. And then she moaned as if she were in labor still, her bloody fingers clawing at the cold ground, her legs trembling as they split wider. Upon further straining, something passed out of the female, and he thought perhaps there was another. Indeed, his heart caught with optimism as he prayed that the first was the dhoble, the cursed of a pair of twins.
Alas, no, it was some manner of the female's interior, perhaps her stomach or bowel.
And the young cried on, its chest pumping in and out with lesser effect.
"You shall die here and so shall he," Hharm said without care.
"I shall not--"
"Your innards are coming out."
"The young is..." she mumbled. "The young..."
"Is an abomination of nature against the Scribe Virgin's will."
The female fell silent and went lax as if the process of expulsion were concluded, and Hharm waited for a final paroxysm wherein her soul departed from her body. Except she continued to breathe and meet his stare...and exist. What manner of trickery was this? The idea she would not go to Dhunhd for this was an insult.
"This is your doing," he spat at the female.
"How do you know 'twas not your seed that was--"
Hharm put his boot at her throat and pressed down, cutting off her words. As a tide of rage made his warrior body seek mortal action, only the fact that this occurrence could be in punishment for things he'd done previously stopped him from crushing her neck.
She must pay, he thought abruptly. Yes, the fault was hers, and for the disappointment she had caused him, the female had to atone.
Hissing, he bared his fangs. "I shall let you live such that you may raise this monstrosity and be seen with it. That is your curse for cursing me--he shall e'er be upon your neck, an amulet of damnation, and if I find out that thing has died, I will hunt you down and slaughter you by inches. Then I will kill that sister of yours, all of her progeny, and your parents."
"What say you!"
Hharm leaned down, the pounding flush in his face and head one that was familiar. "You heard my word. You know my will. Challenge me at your peril."
As she cowered back, he stepped away and regarded the mess of the birth, the pathetic female, that horrid result--and he slashed his hand through the air, wiping them out of his timeline. As the blizzard howled, and the fire died down, he went for his coat of pelts.
"You ruined my son," he said as he swung the heavy weight of furs o'er his shoulders. "Your punishment is to raise that horror as a proclamation of your failure."
"You are not the King," she countered weakly. "To order aught."
" 'Tis a social service unto my fellow males." He jabbed a finger in the direction of the wailing newborn. "With that on your h
ip, no one else will lay upon you and suffer similarly."
"You cannot force me thus!"
"Oh, but I can and I shall."
She was a spoiled, defiant female by nature, and that was what had first attracted him unto her--he had had to teach her the errors of her ways and the instruction had been quite intriguing for a time. Indeed, there had been but one instance when she had attempted to exercise dominance over him. Once, and never again.
"Do not test me, female. You did a'fore and recall the end result."
As she paled, he nodded down at her. "Yes. That."
He had nearly killed her the night he had had to show her that whereas he would be with whomever he wished, whenever and wherever, she would ne'er be permitted to lay with another male whilst she was even tangentially associated with him. It had been shortly thereafter that she had decided her only chance at reining him in would be in providing him with the son he sought, and at the same time, he had begun to think in terms of his legacy.
Alas, she had failed in her endeavor.
"I hate you," she groaned.
Hharm smiled. "The feeling is mutual. And again, I say that you best ensure that thing lives. If I find out you killed him, I shall take his death from your flesh and that of your entire bloodline."
With that, he spat twice on the ground at her feet, once for her and once for the young. And then he strode away as she called for him and the forsaken young wailed in the cold.
Outside, the blizzard raged on, swirls of snow blinding him only to relent like a flock of birds scattering to reveal the landscape. In the valley down below, mountains rose off the shores of a lake basin, the snowdrifts upon the frozen water as waves would be in the warmer months. All was dark, and frigid, and lifeless, but he refused to find portent in what he beheld.
With his dagger hand itching, and his hostility upon its inner charging steed, he told himself to take no mind of this outcome.
He would find another womb.
Somewhere, there was a female who would give him the legacy he deserved and required. And he would find her and have her swell with his seed.
There would be a proper son for him. He would have it no other way.
FIVE
As Tohr approached the mouth of the Brotherhood's sacred cave, he snuck into the damp interior, and once inside, the smell of dirt and a distant source of flame irritated his sinuses. His eyes adjusted immediately, and when he continued on, he quieted the falls of his shitkickers. He didn't want to be heard, even though his presence was going to be apparent readily enough.
The gates were far in, and made of old iron bars thick as a warrior's forearm and tall as trees, a steel mesh soldered on to them to prevent dematerialization. Torches hissed and flickered on either side, and beyond, he could see the beginnings of the great corridor that led even further into the earth.
Stopping at the enormous barrier, he took out a copper key, and felt no remorse that he'd stolen the thing from the drawer of Wrath's ornate desk. He'd apologize for the theft later.
And also for what he was going to do next.
Unlocking the mechanism, he pulled the colossal weight open, stepped in, and relocked things behind himself. Walking forward, he followed the natural pathway that had been expanded with chisel and brute muscle, and then set wtih wooden shelves. On the various planks, hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of jars provided a playground for shadows and light.
The vessels were of all different shapes and sizes, and came from different eras from the ancient to the modern, but what was inside each one was the same: the heart of a lesser. Since the inception of the war with the Lessening Society, way back in the Old Country, the Brotherhood had been marking their enemy kills by claiming the jars of their victims and bringing them here to add to the collection.
Part trophy, part fuck-you to the Omega, it was legacy. It was pride. It was expectation.
And perhaps it was no more. Slayers were so few and far between in the streets of Caldwell and elsewhere now that they had to be closing in on the end.
Tohr did not feel any joy in the accomplishment. But that was probably due to tonight's terrible anniversary.
It was hard to feel anything but the loss of his Wellsie on what would have been her birthday.
Rounding a subtle curve, he stopped. Up ahead, the scene was like something out of a movie that couldn't decide whether it was Indiana Jones, Grey's Anatomy, or The Matrix. In the midst of all the old stone walls, and raw-flamed torches, and mismatched, dusty jars, a thicket of beeping and blinking medical equipment was running interference with a body on a gurney. And beside the prisoner? Two massive male vampires covered from head to toe in black leather and black weapons.
Butch and V were the Frick and Frack of the Brotherhood, the former human homicide cop and the son of the race's Creator, the good Catholic boy and the sexual deviant, the wardrobe addict and the tech tsar, united by a common devotion to the Boston Red Sox and a mutual respect and affection that knew no limit.
V tweaked to Tohr's presence first, the brother wheeling around so fast, ashes flew off the lit end of his hand-rolled. "Oh, hell no, no fucking way! You're out of here!"
That opinion, regardless of its volume, was easy to ignore as Tohr focused on the slab of meat on the gurney. Xcor was lying there, tubes going in and out of him like he was a car engine about to be jumped, his breathing regular--wait, not regular.
V stepped to Tohr, going close-up and then some. And what do you know, the brother had taken out his poodle shooter--and the muzzle of the forty was pointed directly into Tohr's face.
"I mean it, my brother."
Tohr looked over that heavy shoulder at their prisoner. And found himself smiling grimly. "He's awake."
"No, he's not--"
"His breathing just changed." Tohr pointed to that bare chest. "Look."
Butch frowned and went across to the captive. "Well, well, well...wakey-wakey, motherfucker."
V twisted around. "Sonofabitch."
But that gun didn't move, and neither did Tohr. As much as he wanted at Xcor, he was going to deep-throat a bullet if he took one step further: V was the least sentimental of the brothers and about as patient as a rattlesnake.
At that moment, Xcor's eyes blinked open. In the flickering light of the torches, they looked black, but Tohr remembered they were some kind of blue. Not that he cared.
V put his face in the way, those diamond eyes like daggers. "This is not going to be the birthday present you give your dead shellan."
Tohr peeled his lip off his fangs. "Fuck you."
"Not going to happen. Call me all the shit you want, but no. You know how things are going to go down and you are not at bat yet."
Butch grinned at their captive. "We've been waiting for you to join the party. Can I get you a drink? Maybe some mixed nuts before we put you in the upright position and take off? No reason to show you the fucking exit. You ain't gotta worry about that."
"Let's go, Tohr," V said. "Now."
Tohrment bared his fangs, but not at his brother. "You bastard, I'm going to kill--"
"Nope, not doing this." V hooked an arm around Tohr's bicep and all but dragged him into a do-si-do. "Outside--"
"You're not God--"
"And neither are you, which is why you're leaving."
In the back of his mind, Tohr was aware the rat fucker had a point. He was not even halfway rational--and P.S., fuck V for remembering what night it was.
His beloved shellan, his first love, would have been two hundred and twenty-six. And she would have had a two-year-old in her arms.
But fate had not provided that.
"Don't make me shoot you," V said roughly. "Come on, my brother. Please."
The fact that the p-word came out of Vishous's mouth was what did it. The shit was just that shocking, disarming Tohr from the swords of his anger and madness.
"Come on, Tohr."
This time, Tohr allowed himself to be led off, his grand scheme deflating, the too
-quiet aftermath of his craziness making him shake in his skin. What the fuck had he been doing? What the fuck?
Yeah, he had been granted the right to kill Xcor by royal proclamation, but only when he was released by Wrath to do so. And that had explicitly not happened yet.
This could have been a mess of treasonous proportions.
Talk about trading places. One dead betrayer for a living, breathing one.
When they came up to the gate that Tohr had unlocked to get access, V put out his gloved hand. "Key."
Tohr didn't look at the brother as he took the thing from his leather jacket and handed it over. After some clanking and a creak, the way was open and Tohr walked forward without prompting, hands on his hips, shitkickers grinding into the dirt, head down.
When there was another round of metal-on-metal, he figured he was being locked out on his own. But then V was right next to him on the far side.
"I promise you," the brother said. "You and you alone will kill him."
Was that going to be enough, Tohr wondered. Would anything ever be enough?
Before they came up to the mouth of the cave, Tohr stopped. "Sometimes...life just isn't fair."
"No, it isn't."
"I hate that. I fucking hate that. I go through...periods of time, not just nights, but weeks, sometimes even a month or two...when I forget about everything. But the shit always comes back, and after a while, you can't hold it in anymore. You just can't." He banged the side of his head with his fist. "It's this worm inside me, and I know killing Xcor won't distract me for longer than ten minutes. But on a night like tonight, I'd take even that."
There was a shhcht as V lit up a hand-rolled. "I don't know what to say, my brother. I'd tell you to pray about it, but there's no one up there to hear you."
"Not sure your mother was ever listening. No offense."
"None taken." V exhaled. "Trust me."
Tohr focused on the way out of the cave, and as he tried to take a breath, he was strangely exhausted. "I'm tired of fighting the same fight. Ever since Wellsie was...murdered...I feel like a limb of mine has never healed, and I can't take the hurt one more second. Not for one more goddamn second. Even if it just migrated to another place, it would be better."
There was a long silence between them, only the muffled howl of the winter wind breaking up the quiet in the cave.
Eventually, V cursed. "I wish I knew what would help you, my brother. I mean, if you need a reassuring hug...I can probably pay someone to give you one."