by J. R. Ward
Tohr shook his head as his upper lip twitched into a smile. "That's almost funny."
"Yeah, I'm going for levity." V exhaled again. "It's either that or I shoot you, and I'd hate filling out all of Saxton's paperwork, true?"
"I can see your point." Tohr scrubbed his face. "Totally..."
V's diamond eyes shifted over. "Just know that I'm sorry. You don't deserve any of this." A heavy hand landed on Tohr's shoulder and squeezed. "If I could take the pain for you, I would."
As Tohr blinked fast, he thought it was a good thing V wasn't a hugger, or there would be a serious fucking breakdown happening all over the place.
The kind of breakdown a male didn't come back from in one piece.
Then again, was he really whole now?
SHADOWS NIGHTCLUB, DOWNTOWN CALDWELL
Trez Latimer felt a little like a god as he stared out of the glass wall of his second-floor office at his club. Down below, in the converted warehouse's vast open area, a crowd of sexed-up humans established patterns of attraction and disdain in a tumultuous sea of deep purple lasers and pounding bass beats.
In large measure, his clientele were millennials, that generation born between 1980 and 2000. Defined by the Internet, the iPhone, and a lack of economic opportunity, at least according to the human media, they were a demographic of lost moralists, committed to saving each other, preserving the rights of everyone, and championing a false utopia of mandated liberal thinking that made McCarthyism looked nuanced.
But they were also, in the manner of youth, baselessly hopeful.
And how he envied them that.
As they collided and crashed into each other, he witnessed the rapture on their faces, the rampant optimism that they would find true love and happiness this very evening--in spite of all the other nights that they had come to his club and dawn had ushered in nothing but exhaustion, a new STD, and a crap load of shame-based self-doubt as they wondered exactly what they had done and with who.
He suspected, however, that for most of them the cure for that angst was two hours of sleep, a Starbucks venti latte, and a shot of penicillin.
When you were that young, when you had yet to face challenges that you couldn't even begin to comprehend, your resilience knew no bounds.
And there was where he wished to trade places with them.
It was odd to pedestal humans on any level. As a two-hundred-plus-year-old Shadow, Trez had long viewed those rats without tails as an inferior, inconvenient clutter on the planet, rather like ants in one's kitchen or mice in the basement. Except you weren't allowed to exterminate the humans. Too messy. Better to tolerate them than risk a species exposure by murdering them just to free up parking spaces, supermarket lines, and your Facebook feed.
And yet here he was, aching in his chest to be in the shoes of even one of them, if only for an hour or two.
Unprecedented.
Then again, they hadn't changed. He had.
My queen, is it time for you to go? Tell me if it is.
As memories bullied through his brain, he covered his eyes and thought, oh, God, not again. He didn't want to go back to the Brotherhood's clinic...to the bedside of his beloved Selena, to him dying on the inside while she expired in fact.
In truth, however, he had never left those events, even as calendar days suggested the contrary. After the passage of well over a month, he could still recall each and every detail about the scene, from her tortured breathing to the panic in her stare to the tears that rolled down her face and his.
His Selena had been struck by a disease known to rarely affect members of her sacred class. Throughout the generations of Chosen, certain of them had had the Arrest, and it was a horrible way to die, your mind left alive in the frozen shell of your body, no escape possible, no treatment to help you, no one to save you.
Not even the male who loved you more than life itself.
As Trez's heart tripped in his chest, he dropped his hands, shook his head, and tried to reconnect with reality. He had been struggling recently with these intrusive episodes, and they were getting more frequent instead of less so--something that made him worry about his sanity. He'd heard that adage that "time heals all wounds," and shit, maybe that was true for other people. For him? His mourning had transitioned from the incandescent pain at the beginning, an agony so hot it rivaled the flames of her funeral pyre, to this chronic racetrack of reminiscing that seemed to spin ever faster around the open-field fulcrum of his loss.
His own voice echoed in his head: Do I understand you correctly? Do you want this...to end?
By the time Selena's final moments had arrived, she could no longer speak. They had had to rely on a previously agreed-upon communication system that presupposed she would have control over her eyelids right up until the end: one blink for no...two for yes.
Do you want this to end...?
He had known what her answer was going to be. Had read it in her exhausted, distant, dimming stare. But that had been one of those times in life when you'd wanted to be absolutely, positively sure.
She had blinked once. And then again.
And he had been by her side when the drugs that stopped her heart and gave her the relief she needed had taken her away.
In all of his years, he never would have imagined that kind of suffering. On both their parts. He couldn't have created a worse death out of any sort of nightmare, and he couldn't possibly have fathomed that he would have to give the nod to Manny to administer the shot, to be screaming in his head as his love faded away, to be left on his own for the rest of his nights.
The only comfort was that her suffering was over.
The only reality was that his was just beginning.
In the immediate aftermath, he had found solace in the fact that he would rather have been the one to have to miss her as opposed to the other way around. But as time had continued, he had overused that panacea, as it was the only one he had, and now it didn't work anymore.
So there was nothing to relieve him. He'd tried drinking, but alcohol only served to uncap what fragile hold he had on his tears. He didn't care for food at all. Sex was completely out of the question. And no one would let him fight--it wasn't like the Brothers and iAm didn't recognize he was unhinged.
So what was he left with? Nothing but dragging himself through the nights and days, and praying for the most basic of relief: a breath unhindered, a stretch of mental calm, an hour's worth of undisturbed slumber.
Reaching out, he touched the angled glass pane that was his window on what he considered was the other world, the one outside his insular hell. Funny to think that what he now considered as "other" had once been "real"...and even without the separation of species, age, and this lofty perch above the club's fray, he was so far apart from all of them.
He had a feeling he would always be apart from everyone.
And honestly, he just couldn't keep going like this.
This mourning had broken him, and if it weren't for the fact that those who committed suicide were denied entrance unto the Fade, he would have put a bullet in his brain about forty-eight hours after the death.
I can't keep going one more night, he thought.
"Please...help me..."
He had no fucking clue who he was talking to. On the vampire side, the Scribe Virgin was no more--and in his current frame of mind, he could totally understand why she would want to drop the mic and walk offstage from her creation. And then as a Shadow, he had been raised to worship his Queen--the only problem was, she had mated his brother and praying to his sister-in-law seemed weird.
A veritable declaration that all of this spiritual stuff was just a bunch of bullshit.
And yet even so, his suffering was so great he had to reach out.
Leaning his head back, he looked up at the low black ceiling and poured his broken heart into word. "I just want her back. I just...I only want Selena back. Please...if there's anyone up there, help me. Return her to me. I don't care what form she's in...I just can't
do this anymore. I can't live like this for one more fucking night."
There was no answer, of course. And he felt like a total asshole.
Come on, like the vast emptiness of space was going throw anything but a meteor back at him?
Besides, was there even a Fade? What if he had just been hallucinating during the cleanse and had only imagined seeing his Selena? What if she had just died? As in...simply ceased to exist? What if all the crap about a heavenly place where loved ones went and waited for you with patience was just a coping mechanism created by those left behind in the kind of agony he was in?
A mental fallacy to bandage an emotional wound.
Leveling his head, he regarded the human crowd below--
In the glass, the reflection of a huge male figure standing right behind him made him spin around and go for the gun he kept tucked into the small of his back. But then he recognized who it was.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
SIX
The five-acre meadow rose from a vacant country lane like something created by an artist with a discerning eye, all natural aspects of hill and dale seemingly subject to the rules of pleasing visual standards. And atop the gentle, snow-dusted ascent, as a crown upon the head of a benevolent ruler, a great maple tree spread its branches in a halo so perfect even winter's barren reveal did not diminish its beauty.
Layla had dematerialized to the base of the field from the mansion, and she made her way up to the tree on foot, her bedroom slippers no match for the frosted ground, the cold wind cutting through her robe, her hair whipping free of its braid and flying around.
When she reached the top, she stared down at the roots that grounded the glorious trunk unto the earth.
It had been here, she thought.
Here, at the base of this maple, she had come to Xcor the first time, summoned by one whom she'd thought was a soldier of honor in the war, one whom she had fed down in the Brotherhood's clinic...one whom the Brothers had failed to inform her was in fact foe rather than friend.
When the male had called upon her to provide a vein, she had thought nothing about doing her sacred duty.
So she had come here...and lost a piece of herself in the process.
Xcor had been on the verge of death, wounded and weak, and yet she had recognized his power even in his diminished state. How could she not? He had been a tremendous male, thick of neck and chest, strong of limb, powerful of body. He had tried to refuse her vein--because, she liked to believe, he had seen her as an innocent in the conflict between the Band of Bastards and the Black Dagger Brotherhood and had wanted to keep her out of it. In the end, however, he had relented, ensuring that both of them fell prey to a biological imperative that knew no reason.
Taking a deep breath, she regarded the tree, seeing through its bare branches to the night sky beyond.
After Xcor's true identity had come out, she had confessed to Wrath and the Brotherhood what she had done, tearfully seeking their forgiveness--and it was a testament to the King and the males who served him that they had pardoned her for aiding the enemy readily and without punishment.
In turn, it was a poor testament to her that she had gone back to Xcor after that. Consorted with him. Become emotionally attached.
Yes, there had been an initial coercion on his part at the time, but the truth was, even if he hadn't forced her hand? She would have wanted to be with him. And worse? When things between them had finally ended, he had been the one to break their meetings off. Not her.
In fact, she would be seeing him still--and the heartbreak on her side at the loss of him was as crippling as her guilt.
And that was before he had been captured by the Brotherhood.
She knew exactly where they were keeping him because she had witnessed him in his wounded state in that cave...knew what the Brothers planned to do to him as soon as he awoke.
If only there was a way to save him. He had never been cruel to her, never hurt her...and he had never approached her sexually in spite of the hunger within him. He had been patient and kind...at least until they had parted.
He had, however, tried to kill Wrath. And that treason was punishable by death--
"Layla?"
Wheeling around, she tripped and fell to the side--just barely catching herself on the rough trunk of the maple. As pain flared in her palm, she tried to shake it off.
"Qhuinn!" she gasped.
The father of her young stepped forward. "Did you hurt yourself?"
With a curse, she wiped at the scratches, brushing debris away. Dearest Virgin Scribe, it hurt. "No, no, it's fine."
"Here." He took something out of the pocket of his leather jacket. "Let me see."
She trembled as Qhuinn checked her hand and then wrapped it with a black bandana. "I think you'll live."
Will I? she thought. I'm not so sure about that.
"You're freezing out here."
"Am I?"
Qhuinn took his jacket off, and as he draped it around her shoulders, she was swallowed by its size and warmth. "Come, let's go back to the mansion. You're shivering--"
"I can't do this anymore," she blurted. "I just can't keep going."
"I know." As she recoiled in surprise, he shook his head. "I know what's wrong. Let's go home and we can talk about it. Everything's going to be okay, I promise."
For a moment, she couldn't breathe. How could he have found out? How could he not be angry at her?
"How did you..." The tears came fast, emotion overriding everything. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...it wasn't supposed to be like this..."
She wasn't sure whether he opened his arms or she clawed herself onto his chest, but Qhuinn held her against him, sheltering her from the wind.
"It's all right." He made big circles on her back with his palm, soothing her. "We just need to talk it through. There are things we can do, steps we can take."
She turned her face to the side and looked out over the meadow. "I feel so awful."
"Why? It's out of your control. You didn't ask for this."
She pulled back. "I swear to you, I did not. And I never want you to think for a second that I would endanger Lyric or Rhampage--"
"Are you kidding me? Seriously, Layla, you love those young with everything in you."
"I do. I promise you that. And I love you and Blay, the King, the Brotherhood. You are my family, you are all I have."
"Layla, listen to me. You are not alone, okay? And like I said, there are things we can do--"
"Really? Truly?"
"Yes. In fact, I was talking about it before I came here. I don't want you to think that I'm betraying you--"
"Oh, Qhuinn! I am the betrayer! I am in the wrong--"
"Stop it. You are not--and we are going to take care of it together. All of us."
Layla put her hands up to her face, the one that he'd bandaged and the one that was bare. And then, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she released her breath all the way, a balming ease replacing the horrible burden she had carried.
"I have to say this." She looked up at him. "Please know that I've been eaten alive with regret and sadness. I swear that I never meant for this to happen, any of it. I've been so alone, struggling with guilt--"
"Guilt is unnecessary." He brushed under her eyes with his thumbs. "You've just got to let that go, because you can't help the way you feel."
"I can't, I truly can't--and Xcor is not evil, he's not as bad as you think he is. I swear. He always treated me with care and kindness, and I know that he would not hurt Wrath again. I just know it--"
"What?" Qhuinn frowned and shook his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Please don't kill him. It's just as you said, there is a way to work this out. Maybe you can let him go and--"
Qhuinn didn't so much step back as push her away. And then he seemed to struggle to find words.
"Layla," he said slowly. "I know I'm not hearing you right, and I'm trying to...can you..."
Seizing
the chance to make her case, Layla hurried to speak. "He never hurt me. In all the nights I went to him, he never once hurt me. He got us a cottage so that I could be safe, and it was only ever just the two of us. I never saw any of the Bastards..."
She trailed off as his expression went from confusion...to an ice-cold reserve that made him look like a total stranger.
When Qhuinn spoke next, his voice was flat. "You have been meeting with Xcor?"
"I've felt terrible--"
"How long ago?" he snapped. But he didn't let her answer. "Did you go see him while you were carrying my young? Did you willingly and knowingly consort with the enemy while my fucking young were in your body?" Before she could answer him, he held up his forefinger. "And you need to think really long and hard about your answer. There is no going back from it, and it better be the truth. If I find out you lied to me, I'm going to kill you."
As Layla's heart thundered in her chest and panic made her light-headed, her one and only thought was...
You're going to kill me anyway.
--
Back at shAdoWs, Trez tucked his gun away and tried to plug back into reality. "Well?" he prompted. "What are you doing here, especially without a Tony Manero polyester special on?"
Lassiter, the Fallen Angel, smiled in a way that didn't include his strangely colored, pupil-less eyes; the expression only affected the lower part of his face. "Oh, you know, leisure suits are so last week for me."
"Moving on to eighties New Age? I don't have any neon to lend you."
"Nah, I have another new costume to wear."
"Good for you. Scary for the rest of us. Just tell me you aren't going to pull a Borat on the beach."
When the angel didn't immediately reply, Trez felt a set of Freddy Kruegers tease the nape of his neck. Normally, Lassiter was the kind of guy who was so upbeat most folks couldn't decide whether to shoot him to put everyone out of their misery...or just grab some popcorn and a Coke and watch the show.
Because even if he pissed you off, it was always hella funny.
Not tonight, though. That bizarre stare of his was about as light and frothy as a granite slab, and his huge body was so still, none of the gold on his wrists and his throat, his fingers and his ears, was glinting in the low light.
"What's up with the statue routine?" Trez muttered. "Someone move your My Little Pony collection again?"