by J. R. Ward
"It is our way."
"And that means it's right?"
"You are a heretic. So is your brother."
"Lemme ask you something. Did you hear the infant scream? When they killed your kid, did you--"
The attack was not unexpected, the executioner launching at him with such force his chair was blown backward and the pair of them ended up on the floor, s'Ex straddling iAm while shaking with rage.
"I should kill you," the male growled.
"Get angry with me if you want," iAm shot back. "But be honest, at least with yourself. You're not quite so duty-proud anymore. Are you."
s'Ex shoved himself away and landed on his ass. Putting his head in his hands, he breathed hard, as if he were trying to pull a composure job--and losing the fight.
"I'm not going to help the pair of you anymore," the executioner said hoarsely. "Duty demands to be served."
iAm sat up and thought that the constellations under which his brother had been born were like a disease, something unvolunteered for, embedded in the life that was lived, a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.
Trez's detonation had been put off for oh, so long. It would not be denied any longer, however.
Not for the first time, iAm wished that he had been born before Trez. He would much rather have been the one cursed, the bearer of the burden. It wasn't that he wanted to be imprisoned for all his life, with nothing but repeatedly trying to impregnate the heir to the throne for a pastime, but he was different from Trez.
Or maybe he was fooling himself.
What he was clear on? He would do anything he had to in order to save his brother.
And he was prepared to get really damn creative.
*
By the time Trez came back to check the private lounge, Rhage had woken up from his coma, trance, nap, whatever it was. And although V's verbal diarrhea had been a real ball slapper, as the owner of the club and the guy who'd attacked first, Trez felt like he needed to make sure the Brother was okay.
"How we doing in here," he said as he reentered.
As Hollywood slowly sat up, it was clear he was trying to reenter reality, returning from some mental destination that had been far from the club.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," V muttered as he took out a hand-rolled and a lighter. "You back?"
"You can't smoke in here," Trez said.
Vishous cocked a brow. "What're you going to do? Kick me out?"
"Don't want to get shut down on my first night."
"You got bigger problems than the Department of Public Health."
Fuck you, V, Trez thought.
"You need something?" he asked Rhage. "I got all kinds of things that don't have alcohol in them."
"Nah, I'm all right." The Brother rubbed his face and then looked over. "So you've bonded with that Chosen, huh--"
"I even have food, if you want--"
"Come on, man." Rhage shook his head. "You just tried to eat my lunch."
Trez glanced at his watch. "Actually, it was over an hour ago."
"I mean, whatever--what's the problem? Why don't you get with her."
"You're still a little pale."
"Fine, fine. You wanna hit the mute button, that's your business."
Cue. Awkward. Silence.
OMG, this was the best fucking night, Trez thought. What next, a meteor hitting Caldwell?
Nah, probably just his club.
"Sooooo . . . I'll take the drugs," V said, pocketing the cellophane packets. "You get any more--"
The third goddamn flash in the room was bright enough to blind, and Trez put up an arm to cover his face as he fell back into a defensive stance.
"Oh, fuck!" one of the Brothers barked.
Bomb? Deadly slayer retaliation?
All that new electrical wiring failing on an epic scale?
Or maybe he shouldn't have given the universe a suggestion about the whole meteor thing.
As Trez blinked the spots in his vision clear, it turned out to be a case of None of the Above.
A figure was standing where the great burst of light had flared--a figure that was about as impressive as a garden gnome gone Goth: Whatever it was was four feet tall, covered from head to foot in black robing . . . and evidently the source of illumination: From beneath the hem, brilliant light glowed. Like maybe La Perla had gone Las Vegas strip under there.
Abruptly, Trez stopped breathing as he put the math together and came up with the impossible. Holy shit, that was the--
"Hello, Mother," Vishous said dryly.
--Scribe Virgin.
"I have come for a purpose." The female voice was hard as crystal and just as clear. "And it must be served."
"Really." V took a drag on his hand-rolled. "You gonna take candy from a baby? Or is it kick-a-puppy night?"
The figure turned Her back on the Brother. "You."
Trez recoiled, his head banging into the wall. "Excuse me?"
"You're not supposed to make inquiries of Her," V bit out. "Just FYI."
"Me?" Trez repeated. "What do you want me for?"
"You are summoned by one of mine own."
"You taking him to Disneyland?" V muttered. "Lucky you, Trez--but She's probably only tight with Maleficent, the Shadow Man, Cruella--"
"How do you know so much Disney shit?" Rhage cut in.
"Come with me," the Scribe Virgin said, extending her robed arm.
"Me?" Trez blurted a third time.
"You have been summoned."
"Selena . . . ?" he breathed.
Rhage shook his head. "Should I just get the marshmallows? 'Cuz you are about to get toasted for those questions, buddy."
That was the last thing Trez heard before a swirling vortex of energy claimed him and carried him off to God only knew . . .
...where.
As the sense of having been transported disappeared, he steadied himself on his feet with a shout, both arms punching out from his torso, his head spinning so badly he figured he was going to dreidel it to the ground.
A sudden awareness of his surroundings stopped all that.
Parkland. He'd been relocated to some kind of postcard-perfect parkland, rolling green lawns interspersed with top-heavy trees, blooming flower beds and, in the distance, white marble buildings of Greco-Roman extraction. Except the horizon struck him as all wrong. A forest boundary offered a verdant stretch of green off in the distance, but there was an unnatural quality to it, the same trees seeming to mark the acreage, as if nature were on a repeat pattern. And overhead, the sky was likewise an all-wonky, its milky brightness appearing to have no distinct source, like there was just an enormous fluorescent light up there.
"Where am I?"
When there was no answer, he twisted around. The small robed figure was gone.
Great. Now what did he do?
Later, he would wonder what exactly made him turn and start walking . . . then running. A noise? His name? Some instinct . . . ?
He found the body on the far side of a rise in the undulating ground. Whoever it was was facedown, in the traditional garb of a Chosen female, the soles of the sandals--
"Selena!" he shouted. "Selena . . . !"
Skidding to a halt, Trez dropped to his knees. "Selena?"
Her black hair was a mess, the traditional twist of her chignon ratted and sloppy, falling over her face. As he lifted the tangle, her skin was paper white.
"Selena . . ." He wasn't sure whether she was injured or had collapsed, and with no medical training, he had no clue what to do.
"Breathing, are you breathing?" He put his ear down on her back. Then he leaned across her and took her arm to check for a--
"Oh . . . God."
The limb was stiff, as if rigor mortis had set in. Except . . . when he placed his two fingers on the inside of her wrist, there was a pulse.
Selena moaned and her foot twitched. Then her head jerked against the grass.
"Selena?" His heart pounded so hard, he could barely hear anything. "What happen
ed?"
No reason to ask if she was okay. That was a resounding fucking no.
"Are you hurt?"
More moaning as she seemed to struggle against something.
"I'm going to roll you over."
Bracing himself, he took her arm and began to try to move her--but he had to stop. Her position did not change, her contoured limbs and stiffened torso were so rigid, it was as if he were dealing with a statue made of stone--
"Oh, shit!"
At the sound of Rhage's voice, Trez jerked his head up. V and Rhage had materialized out of nowhere, and while he had always liked the two of them, at the moment, he could have kissed the pair of warriors.
"You gotta help me," he barked. "I don't know what's wrong with her."
The Brothers knelt down, and Vishous went for that wrist, checking the pulse.
"She can't seem to move. But I don't know why?"
"She has a pulse," V murmured. "She's breathing. Shit, I need my stuff."
"Can we get her to . . . where the fuck are we?" Trez demanded.
"Yeah, I can transport her--"
"No one moves her but me," he heard himself growl.
The position paper was hardly a bene in this situation. The bonded male in him, however, didn't give a fuck.
Conversation rolled out between the Brothers, but damned if he heard any of it. His brain was tripping over itself, snippets of the past couple of months filtering through as he tried to look for signs that there had been something wrong with her.
There had been nothing that he'd seen, or heard of through the grapevine. If she'd only collapsed, it might have been the result of offering her vein too much, but that wouldn't explain the fact that her body had seized up in the way it had--she seemed to have literally turned to stone.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Rhage.
"Give me your hand."
Trez put his palm out and felt himself get lifted to his feet. Before they could talk at him, he said, "I have to carry her. She's mine--"
"We know." Rhage nodded. "Nobody's going to touch her without your permission. We need you to pick her up--then V will help you both back, okay? G'on now, gather your female."
Trez's arms were shaking so badly, he wondered whether he'd be able to hold her in his arms. But as soon as he bent down, a profound sense of purpose wiped away all the nerves and trembling: The goal of getting her to the training center's clinic gave him a physical power and a mental clarity that he had never known before.
He would die in the effort.
God, she weighed so little. Less than he remembered.
And beneath the robes he could feel her hard bones, as if she were wasting away.
Just before that whirlpool effect overtook him again, his eyes shifted to a thick row of stocky trees that were broken by a trellis. On the far side of the arch, there was a courtyard of some kind in which marble statues of females in various poses were set up on pillars.
Had she been on the way there?
For some reason, the sight of those statues terrified him to the core.
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 p
utting 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.