by J. R. Ward
Rhage strode over to the open door of the pale blue Mercedes. "Layla--?"
Except there was no one inside fiddling with her purse or bundling up before she headed across the courtyard for home.
He shut the door. "She's not--"
"Layla!" Tohr barked. "Oh, shit!"
Rhage looked up to the mansion's entrance. The heavy door into the vestibule was cracked open, a leg extending out at ground level, the ankle and foot propping the panels open.
The three of them bolted up the stairs. As Rhage cranked wide the tremendous weight, V, with his medical background, jumped over the Chosen's collapsed body and started checking vitals.
"Tohr," Rhage said. "Call--"
But his brother already had his cell phone up to his ear. "Yeah, Jane? We need you up here in the vestibule. Layla's collapsed--V, stats?"
As the brother put the phone in V's face, Vishous said to his mate, "Heart rate's steady, but slow. So is the breathing. No sign of trauma that I can see."
"You hear that?" Tohr said, resuming speaking. "Good. Thanks." As he ended the call, he immediately started dialing again. "She's bringing Manny and Ehlena." Back up to the ear. Waiting. Waiting.
He was obviously calling Qhuinn--
For some odd reason, the world went wonky on Rhage: One minute, he was staring down at Layla, and thinking there was nothing more terrifying than a pregnant female facedown on any kind of flooring. The next, the vestibule was spinning around him like a ball on the end of a string, his head the center point of the whizzing-by, his balance oddly uncompromised by the--
"He's going over!"
Huh. Guess he wasn't quite as steady as he thought.
When there was a bite on his upper arm, he looked down and saw Tohr's hand lock on his biceps and hold him up.
Wow. This was manly, Rhage thought.
A round of the Victorian vapors just because a female was--
"Layla!"
Qhuinn's panicked appearance right next to him gave him the wakey-wakey he needed, his mind clearing as the male shoved his way in to get to the female who was carrying his child. Blay, as always, was right behind him, ready to do whatever to support his mate.
"What the hell happened?"Qhuinn demanded.
V started talking. Doc Jane and her team arrived. Medical equipment was outted from a black, old-fashioned doctor's bag.
Turning to Tohr, who was still holding him up, Rhage heard a strange version of his voice say, "I'm having trouble breathing, my brother."
Tohr swung his head around. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know. I can't . . . seem to breathe." He massaged his chest with his free hand. "It's like there's a balloon in here. Taking up all the space."
As the medical peeps rolled Layla onto her back, there was cursing from the peanut gallery. Her arm was at an all-wrong angle, the part below the elbow showing a nasty break which must have happened when she fainted.
"Rhage?" someone said to him. "Hello?"
He glanced over at Tohrment. "What?"
Tohr leaned in. "You want some fresh air?"
"Aren't we outside?" To answer his own question, he looked up to the heavens. "Yeah, we're--"
"How 'bout we take a little walk."
"Want to help."
"Yeah, I get that. But I think going for a stroll's a really good idea. You're white as a sheet, and if you pull a lights-out, I can't guarantee you're not going to turn someone into a carpet underneath you and we don't need any other patients right now."
"Huh?"
"Come on."
As his brother pulled on his arm, Rhage kept rubbing his heart. "I don't know why I can't breathe. . . ."
The last image he had, as he was pulled away, was of Layla's face flopping to the side, her eyes wide-open, but unseeing.
"Is she dead?" he whispered. "Has she died--"
"Come on, my brother--"
"Is she?"
"No, she's not. She's alive."
Every time he blinked, he saw her blond hair on the marble tile like a liquid spilled, her lips as pale as her cheeks, those jade-green eyes opaque and unmoving.
"Mary? Yeah, Mary, I got a situation with your boy. Can you come home now?"
Who was that talking? Oh, yeah, Tohr. On his phone. The Brother had taken out his phone.
Rhage started shaking his head. "No, she can't come. The mother at Safe Place. She needs to stay--"
"Okay, thanks." Tohr ended the call. "She's heading back now."
"No, they need her--"
"My brother?" Tohr put his face into Rhage's. "I'm not sure you have any idea what you look like right now. Do me a solid and sit down here--yeah, right on the cobblestone. Good man, you're doin' good."
Rhage's knees were the ones following instructions, his brain too preoccupied with how much his shellan didn't need to waste her precious time on him. But it looked like that bus had left the station already.
Propping his head in his hands, Rhage leaned forward and wondered if he didn't have something wrong with his lungs. A fast-acting vampire flu. An infection. A poison in there.
The large hand of his brother made slow circles on his back, and beneath that heavy palm, the beast, in its tattoo form, surged and moved as if Rhage's little epi was making the thing nervous.
"Feel weird," Rhage said. "Can't . . . breathe . . ."
TWENTY-FIVE
For the first couple of miles, Assail was happy enough to dematerialize along with the boat. By the fourth time he reformed, however, he became impatient for the destination to arrive, the exchange to be made, the identity of the third-party encroacher to be revealed.
And there was another reason to be disquieted. With the ever-increasing distance traveled, the two men were getting closer and closer to Caldwell proper--which was an idiotic idea.
Even though the hours were well into the night, downtown was not the suburbs and there were bound to be humans out and about--granted, rarely those credible with the police or others of their kind, but prying eyes were prying eyes, and every asshole rat without a tail had a cell phone these days.
He might be able to spirit away, but that pair in the boat could not pull off that trick--and he wanted to be the person to teach the lesson required here, not the CPD.
Disappearing once again, he was forced to re-form in the midst of the planted trees on the edge of one of Caldwell's shoreline public parks. And still the boat continued along.
Unbelievable.
As he waited to see whether they passed his newest position--and there was a good chance they would, because there was no further cover at the shore a'tall--that familiar itch started to twinkle at the base of his neck, triggering a need for more coke.
The urge was coming faster and faster of late. To the point where he was forced to acknowledge how fortunate he was to heal so quickly. If he were a mere human? He would have deviated his septum months ago.
Reaching into his pocket, he took his vial into his palm. Just the feel of the smooth glass container made him relax. And he wanted to pull it out and do his deed, but he couldn't run the risk of not being able to dematerialize. The problem with his addiction was that the need for more was coming before the buzz had even started to wear off, the worm in his gut turning, turning, demanding more and more even while his body and brain struggled to deal with the racing, bracing load of drugs.
And again, the last thing he wanted was to find himself in difficulty down here because he was too jittery to get himself gone.
God, to have this in common with the Homo sapiens he dealt to was just too demeaning for words--
"Oh, you can't be serious," he muttered as the boat finally made a beeline to a destination of sorts.
But it was not a safe one. Certainly not one he would ever have consented to.
The two piloted their craft toward an old Victorian boathouse. Granted, its windows were dark, but there were security lights shining on its shingled exterior, and no doubt a CPD patrol making regular rounds of the park behind the stru
cture.
He had to go inside if they did, however.
And they did.
With no idea what the interior layout was, he settled for reforming in the shadows between those annoying outside lights, his dark clothes blending him in against the boathouse's weathered flank. As the troller entered one of the slips, the sound of its pathetic engine echoed, sounding like an old man with the last dregs of a consumptive cough.
Twisting around to one of the windows, he focused his keen eyes through the bubbly glass. The inside was quite extensive, and as soon as he identified his spot, he dematerialized and gusted in through the very entrance the delivery boys used. He was careful as he reassumed his physical form, sticking to a tight nook in the far corner, between a stand of crew shells resting upon their bellies on racks and a forest of orange personal flotation devices strung upon hooks.
The engine was cut and the pair conversed softly in a foreign language. After they fell silent, the only sound was the water clapping and chortling underneath the boat and through the cribbing of the docks.
Assail hated the way the air smelled of old dead fish, decomposing flora, and damp canvas.
Dreadful.
After a measure of time passed, the approach of something outside got his attention--and then a flashing yellow light penetrated the interior. Locating a dusty window, he looked out to find a Caldwell Public Parks Department truck pulling up.
Well, now, this was about to get interesting.
Either the delivery was going to be intercepted and the police called . . . or some human working for the parks was looking to increase his monthly income and on the pick up.
It turned out he was wrong on both accounts.
The main door creaked as it was opened, and the instant a male figure appeared in between the jambs, cold air gusting in from behind him carried the scent of lesser into the boathouse.
It was the Forelesser with whom Assail did his business, entering with a duffel bag of his own.
Son of a bitch.
How dare that bastard do a runaround, Assail thought as his fangs bared of their own volition. And how in the hell had that slayer made contact with the importer?
Formulating a plan for his ambush, Assail outted both of his forties--and wished that he had bothered to put silencers on the guns. He hadn't expected to have to use them in downtown fucking Caldwell, for God's sakes.
"Let me see them," the Forelesser declared. "Unzip the bags and let me see them."
Assail took a step forward, thinking he could--
The deliverymen each unzipped a bag and tilted the contents forward.
Not. Drugs.
Not at all.
Instead of large blocks that had been sealed in layers upon layers of cellophane wrap, there were . . .
Guns. Long-muzzled guns that rubbed, metal upon metal, against one another in their duffel bags.
It was difficult, in the dimness, to determine exactly the specifications of the weapons, but there seemed to be a variety of either shotguns or rifles.
Assail's curled upper lip dropped back into place.
Although he had been prepared to intercede in the event of a drug/money exchange, he felt no such compulsion the now.
If the Forelesser wanted to use his profits to buy armaments, that was his business.
Leaving the boathouse the way he came in, Assail cast himself up river, toward his glass house upon its peninsula.
The only thing he cared about was whether that lesser continued to deliver product to the streets and clubs of Caldwell in a timely, reliable and honest fashion.
His responsibility started and ended there.
*
"No, no, I'm fine. Honest."
As Rhage spoke, he sat down at the rough-cut table in the Brotherhood mansion's kitchen. The rest of the household was gathering for an early Last Meal, doggen filing in and out of the flap door, delivering silver trays the size of tabletops stacked with all manner of freshly cooked meats and starches and vegetables.
Across the way, Mary leaned against the granite-topped center island, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes trained on him like she was assessing one of her social-work patients.
Squirming, he wanted to go join his brothers and their shellans, but given her expression, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
"Fritz?" she said. "I'm going to fix him something, okay?"
The butler paused in the process of bringing a table setting over. "I was going to make up a plate in the other room and bring it--"
"I'm going to take care of my husband," she said gently, but firmly. "If you like, however--even though it goes against every self-sufficient bone in my body--I'll leave you the pan and dishes to clean up."
Fritz's old, wrinkled face assumed the expression of a basset hound who was being denied chicken for the promise of beef later on: both worried and excited. "Is there not some manner in which I may render you aid?"
Three staff members in their gray-and-white uniforms came back empty-handed from the dining room, the trio heading for the final loads that were destined to be carried in and placed on the various sideboards in that huge, chandeliered space.
"Actually," his Mary murmured, "do you think he and I could have some privacy in here?"
"Oh, yes, mistress." Fritz brightened somewhat. "As soon as the presentation of the victuals has been made, I will direct my staff into the foyer. They will be most happy to tarry out there."
"Thank you." She gave his thin arm a squeeze, making him blush. "And just until it's time for dessert to be served. I know that you'll want free rein in here for that."
"Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress. And I shall personally clean up after you both."
The butler bowed deeply, grabbed the last silver tray, and ushered everyone out. As the flap door stilled, Rhage's beloved shellan looked over at him.
"Eggs?" she said.
At the one word, Rhage's stomach let out a roar. "Oh, God, that sounds amazing."
Mary nodded and went over to the Sub-Zero. Taking out a fresh carton, she grabbed a gallon container of whole milk and a box of butter; then hit the cupboards, snagging a frying pan, a big mixing bowl, and various and sundry utensils.
"So," she said as she broke the first of twelve eggs. "I'd really like to hear what happened out there."
Up until this moment, Rhage had been successful in ducking that question. Apparently, the reprieve was over.
"I'm fine, honest."
"Okay." She paused in mid-crack and smiled at him. "As your wife, though, how you are is really important to me. So if there's something bothering you, it makes me feel left out if I don't know what it is."
Ugh. Just . . . ugh.
As she began whisking the gallon of nascent scrambled egg, the sloshy sound reminded him of his own head.
Looking down at the pitted tabletop, he picked at one of the veins in the broad oak boards. "The truth is, I don't know what happened. I just felt really weird and had to sit down. I'm tight now, though. Probably just one of those random things."
"Mmm, well, tell me what your night was like."
"It was no big deal. I headed to the Band of Bastards' safe house and went through it--"
"Didn't you start down in the clinic, with Trez and Selena?"
"Oh, yeah. But that was, like, yesterday when she was . . . you know, taken there." He shook his head. "I don't want to think about that right now, if you don't mind."
"Okay, so tonight you went to the Band of Bastards' place?"
"Well, first we went to Abalone's. His cousin defected from Xcor's troops and told us where their hideout was. Anyway, me and V went through the place."
"What were you looking for?"
He shrugged. "Bombs. Booby traps. That kind of shit. No big deal."
She made another mmmmm sound as she poured the contents of the bowl into a pan the size of the bucket seat in Qhuinn's Hummer. "Were you worried about getting hurt there?"
"No. Well . . . I worried about m
y brothers, sure. But that's just the job."
"Okay. And then where did you go?"
"I saw you. Then I went to D's old house. We reported in to Wrath and came back here. I was supposed to have a checkup with Manny to make sure my injury has healed properly. Same with V."
"Okay." She moved over to the six-slot toaster and filled the thing up with his favorite bleached-flour, totally processed, incredibly plastic-fantastic white bread. "So you got home, and what did you find?"
He blinked and saw Layla's foot sticking out of the vestibule. Then pictured Qhuinn's face as the Brother crouched down by the stricken female who was carrying his young.
"Oh, you know."
"Mmmm?" The scent of cooking eggs further tickled his Eat Now trigger. "What?"
"Well, you know what happened."
By the time Mary arrived, a stretcher had been brought up from the clinic and Layla was being loaded on, her body moved carefully by Qhuinn at her head and Blay at her feet.
Rhage fell silent and massaged his chest.
Pop! went his toast, and a moment later, a platter with everything done exactly the way he liked was in front of him.
Along with a mug of hot chocolate, a napkin, silverware . . . but most important, his lovely Mary.
"This is the best meal I have ever had," he said, just looking at the food.
"You always say that."
"Only when you cook for me."
It was funny. As a human, his Mary never had been able to understand the way a male vampire responded when the female he'd bonded with produced food with her own hands for him. That kind of thing was a sacred act, because it went against a male's core instinct to provide and meet his mate's needs first and foremost over those everything and everybody, including his own, his brothers', his King's, and those of any young they might have.
Rhage was hardwired to feed her first and then eat whatever was left. But before she'd ordered Fritz and the doggen out, she'd told him she was full, having grabbed a quick snack at Safe Place an hour ago.
"It's getting cold," she said, rubbing his forearm.
For some reason, his eyes got blurry and he had to blink things clear.
"Rhage?" she whispered. "Whatever it is, let it out."
With a quick jerk, he shook his head. "I'm fine. I just want to enjoy this feast."
He picked up his fork and started to alternate: one load of egg, one bite of toast, one load of egg, one bite of toast, sip, sip, sip of hot chocolate. And repeat until he had cleaned his plate.