by J. R. Ward
J.R.:
(following) He’s home? Were classes canceled tonight for the storm?
Wellsie:
(lifting lid off a pot) Yes, but he wouldn’t have been able to go anyway. Let me finish this real quick and then we’ll go get Tohr.
J.R.:
Is John okay?
Wellsie:
He will be. Have a seat. You want tea?
J.R.:
I’m fine, thank you.
The kitchen is all cherry and granite, with two gleaming ovens, a six-burner cooktop, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator done up to match the cabinets. Over in the windowed alcove there’s a glass-and-iron table set, and I sit down in the chair closest to the stove.
Wellsie has her hair up tonight, and as she stirs the rice in the pot she looks like a supermodel in a magazine ad for luxury kitchens. Beneath the loose black turtleneck she wears her belly is a little bigger than when I saw her last, and her hand keeps going to it, rubbing slowly. She’s glowing with health. Absolutely radiant.
Wellsie:
See, here’s the thing with vampires. We don’t get human viruses, but we have our own. And this time of year, as with human schools, the trainees trade off bugs. John came down with the aches and a sore throat last night and woke up with a fever this afternoon. Poor thing. (Shakes her head.) John is . . . a special kid. Truly special. And I love having him home with me—I just wish, tonight, it was for a different reason. (Looks up at me.) You know, it’s so weird. I’ve been doing my own thing for a long time . . . you can’t be mated to a Brother and not be really independent. But since John’s started living here, the house is empty when he’s not around. I can’t wait to see him by the time he gets home from the training center.
J.R.:
I can understand that.
Wellsie:
(rubbing belly again) John says he’s all excited for when the little one gets here—he wants to help out. I guess at the orphanage he was in, he liked to watch after the young.
J.R.:
You know, I have to say you look great.
Wellsie:
(rolls eyes) You’re kind, but I’m, like, big as a house already. I have no idea what size I’m going to be right before the young comes. Still . . . it’s all good. The young is moving all the time, and I feel strong. My mother . . . she did well with her children. She had three, can you believe it? Three. And that was before modern medicine for my sister and my brother. So I think I’m going to be like her. My sister did just fine. (looks back down at the pot) This is what I remind Tohr of when he wakes up in the middle of the day. (turns off stove and gets serving spoon out of drawer) Let’s hope John will eat this time. He’s been off his food.
J.R.:
Hey, what do you think of Rhage’s getting mated?
Wellsie:
(spooning rice into bowl) Oh, my God, I love Mary. I think it’s great. The whole thing. Although Tohr was getting ready to kill Hollywood. Rhage . . . doesn’t take direction well. Hell, none of them do. The Brothers . . . they’re like six lions. You can’t really herd them all that well. Tohr’s job is to try to keep them together, but it’s tough . . . especially with Zsadist being the way he is.
J.R.:
Wrath said he’s on a rampage.
Wellsie:
(shaking head and going to refrigerator) Bella . . . I pray for her. I pray every day. You realize it’s been six weeks now? Six weeks. (comes back with a plastic container that she puts into the microwave) I can’t imagine what those lessers . . . (clears throat, then hits buttons, little beeping sounds rising up, followed by a whirring) Well, anyway. Tohr’s not even trying to talk sense into Z. No one is. It’s like . . . something snapped in him with that abduction. In a way—and I know this is going to come out wrong—I wish Z’d find her body. Otherwise there’s no closure, and he’ll be completely insane by New Year’s. And more dangerous than he already is. (microwave stops and beeps)
J.R.:
Do you think it’s . . . I’m not sure what the word is . . . maybe astonishing that he cares as much as he does?
Wellsie:
(pours ginger sauce on the rice, puts the container in the dishwasher, then takes out napkin and spoon) Totally astonishing. At first it gave me hope . . . you know, that he cared about someone, something. Now? I’m even more worried. I can’t see this sitch ending well. At all. Come on, let’s go to John’s room.
I follow Wellsie out of the kitchen and through a long living room that is done in a great mix of modern architectural details and antique furniture and art. At the far end we head into the wing of bedrooms. John’s is the last one before the master suite that anchors the left side of the house. As we get closer, I hear . . .
J.R.:
Is that—
Wellsie:
Yup. Godzilla marathon. (pushes open door and says quietly) Hey. How are we doing?
John’s bedroom is navy blue, and the bureau, headboard, and desk have a Frank Lloyd Wright feel to them, all sleek wood. In the electric glow of the television I see John in the bed on his side, his skin as pale as his white sheets, his cheeks flaming red from fever. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s breathing through his open mouth with a slight wheeze. Tohr is right next to him, propped up against the headboard, the Brother’s huge body making John look like a two-year-old. Tohr’s arm is outstretched, and John is wrapped around it.
Tohr:
(nodding at me and blowing a kiss to his shellan) Not good. I think the fever is higher. (As he says this, across the way on the TV, Godzilla lets out a roar and starts trampling buildings . . . kind of like what the virus is doing inside of John.)
Wellsie:
(putting bowl down and leaning over Tohr) John?
John’s eyes flutter open and he tries to sit up, but Wellsie puts her hands on his cheeks and murmurs to him to stay down. As she talks to John softly, Tohr leans forward and puts his head on her shoulder. He’s exhausted, I realize, no doubt from staying up and worrying about John.
Looking at the three of them together, I am so happy for John, but also a little shaken. It’s hard not to picture him in his decrepit studio apartment in that rat-infested building, sick and alone. The what-if’s are just too disturbing. To keep my head from rattling, I focus on Tohr and Wellsie and the fact that they’ve made him part of a family now.
After a moment Wellsie sits down next to Tohr, who makes room for her by drawing up his legs. His free hand, the one John is not holding, goes to her belly.
Wellsie:
(shaking her head) I’m calling Havers.
Tohr:
Should we take him in?
Wellsie:
That’ll be up to the clinic.
Tohr:
Range Rover’s got the chains on. You pull the trigger, I’m behind the wheel.
Wellsie:
(patting his leg, then standing up) Which is exactly why I mated you.
Wellsie leaves and I hang in the doorway, feeling useless. God, there were all kinds of questions I had to ask Tohr, but now none of them matter.
J.R.:
I should go.
Tohr:
(rubbing his eyes) Yeah, probably. Sorry about all this.
J.R.:
Please . . . not at all. You have to take care of him.
Tohr:
(looking down at John) Yes, we do.
Wellsie returns, and the verdict from the doctor is that John has to go in. Fritz is called to come pick me up, but it’s going to take him time to get back, so I’m told how to lock the house after I leave. I follow as Tohr carries John in his arms down the hall, through the living room, and out to the kitchen. Instead of making the boy put on a jacket, John is wrapped in a duvet, and he has slippers on his feet that are like the L.L. Bean moccasins I’ve been lent—only smaller.
Wellsie gets into the back of the Range Rover, seat-belts herself in, and when Tohr settles John in her lap, she cradles the boy to her. As the door is shut, she looks up at me through the window’s g
lass, her face and red hair obscured by the reflection of the wall of the garage behind me. Our eyes meet and she lifts up her hand. I lift up mine.
Tohr:
(to me) You all right here? You know how to reach me.
J.R.:
Oh, I’m fine.
Tohr:
Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Remotes for the TV in the den are right by my chair.
J.R.:
Okay. Drive safely, and let me know how he is?
Tohr:
We will.
Tohr puts his huge palm on my shoulder for a brief moment before he gets behind the wheel, puts the SUV in reverse, and backs out into the storm. The chains rattle on the concrete floor of the garage until they reach the lip of the snow; then all I hear is the deep growl of the engine and the crunch of millions of tiny flakes compacting under the tires.
Tohr K-turns and heads out, triggering the garage door. As the panels trundle shut, I have a last image of the Range Rover, its taillights flaring red through the billowing snow.
I go back into the house. Shut the door behind me. Listen.
The silence is scary. Not because I think there’s someone else in the house. But because the people who should be here are gone.
I go into the living room, sit down on one of the silk couches, and wait by the windows, as if maybe being able to see where Fritz is going to pull up will mean he comes a little faster. My parka’s in my lap and my boots are back on.
It seems like years until the Mercedes turns into the drive. I get to my feet, go to the front door as instructed, and step out. As I pivot around to lock up, I look way down the hall, to the stove where Wellsie had been cooking about a half hour ago. The pot that had John’s rice in it is where she left the thing, and so is the spoon she used.
I’m willing to bet that on a normal night, those things would never be left out like that. Wellsie keeps a tight ship.
I signal to Fritz that I need a sec; then I race back to the kitchen, clean the pot and the spoon, and put them to dry next to the sink because I don’t know where they belong. This time when I go out the front door, I lock it behind me. After a quick test to make sure I did it right, I piff through the snow toward the sedan. Fritz comes around and holds my door open for me, and just before I slide into all that leather, I look at the house. The glow from the windows doesn’t seem welcoming anymore . . . it strikes me now as if the light is plaintive. The house is waiting for them all to come back, so that its roof shelters more than just inanimate objects. Without its people? It’s merely a museum full of artifacts.
I get into the back of the sedan, and the butler takes us out into the storm. He drives carefully, just as I know Tohr did.
Excerpt from Lover Avenged
From the # 1 New York Times bestselling author of the BLACK DAGGER BROTHERHOOD series comes a sneak preview of her hardcover debut
Lover Avenged
On sale May 2009
REHVENGE, AS A HALF-BREED SYMPHATH, is used to living in the shadows and hiding his true identity. As a club owner and a dealer on the black market, he’s also used to handling the roughest nightwalkers around—including the members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. He’s kept his distance from the Brotherhood, since his dark secret could make things complicated on both sides—but now, as head of the vampire aristocracy, he’s an ally that Wrath, the Blind King, desperately needs. Rehv’s secret is about to get out, though, which will land him in the hands of his deadly enemies—and test the mettle of his female, turning her from a civilian into a vigilante. . . .
As bad ones went, her father’s paranoia attack hadn’t been that bad.
Ehlena was only a half hour late to work, dematerializing to the clinic as soon as she was able to calm herself enough to pull the travel trick off. By some miracle, the visiting nurse had been free and able to come early. Thank the Scribe Virgin.
Going through the various checkpoints to get down into the facility, Ehlena felt the weight of her bag in her hand. She’d been prepared to cancel her date and leave the change of clothes at home, but the visiting nurse had talked her out of it. The question the female had asked struck deep: When was the last time you were out of this house for anything except work?
Caregivers had to take care of themselves—and part of that was having a life outside of whatever illness had put them in their role. God knew, Ehlena told this to the family members of her chronically sick patients all the time, and the advice was both sound and practical.
At least when she gave it to others. Turned on herself, it felt selfish.
So she was waffling on the date. With her shift ending close to dawn, it wasn’t as if she had time to go home and check on her father first. As it was, she and the male who’d asked her out would be lucky to get an hour in before the encroaching sunlight put an end to things.
She had no idea what to do. Conscience was pulling her one way, loneliness another.
After she went through the last security checkpoint, she walked into the reception area and beelined for the nursing supervisor, who was at a computer by the registration desk. “I’m so sorry I’m late—”
Catya dropped whatever she was doing and reached out. “How is he?”
For a split second, all Ehlena could do was blink. On some level, she hated that they all knew about her father’s problems, that a few had even seen him at his worst. Though the illness had stripped him of his pride, she still had some on his behalf. “He’s calmed down, and his nurse is with him now. Fortunately I’d just given him his meds when it hit.”
“Do you need a minute?”
“Nope. Where are we?”
Catya smiled in a sad fashion, like she was biting her tongue. Again. “You don’t have to be this strong.”
“Yes. I do.” Ehlena gave the female’s hand a squeeze in hopes of closing down the conversation. “Where do you need me?”
By this time several of the other nurses were coming over and expressing sympathy. Ehlena’s throat closed up, not because she was overcome with gratitude that they were thoughtful, but because she got claustrophobic. Compassion choked her like a dog chain even on a good evening. After a start like she’d had tonight? She wanted to bolt.
“I’m fine, everyone, thanks—”
“Okay, he’s back in the room,” the last nurse to arrive said. “Should I get out a quarter?”
Everybody groaned. There was only one he out of the legions of male patients they treated, and flipping a quarter was how the staff decided who had to deal with him. Furthest from the date lost.
Generally speaking, all of the nurses kept a professional distance from their patients. You had to, or you’d burn out. With some, though, you couldn’t help but get emotionally involved. With him, you stayed separate for reasons other than professional ones. There was just something about the male that made them all nervous, an underlying threat that was as hard to diagnose as it was evident.
Ehlena cut through the various years being chosen for the toss. “I’ll do it. It’ll make up for my being late.”
“Are you sure?” someone asked. “Seems like you’ve already paid your dues tonight.”
“Just let me get some coffee. What room?”
“I parked him in three,” the nurse said.
Amid a chorus of atta girls, Ehlena went to the nurses’ locker room, put her things in her locker, and poured herself a mug of hot, steaming perk-your-ass-up. The coffee was strong enough to be considered an accelerant and did the job nicely, wiping her mental state clean.
Well, mostly clean.
As she sipped, she glanced around the staff area. The banks of buff-colored lockers had names over them, and there were pairs of street shoes here and there under pine benches. In the lunch area, folks had their favorite mugs on the counter and snacks on the shelves, and sitting on the round table there was a bowl full of . . . what was it tonight? Little packs of Skittles. Above the table was a bulletin board covered with flyers for events and coupons and stupid comic-st
rip jokes and pictures of hot guys. The shift roster was next to it, the white board marked with a grid of the next two weeks, which was filled in with names.
It was the detritus of normal life, none of which seemed significant in the slightest until you thought about all those folks on the planet who couldn’t keep jobs or enjoy an independent existence or have the mental energy to spare on little distractions. Looking at it all, she was reminded yet again that going out into the real world was a privilege, not a right, and it bothered her to think of her father holed up in that shitty little house, wrestling with demons that existed only in his mind. He’d once had a life, a big life. Now he had delusions that tortured him, and though they were only perception, never reality, the voices were completely terrifying nonetheless.
As Ehlena rinsed out her mug, she couldn’t help thinking of the unfairness of it all.
Before she left the locker room, she did a quick check in the full-length mirror next to the door. Her white uniform was perfectly pressed and clean as sterile gauze. Her stockings were without runs. Her crepe-soled shoes were smudge- and scuff-free.