Betrayal's Shadow

by K H Lemoyne

His fingers pressed along her temple, and the pain receded to a soft haze. Firm arms lifted her against a broad chest and cradled her, moving her the remaining yards into the house to settle her on the long chaise lounge in the sunroom off the kitchen. The man slung a leather backpack to the floor, shrugged off his jacket and turned to reach for her belly.

  Alarm must have shown on her face, because he stopped, holding his hands away from her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I need to touch you to perform my check.”

  Mia nodded, keeping focused on him as she tried to breathe. Whatever he’d done had helped the pain, but she could still feel it pressing hard against her consciousness.

  He pushed her top up, slid her pants down enough to expose her belly, and covered her skin with one hand. The other hand he moved to her face, his fingers splayed from her forehead to her chin. The pain moved farther back with his touch, as his action created a pillowed defense against the overwhelming onslaught to her system. Like taut strings cut suddenly, the tension released, and a modicum of control returned to her body. Such was the relief that she sighed into it and took her first full breath in many minutes. Perhaps she could muster the energy to speak.

  “My name is Grimm. I gather you know that, since you called me.” He glanced at her as if he’d heard her thoughts, his expression encouraging. His hand swirled over her belly, leaving calm and peace in its wake.

  “I’m Mia,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  His hand lingered over the site of the initial pain. A frown marred his calm features.

  “It’s too early, isn’t it? He’s only seven months.”

  “No, your baby is full term.” His fingers moved from her face to the pulse at her throat. She let go of the last of her resistance, and he distanced the final threads of tension. “Gestation is shorter for our people than a typical human cycle. Your son is going to be born now.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” Nothing could keep the desperate fear from her voice.

  He exhaled and met her gaze. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that, Mia?”

  She nodded, but her heart raced, her mind flying through scenarios.

  “You’ve developed a tear in the uterine wall. You can’t deliver normally. You will bleed too much and risk more damage. Your labor is also in full force, so I can’t stop it to repair the wall without putting the baby at risk.”

  Did she have any options left?

  “I’m going to open you up, take the baby out through the tear quickly, and then seal it once he’s out.”

  Her hands trembled despite his attempts to keep her calm. “Here?”

  The soothing fingers stopped, and he held her gaze. “There is no reason your baby won’t be fine. You should recover perfectly to have another child someday. But I need you to try to relax and do exactly what I say. Okay?” He stroked her cheek. She knew it was in sympathy, not for treatment. “I’ve never lost a mother or a child. I’m damn well not starting today.”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “How many babies have you delivered?”

  He startled her with a wicked smile. “Several hundred, give or take.”

  Rubbing her belly, she gave him a weak smile back. He’d managed to escape the Sanctum’s constraints to live a life. Mia wondered how many of Turen’s people had done the same. And did the isolation and containment forced on them really provide any value?

  “I need you as immobile as possible.” He reached toward her face, yet waited for her concurrence. When she gave it, his fingers on her skin radiated bliss.

  Whoa, better than a deep-tissue massage. He pressed a suggestion of calm. She tried to open and relax to it. If he would save her baby, she’d dance on hot coals, though that might been easier than leaving herself open to a total stranger.

  “I’m going to get some supplies.”

  Time floated, and he was back loaded with bowls, sheets, towels, and alcohol before she had time to miss his presence. Her alarm strangely didn’t escalate when he pulled a pouch from his backpack and opened it beside her. Scalpels, needles, gauze, and small scissors all lay tucked in neat little sealed packets. A portable medical kit—handy.

  Detached, she watched him bring out a packet of surgical gloves. The scene might as well have been playing out on TV and not on her body in her sunroom, for all it affected her. No concern triggered in her mind when he brought out a switchblade from his pocket to cut the pants from her legs. He quickly slid a sheet across them to try to block her view of the brilliant ruby blood smear along the inside of her thighs.

  Not fast enough. But the fuzz of calm claimed her again. Evidently, he could do the Zen thing without touching her.

  He laid a towel across her chest. “Once he’s out and I’ve checked him, I’ll tuck him in your arms. I’m not going to release your pain receptors until I’ve repaired the tear, so you’ll have to work to stay focused.” He glanced up for her response. She was so fuzzy she could only stare back.

  He swabbed her belly, picked up a scalpel, and made a quick incision down the side of her abdomen. His hands blurred, one sliding inside the cut to search for the baby while the other coached her son’s movement from along the outside, over her belly. The surreal sensation of a person fishing around inside her body should have been creepy, but she was beyond reality, her concentration only on Grimm.

  Absorbed in his task, he closed his eyes, the fine muscles around his mouth tensed. Even as he searched for the best way to grab the baby, his movements were steady, smooth, and confident.

  Energy began to swirl and pulse throughout the room, a strong vibration Mia could feel even through the haze in her body and mind.

  A pale rainbow of colors flickered in the air and danced, reflecting off every surface in defiance of the cloudy day. A lilt of sweet music—instruments—hundreds, but none she recognized, joined voices, a multitude in harmony—yet none distinct enough to single out. All interplayed with the colors and wove around them. The pulse of energy, the display of color and sound overwhelmed her, but the total evoked a deep well of peace inside Mia’s chest.

  “Incredible.”

  “The glory of our children,” he responded without breaking from his work. “Their gift of souls released and healed.”

  Several seconds later, Grimm opened his eyes and withdrew his hand from her womb, the baby’s head and shoulders cradled in his palm. He gently pushed with his other hand to ease the process, and her son slid free, small, pale, and slow to move. Cradling the baby to him, he rubbed her son’s chest, arms, and legs with his fingers.

  Stunned by the display of light and sound, she recovered quickly, her restlessness growing as she waited for her son’s cry. When it didn’t happen immediately, anxiety overpowered even Grimm’s attempts at mental sedation. She struggled to surface as the healer cleared the baby’s mouth and stroked its chest.

  “Mia, breathe. He’s perfect.” Grimm didn’t spare her a look, his entire attention focused on the baby, yet he’d known her concern. With a reflexive jerk, her son kicked his arms and legs and gave a squeak. A brilliant smile lit Grimm’s face before he wrapped the baby in a towel and tucked him between her arm and chest, wedged safely on the chaise with her.

  “Use your fingers. Continue to rub his body. The massage will help his circulation and keep him warm until I’m finished.”

  He returned to work—Mia paid no attention. Nothing in the world mattered aside from all her baby’s little working parts. Turen’s son, Marcus, now bore a name to follow in the footsteps of Turen’s own father.

  She inspected all ten fingers and toes, his little ears, nose and mouth, and gave each the proper care and attention they deserved. She feathered light strokes over the fragile, dark downy wisps of hair on his soft head, amazed he was finally here with her. Safe.

  Pokes and pinches started, minor sensations of pain flowed back, all well within tolerable limits. Grimm was pulling back the veil. With the release of the wall to the pain came a dull ache and a heightened awareness. The feel and smell of her
child burst across Mia’s senses, the rush worth any pain for the added joy.

  Her lips brushed across his small head. He was smaller than she’d expected, but she had no experience with babies. Her tears covered his sticky, damp skin.

  Grimm continued without comment, quietly finishing with the details of the birth. He sutured her incision and cleaned her in places she would probably remember with embarrassment later.

  Still, Mia was surprised to see him seated at her side, wiping his hands dry, supplies put away and a satisfied grin on his face. The smile transformed him from the meticulous silent man to one much younger than his quiet and discipline implied—one strikingly handsome.

  Then sadness flooded her senses, too. Emotions pummeled her. Turen’s absence from his son’s arrival rode at the crest. Only the worst of situations would have kept him from her.

  Grimm positioned a pillow behind her. “Turen will be very proud of both of you.”

  Reading her mind again?

  “Thank you.” Unsure how to express how much this meant, she struggled with her emotions and words, feeling unbalanced. “For answering my call. For saving my baby. For saving me.”

  “Mia, it’s been a privilege to be needed in this capacity.” His smile was sad, not reaching his hazel green eyes.

  “Has it been so long?”

  “This is the first of our children to be born in several hundred years. I feared I would never see this come to fruition.”

  What a terrible burden. Hopefully, her son would be only the first of his generation. Yet what would Grimm do now? True to Turen’s prediction, the healer’s focus had been on saving her and her son. He’d avoided distress. He’d handled the difficult delivery with a peaceful calm, as if called all the time to pop in and save new members of his population. He’d come even though Salvatore’s law dictated he shouldn’t, putting himself at risk for his actions.

  From the look of reverence on his face as he watched her son, Grimm didn’t need to verbalize where he stood on the issue. He’d made his decision. She had no doubt he was at peace with his choice.

  “You worry too much, Mia.”

  Yep, a mind reader.

  He touched the back of her son’s shoulder, ran his finger along the skin, and paused. “His father’s mark and yours.” The mark Mia hadn’t detected was on the back of her son’s shoulder, a tiny mark that mimicked Turen’s design. Grimm’s announcement wasn’t a question. His confidence was a comforting measure of his acceptance, and until he gave it, she wasn’t aware how much she wanted his acceptance. Not to appease her guilt but because he was Turen’s trusted friend.

  “How long will it stay?” Would it be enough to save her child from his father’s people?

  “Until he reaches maturity. At some point beyond his eighteenth or nineteenth birthday, this will fade and he will develop his own mark, one compatible with his talents.”

  “Is Turen alive?” she asked softly. Unbidden tears rolled again down her cheeks. She pressed her child close and tried to hold back, yet she searched Grimm’s eyes because she needed the truth.

  Lips thinned in frustration, he nodded once. “He’s being held by Salvatore’s dictate. However, our people have a high regard for Turen. Many will denounce any negative course of action against him. He is safe, for now.”

  Not able to hold it back anymore, she sobbed and held her baby tighter until he mewled in complaint. The tears were a frustrating mix. She cried because her baby was alive and so was his father. She cried because Turen hadn’t seen his son born. Grimm pulled them both close and held them gently against his chest—silent, familial, supportive. When there were no tears left to give, he released her.

  She took a deep breath and braced herself to apologize for the night of the battle. He pressed his fingers to her lips and shook his head.

  “I’m going to move you both so you can rest and nurse your son.” Without effort, he picked them both up, carried them to the bedroom, and lowered them to the bed. Beside her lay a nightgown, a diaper, and a small outfit for the baby. Mia hiccupped instead of a laugh. Grimm was a man with many skills.

  He held his hands out for the baby. “Let me get him settled for you.”

  Grimm put on the diaper and a jersey shirt, then wrapped the baby, bundling him safely into the baby carrier he’d somehow found in the house, and settled him on the bed beside her. She caught her breath as he pulled his knife from his pocket, leaned close to her son, and cut a lock of the baby’s hair. He wrapped the hair into a piece of paper and slipped it into his pants pocket.

  “I’ll give you some privacy to change, but I would like you to stay in bed and let the stitches heal for a few days.” He left her to slip on the gown and robe.

  She belted the robe, wondering how she was going to manage by herself over the next few days without getting up.

  Grimm returned with a glass of juice for her. He picked up the baby, sat beside her on the bed, and rubbed a knuckle across the baby’s cheek. He brushed once, twice, and when the baby moved his lips to seek the sensation, he stopped. With patience, he rubbed the baby’s other cheek until he got the same response. “I’ll be here until you’re comfortable with feeding him and get a chance to rest. Then I’ll just pop in and out several times a day until Turen’s back to help you.”

  She watched her son open his mouth against Grimm’s finger. “You’ve been so generous. I don’t know what I would have done—” She broke off, the emotions surging again. Damn, she’d turned into a broken faucet.

  “Mia.” He broke across her response and settled her son into her arms. “You are not alone. You’re one of us, and I am not the only one who will help you. Turen will return. Don’t lose your faith now.”

  “I wish there were some way I could repay you.” She flushed, the image of the sword sliding into his side vivid in her mind.

  “As a mate, you are one of my people. You’ve borne a child into our community, both things precious beyond value.” He smiled at her discomfort. “Did he tell you I can use my skills to heal myself faster than the others? It’s not a widely known fact even among my own people. I am also very familiar with your attack pattern. Turen and I trained together.”

  Her mouth dropped open. His expression sobered and he left her bed to stand by the door. “One would wonder why Xavier chose me as your victim.”

  “You believe it was on purpose.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.” Grimm shrugged. “I was selected and you were offered a weapon which ended up in Turen’s hands. Because we shared blood and touch, you could call and I could find you, and I could determine you carried a child. The sequence of events required a number of things to fall into place. The question is to what degree did Xavier influence any of those, if at all?” He pushed off from his position against the doorjamb. “Go ahead and nurse your son. I’m going to check your property’s security. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  He bowed and folded from the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ansgar silently cursed as he held his stance next to Tsu, blocking the inner recesses of the cryo lab from Salvatore’s robotic nuisances.

  Each one, a monstrosity of computerized machinery and weapons, was likely to destroy the women’s life support by accident or on purpose. The Sanctum didn’t require robot guards. There were almost three dozen trained warrior brethren available at beck and call for emergencies. No doubt the robots’ main advantage was a lack of freewill—no backtalk for Salvatore.

  Their dictator stood a few feet away, a silver gurney extending from a seven-foot stasis pod between them. Four of the robotic guards flanked him, weapons extended from their metal chassis and trained on an unconscious man.

  Absurd.

  “What are you doing?”

  Salvatore didn’t bother to look up at Grimm’s question or the healer’s sudden fold into the room. Ansgar took the opportunity to consider a better tactical position.

  He and Tsu couldn’t hold off
the robots, Salvatore, and still safeguard Turen. The women’s safety took priority, but this situation made him want to drag the silver-haired tyrant out into the courtyard and beat some sense into him. With the rest of the warriors unaware of what was happening, the options to circumvent this insanity were limited.

  The cryo doors’ swish preceded the arrival of Kamau, Saladin and three other warriors. Surprise and concern flickered across their expressions as Salvatore shifted Turen’s head and moved a glistening syringe closer to Turen’s neck. “He will not cause any more difficulties.”

  “Stop.” Grimm’s voice reverberated in the stone chamber, echoed by the slap of his hands on the gurney by Turen’s feet. “I won’t allow you to put him in cryo without my evaluation. He’s unconscious, which is already a clear risk to his survival.”

  Ansgar glanced at him in surprise. He agreed. Everyone agreed. It was just the volume and forcefulness of Grimm’s command that shocked everyone. Even Salvatore paused at the unusual dictate from the typically calm healer.

  Calculating more options, Ansgar waited.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Kamau moved to Grimm’s right. Kamau’s hawk shifted uneasily along the leather of his master’s vest. The panther, Sera, leaned into Kamau’s leg, teeth bared in the guards’ direction. A deep growl vibrated in her throat as her golden eyes narrowed.

  Yep. The animals understood the situation.

  “Since when do we put anyone in cryo without their consent?” Saladin’s question made Salvatore turn and consider the group, now growing with more warriors, in the cryo lab’s foyer.

  The syringe waved toward Turen’s unconscious form. Salvatore turned to address the crowd, never leaving Turen’s side. “He summoned me to his cell and attacked me.”

  Kamau crossed his arms. “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Salvatore’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t need to explain myself.”

  “None of us is above the need to explain our actions, Salvatore,” Saladin added.

  Grimm moved to the gurney opposite Salvatore to position his fingers over Turen’s pulse with only a glance to their leader.