by J. R. Ward
She nodded at her little tray full of anti-nausea stuff. “As long as I’ve got this, I’m good. And you should feel free to go out and fight.”
Qhuinn frowned. “I thought I’d stay in….”
“And do what? I’m not telling you to leave, by any means. But I have a feeling it’s just going to be me sitting here and stewing. If something happens, I can call you and you can come right home.”
Qhuinn thought about where the Brotherhood and the fighters in the house were heading at midnight: the Council meeting.
If it had been a normal evening of engaging in the field, he probably would have stayed put. But with Wrath actually in the world, meeting with those assholes in the glymera?
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’ll keep my phone with me, and I’ll make it clear to the others that if you call, I’m out of there.”
Layla took a sip of her ginger ale, and then stared into the cup, like she was watching the bubbles rise around the ice.
He thought of where they’d been the night before at Havers’s—out of control, terrified, in mourning.
Shit could still go back to that, he reminded himself. It was way too early to get attached again.
And yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. Standing in the tiled room, with the scent of Lysol disinfectant in his nose, and the lip of the counter he was leaning against biting into his ass…he realized this was the moment he started to love his young.
Right here, right now.
As a male bonded with his female, so too did a father to his offspring—and accordingly, his heart just opened wide and let it all in: the commitment that came with choosing to try for a child, the terror of losing them that he bet never went away, the joy that there was something of you on the face of the earth after you were gone, the impatience to meet them in person, the desperate desire to hold them in your arms and look into their eyes and give them all the love you had to give.
“Is it okay…can I touch your stomach?” he asked in a small voice.
“Of course! You don’t have to ask.” Layla lay back with a smile. “What’s in there is half yours, you know.”
Qhuinn rubbed nervous hands together as he approached the table. He had certainly touched Layla during the needing, and then afterward in a solicitous manner when a situation called for it.
He had never thought of touching his baby.
Qhuinn watched from a vast distance as his dagger hand reached out. Jesus, the tips of the fingers were trembling like crazy.
But they stilled the instant he made the connection.
“I’m right here,” he said. “Dad’s right here. I’m going nowhere. Just gonna wait until you’re ready to come out into the world, and then your mom and I are going to take care of you. So you hang tight, we clear? Do your thing, and we’ll wait for however long it takes.”
With his free hand, he took Layla’s palm, and put it over his own.
“Your family is right here. Waiting for you…and we love you.”
It was totally stupid to talk to what was, no doubt, nothing but a bundle of cells. But he couldn’t help it. The words, the actions…they were at once totally his, and yet coming from a place that was foreign to him.
Felt right, though.
Felt…like what a father was supposed to do.
Left-hand forty. Check.
Right forty. Check.
Backup ammo on the waist belt. Check.
Daggers one and two in the chest holster. Check.
Leather jacket—
As a knock sounded on Blay’s door, he leaned out of his closet. “Come in?”
When Saxton entered, he pulled his jacket onto his shoulders and pivoted. “Hey. How are you?”
Something was up.
The other male’s eyes made a quick three-sixty on Blay’s “working wardrobe,” as they’d once called it. Unease drew Sax’s pale eyebrows upward; then again, he’d never seemed entirely comfortable around the weapons.
“Heading out into the field, then,” the male murmured.
“To a meeting of the Council, actually.”
“I didn’t realize that required so many guns as accessories.”
“New era.”
“Yes, indeed.”
There was a long pause. “How are you?”
Saxton’s eyes went around the room. “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
Oh, fuck. Now what.
Blay swallowed hard. “About?”
“I’m leaving the house for a little while—for a vacation, as it were.” He put his hand out to stop any arguing. “No, it’s not permanent. I’ve gotten everything in order for Wrath, and there’s nothing he needs for the next couple of days. Naturally, if he does, I’ll come right back. I’m going to be staying with an old friend. I truly need some rest and relaxation—and before you worry, I swear I am returning, and this is honestly not about us. I’ve been working for months straight and I just want to have no schedule, if that makes sense?”
Blay took a deep breath. “Yes, it does. Where are you…” He stopped himself with a reminder that that was none of his business anymore. “Let me know if you need anything?”
“I promise.”
On impulse, Blay walked over and put his arms around his former lover, the platonic connection as unforced and natural as his previously amorous one had been. Holding onto the male, he turned his face in.
“Thank you,” Blay said. “For coming and telling me—”
At that moment, someone passed by in the hall, the stride faltering.
It was Qhuinn; Blay knew by the scent even before the tall, powerful figure registered visually. And in the brief hesitation before the guy kept going, their eyes locked over Saxton’s shoulder.
Qhuinn’s face became a mask instantly, the features freezing, giving nothing away.
And then the fighter was gone, his long legs taking him out of the open door’s frame.
Blay stepped away and forced himself to replug into the good-bye. “When will you be back?”
“A couple of days at the least, no longer than a week.”
“Okay.”
Saxton glanced around the room again, and as he did, it was clear he was remembering. “Be well, and be careful out there. Do not try to be a hero.”
Blay’s first thought was…well, since Qhuinn was usually the first in line for that, it was unlikely he was going to have to put any kind of Superman outfit on.
“I promise.”
As Saxton left, Blay stared off into space. He didn’t see what was in front of him, or remember what he and Saxton had shared in the room. Rather, his mind was next door with Qhuinn, and Qhuinn’s things…and the memories he had of that session with Qhuinn.
Shit.
Glancing at the clock, he put his phone into the chest pocket of the jacket and headed out. As he jogged down to the staircase, voices from the foyer echoed through the hall, a sign that the Brotherhood had already gathered and was waiting for the departure signal.
Sure enough, they were all there. Z and Phury. V and Butch. Rhage, Tohr, and John Matthew.
As he descended, he found himself wishing that Qhuinn was going to come with them—but surely the male was staying home, given the Layla situation.
Where was Payne? he wondered as he went to stand next to John Matthew.
Tohr nodded a hello in Blay’s direction. “Okay, we’re waiting for one more, and then we’ll start moving. First wave will go to the location. On the all-clear, I will dematerialize with Wrath to the house with backup by—”
Lassiter skidded in from the billiards room, the fallen angel glowing from his black-and-blond hair and white eyes, all the way down to his shitkickers. Then again, maybe the illumination wasn’t his nature, but that gold he insisted on wearing.
He looked like a living, breathing jewelry tree.
“I’m here. Where’s my chauffeur hat?”
“Here, use mine,” Butch said, outing a B Sox cap and throwing it over. “It’ll help that hair of y
ours.”
The angel caught the thing on the fly and stared at the red S. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Do not tell me you’re a Yankees fan,” V drawled. “I’ll have to kill you, and frankly, tonight we need all the wingmen we’ve got.”
Lassiter tossed the cap back. Whistled. Looked casual.
“Are you serious?” Butch said. Like the guy had maybe volunteered for a lobotomy. Or a limb amputation. Or a pedicure.
“No fucking way,” V echoed. “When and where did you become a friend of the enemy—”
The angel held up his palms. “It’s not my fault you guys suck—”
Tohr actually stepped in front of Lassiter, like he was worried that something a lot more than smack talk was going to start flying. And the sad thing was, he was right to be concerned. Apart from their shellans, V and Butch loved the Sox above almost everything else—including sanity.
“Okay, okay,” Tohr said, “we have bigger things to worry about—”
“He has to sleep at some point,” Butch muttered to his roommate.
“Yeah, watch yourself, angel,” V sneered. “We don’t like your kind.”
Lassiter shrugged, like the Brothers were nothing more than yappy dogs circling his ankles. “Is someone talking to me? Or is that just the sound of losing—”
Lot of shouting at that point.
“Two words, bitches,” Lassiter sneered. “Johnny. Damon. Oh, wait, Kevin. Youkilis. Or Wade. Boggs. Roger. Clemens. Is it that the food sucks in Boston? Or just the ball game?”
Butch lunged at that point, clearly prepared to light the guy up like a Christmas tree—
“What the fuck is going on down there!”
The bellowing voice from above shut off the Sox-versus-Yankees showdown.
As Tohr hauled the cop out of angel range, everyone looked over while the king was led downward by his queen. Wrath’s presence tightened everyone up, the crew going professional. Even Lassiter.
Well, except for Butch. But then, he’d been “wicked hyped up,” as he’d call it, for the last twenty-four hours—and he had good reason to be tetchy: His shellan was going to be at the Council meeting. Which, from the Brother’s point of view, was like having two Wraths there. The trouble was, Marissa was the oldest of her line, and that meant if Rehv wanted full attendance, she had to be present.
Poor bastard.
In the lull that followed, Blay’s dagger hand started to tingle, and he had an almost irresistible urge to palm a weapon. All he could think about was that this was nearly identical to the prelude to Wrath’s shooting back in the fall—on that night, they had all gathered here, and Wrath had come down with Beth…and a bullet had been shot out of a rifle and ended its trajectory in the king’s throat.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one thinking like that. A number of hands went to holsters and stayed put.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Tohr said.
Blay turned with a frown, and had to swallow his reaction. It wasn’t Payne who joined them; it was Qhuinn. And man, the male looked more than ready to fuck some shit up, his eyes grim, his body taut as a bowstring in its black leather.
For a moment, a fissure of pure, sexual awareness shot through Blay.
To the point that a totally inappropriate fantasy occurred to him: namely, he and Qhuinn ducking into the pantry for a quick, clothes-stay-on fuck.
With a groan, he refocused on the king. Which was only appropriate. Wrath was what mattered here, not his frickin’ love life….
A feeling of unease replaced the lust.
Were he and Qhuinn ever going to be together again?
God, what a strange thought. It wasn’t like the sex was a good idea emotionally. Arguably, it was an extremely bad one.
But he wanted more of it. God help him.
“All right, let’s do this,” Tohr spoke up. “Everyone know where we’re going?”
It was a troubling relief to have the grave nature of the assignment in front of them clear his brain of everything but the commitment to save Wrath’s life…even if it cost him his own.
That was better than worrying about the Qhuinn shit, though.
For certain.
FIFTY-ONE
Qhuinn took form on a snow-covered terrace, and as everyone in the Brotherhood but Butch materialized alongside of him, he was not surprised by all the swank. The estate that the Council meeting was being held at was your standard glymera setup: lot of land that had been cleared and landscaped. Little cottage down by the entrance that looked like it belonged on a postcard of the Cotswalds. Big-ass mansion that, in this case, was made of brick and had dentil molding, shiny shutters, and slate roofing.
“Let’s do this,” V said, walking over to a side door.
The instant he pounded on it, the thing opened, as if that, along with so much, had been prearranged. But oh, man, if this was their hostess? The female who stood in the doorway was dressed in a long dark evening gown that was cut down to her navel, and she had a ring of diamonds around her throat the size of a Doberman’s collar. Her perfume so heavy it was like a slap in the sinuses—in spite of the fact that he was still outdoors.
“I’m ready for you,” she said in a low, husky voice.
Qhuinn frowned, thinking that even in that designer whatever it was, the chick came off as a tart. Not his problem, though.
As he filed in with the others, the room they entered was some kind of conservatory, the oversize potted green things and grand piano suggesting many an evening with guests staring up at some opera singer yodeling in the corner.
Gag.
“This way,” the female announced with a flourish of a hand that sparkled.
In her wake, that perfume—maybe it was more than sprays from a single source, like a layering of all kinds of crap?—nearly colored the air behind her, and her hips were doing double duty with every step, like she was hoping they were all looking at her ass and wanting a piece of it.
Nope. As with the others, he was searching every nook and cranny, ready to shoot and ask questions after the body dropped.
It wasn’t until they came out to the front hall, with its oil paintings spotlit from the ceiling, and its dark red Oriental rugs, and the…
Shit, that mirror was exactly like the one that had hung in his parents’ house. Same position, same floor-to-ceiling, same curlicue gold leafing.
Yeah, he had the creeps. Bad.
The whole house reminded him of the mansion he’d grown up in, everything in its place, the decor far, far, far from middle-class, yet not anything gaudy and Trumpilicious. Nah, this shit was that subtle blend of old wealth and classic sense of style that could only be bred, not taught.
His eyes searched out Blay.
The guy was doing his job, staying tight, checking the place out.
Blay’s mom and pops hadn’t been quite this rich. But his home had been so much nicer on so many levels. Warmer—and that hadn’t been about the HVAC systems.
How were Blay’s parents? he wondered abruptly. He’d spent almost more time under their roof than his own, and he missed them. The last time he’d seen them…God, long time. Maybe that night of the raids, when Blay’s father had gone from Mr. Suit accountant to serious ass-kicker. After that, the pair of them had moved out to their safe house, and then he and Blay had completely fallen apart.
He hoped they were well—
The image of Blay and Saxton standing chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, in Blay’s bedroom sliced into his brain.
God…damn…that had hurt.
And man, karma was good at its job.
Replugging into reality, he followed that double-jointed pelvis and the Brotherhood into a huge dining room that had been set up to Tohr’s specifications: All the drapery had been pulled across the bank of windows that overlooked the back gardens, and the flap door that he figured led into the kitchen had been barricaded by a weighty antique sideboard. Whatever table had sat in the center of the room had been removed, and twenty-five matching
mahogany chairs with red silk seats had been lined up in rows facing a marble fireplace.
Wrath was going to stand in front of the mantel to make his address, and Qhuinn went over and checked that the steel flue was closed. It was.
On either side of the fireplace, there were two sets of paneled doors that opened into an old-fashioned receiving salon. He and John Matthew and Rhage did a walk-through of the room, closed the thing off, and then he took up res in front of the entrance on the left, and John Matthew did the same on the right.
“I trust all is to your liking?” the female said.
Rehv went over to the fireplace and turned to face all the empty chairs. “Where’s your hellren?”
“Upstairs.”
“Get him down here. Now. Otherwise, if he moves through the house, he’s liable to get shot in the chest.”
The female’s eyes flared, and this time when she walked off, there was no exaggeration to her hips, no check-me-out toss of the hair over the shoulder. Clearly the we’re-not-fucking-around message had been received, and she wanted whoever her mate was to live through the night.
In the wait that followed, Qhuinn kept his gun in his palm, his eyes on the room, his hearing fine-tuned for something, anything out of order.
Nothing.
Which suggested their host and hostess had followed orders—
A strange prickling unease tickled its way up his spine, causing him to frown and go from high alert to DEFCON I. On the far side of the fireplace, John seemed to catch the same gist, his gun lifting, his eyes narrowing.
And then a cold mist hit Qhuinn’s ankles.
“I’ve asked a couple of special guests to join us,” Rehv said dryly.
At that moment, two columns of haze pulled up from the floor, the disturbance of air molecules finding forms…that Qhuinn instantly recognized.
Thank fuck.
With Payne out of commission for whatever reason, he’d been feeling like they were a little light on coverage, even recognizing the skills in the Brotherhood. But as Trez and iAm appeared, he took a deep breath.
Now that was a pair of straight-up killers, the kind of thing you really didn’t want against you in any kind of fight. The good news was that Rehvenge had long been aligned with the Shadows, and Rehv’s connection with the Brotherhood and the king meant that the two brothers were obviously willing to come and play a little backup.