by J. R. Ward
Qhuinn found himself rubbing his eyes for no particular reason. Not like they were blurry or some shit. Nah. Not at all.
It was just so…damned sad. The whole fucking thing. From Layla’s condition, to Phury’s impotent exhaustion, to his own driving ache in the chest, it was just some seriously sad goddamned business.
THIRTY-ONE
“This is just what I’m looking for.”
As Trez spoke, he walked around the vast, empty space of the warehouse, his boots making loud impacts that echoed. From behind him, he could easily sense the relief that wafted out of the real estate agent standing by the door.
Negotiating with humans? Like taking candy from a baby.
“You could transform this part of the city,” the woman said. “It’s a real opportunity.”
“True enough.” Although it wasn’t like the kind of stores and restaurants that would follow him were highbrow: more like tattoo and piercing shops, cheap buffets, XXX theaters.
But he didn’t have a problem with all that. Even pimps could take pride in their work—and frankly, he tended to trust tattoo artists waaaaaaaay more than many so-called “upstanding citizens.”
Trez pivoted around. The space was tremendous, nearly as tall as it was wide, with rows upon rows of square windows, many of which had been broken and covered up with plywood. The roof was sound—or at least mostly so, the corrugated tin sheaths keeping the snow, although not the cold, out. The floor was concrete, but there was obviously a lower level—at various points there were trapdoors set underfoot, although none of them were easily opened. Electricals looked okay; HVAC was nonexistent; plumbing was a joke.
In his mind, however, he didn’t see the place as it was now—nope, he could picture it transformed, a club of Limelight proportions. Naturally, the project was going to require a huge capital infusion, and a number of months to get the work done; in the end, however, Caldwell was going to have a new hot spot—and he was going to have another venue to make money in.
Everybody wins.
“So would you like to make an offer?”
Trez looked over at the woman. She was Ms. Professional in her black wool coat, and her dark suit with the below-the-knee skirt—ninety percent of her flesh covered, and not just because it was December. And yet even all buttoned up with the sensible hair, she was pretty in the way that all women were to him: She had breasts and soft smooth skin, and a place for him to play in between her legs.
And she liked him.
He could tell by the way she dropped her eyes from his, and by the fact that she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands—they were in her coat pockets, then playing with her hair, then tucking her silk shirt in….
He could think of some things to keep her busy.
Trez smiled as he walked across to her—and didn’t stop until he was just inside her personal space. “Yes. I want it.”
The double entendre hit home, her cheeks reddening not from the cold, but arousal. “Oh. Good.”
“Where do you want to do it,” he drawled.
“Make the offer, you mean?” She cleared her throat. “All you have to do is tell me what you…want and I’ll…make it happen.”
Aw, she wasn’t used to casual sex. How sweet.
“Here.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, finally looking up into his eyes.
He smiled slow and tight so his fangs didn’t show. “The offer. Let’s do that here?”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He stepped in closer, but not so close that they were touching. He was happy to seduce her, but she had to be one hundred percent sure she was into the grind. “You ready?”
“To…make…the offer.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s, ah, it’s cold in here,” she said. “Maybe at my office? That’s where most of the…offers…get handled.”
From out of nowhere, the image of his brother sitting on the sofa at home, staring at him like he was the frickin’ problem, hit him hard—and as it stuck around, he realized that he’d had sex with almost every woman he’d come across in the last…shit, how long?
Well, obviously, if they weren’t of mateable age he hadn’t been with them.
Or fertile.
Which cut out what, like, a dozen or two? Great. What a hero.
What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t want to go back to this woman’s office—for one thing, there wasn’t enough time, assuming he wanted to be at the Iron Mask for opening. So the only option was right here, standing up, her skirt around her waist, her legs around his hips. Quick, to the point; then go their separate ways.
After he’d told her how much cash he was willing to pay for this warehouse, of course.
But then what? It wasn’t like he was going to bang her at the closing. He rarely did repeats, and only if he was seriously attracted or really itchy—which in this case he was not.
For chrissakes, what exactly was he getting out of this? It wasn’t like he was going to see her naked. Or have much skin-on-skin contact.
Unless…that was the point.
When was the last time he’d really been with a female? Like, properly. As in…nice dinner, little music, some necking that led to a bedroom…then long, slow, patient shit where he had a couple of orgasms.
And no choking sense of panic when it was over.
“You were going to say something?” the woman prompted him.
iAm was right. He didn’t need to be doing this crap. Hell, he wasn’t even attracted to the Realtor. She was standing in front of him; she was available; and that wedding ring on her finger meant she was probably not going to cause a lot of trouble after it was over—because she had something to lose.
Trez took a step back. “Listen, I—” As his phone went off in his coat, he thought, Perfect timing—and checked it. It was iAm. “’Scuse me. I have to take this. Hey, what you doing, little brother?”
iAm’s reply was soft, like he’d lowered his voice. “We got company.”
Trez’s body tensed. “What kind and where.”
“I’m home.”
Oh, shit. “Who is it.”
“It’s not your betrothed, relax. It’s AnsLai.”
The high priest. Fantastic. “Well, I’m busy.”
“He’s not here to see me.”
“Then he’d better go back where he came from, because I’m otherwise engaged.” When there was nothing but silence over the connection, all he had to do was dub in the ass-kicking. Unable to keep still, he stalked around. “Look, what do you want me to do?”
“Stop running and deal with this.”
“There’s nothing to deal with. I’ll catch you later, ’kay?”
He waited for a response. Instead, the line went dead. Then again, when you expected your brother to clean up your crap, the guy wasn’t likely to be in the mood for a protracted good-bye.
Trez hung up and glanced over at the Realtor. Smiling widely, he walked to her and looked down. Her lipstick was a little too coral for her complexion, but he didn’t care.
The shit wasn’t going to be on her mouth for much longer.
“Let me show you how warm I can make it in here,” he said with a slow smile.
* * *
Back at the Brotherhood mansion, up in Layla’s room, a kind of détente had been reached among the various interested parties.
Phury wasn’t trying to turn Qhuinn into a wall hanging. Layla was getting assessed. And the door had been shut so that anything that went down was going to have no more than a quartet of firsthand witnesses.
Qhuinn was just waiting for Doc Jane to speak.
When she finally took her stethoscope off from around her neck, she sat back. And the expression on her face gave him no hope.
He didn’t understand it. He had seen his daughter at the door to the Fade: When he’d been beaten and left for dead at the side of the road by the Honor Guard, he had gone up to God only knew where, had approached the white portal
…and had seen in the panels a young female whose eyes had started out one color, and ended up blue and green like his own.
If he hadn’t been witness to that, he probably wouldn’t have lain with Layla in the first place. But he’d been so sure that destiny was spelled out that it had never dawned on him…
Shit, maybe that young was the result of another pairing—somewhere else down the line.
But like he was going to be with anyone else? Ever?
Not possible. Not now that he’d had Blay once.
Nope.
Even if he and his former friend never got between the sheets again, he was never going to be with anybody else. Who could compare? And celibacy was better than second-best—which again, was what would be offered by the rest of the planet.
Doc Jane cleared her throat and took Layla’s hand. “Your blood pressure is a little low. Your pulse rate is sluggish. I think both of these can be improved with a feeding—”
Qhuinn all but jumped on the bed with his wrist outstretched. “I got it—right here. I got—”
Doc Jane put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. “But that’s not what I’m worried about.”
He froze—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phury do the same.
“Here’s the problem.” The doctor refocused on Layla, speaking gently and clearly. “I don’t know a lot about vampire pregnancies—so as much as I hate to say this, you need to go back to Havers’s.” She put her hand up, as if she anticipated arguments from all corners. “This is about her and the young—we have to get them to somebody who can treat her appropriately, even if, under other circumstances, none of us would darken that guy’s door. And, Phury”—she looked over at the Brother—“you have to go with her and Qhuinn. Your being there will make it easier on everybody.”
Lot of tight lips after that.
“She’s right,” Qhuinn said finally. And then he turned to the Primale. “And you need to say you’re the father. She’ll get more respect that way. With me? He might well refuse to treat her—if she’s fallen, and has gotten fucked by a defective? He could turn us away.”
Phury opened his mouth. Shut it.
It wasn’t like there was much else to say.
As Phury got out his phone and called the clinic to inform the staff they were coming in, his tone of voice suggested he was ready to light the place up if Havers and his crew screwed around.
With that getting sorted, Qhuinn went over to Layla.
In a low voice, he said, “It’s going to be different this time. He’s going to make things happen. Don’t worry—you’re going to get treated like a queen.”
Layla’s eyes were wide, but she kept it together. “Yes. All right.”
Bottom line? The Brother wasn’t the only one ready to throw down. If Havers turned any of that glymera distaste on Layla, Qhuinn was going to beat the ego out of that male. Layla didn’t deserve that shit—not even for choosing a reject to mate with.
Fuck. Maybe it was better that she lose the pregnancy. Did he really want to condemn a child to his DNA?
“You’re coming, too?” she asked him, like she wasn’t really tracking.
“Yup. I’ll be right there.”
When Phury hung up, he looked back and forth between them, his yellow eyes narrowing. “Okay, so they’ll take us the second we get there. I’ll have Fritz get the Mercedes warmed up, but I’m driving.”
“I’m sorry,” Layla said as she stared up at the great male. “I know I’ve let the Chosen and you down—but you did tell us to come to this side and…live.”
Phury put his hands on his hips and exhaled. As he shook his head, it was clear he wouldn’t have picked any of this for her. “Yeah, I said that. That I did.”
THIRTY-TWO
Oh, great unleashed power, Xcor thought as he regarded his soldiers, each of them armed and ready for a night of fighting. After twenty-four hours of recovery following that group feeding, they were chomping at the bit to get out and find their enemies—and he was ready to let release them from the warehouse’s underspace.
There was only one problem: Someone was walking the floor above.
As if on cue, footsteps traversed the wooden hatch over his head.
For the last half hour, they had tracked the progress of their uninvited visitors. One was heavy—a masculine form. The other was lighter—a feminine variety. There were no scents to catch, however; the underground level was hermetically sealed.
In all likelihood, it was just a pair of humans passing through—although why two non-vagrants would waste time wandering around such a decrepit structure on a cold night, he could not guess. Whoever they were, whatever the reason they came, however, he would have no problem defending his squatter’s rights, such as they were.
But there was no harm in waiting. If he could avoid slaughtering some useless humans here? It meant he and his soldiers could continue to use the space undisturbed.
No one said a thing as the walking about continued.
Voices mingled. Low and higher. Then a phone went off.
Xcor tracked the ringing and the conversation that ensued, walking in silence over to the other hatch where the speaker chose to stop. Going still, he listened hard, and caught one half of a very uninteresting conversation that gave nothing away as to the identity of the parties.
Not long thereafter, the unmistakable sounds of sex filtered down.
As Zypher chuckled softly, Xcor glared in the bastard’s direction to shut him up. Even though each of the trapdoors had been locked from below, one never knew what kind of trouble those rats without tails could bring to any situation.
He checked his watch. Waited for the moaning to stop. Motioned for his soldiers to stay put when it did.
Moving in silence, he proceeded over to the trapdoor in the far corner of the warehouse, the one that opened up into what must have been a supervisory office. Unlatching it, he palmed one of his guns, dematerialized out, and inhaled.
Not a human.
Well, there had been one here…but the other was something else.
Over in the corner, the outer door clapped shut and the lock was engaged.
Ghosting across the way, Xcor put his back against the warehouse’s sturdy brick wall and looked out of one section of the cloudy glass windows.
A pair of headlights flared down in front, in the shallow parking lot.
Dematerializing up and out of a busted pane, he shot forward to the roof of the warehouse across the street.
Well, wasn’t this interesting.
That was a Shadow down there, sitting behind the wheel of the BMW with the driver’s-side window down, and a human female leaning into the SUV.
Second time he’d run into one in Caldwell.
They were dangerous.
Getting out his phone, he called Throe’s number by finding the male’s picture in his contacts, and ordered his soldiers to go and fight. He would deal with this departure alone.
Down below, the Shadow reached out, pulled the woman into him by the neck, and kissed her. Then he put the vehicle in reverse and drove off without looking back.
Xcor shifted his position to keep up with the male, going from rooftop to rooftop, as the Shadow headed toward the club district on the surface roads that ran parallel to the river—
At first, the sensation in his body suggested a change in wind direction, the chilly gusts seeming to come up from behind him, as opposed to hitting him face-first. But then he thought…no. It was purely internal. Whatever ripples he felt were under his skin—
His Chosen was nearby.
His Chosen.
Immediately abandoning the Shadow’s trail, he peeled off and headed closer to the Hudson River. What was she doing down—
In a car. She was traveling in a car.
From what his instincts were telling him, she was going at a fast speed that was nonetheless trackable. So the only explanation was that she was on the Northway, going sixty or seventy miles an hour.
P
roceeding back in the direction of the rows of warehouses, he focused on the signal he was picking up on. As it had been months since he’d fed from her, he was panicked to find that the connection created by her blood in his veins was fading—to the point that it was difficult to pinpoint the vehicle.
But then he locked in on a luxury sedan thanks to the fact that it slowed down and got off at the exit that funneled traffic onto the bridges. Dematerializing up onto the girders, he planted his combat boots on the pinnacle of one of the steel risers and waited for her to pass under him.
Shortly thereafter she did, and then continued onward, heading to the other half of the city on the opposite shore.
He stayed on her, maintaining a safe distance, although he wondered who he was fooling. If he could sense his female?
It would be the same for her.
But he would not abandon her trail.
* * *
As Qhuinn sat in the passenger seat of the Mercedes, his Heckler & Koch forty-five was held discreetly on his thigh, and his eyes flipped incessantly from the rearview mirror to the side window to the windshield. Next to him, Phury was behind the wheel, the Brother’s hands doing a ten-and-two so tightly it was like he was strangling somebody.
Man, there was too much goddamn shit unraveling right now.
Layla and the young. That whole Cessna incident. What Qhuinn had done to his own cousin the night before. And then…well, there was the Blay thing.
Oh, dear God in heaven…the Blay thing.
As Phury got off the exit that would take them onto the bridges, Qhuinn’s brain shifted from worrying about Layla to reviewing all kinds of pictures and sounds and…tastes from the daylight hours.
Intellectually, he knew what had happened between them hadn’t been a dream—and his body sure as hell remembered everything, like the sex had been a kind of branding on his flesh that changed the way he looked forever. And yet, as he went about dealing with the newest frickin’ drama, the too-short session seemed prehistoric, not less than a night old.
He feared it was a one-and-only.
Don’t you touch me like that.
Groaning, he rubbed at his head.