by J. R. Ward
“You are…” From behind those broken glasses, the male’s eyes met her own. “Your young is…”
She almost wished Qhuinn would stop forcing the contact. This was hard enough to hear without having to face the doctor who’d treated her so badly.
Then again, Havers was the one who had to look, not her.
Qhuinn’s eyes were what she stared into as Havers said, “You’re losing the pregnancy.”
Things got wavy at that point, which she took to mean she had teared up. She couldn’t feel anything, though. It was as if her soul had been flushed out of her body, everything that had animated her and connected her to the world gone as if it had never been.
Qhuinn showed no reaction at all. He didn’t blink. Didn’t alter his stance or his dagger hand.
“Is there anything that can be done medically?” Doc Jane asked.
Havers went to shake his head, but froze as the sharp point of the knife cut into the skin of his neck. As blood leaked out and ran into the starched collar of his formal shirt, the red matched his bow tie.
“Nothing of which I am aware,” the physician said roughly. “Not on the earth, at any rate.”
“Tell her it’s not her fault,” Qhuinn demanded. “Tell her she did nothing wrong.”
Layla closed her eyes. “Assuming that’s true—”
“In humans that’s usually the case, provided there’s no trauma,” Doc Jane interjected.
“Tell her,” Qhuinn snapped, his arm starting to vibrate ever so slightly, as if he were a heartbeat away from dispatching his own violence.
“’Tis true,” Havers croaked.
Layla looked at the doctor, searching out the stare behind the ruined glasses. “Nothing?”
Havers spoke quickly. “The incidence of spontaneous miscarriage is presented in approximately one in three pregnancies. I believe, as with humans, it is caused by a self-regulation system that ensures defects of various kinds are not carried to term.”
“But I am definitely pregnant,” she said in a hollow tone.
“Yes. Your blood tests proved that.”
“Is there any risk to her health,” Qhuinn asked, “as this continues?”
“Are you her whard?” Havers blurted.
Phury interjected. “He’s the father of her child. So you treat him with the same respect you would me.”
That had the physician’s eyes bulging, those brows surfacing above the busted tortoiseshell frames. And it was funny; that was when Qhuinn showed a modicum of reaction—just a flicker in his face before the fierce features resettled into aggression.
“Answer me,” Qhuinn snapped. “Is she in any danger?”
“I-I—” Havers swallowed hard. “There are no guarantees in medicine. Generally speaking, I would say no—she is healthy on all other accounts, and the miscarriage appears to be following the generic course. Further…”
As the doctor continued to speak, his educated, refined tone so much more uneven than it had been the night before, Layla checked out.
Everything receded, her hearing disappearing, along with any sense of the temperature in the room, the bed beneath her, the other bodies standing around. The only thing she saw was Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes.
Her sole thought as he held that knife against the other male’s throat?
Even though they were not in love, he was exactly what she would have wanted as a father for her young. Ever since she had made the decision to participate in the real world, she had learned how rough life was, how others could conspire against you—and how sometimes principled force was all that got you through the night.
Qhuinn had the latter in spades.
He was a great, fearsome protector, and that was precisely what a female needed when she was pregnant, nursing, or caring for a young.
That and his innate kindness made him noble to her.
No matter the color of his eyes.
* * *
Nearly fifty miles to the south from where Havers was piss-pants terrified in his own clinic, Assail was behind the wheel of his Range Rover, and shaking his head in disbelief.
Things just kept getting more interesting with this woman.
Thanks to GPS, he had tracked her Audi from afar as she had decisively passed out of her neighborhood and gotten on the Northway. At each suburban exit, he expected her to get off, but as they’d left Caldwell well in the dust, he’d begun to think she might be heading all the way down into Manhattan.
Not so.
West Point, home of the venerable human military school, was about halfway between New York City and Caldwell, and as she exited the highway at that point, he was relieved. A lot happened down in the land of zip codes that started with 100, and he didn’t want to get too far from home base for two reasons: One, he still hadn’t heard from the twins about whether those minor-league dealers had showed up, and two, dawn was coming at some point, and he didn’t like the idea of abandoning his heavily modified and reinforced Range Rover at the side of the road somewhere because he needed to dematerialize back to safety.
Once off the highway, the woman proceeded at precisely forty-five miles an hour through the township’s preamble of gas stations, tourist hotels, and fast-food joints. Then on the far side of all that quick, cheap, and easy, things started to get expensive. Grand houses, the kind that were set back on lawns that looked like carpets, began to crop up, their low, loose stone walls quaintly crumbling at the sides of the road. She bypassed all of the estates, however, finally pulling over into the parking lot of a little park that had a river view.
Just as she got out, he drove right by her, his head turning in her direction, measuring her.
A hundred yards later, out of sight from where she was, Assail stopped his car on the shoulder of the road, emerged into the biting wind, and did up the buttons on his double-breasted coat. His loafers were not ideal for tracking through the snow, but he didn’t care. His feet would put up with the cold and the wet, and he had a dozen more pairs waiting for him in his closet at home.
As her vehicle, not her body, had the tracking device on it, he kept his eyes on her. Sure enough, she was putting those cross-countries on, and then, with a white ski mask over her head and the pale camos covering her lithe body, she all but disappeared into the blue-washed winter landscape.
He stayed right with her.
Flashing out ahead at clips of fifteen to twenty yards, he found pines to shield himself behind as she progressed back toward the mansions, her skis eating up the snow-covered ground.
She was going to go to one of those big houses, he thought as he kept pace with her, anticipating her direction and, for the most part, guessing correctly.
Every time she went by him without knowing he was there, his body wanted to jump out at her. Take her down. Bite her.
For some reason, this human made him hungry.
And cat and mouse was very erotic, especially if only the cat knew the game was afoot.
The property she eventually infiltrated was nearly a mile away, but in spite of the distance, her blistering pace on those skis didn’t lag in the slightest. She entered at the front right corner of the lawn, stepping up on the perennial low wall, and then resuming her course.
This made no sense. If she were compromised, she was an extra distance away from her car. Surely the nearer edge would have made more sense? After all, and in either case, she was exposed now, no trees to offer cover, no possible defense against trespassing available to her if she were sighted.
Unless she knew the owner. In which case, why hide yourself and sneak up at night?
The seven- or eight-acre lawn gradually rose toward a fifteen- to twenty-thousand-square-foot stone house, modernist sculptures sitting like blind, shiny sentries on the approach, the gardens sprawling out in the back. The whole time, she stuck close to that wall, and watching her from seventy-five feet up ahead, he found himself feeling impressed by her. Against the snow, she moved as a breeze would, invisible and quick, her shadow throw
n against the gray stone wall such that it seemed to disappear—
Ahhhhhhh.
She’d chosen the route specifically for that, hadn’t she.
Yes, indeed, the angle of the moonlight placed her shadow exactly on the stones, effectively creating further camouflage.
An odd tingle went through him.
Smart.
Assail flashed forward, finding a hiding place in and among the plantings at the side of the house. Up close, he saw that the grand manse was not new, although not ancient, either—then again, in the New World, it was rare to run into anything constructed earlier than the eighteenth century. Lots of lead-paned windows. And porches. And terraces.
All in all? Wealth and distinction.
That was no doubt protected by plenty of alarms.
It seemed unlikely she was simply going to spy on the property as she had on his own. For one, there was a ring of forested growth on the far side of that stone wall she’d traversed. She could have jettisoned the skis, negotiated that stretch of ten- to twenty-foot-high bramble, and gotten plenty of view shed to the house. For another? In that case, she wouldn’t need whatever was in the backpack she’d slung onto her shoulders.
The thing was nearly big enough to carry a body in, and it was full.
As if on cue, she stopped, got out her binoculars and surveyed the property, staying stock-still, only her head subtly moving. And then she started across the lawn proper, moving even faster than she had before, to the point where she was literally racing toward the house.
Toward him.
Indeed, she headed directly for Assail, for this juncture between the bushes that marked the front of the mansion, and the tall hedge that ran around to the rear garden.
Clearly, she knew the property.
Clearly, he had chosen the perfect spot.
And upon her approach, he stepped back only a little…because he wouldn’t have minded getting caught spying.
The woman skied right up to within five feet of where he was, getting so close he could catch her scent not only in his nose, but down the back of his throat.
He had to stop himself from purring.
After the effort of covering that stretch of lawn so quickly, she was breathing heavily, but her cardiovascular system recovered fast—a sign of her overall health and strength. And the speed with which she now moved was likewise erotic. Off with the skis. Off with the pack. Open the pack. Extract…
She was going onto the roof, he thought, as she assembled what appeared to be a speargun, aimed the thing high, and pulled the trigger on a grappling hook. A moment later, there was a distant metal clang from above.
Glancing upward, he realized that she had picked one of the few stretches of stone that had no windows in it…and it was shielded by the very long wall of tall shrubs that he himself was obstructed by.
She was going inside.
At that point, Assail frowned…and disappeared from where he’d been watching her.
Re-forming around the back of the house at ground level, he peered into a number of windows, cupping his hands on the cold glass and leaning in. The interior was mostly dark, but not completely so: Here and there, lamps had been left on, the bulbs casting a glow on furnishings that were a combination of old antiques and modern art. Fancy, fancy: In its peaceful slumber, the place looked like a museum, or something that had been photographed for a magazine, everything arranged with such precision that one wondered if rulers hadn’t been used to arrange the furniture and the objets d’art.
No clutter anywhere, no casually thrown newspapers, bills, letters, receipts. No coats cast over the back of a chair or pair of shoes kicked off by a sofa.
Each and every ashtray was clean as a whistle.
One and only one person came to his mind.
“Benloise,” he whispered to himself.
THIRTY-SIX
Based on the regular vibrations that came from his breast pocket, Xcor knew his presence was being sought by his fighters.
He did not respond.
Standing outside the facility that his Chosen had been taken into, he was powerless to leave even as a regular flow of others of his kind drove up or materialized before the portal she had been taken through. Indeed, as so many came and went, there was no doubt this was a health clinic.
At least none appeared to notice him, too preoccupied were they with whate’er ailed them—in spite of the fact that he was standing all but out in the open.
Fates, the very thought of what had brought his Chosen here made him nauseated to the point of clearing his throat—
Dragging icy air into his lungs helped fight the gag reflex.
When had her needing come? It must have been fairly recently. He had last seen her…
Who was the sire? he thought for the hundredth time. Who had taken what was his—
“Not yours,” he told himself. “Not yours.”
Except that was his mind talking, not his instincts. At the core of him, in the most male part of his marrow, she was his female.
And ironically, that was what kept him from attacking the facility—with all of his soldiers, if necessary. As she was receiving care, the last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the process.
Whilst time passed, and the information void tortured him to the point of madness, he realized that he hadn’t even known about this clinic. If she had been his? He wouldn’t have known where to take her for help—certainly he would have sent Throe to find someplace, somehow, to ensure her care, but in the event of a medical emergency? An hour or two spent hunting for a healer could mean the difference between life and death.
The Brotherhood, on the other hand, had known exactly where to deliver her. And when she was released from the facility, they would undoubtedly return her to a warm, safe home, where there would be food aplenty, and a soft bed, and a stout force of at least six full-blooded warriors to protect her as she slept.
Ironic that he found ease in that vision. But then again, the Lessening Society was a very serious adversary—and say what one would about the Brotherhood, they had proven over the aeons to be capable defenders.
Abruptly, his thoughts shifted to the warehouse where he and his soldiers stayed. Those cold, damp, inhospitable environs were, in fact, a step up from some of the other places they had all made camp. If she were with him, wherever would he keep her? No males could e’er see her in his presence, especially if she were to change clothes or bathe—
A growl percolated up his throat.
No. No male would cast his eye upon her flesh or he would flay him alive—
Oh, God, she had mated with another. Had opened herself up and accepted another male within her sacred flesh.
Xcor put his face in his palms, the pain in his chest making him weave in his combat boots.
It must have been the Primale. Yes, of course she had lain with Phury, son of Ahgony. That was the way the Chosen propagated, if memory and rumor served.
Instantly, his mind was clouded by the image of her perfect face and her slender frame. To think that another had disrobed her and covered her with his body—
Stop it, he told himself. Stop it.
Dragging his mind away from that insanity, he challenged himself to define any appropriate living quarters he could have provided her. In any circumstance.
The only thought that came to him was going back and killing that female his soldiers had fed from. That cottage had been quaint and lovely….
But where would his Chosen go during the day?
And besides, he would never shame her by allowing her to so much as walk upon that rug where all that sex had gone down.
“Pardon us.”
Xcor went for the gun inside his jacket as he wheeled around. Except there was no need for force—it was simply a diminutive female with her young. Apparently, they had gotten out of a station wagon parked about ten feet away from him.
As the young cowered behind its mother, the female’s eyes flared in fear.
; Then again, when a monster was stumbled upon, its presence was not often greeted with joy.
Xcor bowed deeply, in large measure because the sight of his face surely could not be helping the situation. “But of course.”
At that, he backed away from them both and then pivoted, returning to the original spot he’d occupied. Indeed, he had not realized how exposed he’d become.
And he did not want to fight. Not with the Brotherhood. Not with his Chosen as she was. Not…here.
Closing his eyes, he wished he could go back to that night when Zypher had taken him out to the meadow and Throe, under the guise of saving him, had condemned him to a kind of walking death.
A bonded male who was not with his mate?
Dead though animated—
Without warning, the portal pulled back and his Chosen appeared. Instantly, Xcor’s instincts screamed for action, in spite of all the reasons to leave her be.
Take her! Now!
But he did not: The grim expressions of those who shepherded her with such care froze him where he stood—bad news had been imparted during their tenure inside.
As before, she was all but carried to the vehicle.
And even still, there was the scent of her blood upon the air.
His Chosen was resettled in the back of that sedan, with the female at her side. Then Phury, son of Ahgony, and the warrior with the mismatched eyes got into the front. The vehicle was turned about slowly, as if out of concern for the precious cargo in its rear compartment.
Xcor followed in their wake, materializing apace to the steady speed that was gained first upon the rural road at the end of the lane, and then upon the highway. When the car approached the suspension bridge, he once again spotted it from atop the highest girder, and then after his female passed beneath him, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop as the sedan circumvented downtown.
He tracked the vehicle north until it exited the highway and entered the farmland area.
He stayed with her the whole time.
And that was how he found the location of the Brotherhood.
THIRTY-SEVEN
As Blay twisted his family’s signet ring around on his forefinger, his lit cigarette smoldered gently in his other hand, and his ass grew numb…and no one came back in through the vestibule’s doors.