by J. R. Ward
The cop clapped him on the shoulder. “So you knew him.”
“I thought I did, yes.” Oh, wait, the question was about Luchas. “I mean, yes, I did.”
“It’s gotta be wicked tough, this whole thing.”
Blay glanced over his shoulder again and got another eyeful of Qhuinn crouching next to his brother. His old friend’s face was ancient in the beams of those flashlights, to the point where Blay wondered if he had actually seen it relaxed after they’d been together—or whether he’d been mistaken.
You were the only thing…actually.
“It is tough,” he muttered.
And strange, too.
Right after his transition, he had looked for some sign that the way he felt about his friend was reciprocated, some clue as to where Qhuinn was at. But there had been nothing that he had been able to see—nothing other than abiding loyalty, friendship, and kick-ass fighting skills: Through the hookups they’d had with other people, and the training, and then the nights out in the field…he had always been on the far side of the connection he’d wanted, staring into a wall he couldn’t get around.
That short time on this porch?
It was the first time he’d ever gotten a glimpse of what he’d longed for even more greatly than the sex.
Shit, for a treacherous moment, he wondered if there had in fact been an “in” involved when Layla had spilled the beans outside of his bedroom.
“They’re moving him.” Butch snagged Blay’s arm and got him out of the way of the door. “Come stand with me.”
Luchas had been properly covered now, a silver Mylar blanket wrapped around him from head to foot, nothing but the barest hint of his face showing. They had put him onto a collapsible stretcher, with Qhuinn at one end and V on the other. Manny walked alongside, as if he were not sure whether he was going to need to resuscitate things at any given moment.
Over at the sled, they transferred Qhuinn’s brother and strapped him down.
“I’m driving him out,” Qhuinn announced as he mounted up and gunned the snowmobile’s engine.
“Slow and steady,” Manny warned. “He’s a fucking mass of broken bones.”
Qhuinn glanced over at Blay. “Ride with me?”
No reason to answer that. He marched over and got on behind the guy.
Typical of Qhuinn, he didn’t bother waiting for the others. He just nailed the accelerator and took off. He did, however, listen to the good doctor: He made a broad turn and followed the tracks that had been made, keeping the speed fast enough to make some time, but not so much so that they blendered Luchas.
Blay kept two guns out.
As Manny and Butch rode up beside them, the other Brothers and John Matthew dematerialized at regular distances, appearing at the sides of the two parallel tracks.
It took a hundred years.
Blay literally thought they were never going to get out of there. It seemed as though the high-pitched, whining engines, and the blur of the dark forest, and the brilliant white patches of clearings were going to be the last things he saw.
He prayed the entire way.
When the big, boxy hangar structure finally came into view, parked right next to it was the single most beautiful thing Blay had ever seen.
V and Butch’s Escalade.
Things moved lickety-split from there: Qhuinn pulling up alongside the SUV, Luchas transferred into the backseat, snowmobiles reloaded onto the trailer hitched to the back, Qhuinn going over to the passenger seat of the vehicle.
“I want Blay to drive,” he said before getting in.
There was a heartbeat of a pause. Then Butch nodded and tossed the keys over. “Manny and I will be in the back back.”
Blay got behind the wheel, moved the seat to accommodate his legs, and powered up the engine. As Qhuinn settled next to him, he looked over.
“Put on your seat belt.”
The male did as he was told, stretching the nylon strap around his chest and clicking it into place. Then he immediately cranked himself around to focus on his brother.
A feeling of single-minded determination set Blay’s shoulders and tightened his hands. He didn’t care what he had to mow over, take down, or leave grille marks on; he was going to get Qhuinn and his brother to the training center and into the clinic.
Hitting the gas, he didn’t look back.
SIXTY-THREE
Trez frowned at the adding machine he’d been punching numbers into. Reaching out for the white tongue of paper that hung over the side of his desk, he tried to see the column of numbers he’d been making.
He blinked.
Rubbed his eyes. Reopened them.
Nope. The shimmering circle in the upper right-hand quadrant of his vision was still there, and it was not a function of glare.
“Fuck…me.”
Shoving the receipts he’d been totaling aside, he looked at his watch, then put his head in his hands. As he squeezed his eyes shut, the aura was still in place, the pattern of interlocking geometrics sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow.
He had about twenty-five minutes before all hell broke loose—and he was not going to be able to dematerialize.
Fumbling for his office phone, he hit the intercom. Two seconds later, Xhex’s voice came out of the speaker, tinnier than usual. Which meant the sensitivity to sound was kicking in.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said.
“I’m getting a migraine. I gotta bounce.”
“Oh, man, that sucks. Didn’t you get one just a week ago?”
Whatever. Not the point. “Can you take over?”
“You need a ride home?”
Yes. “No. I can make it.” He began gathering his wallet, his cell, his keys. “Call me if you need me, ’kay?”
“You got it.”
Trez took a deep breath as he cut the connection and got to his feet. He felt perfectly fine—for the moment. And the good news was, he was no more than fifteen minutes from his apartment—even assuming he hit all red lights. Which would leave him about ten minutes to get into sweats, line up a wastepaper basket and a towel beside his bed, and prepare for total digestive collapse.
Six, seven hours from now? He was going to feel better.
Unfortunately, the here-to-there was going to suck.
On his way to his office’s closed door, he slung his jacket onto his shoulders and braced himself for the music on the far side.
When he stepped out, he walked right into the wall of iAm’s considerable chest.
“Gimme your keys,” was all his brother said.
“You don’t have to—”
“Did I ask you for an opinion?”
“Goddamn Xhex—”
“Right behind your brother,” the female cut in. “And I know you meant that as a compliment.”
“I’m fine,” Trez said, as he tried to angle his vision so that his head of security was out of his blind spot.
“You have how many minutes before the pain hits?” Xhex smiled, flashing her fangs. “Do you really want to be wasting any of them arguing with me?”
Trez bitched his way out of his club, and the instant the cold air hit his sinuses, his stomach seized up—like it was getting ready to go to town early.
Sliding into the passenger seat of his own BMW, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The aura was getting larger, the original line of shimmer splitting into two and fanning outward, moving slowly toward the edge of his vision.
During the trip home, he found himself feeling glad iAm wasn’t a talker.
Although it wasn’t as if he didn’t know what the guy was thinking.
Too much stress. Too many headaches.
He probably needed to feed as well—but that was not happening for a while.
As his brother drove with alacrity, Trez passed the time picturing where they were in the city; what traffic lights they were going through or stopping at; what turns they were making; where the Commodore was, its towering length looming higher and higher
the closer they got.
A sudden decline told him that they were going into the parking garage—and that he’d fallen behind in his mental mapping: as far as he’d known, they were still a couple of blocks away.
Lot of left-hand turns came next as they spiraled down three floors and parked in one of the two spots they were allotted.
By the time they filed into the elevator and iAm punched the eighteenth button, the aura had wandered off the confines of his vision, disappearing as if it had never been.
Calm before the storm.
“Thanks for driving me home,” he said. And meant it. He hated relying on anyone else, but it was pretty damn hard not to hit anything when you had a neon sign flashing in the back of both eyeballs.
“I figured it was better this way.”
“Yeah.”
He and his brother hadn’t talked about the high priest’s visit since it happened, but that hi-how’re-ya from AnsLai was still very much between them—but at least iAm had put aside the pissed off long enough to get him back here.
Trez’s first clue that the headache was gearing up was the way the subtle ding that announced its destination shot through his brain like a bullet.
He groaned as the doors slid open. “This is going to be bad.”
“Didn’t you have one last week?”
He wondered how many more people could ask him that.
iAm took care of the lock on the door, and Trez dumped his jacket three feet into the apartment. He shed his black cashmere sweater on the way down to his bedroom, and was unbuttoning his silk shirt as he walked into—
As he froze, the one and only thing that shot through his head was that scene from the movie Trading Places—when Eddie Murphy walks into his room at the fancy digs and a half-naked chick sits up in his bed and goes, “Hey, Billy Ray.”
The difference in this situation was that his stalker, the one with the bouncer boyfriend and the trust issues, was blond, and not wearing early eighties Spandex pants. Matter of fact, she was fully, motherfucking, buck-ass naked.
The gun that appeared over his shoulder was steady and accessorized with a suppressor.
So iAm could have killed her, no problem.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” the chippie said, looking back and forth between him and his brother’s muzzle.
Like she wanted to make herself more appealing, she lifted one arm to fuss with her hair—but if she were hoping her breasts would sway enticingly, she was out of luck: Those rock-hard falsies of hers were as unmovable as something bolted to a wall.
“How did you get in here,” Trez demanded.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” When no one answered her, and that gun stayed up, she pouted. “I got friendly with the security guard, okay. What. Oh, come on…fine, I blew him, okay.”
Classy.
And that dumb-ass bastard rent-a-cop was going to be out of a job.
Trez walked over to the pile of clothes by the end of the bed. “Put these back on and get out.”
God, he was tired.
“Oh, come on,” she whined as her things fluttered all around her. “I just wanted to surprise you when you got home from work. I thought this would make you happy.”
“Well, it doesn’t. You need to get the fuck out—” As she opened her mouth like she was going to go psycho on him, he shook his head and cut her off. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not in the mood, and my brother over here really doesn’t care whether you walk out of here or get carried out in a bag. Get dressed. Get out.”
The chippie looked back and forth again. “You were so nice to me the other night.”
Trez winced as the pain stepped up to the plate and started swinging on the right side of his head. “Honey, I’m going to be real honest here. I don’t even know your name. We banged twice—”
“Three times—”
“I don’t care how many it was. What I do know is that you’re going to let this go tonight. If you come around me or my place again, I’m going to…” The Shadow in him wanted to go in a more blood-thirsty direction, but he forced himself to stay on human terms she’d understand. “…call the police. And you don’t want that, because you’re a drug addict who deals on the side, and if they search your shit, your car, your place, they’re going to find more than just paraphernalia. They’re going to bust you and that idiot meathead you’re sleeping with for possession with intent to distribute, and you’re going to fucking jail.”
The chippie just blinked.
“Don’t push me, sweetie,” Trez said in an exhausted voice. “You won’t like what happens.”
Say what you would about the kid; she was quick when she was properly motivated. A matter of moments later, after some yoga poses to get that plastic rack squeezed into a “blouse” that was two sizes too small, she was on her way, cheapie purse slung over her shoulder, her skyscraper stillies dangling from the ankle straps.
Trez didn’t say another word. Just followed in her wake to the door, opened the way out…and shut the thing in her face as she turned around to say something.
He threw the lock manually.
iAm put his weapon away. “We need to move. This location is compromised.”
His brother was right. It wasn’t like they’d kept where they lived a big-ass secret, but staying at the Commodore was predicated on the idea that a security guard wouldn’t be stupid enough to let a woman into someone’s place without the permission of the owners.
If that could happen once, it could happen again—
Abruptly, the pain intensified, like the volume on his cranial concert from hell had suddenly been cranked.
“I’m going to go throw up for a while,” Trez mumbled as he wheeled away. “We’ll start packing as soon as this migraine is over….”
He had no idea what iAm replied, or even if the guy did.
Fuck.
SIXTY-FOUR
Standing outside the training center’s examination room, Qhuinn had his hands in the pockets of his leathers, his teeth locked tight, and his brows drawn all the way together.
Waiting. Waiting…
Medical shit was a lot like fighting, he decided: long periods of nothing doing, interjected with bursts of life-or-death.
It was enough to stamp you certifiable.
He glanced over at the door. “How much longer do you think it will be?”
Across the way, Blay crossed and uncrossed his long legs. The guy had stretched out on the floor about a half hour ago, but that had been his only concession to the wormhole of time they’d been sucked into.
“It’s got to be winding down now,” he replied.
“Yeah. Only so many parts to a body, right.”
After a moment, Qhuinn focused on the other male properly. There were dark circles under Blay’s eyes, and his cheeks had hollowed out. He was also paler than usual, his face far too light.
Qhuinn went over, leaned against the wall, and let his shitkickers slide out until his ass hit the floor next to Blay’s.
Blay glanced up and smiled a little, then resumed staring at the tips of his boots.
Qhuinn watched as his own hand reached out and brushed his friend’s jaw. As Blay started and looked over, Qhuinn was surprised to find he wanted to do so much more—and not sexually. He wanted to draw the male across his lap and have Blay put his head down. He wanted to stroke those strong shoulders and pass his fingers through that short red hair. He wanted to get some passerby to find a blanket and bring it over, so he could wrap some warmth around the powerful body that seemed to have been weakened.
Qhuinn forced his eyes away and dropped his hand.
God, he felt so fucking…trapped. Even though there were no chains on him.
Glancing down, he double-checked his wrists. Ankles. Yup, totally free over here. Nothing holding him back.
Closing his lids, he tilted his head back against the wall. In his mind, he was touching Blay—and again, not sexually. Just feeling the vitality beneath the sk
in, the shift of the muscle, the solidity of the bone.
“I think you should go see Selena,” he said to the guy.
Blay exhaled as if he had someone sitting on his chest. “Yeah. I know.”
“We could go together,” Qhuinn heard himself volunteer.
He opened his eyes in time to see Blay’s head whip around.
“Or you could, you know, do it on your own.” Qhuinn cracked his knuckles. “Whatever you feel comfortable with.”
Shit. In light of the whole Saxton thing, that might go too far. Feeding, after all, could be seen as more intimate than sex—
“Yeah,” Blay said softly. “I’ll do that.”
Qhuinn’s heart started to beat hard. And again, it wasn’t because he was all hopped to get it on with the guy. He just wanted to…
Share, he supposed was the right word.
No, wait. It went further than that. He wanted to take care of the male.
“You know, I don’t think I ever thanked you,” Qhuinn murmured. As Blay’s baby blues shot over, he wanted to look away—the eye contact was almost too much. But then he thought of his brother in that hospital bed—and all the ways people got robbed of time.
Jesus, he’d held so much in for so many reasons—all of which had seemed perfectly valid. But how arrogant was that? That kind of reticence assumed he’d have the time to talk about stuff when he wanted. That the person he had in the back of his mind would always be around. That he himself would be.
“For what?” Blay asked.
“For driving us home. Me and Luchas.” He heaved a great breath in and let it out slowly. “And for sitting out here with me all night. For going to Payne and getting her to help. For backing me up on the field, and during training. Also, for all those beers and video games. The chips and the M&M’s. The clothes I borrowed. The floor I slept on when I stayed over. Thanks for letting me hug your mom and talk with your dad. Thank you…for the ten thousand kind things you’ve done.”
From out of nowhere, he thought once again of that night when he’d walked in and witnessed his father giving that gold signet ring to his brother.