by J. R. Ward
Zsadist went over to the doctor. “What?”
Havers drew him into the corner and spoke softly.
Z was stunned speechless when the male was finished. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But fairly soon.”
Z looked down at Bella. Oh, Christ…
“Now, I am assuming you have aspirin or Motrin in the house?”
Z had no clue; he never took pain meds. He glanced at Phury.
“Yes, we do,” the brother said.
“Let her take them. And I’ll give you something stronger as backup in case they don’t work well enough.”
Havers took out a small glass bottle that had a red rubber seal as a top and palmed two hypodermic syringes that were in sterile packs. He wrote on a little pad, then handed the paper and the supplies to Z.
“If it’s daytime and she’s in a great deal of pain when she wakes up, you may give her a shot of this according to my directions. It’s the same morphine I just gave her, but you must mind the dosage information. Call me if you have questions or you want me to walk you through the injection procedure. Otherwise, if the sun is down, I’ll come and give her the shot myself.” Havers glanced down at Z’s leg. “Would you like for me to examine your wound?”
“Can I bathe her?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“Now?”
“Yes.” Havers frowned. “But, sire, your leg…”
Z walked into his bathroom, cranked the Jacuzzi’s faucets, and stuck his hand under the rush. He waited until it was warm enough; then he went back for her.
By this time, the doctor had gone, but Mary, Rhage’s female, was in the bedroom’s doorway, wanting to see Bella. Phury and Wrath talked to her briefly and shook their heads. She left, looking stricken.
As the door shut, Z knelt down next to the pallet and started to pick Bella up.
“Hold it, Z.” Wrath’s voice was hard. “Her family should be caring for her.”
Z stopped and thought of whoever had fed her fish. God…this was probably not right. Keeping her here, away from those who had proper cause to attend her in her pain. But the idea of letting her go out into the world was unbearable. He’d only just found her….
“She’ll go to them tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight and today she stays here.”
Wrath shook his head. “It’s not—”
“You think she’s ready to travel like this?” Z snapped. “Leave the female alone. Have Tohr call her family and tell them she will be given over to them at nightfall tomorrow. Right now she needs a bath and some sleep.”
Wrath’s lips tightened. There was a long silence. “Then she goes to another room, Z. She’s not staying with you.”
Zsadist rose to his feet and walked over to the king, getting all up in the male’s grille. “You just try and move her.”
“For chrissakes, Z,” Phury barked. “Back off—”
Wrath leaned forward until their noses almost touched. “Careful, Z. You know damn well that threatening me won’t just get you cracked in the jaw.”
Yeah, they’d been through it over the summer. Legally Z could be executed under the old rules of conduct if he pushed this much further. The king’s life was valued over all others’.
Not that Z gave a shit at the moment.
“You think I care about a death sentence? Please.” He narrowed his eyes. “But I’ll tell you this. Whether you decide to go majesty all over my ass or not, it’ll take you at least a day to condemn me with the Scribe Virgin. So Bella’s still sleeping here tonight.”
He walked back to her and picked her up as carefully as he could while making sure the towel stayed where it needed to be. Without looking at Wrath or his twin, he swept her into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him.
The tub was already halfway filled, so he kept a hold on her as he leaned down and checked the temperature. Perfect. He lowered her into the water and then stretched her arms over the sides so she was braced up.
The towel quickly dampened and fused with her body. He saw clearly the gentle swells of her breasts, the small rib cage, the flat expanse of her stomach. As the water rose, the hem of the towel floated loose and flirted with the tops of her thighs.
Z’s heart kicked in his chest and he felt like a lecher, staring at her when she was hurt and out of it. Hoping to shield her from his eyes and wanting to give her the modesty she deserved, he went to the cabinet to find some bubble bath. There was nothing except bath salts, and he sure as hell wasn’t using them.
He was about to turn back to her when he was struck by how big the mirror over the sink was. He didn’t want her to see what she looked like, because the less she knew about what had been done, the better. He covered the glass with two large towels, tucking the thick terry cloth behind the frame.
When he returned to her, she’d slid down into the water, but at least the top of the towel was still sticking to her shoulders and basically staying in place. He took hold of her under one of her arms and hitched her up, then grabbed a washcloth. The instant he started washing the side of her neck, she thrashed around, the water splashing up onto him. Low, panicky noises came out of her mouth, and they didn’t stop even after he’d put the little towel aside.
Talk to her, you idiot.
“Bella…Bella, it’s all right. You’re okay.”
She fell still and frowned. Then her eyes opened slightly and she started to blink a lot. When she tried to wipe at her lids, he took her hands away from her face.
“No. That’s medicine. Leave it there.”
She froze. Cleared her throat until she could speak. “Where…where am I?”
Her voice, groggy and hoarse as it was, sounded beautiful to him.
“You’re with…” Me. “You’re with the Brotherhood. You’re safe.”
As her glassy, unfocused eyes moved around, he leaned up to a switch on the wall and dimmed the lights. Even though she was delirious and no doubt mostly blind from the ointment, he didn’t want her to see him. The last thing she needed to worry about was what would happen if her scars didn’t heal smoothly.
When she dropped her arms into the water and braced her feet against the tub’s base, he cut the faucet off and sat back on his heels. He wasn’t good at touching people, so it wasn’t a big surprise that she couldn’t stand his hands on her. But goddamn, he had no idea what to do to relieve her. She looked miserable—way past crying and into numb agony.
“You’re safe…” he murmured, though he doubted she believed it. He wouldn’t have if he’d been her.
“Is Zsadist here?”
He frowned, not knowing what to make of that. “Yeah, I’m right here.”
“You are?”
“Right here. Right beside you.” He reached out awkwardly and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.
And then she seemed to slide into a delirium. She mumbled, making little sounds that might have been words, and jerked around. Z grabbed another towel, rolled it up, and put it under her head so she wouldn’t bump it against the hard edge of the Jacuzzi.
He racked his brain for what he could do to help her, and because it was the only thing he could think of, he hummed a little. When that seemed to calm her, he began to sing softly, choosing an Old Language hymn to the Scribe Virgin, one about blue skies and white owls and green fields of grass.
Gradually Bella went lax and took a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she eased back against the towel pillow he’d made for her.
As his singing was the only comfort he could give her, he sang.
Phury stared down at the pallet where Bella had just lain, thinking that the torn nightgown she’d had on made him ill. Then his eyes shifted to the skull on the floor to the left. The female skull.
“I can’t allow this,” Wrath said as the sound of running water got cut off in the bathroom.
“Z’s not going to hurt her,” Phury muttered. “Look at the way he treats her. Christ, he’s acting like a bonded
male.”
“What if his mood changes? You want Bella on that list of females he’s killed?”
“He’ll hit the ceiling if we take her away.”
“Tough shit—”
The two of them froze. Then they both slowly looked toward the bathroom door. The sound coming from the other side was soft, rhythmic. As if someone were…
“What the hell?” Wrath murmured.
Phury couldn’t believe it either. “He’s singing to her.”
Even muted, the purity and beauty of Zsadist’s voice were striking. His tenor had always been like that. On the rare occasions he sang, the sounds that came out of his mouth were stunners, capable of making time grind to a halt and then slide into infinity.
“God…damn.” Wrath pushed his sunglasses up on to his forehead and rubbed his eyes. “Watch him, Phury. Watch him well.”
“Don’t I always? Look, I have to go to Havers’s myself tonight, but only long enough to get my prosthesis refitted. I’ll have Rhage keep an eye on things until I get back.”
“You do that. We’re not going to lose that female on our watch, we clear? Jesus Christ…that twin of yours would drive anyone right off a cliff, you know that?” Wrath stalked out of the room.
Phury looked back down to the pallet and imagined Bella lying there next to Zsadist. This was all wrong. Z didn’t know a fricking thing about warmth. And that poor female had spent the last six weeks in the cold ground.
It should be me in there with her. Washing her. Easing her. Caring for her.
Mine, he thought, glaring at the door the singing was coming out of.
Phury started for the bathroom, suddenly pissed off beyond belief. The territorial anger lit his chest up like a bonfire, teeing off a blaze of power that roared in his body. He clamped his hand on the doorknob—and heard that beautiful tenor changing tune.
Phury stood there, shaking. As his anger slid into a yearning that frightened him, he put his forehead on the jamb. Oh, God…no.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find another explanation for his behavior. There wasn’t one. And he and Zsadist were twins, after all.
So it would make sense that they would want the same female. That they would end up…bonding with the same female.
He cursed.
Holy shit, this was trouble—of the bury-your-dead variety. Two bonded males tied to the same female were a lethal combination to begin with. Make that two warriors and you had the potential for serious injury. Vampires were animals, after all. They walked and talked and were capable of higher reasoning, but fundamentally they were animals. So there were some instincts that even the smartest brain couldn’t override.
Good thing he wasn’t quite there yet. He was attracted to Bella and he wanted her, but he hadn’t descended into the deep possessiveness that was the calling card of a bonded male. And he hadn’t caught the bonding scent coming off of Z, so maybe there was hope.
They’d both have to get away from Bella, though. Warriors, probably because of their aggressive natures, bonded hard and quick. So hopefully she would leave soon and go back to her family, where she belonged.
Phury peeled his hand off the doorknob and backed out of the room. Like a zombie he walked downstairs and headed outside to the courtyard. He wanted the cold to slap some clear thinking into him. Except all it did was make his skin tight.
He was about to light a blunt of red smoke when he noticed that the Ford Taurus, the one Z had hot-wired and driven Bella home in, was parked in front of the mansion. It was still running, forgotten in all the drama.
Yeah, that was not the kind of lawn sculpture they needed. God only knew what kind of tracking device was in it.
Phury got into the sedan, threw the thing into gear, and headed out.
Chapter Nine
As John stepped free of the underground tunnel, he was momentarily blinded by brightness. And then his eyesight adjusted. Oh, my God. It’s beautiful.
The vast lobby was rainbow vivid, so colorful he felt like his retinas couldn’t take it all in. From the green and red marble columns to the multihued mosaic floor to the gold leafing everywhere to the—
Holy Michelangelo, look at that ceiling.
Three stories up, paintings of angels and clouds and warriors on great horses covered an expanse that seemed as big as a football field. And there was more…. All around the second floor there was a gold-leafed balcony that had panels inset with similar depictions. Then there was the grand staircase with its own ornate balustrade.
The proportions of the space were perfect. The colors luscious. The art sublime. And it wasn’t Donald Trump rent-a-royalty. Even John, who didn’t know anything about style, had this funny sense that what he was looking at was the real deal. The person who had built this mansion and decorated it knew his stuff and had the money to buy top-drawer everything: a true aristocrat.
“Sweet, isn’t it? My brother D built this place in 1914.” Tohr put his hands on his hips as he glanced around, then cleared his throat briskly. “Yeah, he had fabulous taste. The best of the best for him.”
John measured Tohr’s face carefully. He’d never heard that tone of voice come out of the man before. Such sadness…
Tohr smiled and urged John forward with a hand to the shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that. I feel like an unwrapped sausage when you do.”
They headed for the second floor, walking up dark red carpeting so lush it was like stepping on a mattress. When John got to the top, he looked over the balcony at the lobby’s floor design. The mosaics coalesced into a spectacular depiction of a fruit tree in full bloom.
“Apples play a role in our rituals,” Tohr said. “Or at least, they do when we observe them. Not a lot of that’s been going on lately, but Wrath’s convening the first winter solstice ceremony in a hundred or so years.”
That’s what Wellsie’s been working on, right? John signed.
“Yeah. She’s handling a lot of the logistics. The race is hungry to get back to the rituals, and it’s about time.”
When John didn’t look away from the splendor, Tohr said, “Son? Wrath’s waiting for us.”
John nodded and followed, going across the landing to a set of double doors marked with some kind of seal. Tohr was just lifting his hand to knock when the brass handles turned and the interior was revealed. Except no one was on the other side. So how had the things opened?
John glanced in. The room was cornflower blue and reminded him of pictures from a history book. It was French, wasn’t it? With all the curlicues and fancy furnishings—
John suddenly had trouble swallowing.
“My Lord,” Tohr said, bowing and then walking forward.
John just stood there in the doorway. Behind a spectacular French desk that was way too pretty and way too little for him, there was a massive man with shoulders bigger than even Tohr’s. Long black hair fell straight from a widow’s peak, and that face…the hard composite of it spelled out donot-fuck-with-me. God, the wraparound sunglasses made him look positively cruel.
“John?” Tohr said.
John went to Tohr’s side and hid a little. Yeah, it was a pansy thing to do, but he’d never felt smaller or more dispensable in his life. Hell, next to the power of the guy in front of them, he was almost convinced he didn’t actually exist.
The king shifted in his chair, leaning onto the desk.
“Come here, son.” The voice was low and accented, the r stretching out quite a while before its word ended.
“Go on.” Tohr gave him a nudge when he didn’t move. “It’s all right.”
John stumbled over his feet, making it across the room with absolutely no finesse. He halted in front of the desk as if he were a rock that had rolled to a stop.
The king rose and kept rising until he seemed tall as an office building. Wrath had to be six-foot-seven or more, and the black clothes he wore, particularly the leathers, made him even larger.
“Come behind here.”
John glanced bac
k to make sure Tohr was still in the room.
“It’s okay, son,” the king said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
John moved around, his heart beating like a mouse’s. As he tilted his head and looked up, the king’s arm stretched out. The insides of it, from wrist to elbow, were covered with black tattoos. And the designs were like the ones John had seen in his dreams, the ones he’d put on the bracelet he wore….
“I’m Wrath,” the man said. There was a pause. “You want to shake my hand, son?”
Oh, right. John reached out, half expecting his bones to be crushed. Instead he just felt steady warmth as they made contact.
“That name on your bracelet,” Wrath said. “It’s Tehrror. Do you want to go by that or John?”
John panicked and glanced back at Tohr, because he didn’t know what he wanted and didn’t know how to communicate that to the king.
“Easy, son.” Wrath laughed softly. “You can decide later.”
The king’s face suddenly snapped to the side, as if he’d focused on something out in the hall. Just as abruptly a smile stretched his hard lips into an expression of total reverence.
“Leelan,” Wrath breathed.
“Sorry I’m late.” The female voice was low and lovely. “Mary and I are so worried about Bella. We’re trying to figure out how to help her.”
“You two will find a way. Come meet John.”
John turned to the door and looked at a woman—
White light suddenly took the place of his vision, just wiped out everything he saw. It was like being hit with a halogen beam. He blinked, blinked, blinked…. And then from out of the infinite nothing, he saw the woman again. She was dark-haired, with eyes that reminded him of someone he’d loved…. No, not reminded…hers were the eyes of his…What? Of his what?
John swayed. Heard voices coming at him from a distance.
On the inside of him, in his chest, down deep in the chambers of his beating heart, he felt a splintering, like he’d split in half. He was losing her…he was losing the dark-haired woman…he was…
He felt his mouth go wide, working as if he were trying to speak, but then spasms overtook him, jerking through his little body, flopping him off the soles of his feet, sending him tumbling to the ground.