by J. R. Ward
Long fucking trip. And he was tired at the end of it, even though his body hadn’t moved in hours upon hours.
Not surprisingly, the two places most revisited were Wellsie’s needing… and Autumn’s. Those events, and their respective aftermaths, were the mountains most climbed, the different scenes like vistas flashing in an alternating sequence of comparison until they blurred together, forming a pastiche of actions and reactions, his and theirs.
After all the ruminations, there were three resolutions he kept returning to, again and again.
He was going to have to apologize to Autumn, of course. Christ, that was the second time he’d taken a hunk out of her, the first being way back nearly a year ago at the pool: In both cases, his temper had gotten the best of him because of the stress load he was under, but that was no excuse.
The second was that he was going to have to find that angel and do another set of I’m-sorrying.
And the third… well, the third was actually the most important, the thing he had to do before the others.
He had to make contact with Wellsie one last time.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and willed some relaxation into his muscles. Then, with more desperation than hope, he commanded his weary mind to be free of all thoughts and images, empty of everything that had kept him awake for all this time, devoid of the regrets and the mistakes and the pain.…
Eventually the order was complied with, the relentless mental trekking slowing down until all that Lewis-and-Clark cognition shit ceased.
Impregnating his subconsciousness with a single goal, he let himself go into sleep and waited in his resting state until…
Wellsie came to him in shades of gray, in that barren landscape of fog and frigid wind and boulders. She was so far away now that the scope of his vision allowed him to see one of the crumbling rock formations up close—
Except it was not, in fact, made of stone.
None of them were.
No, these were the hunched figures of others suffering as she did, their bodies and bones gradually collapsing in on themselves until they were but mounds to be worn away by the wind.
“Wellsie?” he called out.
As her name drifted off into the limitless horizon, she did not look at him.
Did not appear to even recognize his presence.
The only thing that moved was the cold wind that abruptly seemed to marshal itself in his direction, blowing across the flat gray plain, blowing across him, blowing across her.
As it caught her hair, wisps formed around her—
No, not wisps. Her hair was ashes now, ashes that scattered on the invisible current and came at him, hitting him as dust that made his eyes water.
Eventually that would be all of her. And then none of her.
“Wellsie! Wellsie, I’m here!”
He called out to her to rouse her, to get her attention, to tell her he was finally ready, but no matter how much he yelled, or how much he waved his arms, she did not focus on him. She did not look up. She did not move… and neither did his son.
Yet still the wind blew, taking infinitesimal particles from their forms, wearing them down.
In a gripping fear, he turned himself into a great monkey, caterwauling and jumping all around, screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing his arms, but, as if the rules of exertion applied even in this other world, eventually he lost his energy and fell down onto the dusty groung in a heap.
They were sitting in the same pose, he realized.
And that was when the paradoxical truth came to him.
The answer was at once all about what had happened with Autumn and the sex and the feeding—and yet had nothing to do with her. It was about everything Lassiter had tried to help him with—and yet none of that. It wasn’t even about Wellsie, really.
It was him. All… him.
In his dream, he stared down at himself, and abruptly, strength came to him with a calmness that had everything to do with the seat of his soul… and the fact that the pathway out of his suffering—and hers—had just been illuminated by the hand of his Maker.
Finally, after all this time, all this shit, all this agony, he knew what to do.
Now, when he spoke, he did not yell. “Wellsie, I know you can hear me—you hang on. I need just a little longer from you—I’m finally ready. I’m just sorry it took me so long.”
He tarried for only a moment longer, throwing all his love in her direction as if it might keep what remained of her intact. And then he withdrew, yanking himself free with a herculean burst of will that had his body jerking out of its position on the concrete floor—
Throwing out a hand, he kept himself from landing on his face, and immediately got to his feet.
As soon as he stood, he realized that if he didn’t take a piss immediately, his bladder was going to explode and take no prisoners with it.
Striding down the ramp, he punched into the clinic and hit the first bathroom he came to. When he emerged, he didn’t stop to check in with anyone, even though he could hear voices elsewhere in the training center.
Up at the main house, he found Fritz in the kitchen. “Hey, my man, I need your help.”
The butler jumped up from the grocery list he was making. “Sire! You are alive! Oh, blessed Virgin Scribe, all and sundry have sought out—”
Shit. He’d forgotten there were implications to going off the grid.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll text everyone.” Assuming he could find his phone? Probably down in the clinic, and he wasn’t going to waste time going back there. “Listen, what I really need is for you to come with me.”
“Oh, sire, it would be my pleasure to serve you. But mayhap you should go unto the king first—all have been so worried—”
“Tell you what. You can drive and I’ll borrow your phone.” When there was a hesitation, he dropped his voice. “We’ve got to go now, Fritz. I need you.”
The call to service was precisely the motivator the butler needed. With a low bow, he said, “As you wish, sire. And mayhap I shall pack you up some refreshments?”
“Good idea. I need five minutes.”
When the butler nodded and disappeared into the pantry, Tohr rounded the base of the stairs and took the red-carpeted steps two at a time. He stopped rushing when he got to John Matthew’s door.
His knock was answered immediately, John pulling open the way with a jerk. As the kid’s face registered surprise, Tohr put his hands out in self-defense, because he knew he was going to get hollered at for disappearing again.
“I’m sorry that I—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish. John threw his arms around Tohr and held him so hard, his spine cracked.
Tohr was right there with returning the favor. And as he held the only son he had, he spoke in a low, clear voice.
“John, I want you to get off rotation tonight and come with me. I need you… to come with me. Qhuinn can as well—and this is going to take all night—maybe longer.” As Tohr felt the nodding against his shoulder, he took a steadying breath. “Good, son. That’s… good. There’s no way I would do this without you.”
“How you doing?”
Layla opened her heavy eyes and looked up Qhuinn’s body to his face. Standing next to her side of the bed in his room, he was fully dressed, big and remote, awkward though not unkind.
She knew how he felt. With the intense fire of the needing having passed, those hours of straining and pounding and clawing were done and dusted, a strange footnote that appeared to be already fading in her memory like a dream. When the two of them had been gripped in the fist of the experience, it had seemed as if nothing would ever be the same, that they would be forever changed and transformed by the volcanic eruptions.
But now… the quiet return of normalcy appeared to be just as powerful, wiping the slate clean.
“I think I’m ready to get up,” she said.
He had been so good about feeding her from his vein and also bringing her food, and she h
ad stayed on bed rest for at least twenty-fours afterward, as was the tradition up in the Sanctuary after the Primale had lain with a Chosen.
It was time to get moving, however.
“You can stay here, you know.” He went over to his closet and began to arm himself for the night. “Rest some more. Relax.”
No, she had done enough of that.
Pushing herself up on her arms, she waited to feel light-headed, and was relieved when she didn’t. If anything, she felt strong.
There was no other way to put it. Her body just felt… strong.
Shifting her legs off the side of the mattress, she put her weight on her bare soles and slowly rose up. Qhuinn came instantly to her side, but she didn’t need the help.
“I think I’ll have a shower,” she announced.
And after that? She didn’t have a clue what she was going to do.
“I want you to stay here,” Qhuinn said as if reading her mind. “You are going to stay here. With me.”
“We don’t know if I’m pregnant.”
“All the more reason to take it easy. And if you are, you’re going to keep on staying with me.”
“All right.” They were, after all, going to be in this together—assuming there was any “this” to be had.
“I’m going out to fight now, but I have my cell phone with me at all times, and I’ve left you one on that bedside table.” He held his up and pointed to the one by the alarm clock. “You call or text if you need me, clear?”
His face was dead serious, his eyes focusing on her with an intensity that gave her an idea of how accomplished he probably was in the field: Nothing and nobody was going to get in his way if she called for him.
“I promise.”
He nodded and went for the door. Before he opened the way out, he paused and seemed to be searching for words. “How will we know if you…”
“Miscarry? I’ll start cramping, and then I will bleed. I saw it happen on the Other Side a number of times.”
“Are you in any danger if you do?”
“Not that I ever saw—not this early.”
“Should you stay on bed rest?”
“After the first twenty-four hours, if it’s going to take, it does—whether I am inactive or not at this point, our die is already cast.”
“Let me know?”
“As soon as I do.”
He turned away. Appeared to stare at the face of the door for a moment. “It’s going to stick.”
Of that he was far more confident than she, but it was gratifying to learn of his faith, and his desire for what she wanted.
“I’ll be back at dawn,” he said.
“I shall be here.”
After he left, she attended to herself in the shower, passing the bar of soap over her lower belly again and again. It seemed odd to have such a potentially momentous thing occurring in her own body, and to be as yet unaware of the particulars.
They would find out soon enough, though. Most females bled within the first week if they were going to.
When she got out from beneath the spray, she toweled off and discovered that he’d thoughtfully left another of her robes upon the counter, and she drew it on, along with some underthings in the event that a termination event occurred.
In the main bedroom, she sat down on the duvet to pull on her slipper shoes, and then…
There was nothing for her to do. And the silence and stillness were rotten companions for her anxiety.
Unbidden, the image of Xcor’s face returned to her once again.
With a soft curse, she feared she would never forget the manner in which he had regarded her, his eyes staring up at her as if she were a vision he couldn’t fully comprehend, yet would be e’er grateful for having seen but once.
Unlike memories of the needing, the sensations she had felt when that male had focused upon her were as incandescent as the moment she had lived them, unfaded through the months that separated her from that meeting. Except… had she simply imagined it all? Was it possible that the recollection was strong simply because it was fantasy?
Clearly, if the needing was anything to go by, real life faded fast.
The desire to be wanted did not, however—
The knock on the door made her gather herself. “Yes?”
Through the panels, a female voice replied, “It’s Xhex. Mind if I come in?”
She couldn’t imagine what the female was doing seeking her out. Still, she liked John’s mate, and she would always entertain his shellan.
“Oh, please do—hello, this is a welcome surprise.”
Xhex shut them in together, and awkwardly looked everywhere but upon her face. “So, ah… how are you feeling?”
Indeed, she had the sense a lot of people were going to be asking her that in the coming week. “Well enough.”
“Good. Yeah… good.”
Long silence. “Is there something I may help you with?” Layla asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Then by all means, tell me and I shall do whatever I can.”
“It’s complicated.” Xhex narrowed her eyes. “And dangerous.”
Layla put her hand over her lower belly as if to shelter her young in case there was one. “Whate’er do you seek?”
“On Wrath’s orders, I’m trying to find Xcor.”
Layla’s chest constricted, her mouth opening so she could breathe. “Indeed.”
“I know you’re aware of what he did.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I also know you fed him.”
Layla blinked as the image of that cruel, strangely vulnerable face came to her anew. For a split second, she had the absurd instinct to protect him—but that was ridiculous, and not something she would sustain.
“Of course I will help you and Wrath. I’m glad the king has reconsidered his earlier stance.”
Now the female hesitated. “What if I told you Wrath couldn’t know about it. No one could, especially not Qhuinn. Would that change your mind?”
John, she thought. John had told his mate what had transpired.
“I realize,” Xhex said, “that I’m putting you in a terrible position, but you know what my nature is. I’ll use anything at my disposal to get what I want, and I want to find Xcor now. I have no doubt that I’ll be able to protect you, and I don’t have any intention of getting you anywhere near him. I just need the general area where he settles at night, and I’ll take it from there.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“No, but I’m going to give the Brotherhood the ammunition to do so. The weapon that was used to shoot at Wrath was a rifle with a long-range scope—not the kind of thing anyone would take into the field on a normal night. Assuming they haven’t destroyed it, they’ll leave it behind when they go out. If I can get ahold of it, and we can prove what they did, things are going to take their natural course.”
Kind eyes, she thought… the male had had such kind eyes when he’d stared up at her. But in fact, he was the enemy of her king.
Layla felt her head nod. “I shall help you. I shall do anything I can… and not say a word.”
The female came over and put a surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder. “I hate putting you in this position. War is an ugly, ugly business that specializes in compromising good people such as yourself. I can feel how this is tearing you up, and I’m sorry that I’m asking you to lie.”
It was lovely of the symphath to offer concern, but her conflict was not with giving false testimony to the Brotherhood. It was the fighter she would be helping to kill.
“Xcor used me,” she said, as if trying to convince herself.
“He’s very dangerous. You’re lucky to have come out of meeting him alive.”
“I will do what is right.” She glanced up at Xhex. “When do we leave?”
“Right now. If you’re able to.”
Layla called upon deep recesses of strength. Then nodded. “Allow me to get my coat.”
SIXTY-F
IVE
Hours later, as Marissa sat at her desk at Safe Place, she answered her cell phone and couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “It’s you again.”
Butch’s Boston-accented voice was full of gravel. As usual. “When are you coming home?”
She looked at her watch and thought, Where had the night gone? Then again, it was always this way at work. She came in as soon as the sun was safely below the horizon, and before she knew it, the light was threatening in the east, and driving her back to the compound.
Into the arms of her male.
Hardly a chore, that was.
“About forty-five minutes?”
“You could come now.…”
The way he drawled those words suggested an altogether different meaning to that verb than “return home.” “Butch—”
“I didn’t make it out of bed tonight.”
She bit her lip, picturing him naked in the sheets that had been messy when she left. “No?”
“Mmm, no.” He drew out the syllables—at least until his breath caught. “I’ve been thinking about you.…”
His voice was so deep, so raw, that she knew exactly what he was doing to himself, and for a moment she closed her eyes and indulged in some seriously beautiful mental pictures.
“Marissa… come home.…”
Snapping herself together, she pulled out of the spell he knew damn well he was weaving around her. “I can’t leave quite now. But I’ll start getting ready to check out—how about that?”
“Perfect.” She could hear the grin on his face. “I’ll be here waiting for you—and listen, all kidding aside, take as long as you need. Just come back here first before you go to Last Meal? I want to give you an hors d’oeuvre you won’t forget.”
“You’re pretty unforgettable already.”
“That’s my girlie. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
As she ended the call, that big, fat, happy smile stayed on her face. Her mate was a traditional kind of male, “old-school,” as he called himself, with all the biases that came with that mental set: Females should never pay for anything, open a door, pump gas into their cars, step through a mud puddle, carry something larger than what could fit in a sandwich bag… you name it. But he never got in the way of her job. Ever. That was the one area of her life where she called the shots, and he never complained about her hours, her workload, or her stress level.