BDB 13 The Shadows (15 page)

“It’s why s’Ex was calling you. He tracked me down when you didn’t answer and, yeah, there you go.”

Trez blew out his breath. “You know what my fantasy is? It ain’t porn. It’s good news. For once in my fucking life, I’d love to have some good news.”

“They’re in mourning.” When Trez just shook his head, iAm felt like hell all over again. “We have a week, and then…”

“Then they’re going to want their living, breathing dildo back, huh.”

As Trez focused on the closed door of the exam room, he appeared to age before iAm’s eyes, the skin of his face seeming to melt from the bone structure underneath, the corners of his eyes dragging down, his mouth going lax.

“Trez—”

“Tell s’Ex I want to meet with him. I can’t leave now because of…”

“You’re not actually thinking of going back, are you.”

Trez’s stare didn’t leave that closed door.

“Trez. Answer me. You’re not thinking about going back.”

As the silence stretched out, iAm cursed. “Trez? Hello?”

“I’ve got to meet with s’Ex. But it has to be after…” Trez cleared his throat. “Yeah. Afterward.”

iAm nodded because what else could he do? There was no blaming the guy for that kind of prioritization.

Unfortunately, the s’Hisbe was not going to be so understanding. But that was where iAm came in. No way anyone was muscling his brother while this shit with Selena was going on.

He didn’t care what he had to do: Trez was going to be free to care for his female.

Fuck the Queen.

L
ayla felt pursued as she kept a foot on the gas and both hands on the steering wheel of her pale blue Mercedes. Qhuinn bought her the E350 4matic, whatever that meant, about three months ago. He’d wanted something flashier, bigger, faster, but in the end, the little sedan was what she’d felt most comfortable with. And she’d picked the color because it reminded her of the bathing pools up in the Sanctuary.

The farmland on Caldwell’s outskirts rolled out over hill and dale, and she loved these gracious undulating fields that spiked up with corn in July and August, and were shorn down like a male’s beard in the fallow months. She knew all of the landscape by heart now, this route well taken out to one specific rise, one particular meadow, one now-significant tree.

When she came to the base of the short hill, she cut her lights and let the car roll to a stop. She never felt good about coming here, but after seeing the state Selena was in and knowing what it meant, her heart was even heavier than usual.

Hefting herself out from behind the wheel, she put her hands on her lower back and arched her chest out, trying to loosen the muscles that seemed perpetually engaged—

“You’re early.”

With a gasp, she wheeled around. Xcor was standing mere feet from her rear bumper, and she could tell instantly that something was off about him. It wasn’t that his harsh face looked any different; from the harelip that made him appear as if he were perpetually snarling, to his shrewd eyes and his heavy jaw, all the features were the same. And there wasn’t a change in his skull-trimmed hair, or his long black leather duster, or even his leathers or his combat boots or all the weapons she knew he had on him, but which he always carefully hid from her.

She was unable to pinpoint exactly what the clue was. But her instincts did not lie, and they were never wrong.

“Are you unwell?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She put her hand on her belly. “I am not.”

“What happened last night? Why didn’t you come?”

An image of Qhuinn pacing around the billiards room as she and Blay sat on the sofas came to mind. And then she pictured the three of them down in the training center’s exam room, standing to the side as Selena was assessed and more bad news was given.

“I had a family emergency,” she said. “Well, two, actually.”

“Of what sort?”

“Naught that concerns you.”

“There is little of you that does not concern me.”

Glancing up toward the tree that they usually sat under, Layla shivered. “I—”

“You are cold. We will get in your car.”

In his usual way, Xcor took charge, opening her door and standing aside, a quiet demand. For a moment, she hesitated. In spite of the noble impetus to keep the King and the Brothers safe, she knew in her marrow that no one would ever approve of these meetings, these words, this time spent with the sworn enemy of the Brotherhood.

The one who had plotted Wrath’s demise not once, but twice.

To sit with Xcor in the very car Qhuinn bought for her out of his own good heart was a violation of all the relationships she valued most.

Except she was protecting those she loved, she reminded herself.

“Get in,” Xcor told her.

And she did.

Closing her door, Xcor walked around to the passenger side, and as he knocked on the window and she unlocked his door, she thought of the false human mythology of vampires, where what was supposedly undead had to be invited in before they could cross a threshold.

So far from reality.

Xcor’s soldier-size body took up all the room in the sedan as he sat down in a seat that was overly big for her, even as pregnant as she was. As she inhaled to steady herself, she hated the fact that she liked the way he smelled—but she did. In fact, he always took pains to be clean whenever they met, his skin smelling of a spiced cologne that she desperately wanted to find unattractive.

This was all so much more palatable if she stayed focused on the fact that she was being coerced into the contact, the proximity, this closeness.

Because to be here with him upon freedom of will …

God, why was she so in her head tonight—

“Drive on,” he said. “Please.”

“What?” Her heart began to pound. “Why—”

“It’s no longer safe here. We have to meet in another place.”

“Why?” The reality of how little she knew and trusted him made her realize exactly how isolated they were. “What’s changed?”

He looked over at her. “Please. For your safety. I shall never harm you—you must know that—and thus I say it is not safe for us here anymore.”

She held his eyes for a long moment. “Where shall we go?”

“I have secured another location. Head west. Please.”

When she didn’t move, he put his hand over hers and squeezed. “This is not safe.”

As he released his hold, his eyes never wavered from hers. And a moment later, she watched from a vast distance as she reached forward and hit the ignition button to start the engine. “All right.”

As she put the car in drive, a subtle binging noise started up. “Your seat belt,” she said. “You need to put it on.”

He complied without comment, stretching the belt far, far out to extend over his massive chest, and then clicking it home.

“How far?” she asked, as a renewed spike of fear made her heart speed up again.

“Ten miles.” Xcor put the window down a crack and breathed in as if trying to find a scent upon the air. “It’s a secure location.”

“Are you kidnapping me?”

He recoiled. “No. You are, as always, free to come and go.”

“Okay.”

She hoped he was telling the truth. Prayed he was. And didn’t that shine a bright light on this deadly game she was playing.

This had to stop, she thought. There was a war going on with the
lessers
. He was a traitor to her King.

She was getting to be very pregnant.

The problem was, she didn’t know how to disentangle the ropes that bound the two of them together.

Rhage was the last of the Brothers to materialize onto the lawn of an estate that was right out of a magazine for one percenters. As he looked up at the great looming house, he heard the narrator from the old
Batman
TV show: “Meanwhile, back at stately Wayne Manor…”

The Tudor-style mansion was set back on manicured lawns as if it were too good to fraternize with anything less than the White House, and lights were on in the interior, glowing with soft yellow luxury like maybe there were solid-gold shades on all those lamps. With quick efficiency, a butler could be seen crossing in front of a bank of diamond panes, his formal uniform something that Fritz would wear.

They probably had the same tailor.

“We ready for His Royal Highness?” V asked wryly.

There was a grumble of agreement among the five of them, and then Vishous disappeared into thin air. The plan was for him to join Butch in the cop’s brand-new Range Rover, which was parked about four miles to the east with the King bitching about all the security measures from the shotgun seat. The two of them were going to drive Wrath over here—giving the group a number of ways to get the male out if shit went tits-up.

Rhage hated that they were bringing him here to meet with Throe, but Wrath refused to send a representative, and what were they going to do? Tie him to a fucking chair so he didn’t come on his own?

“FYI.” Rhage unsheathed one of his black daggers. “I give no guarantees I won’t fillet this motherfucker.”

“I’ll hold him down for you,” somebody tossed back.

A cold wind blew in from the north, scattering fallen leaves across his shitkickers, and Rhage looked over his shoulder. Nothing was moving over on the left. There was nobody in the bushes. No bad scents were on the air.

But he felt cagey as hell.

Well, duh. Anything that had to do with the Band of Bastards was hardly a night home on the sofa pretending he wasn’t in fact watching
Scandal
.

Or
RHONJ
, if Lassiter had the frickin’ remote.

Ten minutes later, the Range Rover rounded the corner of the drive and came over the rise, its headlights flashing across the face of the house as well as the bunch of them.

Butch piloted around the circle in front of the mansion so that the SUV was facing the escape route, and then Wrath cranked his own door and emerged from the passenger seat. In his shitkickers, the male towered over the roof of the vehicle, and unlike the rest of them, he didn’t have any coat or jacket on.

Just a black button-down. Under which was the mandatory Kevlar vest.

At least they had that.

Thank you, Beth.

Rhage fell into formation with the others and they shielded Wrath with their bodies as they moved forward. The instant they came to the front door, Abalone opened things up as if he had been staring out the windows to the lawn and waiting for their approach.

“My lord. The Brotherhood. Welcome to my home.”

As the First Adviser bowed deeply, Rhage had to approve of the guy. Applebottom, as they called him, was one of the few aristocrats Rhage had ever tripped over who not only had half a brain, but a full heart, under the dandy act.

“If you all will proceed this way?” the guy said, indicating with his hand.

Part of the prearrangement for this was that the meeting would be in the library and one of the windows would be cracked in case Wrath had to ghost out. Throe, who would be waiting in a separate parlor, would be brought in by a Brother, and escorted out by one.

And there were a couple of other provisos.

Once inside the book-lined room, Rhage pulled a quick, but thorough, inspection of the joint, and said, “Let me go get the asshole.”

“You sure?” V asked.

“I won’t eat him. Yet.”

He cut off any conversation by heading back out to where Abalone was hovering in the foyer, looking like he was stuck in an internal debate over whether to throw up on his shoes or try to make it to a bathroom before he ralphed.

“So where’s your cousin?” Rhage shot the guy a reassuring smile. As if he were just gonna bubble-wrap the bastard and nothing more. “Over there?”

Abalone nodded toward the closed door across the way. “Yes. He is in the male’s parlor.”

Rhage put a hand on the First Adviser’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Applebottom. This is gonna be a piece of cake.”

You had to feel for the poor SOB as he exhaled in relief. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

After another flash of the A-okays, Rhage slipped through the parlor door and closed things up behind himself.

Throe was standing across a paneled room, looking like the distinguished male he once was back in the Old Country—in spite of the fact that his clothes were common.

“Rhage?” the male said, coming forward.

“Yeah.”

Throe had the chance to stick out his hand for a shake—and that was it. Rhage grabbed that wrist, spun him around like a ballerina, and shoved him face-first into the nearest wall.

“What are you—”

“Patting you down, asshole.” Okay, so maybe “punching” him down was a little more accurate. “Spread ’em.”

“You’re hurting—”

“If I find a weapon, I’m going to use it on you. Clear?”

“Must you be so—”

“Front side.” Rhage jerked the guy back by his waistband, twirled him like a top, and nailed him to the wall facing out. “Nope, head up.”

He clapped a hand on the guy’s chin and pushed that handsome mug high. After giving a surprisingly thick chest a mammogram, Rhage slapped his way down and honked Throe’s junk so hard, the guy sang a high C.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Nothing in there. Not a surprise.”

Down the thighs. The calves. Back up to eye level.

“Here are the rules. If you make any move toward my King, in any fashion, that I don’t like? You’ll be dead before you hit the floor. Do we understand each other?”

“I’ve come here in peace. I’m through with fighting—”

“Do we have an understanding? If you so much as sneeze on him, try to shake his hand, or look twice at his fucking shitkickers? I’m going to put paid on your toe tag.”

“Are you always so extreme?”

“This is calm, cool, and collected, you little bitch. You don’t want to see me pissed off.”

Rhage shoved the guy toward the door, opened the way out, and locked a hand on the back of Throe’s neck.

“I can walk on my own,” the male drawled.

“Can you? You sure about that?”

Rhage switched his grip around so that he crushed the male’s face in his palm, leading Throe by that collection of eyes, nose, and mouth.

“This working for you better? No? Huh, guess you should have STFU’d.”