Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (108 page)

was doing was leaving a toxic cloud of smoke in its wake as it rattled off like it was on a Sunday

stroll.

Oh, and that POS was far from fucking bulletproof, but evidently had gas in its tank.

Qhuinn and Z were not going to make it. They were going to slam into that forest at the end of the

field—assuming they didn’t get blown up first.

In that moment, when he knew that one way or another a fireball was imminent, he split in half.

The physical part of him remained plugged into fending off the attack, his arms sticking straight out, his forefingers squeezing out bullets, his eyes and ears tracking the sounds and sights of muzzle

flashes and the movements of his enemy.

The other part of him was in that airplane.

It was as if he were watching his own death. He could imagine so very clearly the violent

vibrating of the plane, and the out-of-control bumps over the ground, and the sight of that solid line of trees coming at him—sure as if he were staring out of Qhuinn’s eyes and not his own.

That foolhardy son of a
bitch
.

There had been so many times when Blay had thought, He’s going to kill himself.

So many times on and off the field.

But now this was the one that was going to stick—

The bullet struck him in the thigh, and the pain that raced from his leg to his heart suggested that his full attention needed to shift back to the fight: If he wanted to live, he had to completely focus.

Yet even as the conviction hit him, there was a split second when he thought, Just end this all

now. Just be done with all the bullshit and the punishment of life, the almost-theres, the if-onlys, the relentless chronic agony he’d been in…he was so tired of it all—

He had no idea what made him hit the snow.

One moment he was staring toward the plane waiting for the burst of flames. The next he was

chest-down on the ground, his elbows digging into the frozen, intractable earth, his injured leg

throbbing.

Pop! Pop! Pop—

The roar that interrupted the sound of bullets was so loud he ducked his head, like that would help him avoid the chronic airplane’s fireball.

Except there was no light and no heat. And the sound was overhead….

Soaring. That bucket of bolts was actually in the air. Above them.

Blay spared a second to look up, just in case he’d gotten shot in the head and his perception of

reality was fucked. But no—that piece-of-shit crop duster was up in the sky, making a fat turn and

taking off in the direction that, if it could stay aloft, would eventually lead Qhuinn and Z to the Brotherhood’s compound.

If they were lucky.

Man, that flight path wasn’t pretty—it was not an eagle going straight and true through the night

sky. More like a barn swallow fresh out of the nest—with a broken wing.

Back and forth. Back and forth, tipping from side to side.

To the point where it looked more like they had pulled off the impossible and gotten in the air…

only to quickly crash and burn over the forest…

From out of nowhere, something caught him in the side of the face, smacking him so hard he

flopped over onto his back and nearly lost hold of his forties. A hand—it had been a hand that had

palmed his puss like a basketball.

And then a massive weight jumped on his chest, flattening him into the snowpack, making him

exhale so hard, he wondered if he didn’t need to look around for his liver.

“Will you get your fucking head down?” Rhage hissed in his ear. “You’re going to get shot—

again.”

As the lull in shooting stetched from seconds to a full minute,
lessers
emerged from the tree line up ahead, the quartet of slayers walking through the snow with their weapons drawn and poised.

“Don’t move,” Rhage whispered. “Two can play at this game.”

Blay did his best not to breathe as heavily as the burn in his lungs was telling him he needed to.

Also tried not to sneeze as loose flakes tickled his nose on every inhale.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

John was about three feet away, and lying in a contorted position that made Blay’s heart flicker—

The guy subtly flashed a thumbs-up, like he was reading Blay’s mind.

Thank. Fuck.

Blay shifted his eyes around without changing the awkward angle of his head, and then discreetly

exchanged a gun for one of his daggers.

As an unhinged hum started to vibrate in his head, he calibrated the
lessers’
movements, their trajectories, their weapons. He was nearly out of bullets, and there wasn’t time to reload from his ammo belt—and he knew that John and Rhage were in a similar situation.

The knives that V had hand-made for them all were their only recourse.

Closer…closer…

When the four slayers were finally in range, his timing was perfect. And so were the others’.

With a coordinated shift and surge, he leaped up and started stabbing at the two closest to him.

John and Rhage attacked the others—

Almost immediately, more slayers came from the woods, but for some reason, probably because

the Lessening Society wasn’t arming inductees all that well, there were no bullets. The second round rushed across the snow with the kind of weapons you’d expect to find in an alley fight—baseball

bats, crowbars, tire irons, chains.

Fine with him.

He was so juiced and pissed off, he could use the hand-to-hand.

NINETEEN

Sitting on the examination table, with a frail paper gown covering her, and her bare feet hanging

off the padded lip, Layla felt as though she were surrounded by instruments of torture. And she

supposed she was. All manner of stainless-steel implements were laid out upon the countertop

by the sink, their clear plastic wrappings indicating they were sterile and prepared for use.

She had been at Havers’s clinic for an absolute eternity. Or at least, it seemed that way.

In contrast to the rushing ride across the river, when the butler had driven like he knew time was

of all essence, ever since she had arrived herein there had been delay after delay. From the

paperwork, to the waiting for a room, to the waiting for the nurse, to the waiting for Havers to present the blood test results to her.

It was enough to make one mad in the head.

Across from where she sat, a print framed in glass hung upon the wall, and she had long

memorized the image’s brushstrokes and colors, the bouquet of flowers depicted in vibrant blues and yellow. The name underneath it read:
van Gogh
.

At this point, she never wanted to see irises again.

Shifting her weight about, she grimaced. The nurse had given her a proper pad for her bleeding,

and she was horrified to realize that she was going to need another soon—

The door opened on a knock, and her first instinct was to run—which was ridiculous. This was

where she needed to be.

Except it was merely the nurse who had settled her here, taken that blood sample and her vitals,

and made notations on a computer. “I’m so sorry—there’s been another emergency. I just want to

reassure you that you are next in line.”

“Thank you,” Layla heard herself say.

The female came over and put a hand on Layla’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”

The kindness made her blink quickly. “I fear I shall need another…” She pointed down at her

hips.

The nurse nodded and squeezed gently before going over to the cupboards and extracting a peach-

wrapped square. “I’ve got more here. Would you like me to take you back down to the bathroom?”

“Yes, please—”

“Wait, don’t get on your feet yet. Let me get you a better cover.”

Layla looked down at her hands, her tangled, knotted hands that could not be still. “Thank you.”

“Here you go.” Something soft was draped around her. “Okay, let’s get you standing.”

Sliding off the table, she wobbled a little, and the nurse was right there, taking hold of her elbow, steadying her.

“We’re going to go slowly.”

And they did. Out in the hall, there were nurses rushing from room to room, and people coming

and going for appointments, and other staff going at a dead run…and Layla couldn’t believe she had

ever been as fast as them. To keep out of the crush, she and her kindly escort stayed close to the wall to avoid getting mowed over, but the others were really quite nice. As if all knew that she suffered in some grave manner.

“I’m going to come in with you,” the nurse said when they got to the facilities. “Your blood

pressure is very low and I’m concerned you’re a fall risk, okay?”

As Layla nodded, they went in and the lock was turned. The nurse relieved her of the blanket, and

she awkwardly shuffled the paper out of the way.

Sitting down, she—

“Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe.”

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s all right.” The nurse bent down and gave her the fresh pad. “Let’s take care of this. You’re all right…here, no, you’ll want to give that to me. We have to send it to the lab. There’s a chance it can be used to determine why this is happening, and you’re going to want that information if you try again.”

Try again. As if the loss was already done.

The nurse snapped on gloves and got a plastic bag from out of a console. Things were taken care

of discreetly and with alacrity, and Layla watched as the name she’d given was written on the outside of the bag in black marker.

“Oh, honey, it’s okay.”

The nurse took off her gloves, snapped out a paper towel from the holder on the wall, and knelt

down. Taking Layla’s chin in her gentle hand, she carefully dried cheeks that had become wet with

tears.

“I know what you’re going through. I lost one, too.” The nurse’s face became beautiful with

compassion. “Are you sure we can’t call your
hellren
?”

Layla just shook her head.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind. I know it’s hard to see them upset and worried, but

don’t you think he’ll want to be with you?”

Oh, however was she going to tell Qhuinn? He had seemed so sure of everything, as if he had

already looked into the future and stared into the eyes of their young. This was going to be a shock.

“Will I know if I ever was pregnant?” Layla mumbled.

The nurse hesitated. “The blood test may tell, but it depends on how far along you are with what’s

happening.”

Layla stared at her hands again. Her knuckles were white. “I need to know whether I’m losing a

young or this is just the normal bleeding that occurs when one does not conceive. That’s important.”

“It’s not for me to say, I’m afraid.”

“You know, though. Don’t you.” Layla looked up and met the female’s eyes. “Don’t you.”

“Again, it’s not my place, but…with this much blood?”

“I was pregnant.”

The nurse made a hedging motion with her hands, her lips pursing. “Don’t tell Havers I said

this…but probably. And you must know, there is nothing you can do to stop the process. It’s not your fault, and you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just, sometimes, these things simply happen.”

Layla hung her head. “Thank you for being honest with me. And…in truth, that is what I believe to

be occurring.”

“A female knows. Now, let’s take you back.”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

Except Layla struggled with getting her panties in place as she stood up. When it became clear she

couldn’t get her hands coordinated, the nurse stepped in and helped with enviable ease, and it was all so embarrassing and frightening. To be so weak and at the mercy of another for such a simple thing.

“You have the most gorgeous accent,” the nurse said as they rejoined the traffic in the hall,

sticking once again to their slow lane. “It’s so Old Country—my
granmahmen
would approve. She hates how English has become our dominant language here. Thinks it’s going to be the downfall of the species.”

The conversation about nothing in particular helped, giving Layla something to focus on other than

how long she was going to be able to go until she needed to make this trip again…and whether things were getting worse with the miscarriage…and what it was going to be like when she was forced to

look Qhuinn in the eye and tell him she had failed….

Somehow they made it back to the exam room.

“It shouldn’t be much longer. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

The nurse paused by the door, and as she went still, shadows crossed the depths of her eyes, as if

she were reliving parts of her own past. And in the silence between them, a moment of communion

was struck—and though it was unusual to have something in common with an earthbound female, the

connection was a relief.

She had felt so alone in all this.

“We have people you can talk to,” the female said. “Sometimes talking afterward can really

help.”

“Thank you.”

“Use that white handset if you need help or feel dizzy, okay? I’m not far.”

“Yes. I shall.”

As the door shut, tears watered up her vision, and yet even as she ached in her chest, the crushing sense of loss seemed disproportionate to the reality. The pregnancy was only in the very beginning

stages—logically, there was not much to lose.

And yet to her, this was her young.

This was the death of her young—

There was a soft knock at the door, and then a male voice. “May I come in?”

Layla squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. “Please.”

The race’s physician was tall and distinguished, with tortoiseshell glasses and a bow tie at his

throat. With a stethoscope around his neck and that long white coat, he looked like the perfect healer, calm and competent.

He closed the door and smiled at her briefly. “How are you feeling?”