Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (21 page)

Brother landed in a crumpled pile, but at least he was cursing—which meant he was with it enough to feel pain.

Qhuinn didn’t wait for any door-shutting bullcrap. He released the foot brake, hit the accelerator, and prayed they didn’t skid out in the snow—

Half the glass windshield shattered in front of him, the bullet that did the damage ricocheting

around the cockpit, the
whiff!
from the seat next to him suggesting the headrest had caught the slug.

Which was better than his arm. Or skull.

The only good news was that the plane seemed ready to get the hell out of there, too, that rusty-ass engine spinning the prop at a dead run like the POS knew getting off the ground was the sole way to safety. Out the side windows, the landscape started striping by, and he oriented the middle of the

“runway” by keeping the two sets of trees equidistant.

“Hold on,” he yelled over the din.

Wind was ripping into the cockpit like there was an industrial fan filling up the space where the

pane of glass had been, but it wasn’t like he was planning on going high enough to require

pressurization.

At this point, he just wanted to clear the forest up ahead.

“Come on, baby, you can do it…come on….”

He had the throttle down flat, and he had to tell his arm to ease off—there was no more juice to be had, but breaking the goddamn thing was guaranteed to fuck them even harder.

The din got louder and louder.

Trees moved faster and faster.

The bumps became more and more violent, until his teeth were clapping together, and he became

convinced one or both of the wings were going to unhinge and fall by the wayside.

Figuring there was no time to waste, Qhuinn pulled back as hard as he could on the steering

wheel, gripping the thing tightly, as if that could somehow be translated to the body of the plane and keep it all together—

Something fell from the ceiling and fluttered back in Z’s direction.

Map? Owner’s manual? Who the fuck knew.

Man, those trees at the far end were getting close.

Qhuinn pulled even more, in spite of the fact that the wheel was as far toward him as it could go

—which was a crying shame, because they were out of runway and still not off the ground—

Scraping sounds raked down the belly of the plane, as if underbrush were reaching up and trying

to grab onto the steel plating.

And still those trees were even closer.

His first thought as he stared death in the face was that he was never going to meet his daughter.

At least not on this side of the Fade.

His second and final was that he couldn’t believe he’d never told Blay he loved him. In all the

minutes and hours and nights of his life, in all the words he’d spoken to the male over the years they’d known each other, he’d only ever pushed him away.

And now it was too late.

Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was.

’Cuz it sure as hell appeared that his library card was getting stamped tonight.

Straightening up so the full force of that cold blast hit him square in the face, Qhuinn glared into the rush, picturing those pines ahead that he couldn’t see because his eyes were watering from the

wind. Opening his mouth, he screamed bloody murder, adding his voice to the maelstrom.

Goddamn it, he wasn’t going down like a pussy. No ducking, no pathetic oh-please-God-no-

saaaaaave-me. Fuck that. He was going to meet death with his fangs bared and his body braced and

his heart pounding not from fear, but from a whole boatload of…

“Blow me, Grim Reaper!”

As Qhuinn was trying to get airborne, Blay had his gun muzzle pointed into the tree line and was

pumping off rounds like he had an endless supply of lead—which he didn’t.

This was a total goat fuck. He and John and Rhage were without any cover; there was no way of

knowing how many slayers were in those woods; and for the love of God, all that ancient airplane

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.”