Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (47 page)

Compelled to at least appear to be a good hostess of sorts, Layla pushed herself up, wincing as a

set of cramps froze her halfway.

As Payne cursed softly, Layla had to lie back down. In a rough voice, she said, “Forgive me, but I

cannot have visitors at this time—no matter how well intended you are. Thank you for your

expression of sympathy—”

“Are you aware of who my mother is,” Payne cut in.

Layla shook her head against her pillow. “Please just leave—”

“Do you know?” the female said roughly.

Abruptly, Layla wanted to cry. She just didn’t have the energy for any conversation at this point—

but most certainly not about
mahmens
. Not when she was losing her own young.

“Please.”

“I am birthed of the Scribe Virgin.”

Layla frowned, the words registering even through the pain, mental and physical. “I’m sorry?”

Payne took a deep breath, as if the revelation were not something she rejoiced in, but rather a kind of curse. “I am of the Scribe Virgin’s very flesh, born of her long ago, and hidden from the records of the Chosen and the eyes of all third parties.”

Layla blinked in shock. The female’s appearance up above had been a mystery of sorts, but she

had certainly asked no questions as it was not her place to. The one thing she was clear on was that there had never been any mention of the race’s holiest mother having e’er birthed a child.

In fact, the entire structure of the belief system was predicated upon that
not
having occurred.

“How is this possible?” Layla breathed.

Payne’s brilliant eyes were grave. “It was not what I would have wished. And it is not something

I speak of.”

In the tense moment that followed, Layla found it impossible not to see the truth in what the female spoke. Nor the strident anger, the cause of which one could guess at.

“You are a holy one,” Layla said with awe.

“Not in the slightest, I assure you. But my lineage has provided me with a certain…how shall we

say it? Ability.”

Layla stiffened. “And that would be?”

Payne’s diamond eyes never wavered. “I want to help you.”

Layla’s hand went to her lower belly. “If you mean get this over with sooner…no.”

She had her young for such a precious short time within her. No matter how long the pain went on,

she was not going to sacrifice one minute of what was no doubt her one and only pregnancy.

She would never put herself through this again. In the future, when her needing hit, she would be

drugged, and that was it.

Once in a lifetime was too much for the loss she was sustaining now.

“And if you believe you can stop this,” Layla tacked on, “it is not possible. There is naught that

any may do.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Payne’s eyes were rapt. “I’d like to see if I can save the pregnancy. If you’ll let me.”

At the abandoned Brownswick School for Girls campus, Mr. C had taken up res in what had once

been the headmistress’s office.

The cracked sign outside in the hall told him so.

As there was no heat, the ambient air temperature was exactly that of the great outdoors, but

thanks to the Omega’s blood, cold was not a problem. And thank fuck for that: Across the overgrown, snow-covered lawn, in the main dormitory on the ridge, nearly fifty
lessers
were sleeping the sleep of the dead.

If those bastards had required BTUs or food, he’d have been shit out of luck.

But nah, all he had to do was provide them with shelter. Their inductions took care of the rest—

and the fact that they needed to unplug from consciousness every twenty-four hours was a relief.

He needed time to think.

Jesus Christ, what a mess.

Compelled by an urge to pace, he went to push his chair back, and then remembered that he was

sitting on an overturned drywall bucket.

“Goddamn it.”

Looking around the decrepit room, he measured the plaster that was hanging in sheets from the

ceiling rafters, the boarded-up windows, and the hole in the floorboards over in the corner. Place

was just like the bank accounts he’d found.

No money anywhere. No ammo. Weapons that could be used for blunt-force trauma, and that was

about it.

After his promotion, he’d been so fucking pumped, full of plans. Now he was staring at a whole

lot of no cash, no resources, no nothing.

The Omega, on the other hand, was expecting all kinds of results. As had been made amply clear

during their little “visit” late last night.

And that was another problem. He hated that shit.

At least he could do something about the rest of it.

Stretching his arms over his head and cracking his shoulders, he thanked God for two things: One,

that the cell phones hadn’t been cut off—so he could communicate with his men in the field, and had Internet access. And two, that all those years on the street had given him an iron fist when it came to controlling dumb-ass young idiots in the drug trade.

He had to bring in some paper. Stat.

He’d had a fucking plan for that, too, sending the Society’s last nine thousand, three hundred

dollars off with three of his boys at midnight last night. All those bastards had had to do was make the buy, get the dope, and bring it back here, where he’d cut the shit, then parcel it out to the new

inductees for sale on the street.

Trouble was, he was still waiting for the fucking delivery.

And he was getting pretty goddamn impatient waiting to find out where either the drugs or his

money had gone.

It was possible the cocksuckers had run off with one or the other, but if that was the case, he was going to hunt them down like dogs and show all of the others what happened when you—

As his phone rang, he picked the thing up, saw who it was, and hit
send
.

“It’s about fucking time. Where the fuck are you and where is my shit.”

There was a pause. And then the voice that came over the connection was not anything like that of

the pimple-faced pusher he’d given the cell, the cash, and the last working gun the Society had to.

“I have something you want.”

Mr. C frowned. Very deep voice. Laced with an edge he recognized from the streets, and an

accent he couldn’t place.

“It’s not the piece-of-shit phone you’re calling me on,” Mr. C drawled. “I got plenty of those.”

After all, when you didn’t have anything in your hand, your holster or your wallet, bluffing was

your only option.

“Well, good for you. Have you plenty of what you sent to me, too? Money? Manpower?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I’m your enemy.”

“If you took my fucking cash, you bet your ass you are.”

“Actually, ’tis a simplistic answer to what is a rather complex problem.”

Mr. C burst to his feet, knocking over the bucket. “Where’s my
fucking
money, and what did you do with my men?”

“I’m afraid they can’t come to the phone anymore. That’s why I’m calling.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Mr. C bit out.

“On the contrary, you are the one at that particular disadvantage—as well as so many others.”

When Mr. C was about to snap, the guy cut him off. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call you at nightfall with a location. You, and you alone, are going to meet me there. If anyone comes with you, I will know, and you will never hear from me again.”

Mr. C was used to feeling disdain for others—came with the job when all you dealt with were

two-bit street thugs and strapped drug addicts. But this guy on the other end of the connection? Self-controlled. Calm.

A professional.

Mr. C dialed back his temper. “I don’t need to play games—”

“Yes, you do. Because if you want drugs to sell, you need to come to me.”

Mr. C got quiet. This was either a lunatic with delusions of grandeur, or…somebody with true

power. Like, maybe the one who’d been killing off all the middlemen in the Caldwell drug trade over the last year.

“Where and when?” he said gruffly.

There was a dark laugh. “Answer your phone at nightfall, and you’ll find out.”

FORTY-THREE

Layla couldn’t speak as Payne’s words sank in.

“No,” she said to the other female. “No, Havers told me…there is nothing that can be

done.”

“Medically, that may well be true. I may have another way, however. I don’t know

whether it will work, but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to do what I can.”

For a moment, Layla could only breathe.

“I don’t…” She felt the flat plane of her stomach. “What will you do to me?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” Payne shrugged. “In fact, it hadn’t even dawned on me that it might

help your situation. But I have been known to heal that which needs healing. Again, I’m not sure

whether it applies here. We could try, though—and it won’t hurt you. That I can promise.”

Layla searched the fighter’s face. “Why…would you do this for me?”

Payne frowned and focused elsewhere. “You do not need to know the whys.”

“Yes, I do.”

That profile grew positively cold. “You and I are sisters in my mother’s tyranny—casualties of

her grand plan for the way things must be. We were both jailed by her in different ways, you as a

Chosen, myself as her blooded daughter. There is nothing I will not do to aid you.”

Layla lay back. She had never before considered herself a casualty of the mother of the race.

Except…as she considered her desperation for a family, her sense of rootlessness, her very lack of

identity outside of her service as a Chosen…she had to wonder. Free will had led her here to this

horrid spot, but at least she had picked the route and the means. As a member of the Scribe Virgin’s special class of females, she had had no such choice, about anything in her life.

Anything at all, really.

She was losing the pregnancy; this was self-evident. And if Payne thought there was a chance

of…

“Do what you will,” she said roughly. “And I thank you no matter the outcome.”

Payne nodded once. Then she brought up her hands, flexing them, the fingers flaring wide. “May I

touch your stomach?”

Layla pushed down the covers. “Must I take off my shirt altogether?”

“No.”

Just as well. Even the shift of the duvet heralded a further cramping, the minute change in weight

cause for—

“You are in such pain,” the other female murmured.

Layla didn’t answer as she exposed the skin of her stomach. Clearly, her expression had already

said enough.

“Just relax. This shouldn’t cause you any distress—”

As contact was made, Layla jerked her head up. The fighter’s hands were warm like bathwater as

they landed ever so softly on her lower abdomen. Soothing like bathwater as well. Strangely

soothing, as a matter of fact.

“Does this hurt you?” Payne asked.

“No. It feels…” As another cramping geared itself up, she gripped the sheets, bracing herself—

Except the crest of the pain didn’t rise as it had previously, surely as if the sensation were a great, cragged mountain, the top of which had been sheared off.

It was the first relief she’d gotten since it had all started.

With a groan of submission, she let her head go lax, the pillows cushioning a sudden weariness

that told her just how much discomfort had been in her body.

“And now we begin.”

All at once, the lamp across the room flickered…and then went out.

Its illumination was soon replaced, however.

From Payne’s gentle hands, a soft glow began to emanate, the warmth of her touch intensifying,

that strange, wondrous easing seeming to penetrate beneath the skin, and the muscle, and any bone that was in the way…going directly into Layla’s womb.

And then there was an explosion of sorts.

With a hiss, she gave herself up to the great surge of energy that abruptly burrowed into her, that heat never burning and yet boiling away the pain, lifting the agony up and out of her flesh surely as the steam from a pot rose and drifted away.

But it was not over. A great flush of euphoria sped throughout her body, its golden tendrils

pulsating out of her pelvic area and flowing up through her torso to her mind and her very soul as her legs and arms tingled as well.

Oh, great, poignant relief…

Oh, incredible power…

Oh, sweet saving grace.

The healing was still not over, however.

In the midst of the maelstrom, Layla felt a…what was it? A shifting in her womb. A tightening,

mayhap? But not a cramping, no, not that. More as if that which had been lagging found a bracing

strength.

She became gradually aware that her teeth were chattering.

Looking down her body, she saw that everything was trembling, and that was not all.

Her physical form was glowing. Every inch of her skin was as a shade on a lamp, revealing the

light beneath, her clothes acting as frail barriers to that which was streaming from her.

In the illumination, Payne’s face was harsh, as if there were a great cost to her in transferring the wondrous healing to another. And Layla would have moved away, stopped this, if she could have—

because the other female began to look positively haggard. There was no way to break the connection, however; she had no control of her limbs, no way of even speaking.

It seemed to last forever, the vital communion between them.

When Payne finally jerked back, breaking the link, she slumped off the bed, landing in a heap on

the floor.

Layla opened her mouth to shout. Tried to reach for her savior. Strained against her body’s still-

glowing deadweight.

But there was naught she could do.

The last thing that registered before she lost consciousness was her concern for the other female.