Lover Reborn (48 page)

“Jane! Jane!”

The healer stuck her head out of the examination room. “I’m on the phone with Tohr right now. They’re bringing him in right away.”

Beth tore down the corridor, her dark hair streaming out behind her. “I’m ready to feed him.”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in.

Not Tohr, it wasn’t Tohr, not Tohr… Dearest Virgin Scribe, thank you—

But Wrath—not the
king
!

Time became as a rubber band, stretching endlessly, the passing minutes slowing down to a crawl as people from the household began to arrive—except then suddenly, a terminal extension was reached and
snap!
everything became a blur.

Doc Jane and the healer Manuel flew out from the examining room, a rolling gurney between them, a black duffel bag with a red cross jangling off the male’s shoulder. Ehlena was right with them, with more equipment in her hands. And so was the queen.

No’One whispered down the hall in their wake, running on the balls of her leather slippers, catching the heavy steel door that led out into the parking lot and squeezing through before it closed. At the curb, a van with blackened windows screeched to a halt, steam curling up from its tailpipe.

Voices—harried and deep—fought for airspace as the vehicle’s rear doors were popped wide and Manuel the healer jumped inside.

Then Tohr got out.

No’One gasped. He was covered with blood, his hands, his chest, his leathers, everything stained red. Except he seemed otherwise all right. It had to be Wrath’s.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, the king—

“Beth! Get in here,” Manuel hollared.
“Now.”

After Tohr helped the queen inside, he stood by the open doors with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his bleak stare trained on the treatment of the king. No’One, meanwhile, loitered on the periphery, waiting and praying, her eyes going back and forth from Tohr’s horrible, fixed expression to the dark recesses of the van. All she saw of the king were his boots, tough, thick soled, and black, the tread on them deep enough to make grooves in set concrete—at least when a male as great as he was wearing them.

Would that he would walk tall once again.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she was a Chosen, a sacred female who had a line to the Scribe Virgin, some way of approaching the mother of the race for special dispensation. But she was no one like that.

All she could do was wait with the ring of others who had formed by the van.…

There was no way of knowing how long they worked upon the king in that vehicle. Hours. Days. But eventually Ehlena repositioned the gurney as close as possible and Tohr hopped back in the rear.

Wrath was carried forth by his loyal Brother and laid out flat upon the white-sheeted mattress—which would not stay so pure for long, she feared, as she measured the king’s neck: Red was already seeping through layers of gauze at the side.

Time was of the essence—but before they could roll him inside, the great male grabbed onto Tohr’s ruined shirt and then started motioning to his throat. Abruptly he made a fist, and then opened his palm upward as if he were holding something.

Tohr nodded, and looked at the doctors. “You need to try to take the bullet out. We have to have that thing—it’s the only way we’re going to be able to prove who did this.”

“What if it compromises his life?” Manuel asked.

Wrath started shaking his head and pointing again, but the queen overruled him. “Then you will leave it right where it is.” As her mate glared at her, she shrugged. “Sorry, my
hellren
. I’m sure your Brothers will agree—you need to survive first and foremost.”

“That’s right,” Tohr growled. “The lead is less important—besides, we already know who’s to blame.”

Wrath started working his mouth—except there was no speaking, because… there was a tube sticking out of his throat?

“Good, glad that’s settled,” Tohr muttered. “Have at him, will you?”

The healers nodded and off they all went with the king, the queen staying right with her male, speaking to him in soft, urgent tones as she jogged alongside. Indeed, as they passed through the doors into the training center, Wrath’s eyes, pale green and glowing, were locked, but unfocused, on her face.

She was keeping him alive, No’One thought. That connection between the two of them sustaining him just as much as anything that the physicians were doing.…

Tohr, meanwhile, also stayed with his leader, passing by without even looking at her.

She didn’t blame him. How could he see anything else?

Reentering the corridor, she wondered if she shouldn’t try to get back to work. But no, there was no possibility of that.

She just followed the group down until the whole lot of them, including Tohr, disappeared into the operating room. Not daring to intrude, she tarried outside.

It was not long before she was joined by the rest of the Brotherhood.

Tragically so.

Over the next hour, the horrors of war were all too evident, the risks to life and limb made manifest by the injuries that presented themselves as the Brothers came in from the field at a trickle.

It had been a rabid gunfight. At least, that was what they said to their mates, all of whom gathered to comfort them, anxious faces, horrified eyes, panicked hearts drawing the couples tightly together. The good news was that each and every one of them came home, the males, and the lone female, Payne, all returned safe and got treated.

Only to worry about Wrath.

The last to arrive was among the worst injured but for the king—to the point that at first, she didn’t recognize who it was. The thatch of dark hair and the fact that John Matthew was carrying him informed her it was likely Qhuinn—but one certainly wouldn’t know that going by his face.

He had been beaten severely.

As the male was delivered to the second operating room, she thought of the mangled mess of her leg and prayed that the healing ahead for him, for them all, was nothing like hers had been.

Dawn eventually arrived, but she knew this only because of what the clock on the wall read. Intermittent glimpses of the various dramas were provided when OR doors were opened and closed, and eventually, those treated were released into healing rooms, or permitted to ambulate themselves back to the main house—not that any of them left. They all settled as she did against the concrete walls of the corridor, sitting vigil not just for the king, but for their fellow fighters.

Doggen
brought food and drink to those who could eat, and she helped pass trays laden with fruit juices and coffee and tea. She brought pillows to ease strained necks, and blankets to cut the draft on the hard floor, and tissues—not that anyone was crying.

The stoic nature of those males and their mates was a kind of power in and of itself. Yet she knew, in spite of their forbearance, that they were terrified.

Still other members of the household arrived: Layla, the Chosen. Saxton, the lawyer who worked with the king. Rehvenge, who always made her nervous even though he had never been anything but perfectly polite to her. The king’s beloved retriever who wasn’t allowed into the operating room, but was comforted by all and sundry. The black cat, Boo, who snaked around the stretched-out boots, and padded over laps, and was petted in passing.

Late morning.

Afternoon.

Late afternoon.

At five-oh-seven, Doc Jane and her partner, Manuel, finally appeared, removing their masks from their exhausted faces.

“Wrath is doing as well as can be expected,” the female reported. “But given that he was treated in the field, we’ve got twenty-four hours of watching for infection ahead of us.”

“You can deal with that, though,” the Brother Rhage spoke up. “Right?”

“We can treat the shit out of it,” Manuel said with a nod. “He’s going to pull through—that tough bastard won’t have it any other way.”

There was an abrupt war cry from the Brotherhood, their respect and adoration and relief so very obvious. And as No’One breathed her own sigh of relief, she realized it was not for the king. It was because she did not want Tohr to sustain any more losses.

This was… good. Thanks be to the Scribe Virgin.

A
t first, Layla could not comprehend what she was looking at. A face, yes, and one that she supposed she knew by shape. But its composite features were distorted to such an extent that she would not have been able to identify the male had she not known him so well.

“Qhuinn…?” she whispered as she approached the hospital bed.

He had been stitched up, little lines of black thread snaking down his brow and across his cheek, his skin shiny from swelling, his hair as yet matted with dried blood, his breathing shallow.

Looking to the machines over the bed, she heard no alarms ringing, saw nothing flashing. That was good, yes?

She would feel better if he replied to her. “Qhuinn?”

On the bed, his hand turned over and released its tight crunch to reveal his broad, flat palm.

She put her own upon it and felt him squeeze. “So you are in there,” she said roughly.

Another squeeze.

“I need to feed you,” she moaned, feeling his pain as her own. “Please… open your mouth for me. Let me ease you.…”

As he complied, there was a cracking sound, as if the joints of his jaw weren’t working properly.

Scoring her own vein, she carried her wrist to his bruised, parted lips. “Take from me.…”

At first, it was clear he had difficulty swallowing, so she licked one of the puncture marks shut to slow the flow. As he gained momentum, she bit herself once again.

She fed him for as long as he would let her, praying that her strength would become his own, and be transformed into a healing force.

How had this happened? Who had done this to him?

Given the number of gauze-wrapped limbs out in the hallway, it was obvious the
lessers
had sent a brutal force out into the streets of Caldwell upon the eve. And Qhuinn had certainly taken on the toughest, meanest member of the enemy forces. He was like that. Unflinching, always willing to put himself on the line… to the point where she worried about that vengeful streak of his.

It was such a fine distinction between courage and deadly recklessness.

When he was finished, she closed her wounds and pulled up a chair, sitting beside him with her palm against his once more.

It was a relief to watch the miraculous transformation of the injuries on his face. At this rate, they would soon be nothing but surface wounds, barely noticeable upon the morrow’s arrival.

Whatever damage he had internally would likewise be discharged.

He was going to survive.

Sitting with him in silence, she thought about the pair of them, and the friendship that had sprouted from that misplaced adoration of hers. If anything happened to him, she would mourn him as a brother of her own blood, and there was naught that she would not do for him—further, she had the keen sense that the same was true on his side as well.

Indeed, he had done so much for her. He had taught her to drive and to fight with her fists, to shoot a gun and operate all manner of computer equipment. He had shown her movies and exposed her to music, bought her clothes that were other than the traditional white robe of the Chosen, took time to answer her questions about this side and make her laugh when she needed to.

She had learned so much from him. Owed him so much.

So it seemed… ungrateful… to feel dissatisfied with her lot. But of late she had experienced a strange irony: The more she was exposed to, the emptier her life felt. And yet as much as he urged her in opposite directions,
she still looked upon her service to the Brotherhood as the most important thing she could do with her time—

As Qhuinn tried to reposition himself, he cursed from discomfort, and she reached out to calm him, stroking back his stringy hair. Only one eye of his worked, and it shifted over to her, the light behind the blue color exhausted and grateful.

A smile stretched her lips and she brushed his busted-up cheek with the very tips of her fingers. Strange, this platonic closeness they shared—it was an island, a sanctuary, and she valued it so much more than whatever heat she had once felt for him.

The vital link also made her aware of how much he suffered, watching his beloved Blay with Saxton.

His pain was ever present, coating him as his very flesh did and binding him in the same way, defining his contours and straightaways.

It made her resent Blay at times, even though it was not her place to judge: If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the hearts of others were known only to themselves—and Blay was, at his core, a male of worth—

The door opened behind her, and over her shoulder the male in her thoughts appeared as if summoned by her ruminations.

Blaylock was not uninjured himself, but he was far better off than the male on the bed—at least on the outside. Internally was a matter altogether different: still fully armed, he appeared far, far older than his years. Especially as he took in his fellow soldier.

He stopped short just inside the room. “I wanted to know how you… he… is doing.”

Layla refocused on Qhuinn. His working eye was locked on the redheaded male, and the regard he paid the other no longer pained her—well, not in the sense that she wanted it for herself.

She wished for Qhuinn this soldier. She truly did.

“Come in,” she said. “Please—we’re done here.”

Blay was slow in approaching, and his hands went to random buckles—on his holster, on his belt, on the leather strapping around his upper thigh.

His composure was retained, however. At least until he spoke. Then his voice quavered. “You dumb son of a bitch.”

Layla’s brows sunk into a glare, even though Qhuinn hardly needed someone like her to defend him. “I
beg
your pardon.”

“According to John, he went out of that house into the Band of Bastards. Alone.”

“Band of Bastards?”