Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (18 page)

Although he was beginning to believe he was wasting his time.

Stepping up on the cabin’s shallow porch, he shone a flashlight in through the nearest window.

Potbellied stove. Rough wood table with two chairs. Three bunks that had no mattresses or sheets on them. Galley kitchen.

Heading around back, he found an electric generator that was out of gas, and a rusted-out oil tank, which suggested the place had had some kind of heating in it at some point.

Returning to the front, he toggled the door latch and found it locked.

Whatever. Not much in there.

Taking the map out of the inside of his bomber jacket, he unfolded the thing and located where he

was. Checking off the little square, he got out his compass, adjusted his heading, and started walking in a northwesterly direction.

According to this map—which he’d found at the former
Fore-lesser’s
crack house, this tract of property totaled some five hundred acres and had these cabins sprinkled around at random intervals.

He gathered that the place had once been a camping area owned by multiple people, a kind of

modern-day hunting preserve that had been lost to the New York State tax burden, and purchased by

the Society back in the eighties.

At least, that was what the handwritten notations in the corner said, although God only knew if the Society was still the owner of record. Considering the financial state of the organization, the good ol’

NYS might well have a gorilla-size tax lien on the acreage now, or have reseized the shit.

He paused and checked the compass again. Man, being a city boy, he hated rooting around out in

the woods at night, clomping through the snow, checking shit off like some kind of forest ranger. But he had to see with his own eyes what he had to work with, and that was happening only one way.

At least he had a revenue stream lined up.

In another twenty-four hours, when those boys of his were finally on their feet again, he was going to start refilling the coffers. That was the first step to reclamation.

Step two?

World domination.

FIFTEEN

She was bleeding.

As Layla looked down at the toilet paper in her hand, the red stain on all that white was the

visual equivalent of a scream.

Reaching behind herself, she flushed, and had to use the wall to steady her balance as she

got to her feet. With one hand on her lower belly and the other thrown out at the sink counter and then the doorjamb, she stumbled into the bedroom and went right for the phone.

Her first instinct was to call Doc Jane, but she decided against that. Assuming she was in the

process of miscarrying, there was a possibility of sparing Qhuinn the wrath of the Primale—provided she kept this under wraps. And using the Brotherhood’s personal physician probably wasn’t the best

way to ensure privacy.

After all, there was only one reason a female bled—and questions about her needing and how

she’d handled it would inevitably follow.

At the table by the bedside, she opened the drawer and drew out a small black book. Locating the

number for the race’s clinic, she dialed with a shaking hand.

When she hung up a little later, she had an appointment in thirty minutes.

Except how was she going to get out there? She couldn’t dematerialize—too anxious, and anyway,

pregnant females were discouraged from that. And she didn’t feel as though she could drive herself.

Qhuinn’s lessons had been comprehensive, but she couldn’t imagine, in her condition, getting on a

highway and trying to keep up with the flow of human traffic.

Fritz Perlmutter was the only answer.

Going to the closet, she retrieved a soft chemise, twisted it into a thick rope, and secured it

between her legs with the help of several pairs of underwear. The solution to her bleeding issue was incredibly bulky and made it hard to walk, but that was the least of her problems.

A phone call to the kitchen secured the butler to drive her.

Now she just had to get down the stairs, out the vestibule, and into that long saloon car in one

piece—and without running into any of the males of the household.

Just as she was about to leave her room, she caught her reflection in the mirrors upon the wall.

Her white robe and her formal hairstyle announced her rank of Chosen as nothing else could: Nobody

beside the Scribe Virgin’s sacred females in the species dressed like this.

Even if she appeared under the assumed name she had provided to the receptionist, all would

guess her other-worldly affiliation.

Throwing off her robing, she attempted to draw on a pair of yoga pants, but the wadding she had

applied to herself made that an impossibility. And the jeans she and Qhuinn had bought together

wouldn’t work, either.

Withdrawing the chemise, she used paper towels from the bath to deal with her problem and

managed to get the denim on. A heavy sweater provided bulk and warmth, and a quick brush out and

tieback of her hair made her look…almost normal.

Leaving her room, she held hard to the cellular device that Qhuinn had given her. She thought only

briefly about calling him, but in truth, what was there to say? He had no more control over this

process than she did—

Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, she was losing their young.

The thought occurred to her just as she came to the apex of the grand staircase: She was
losing
their young. At this very moment. Here outside of the king’s study.

All at once the ceiling crashed down on her head and the walls of the grand, spacious foyer

squeezed in so tight she could not draw a breath.

“Your grace?”

Shaking herself, she looked down the red carpet runner. Fritz was standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in his standard livery, his old, lovely face clothed in concern.

“Your grace, shall we go now?” he said.

As she nodded and cautiously started downward, she couldn’t believe it had all been for naught,

all those hours of straining with Qhuinn…the frozen aftermath where she hadn’t dared to move…the

wondering and the worrying and the quiet, treacherous hope.

The fact that she had given the gift of her virginity away for naught.

Qhuinn was going to be in such pain, and the failure she was bringing upon him added

immeasurably to her own suffering. He had sacrificed his own body in the course of her needing, his desire for a young of blood tie prompting him to do something he would not otherwise have chosen to.

That biology had its own agenda did not ease her.

The loss…still felt like her fault.

Hair of the dog that bit you.

Saxton believed that was the crude and yet rather apt saying.

Standing naked in front of the mirror in his bath, he put the hair dryer down and drew his fingers

through things up top. The waves settled into their normal pattern, the blond strands finding a perfect arrangement to complement his square, even face.

The image he regarded was exactly as it had appeared the night before and the night before that,

and yet as familiar as his reflection was, he felt like it was of a different, separate person.

His insides had changed so much, it seemed only reasonable to assume the transformation would

be echoed in his appearance. Alas, it was not.

Turning away and walking out to his closet, he supposed he should not be surprised, either by his

inner upset, or his outer, false composure.

After he and Blay had spoken, it had taken him an hour to move everything from the bedroom he

had stayed in with his former lover back to this suite down the hall. He’d been given these

accommodations when he’d initially come to stay within the household, but as things had progressed

with Blay, his belongings had gradually made their way into that other room.

The process of migration had been incremental, just as his love had been: a case of one shirt here

and a pair of shoes there, a hairbrush one night, and socks the next…a conversation of shared values followed by a seven-hour sexual marathon chased with a tub of Breyers coffee ice cream and only

one spoon.

He had been unaware of the distance traveled by his heart, similar to the way a hiker became lost

in the wilderness. A half mile out and you could still see where you had started, could easily find the way back home. But ten miles and a number of forks in your trail later and there was no going back.

At that point, you had no choice but to marshal the resources to build yourself a shelter and put down fresh roots.

He had assumed he would be constructing this new personal place with Blay.

Yes, he had. After all, how long could unrequited love truly survive? As fire required oxygen to

kindle, so too did emotion.

Not when it came to Qhuinn, apparently. Not for Blay.

Saxton was resolved about not leaving the royal household, however. Blay had been right about

that—Wrath, the king, did need him, and moreover, he enjoyed his work here. It was fast-paced,

challenging…and the egoist in him wanted to be the lawyer who reformed the law the proper way.

Assuming the throne didn’t get overturned and he didn’t lose his head under a new regime.

But you couldn’t live your life worried about things like that.

Withdrawing a houndstooth wool suit from the closet, he picked a button-down and a vest out, and

laid everything on the bed.

It was a sad, rather unattractive cliché to go looking for something nubile and pneumatic to self-

medicate emotional pain with, but he much preferred having an orgasm over getting sloppy drunk.

Also, the pretend-until-you-find-purpose-again maxim did hold water.

And was especially true as he looked at himself all dressed up in the bathroom’s full-length

mirror. He certainly appeared to have it together, and that helped.

Before he left, he double-checked his phone. The Old Laws had been recast per Wrath’s orders,

and now he was on standby—awaiting his next assignment.

He would find out what it was soon enough, he imagined.

Wrath was notoriously demanding, but never unreasonable.

In the meantime, he was going to drown his sorrow in the only kind of six-pack that appealed—

something twentyish, six-foot-ish, athletic….

And preferably dark haired. Or blond.

SIXTEEN

“Someone’s already been by here.”

As Rhage spoke, Qhuinn got out his penlight and shone the discreet beam down onto the

ground. Sure enough, the prints through the snow were fresh, not airbrushed with loose flakes…and

they went directly out into the clearing in the forest. Clicking the light off, he focused on the hunting cabin up ahead that seemed to be abandoned to the cold weather: no stream of smoke curling out of its stone chimney, no glow of illumination—and most important, no scents of anything.

The five of them closed in, circling the clearing and sidling up with a wide-angle approach. When

there was no defensive reaction from anything, they all mounted the shallow porch and scoped out the interior through the single-paned windows.

“Nada,” Rhage muttered as he went to the door.

A quick test of the handle—and it was locked.

With a thrust, the Brother slammed his massive shoulder into the panels and set the thing flying,

fragments of the locking mechanism falling in a scatter along with splinters of wood.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Hollywood shouted as he marched inside.

Qhuinn and John followed protocol and stayed on the porch as Blay and Z filed in and searched.

The woods were quiet around them, but his keen eyes traced those footprints…which, after a

sojourn to the cabin, headed off in a northwesterly direction.

Damn well suggested someone was out here with them, searching the property at the same time.

Human?
Lesser?

He was thinking the latter, given all the shit in that hangar—and the fact that this whole property was remote, and relatively secure because of that.

Although they were gonna want to bring Stanley Steemer into that building for a cleanup first.

Blay’s voice drifted out the open door. “I got something.”

It took all of Qhuinn’s training not to break covenant with surveying the landscape and turn to look inside—and not because he particularly cared about whatever had been found. Throughout their

searching, he’d been constantly checking on Blay, measuring to see if that mood had changed.

If anything, it had only gotten worse.

Soft voices went back and forth in the cabin, and then the three of them emerged.

“We found a lockbox,” Rhage announced as he unzipped his jacket and slid the long, thin metal

container in against his chest. “We’ll open it later. Let’s find the owner of those boots, boys.”