The Beast

FIFTY

When night fell, Layla was largely nonplussed. One of the disadvantages of living in the training center underground was that she was unable to set her internal clock to the rhythms of the sun and moon. Time was just numbers on a clock face, meals appearing when they did, visitors and traffic coming and going in random patterns that eventually meant little in terms of night and day.

Her sleep had fallen into a cycle of six hours of wakefulness followed by three hours of fitful dreams. Repeat, ad nauseam.

Usually.

This evening, however, as the electronic clock showed a glowing red eight followed by a sixteen after the two vertical dots, she closed her eyes with a purpose beyond that of sleep.

She had agonized over this since her resolution after the ultrasound. Had run the yes’s and no’s through her brain until she thought she would go mad.

In the end, she had made up her mind, for better or for worse.

Probably for worse. Because that was just how things always went for her when it came to Xcor.

Taking a deep breath, she found that everything irritated her. The sheets felt itchy. The pillow under her head was not in the correct position, and her moving it up and down didn’t help. The weight of her belly seemed enormous, an entity separate from the rest of her body. Her feet twitched as if someone were tickling them with a feather. Her lungs seemed to only partially inflate.

Take out the “seem.”

And the darkness of her room amplified everything.

With a curse, she discovered her eyes had opened themselves, and she wished she had tape so she could make her lids stay shut.

Concentrating, she forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. Relaxed the tension in her body starting at her toes and going to the tips of her ears. Calmed her mind.

Sleep arrived in a gentle wave, submerging her beneath common consciousness, setting her free of the aches and pains, the worry and fear.

The guilt.

She gave herself a moment to enjoy the weightless float. And then she sent her core self, her soul, that magic light that animated her flesh, not just off the hospital bed and out of the room, not just down the corridor and free of the training center . . . but out of the realm of earthly reality.

To the Sanctuary.

Given her pregnancy, it was unsafe for her to travel to the Other Side in her physical form. This way, however, she covered the distance with grace and ease—plus, even as she left her body, she could sense her flesh back under the sheets and was thusly able to continuously monitor her corporeal incarnation. If aught were to occur, she could return in the blink of an eye.

Moments later, she was standing on resplendent green grass. Overhead, the milky sky provided illumination from no definable source, and all around in the distance, a forest ring established the sacred territory’s boundaries. White marble temples glowed pristine and fresh as the night they had been called into existence so many millennia ago by the Scribe Virgin, and brilliantly colored tulips and daffodils were like gems spilled from a treasurer’s satchel.

Breathing the sweet air, she could feel a recharging happen, and it reminded her of her centuries spent serving the mother of the race up here. Back then, all had been white, no shades or variation in anything, not even shadows thrown. The current Primale, Phury, had changed all that, however, freeing her and her sisters to live lives down below, to experience the world and themselves as individuals, instead of as cogs in a homogeneous whole.

Unconsciously, she put her hands to her belly—and had a fright. Her stomach was flat, and she panicked—only to sense her body’s function down on Earth. Yes, she thought. The flesh was with young; the soul was not. And this representation of her was a moving mirage, both existent and nonexistent.

Gathering the folds of her ceremonial robe, she ambulated across the rolling expanse, passing the Primale’s private quarters where the impregnations used to occur, and continuing on until she stood on the threshold of the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes.

A quick look around confirmed what had been true not just since her arrival this moment, but for such a time since the Primale had released them all: As beautiful as the Sanctuary was, as much as it had to offer in terms of peace and refreshment, it was as empty and abandoned as a useless factory. A gold mine with no more veins to plunder. A galley with bare cupboards.

For her purposes, this was good.

And in her heart, it was bittersweet. Freedom had led to an abandonment, a cessation of service, an end of the way things were.

Change, however, was more the nature of destiny than anything else. And much good had come from it—although perhaps not for the Scribe Virgin. Who knew how she felt, though, as none had seen her now for how long?

With a solemn prayer, Layla entered the scribing temple and regarded the simple white tables with their bowls of water, their inkwells, their parchment rolls. In the lofty space, no dust drifted from the rafters to cloud the sacred reading pools or fade the edges of things—and yet it seemed that the observation of the race’s history, which had once been a sacred duty, was now an abandoned endeavor unlikely to be e’er resumed.

And that seemed to make the temple decayed in some way.

Indeed, it was hard not to think of the great library, which stood not far from here, and picture all of its shelves that were filled with volume after volume of carefully recorded passages, those sacred symbols in the Old Language put to parchment as the scribes had played witness to the goings-on of the race in these very bowls. And there were further records there: of the Black Dagger Brotherhood and their lineages, of the Scribe Virgin’s dictates, of the decisions of the Kings, of the observances of the calendar festivals, and the traditions of the glymera, and the respect that had been paid to the Scribe Virgin.

In a way, the lack of any further history record was a death of the race.

But it was also its rebirth. So many positives had come out of the shift in values, with the rights of females being recognized, and the abolishment of blood slavery, and freedom for the Chosen.

The Scribe Virgin had all but disappeared into the spiritual vacuum, however, as if the worship of her had been a sustenance that now, having been removed, had left her diminished into incapacity. And yes, Layla missed parts of the old ways, and worried about their having no spiritual leader at a time of such unrest . . . but fate was larger than not only her, but the race as a whole.

And indeed, its creator.

Walking forward, she went to one of the tables and pulled out a white chair. As she took a seat, she arranged her robing and offered up a prayer that what she was about to do would be in service to a greater good.

Any greater good.

Oh, shoot. It was impossible to argue that what she was about to do wasn’t purely self-serving.

Bowing her head, she placed her hands on the bowl, cupping the vessel with reverence. With as much clarity as she could muster, she pictured Xcor’s face, from his narrowed eyes to his misshapen upper lip, from his brush-cut hair to his thick neck. She imagined his scent in her nose, and his imposing physical presence before her. She pictured his veined forearms and his blunt, callused hands, his heavy chest and his strong legs.

In her mind, she heard his voice. Saw him move. Caught his eye and held it.

The surface of the water began to move, concentric circles forming to the beat of her heart. And then the swirl started.

A picture appeared, rising out of the depths and stilling the animation of the crystal-clear liquid.

Layla frowned and thought, That makes no sense.

The bowl was showing her shelving, rows and rows of shelves that were stacked with . . . jars of all kinds. There were torches flickering, orange light strobing over what appeared to be a dusty underground environment.

“Xcor . . . ?” she breathed. “Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe.”

The image she received was as clear as if she stood over his recumbent body. He was lying beneath white sheets on a gurney in the center of the hall of shelves, his eyes shut, his skin pale, his arms and legs unmoving. Machines beeped next to him, ones that she recognized from her own room at the clinic. John Matthew and Blaylock were seated on the stone floor next to him, John’s hands moving as he said something.

Blay just nodded.

Layla willed the picture to change so that she could see what was in front of, and behind, where Xcor lay. If she progressed deeper into what turned out to be a cave, she eventually came out into a vast ceremonial space. . . .

The Tomb.

Xcor was in the ante-hall to the Tomb.

Layla willed the image to return to that of John and Blay, and she heard Blay say, “—pressure is going down. So no surgery. But he doesn’t look like he’s waking up anytime soon.”

John signed something.

“I know. But what’s the other option?”

Layla asked the bowl to show her the way out, and the image provided a progression in the opposite direction until there was a terminal gate of stout build with steel mesh over its bars—as well as a lock that looked strong enough to keep out even the most determined of invaders. Then she was in a cave’s belly, the stone walls shorn by hand or nature, or perhaps a combination of both.

Finally, she was stepping free into a forest of many pines.

Zooming out, she noted the landscape getting smaller and smaller . . . until she caught the glow of the mansion.

So he was still on the property. Not that far away.

Releasing the bowl’s edges, she watched as what she had been shown disappeared as if it had never been, the water resuming its clear and anonymous character.

As she sat back, she thought for a good long while.

Then she rose to her feet and left the scribing temple.

She did not return to Earth, however. Not immediately.

“I feel like we’re going to get in trouble for something.”

As Mary took a seat next to Rhage in the mansion’s library, she patted his knee. “You know that’s not true.”

“Do I look okay?”

Leaning back on the silk sofa, Mary regarded her mate. “Handsome as ever.”

“Will that work in our favor?”

“How can it not?” She kissed his cheek. “Just remember not to come on to her. She’s your best friend’s wife.”

“As if. She’s fine-looking and all, but so are most of the major appliances in Fritz’s kitchen, and I have no interest in humping any of them.”

Mary laughed and gave him another squeeze. Then she resumed feeling like her head was going to explode. “So. Yeah. Anywho . . . you know, I’ve never paid much attention to this room before. It’s nice.”

As Rhage gave her an mmm-hmmm, she glanced around at the shelves of books and the crackling fire and all the rich jewel tones of the carpets, drapes and throw pillows. There was a desk to write at. Sofas to curl up on with a specimen from the collection—or your Kindle, if that was the way you went. A number of oil paintings. And then all kinds of knickknacks that Darius had collected when he’d been alive, from special seashells to rare stones to fossils.

“I can’t breathe.”

As Rhage put his head between his knees, she rubbed his shoulders, comforting herself as she comforted him, too. Probably wasn’t going to help to tell him she was feeling suffocated as well. And a little nauseous.

Marissa came rushing in ten minutes later. “I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I’m—oh, hey, Rhage.”

“Hi.” Rhage cleared his throat and lifted his palm. “Ah . . . hi. Yeah.”

Marissa looked back and forth between them. Then she seemed to compose herself, and closed the doors. “I’d wondered why you wanted to meet here. Now I see.”

“Yeah,” Rhage said. “I can’t . . . well, you know. Go to Safe Place. Which you know . . . because you run it. And—I really need to stop talking here, don’t I.”

Marissa came over toward the fire, her extraordinary beauty seeming to attract all the illumination and warmth from the hearth. As she took a seat on an armchair, she crossed her legs like the perfect lady she was.

Her face was remote, but not cold. She seemed braced.

This was not going to go well, Mary thought with dread.

“So . . . thank you for meeting with us.” Mary took Rhage’s hand. “I’m not going to beat around the bush. Rhage and I have been talking, and we’d like to explore the possibility of adopting, or at the very least, fostering Bitty. Before you say no, I’d like you to consider that I have a clinical background in—”

“Wait.” Marissa put her hands out. “Wait, this is not about . . . you wanting to quit?”

“What?”

Marissa put her hand over her heart and sagged in her seat. “You’re not quitting.”

“No, good God, where did you get that idea?”

“I just thought that I’d offended you during that conversation before Last Meal. I didn’t know whether I’d put my foot in it—I mean, I’m only trying to do right by Bitty and I—” Marissa stopped short. Shook herself. “Did I hear you say adoption?”

Mary took a deep breath. And, man, did she squeeze her hellren’s hand. “Rhage and I talked about it. We want to be parents, and we want to give Bitty a loving home, a place to call her own, a support system that’s more than just professional. As you know, I can’t have children . . . and Bitty truly is an orphan. Even Vishous couldn’t find her uncle.”

Marissa blinked a couple of times. Looked back and forth between the pair of them again. “This is . . . extraordinary.”

Rhage leaned forward. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good. I mean . . .” Marissa sat back and stared at the fire. “It’s wonderful—it’s fantastic. I’m just not sure what we need to do.”

Wait, was that a “yes”? Mary thought as her heart jumped.

“Bitty gets to have an opinion about it,” she said, trying to keep cool. “She’s old enough to have an opinion. And I know that it’s not going to be easy—the adoption process or the parenting. So does Rhage. I guess, though . . . this kind of all starts with you, you know?”

Without any warning, Marissa burst up out of her seat and threw her arms around first Mary, then Rhage. When she sat back down, she fanned the tears in her eyes.

“I think it’s a really great idea!”

Okay, Mary started getting a little misty. And she could not look at Rhage—because if he were tearing up, and she was pretty sure he was, it was game over.

“I’m really glad you’re behind us,” Mary said roughly. “Although I don’t know if we’re suitable—

Marissa’s elegant hand sliced through the air. “I am not worried at all about you two being good parents. And please don’t take any pauses on my part as being unsupportive. I’ve just never had to do anything like this.”

Rhage spoke up. “Saxton knows the legal procedure. He got us some paperwork. I think I need an audience in front of the King as a member of the aristocracy—”

Mary put her hands up, all whoooooa. “Wait, wait, we need to have a formal assessment of us both, first. And we have to do even more due diligence on her mother’s family—and her father’s. And we have to ask her if she’s even interested in all this. It’s very soon after the death of her mother. I don’t want her to think that we’re crowding out her blood family or trying to replace someone who will never be replaced. We need to move slowly and be flexible and remain calm. There’s also one potential problem.”

“What’s that?” Marissa asked.

When Mary glanced at Rhage, he cleared his throat. “I eat people. I mean . . . the beast. You know. It eats things. That shouldn’t, you know, be eaten.”

“He’s never been a danger to me,” Mary interjected. “But we can’t pretend his dragon isn’t a factor in all this. Whoever makes the determination of fitness, whether it’s you or Wrath or someone else, needs to be fully aware that we come with a three-story-tall, purple-scaled, lesser-eating monster.”

Rhage raised his hand like he was in class and waiting to get called on. When they both just looked at him, he dropped his arm awkwardly. “Ah, he’s never actually consumed anything but lessers. Although I do think he tried to eat Vishous.” Her hellren winced. “Okay, fine, from what I heard, the other night he chased V and Assail into a cabin, which he might have taken the roof off of, and he mighta tried to eat them—but he did not succeed.”

“Thanks to me,” Mary pointed out.

“He listens to Mary. It. Does. I mean.” There was a pause. “Shit.”

Mary shrugged. “Anyway, we’re aware that we’re not the most conventional of prospective parents. But I will promise you . . . if we get the chance, we will love that little girl with everything we’ve got.”

“Ditto,” Rhage said. “Completely ditto.”

Marissa let out a soft laugh. “Annnnnnnnnnd this is exactly why I’m not worried about the two of you adopting anything or anyone, whether it’s a dog out of a shelter or a child from Safe Place.”

Mary exhaled in relief.

Meanwhile, Rhage took a page from Marissa’s book and started fanning himself. Then he braced one arm on the coffee table as if he were worried he was about to pass out. “Is it hot in here? I feel like it’s hot—I think I’m going to—”

Mary jumped up and raced for one of the French doors. As she popped it open, she said, “He gets a little light-headed sometimes. You know, when he’s relieved. Breathe with me, my love. Breathe with me.”

Marissa moved across and sat next to Rhage. As she picked up a throw pillow and started flapping it up and down next to that handsome, badly flushed face, she laughed.

“We’ll figure it out. Somehow, some way, we’ll figure all this out, okay? And hopefully at the end, Bitty will get to come home with you both.”

As Mary grabbed another cushion and joined in the effort, she looked into the eyes of the Brother she loved . . . and tried to see the future in his features. “I hope so. God, I hope for that so much it hurts.”