The Beast

SIXTY-ONE

As Mary sped through the underground tunnel to the training center, the slapping sounds of her rushing feet echoed out in front of her, an auditory shadow seemingly in as much of a hurry as she was to get where she was going. When she came to the door that opened into the office’s supply closet, she put in the code and burst through into the shallow space beyond, passing by the shelves of pens and pads, the back-up flash drives and stacks of printer paper.

Out in the office, she pulled up short. Tohr was sitting behind the desk, staring at a computer screen that had all kinds of rainbow-colored bubbles obscuring the DailyMail.co.uk home page.

He jumped as he noticed her and then scrubbed his face. “Hey.”

“How are they?”

“I don’t know. They’ve been in there for what feels like forever.”

“Where’s Autumn?”

“She’s out at Xhex’s hunting cabin. It’s my night off and she was getting it ready for us to . . . you know.” He checked his watch. “I’ve been debating on whether or not to call her. I was hoping for news first, so she wouldn’t worry. Well, good news, that is.”

“You should tell her what’s going on.”

“I know.” His eyes returned to the monitor. “I, ah . . . I’m not handling this very well.”

Mary went around the desk and put her hand on the male’s huge shoulder. The tension in that big body was so great, she felt as though she’d laid her palm on a knot. Made out of granite.

“Tohr, I don’t think you should be alone. And if I were her, I’d be really upset if you didn’t let me support you.”

“I just . . .” Now he looked at the office phone. “I’m back in the old days, you know.”

“I know. And she’ll understand that. Autumn is one of the most understanding people I’ve ever met.”

The Brother glanced up at her, his deep blue eyes boring into her skull. “Mary, am I ever going to be all right?”

In that moment, she was transported back to sitting with Bitty in Rhage’s GTO—and she thought, Yes, that is what everyone wants to know, isn’t it. Am I okay? Am I loved? Am I safe?

Will I get through this?

Whatever the “this” was, be it death or loss, confusion or terror, depression or anger.

“You’re all right already, Tohr. And I really think you need to call your shellan. You don’t need to protect her from your pain. She knows exactly the burdens you carry—and she picked you with all of them. There is nothing here that will shock her or make her think you’re weak. I will guarantee, however, that if you try to keep this from her, it’s going to make her feel like you don’t trust her or you don’t think she is strong enough to handle things.”

“What if the young don’t make it? What if—”

At that moment, a scream . . . a horrible, masculine scream . . . racked what seemed like the entire training center, the sound so loud it rattled the glass door, a sonic boom of mourning.

As Tohr scrambled out of the chair, Mary bolted for the exit, ripping it open.

It was not a surprise to see the entire Brotherhood gathered once again in the vast corridor. It was also not a shock that every single one of the males, and their mates, was staring at the closed door of the main OR. It was further apt that all of the Chosen and the directrix, Amalya, stood among them looking equally panicked.

No one said anything. It wasn’t as if that scream of Qhuinn’s didn’t explain enough.

Mary went to Rhage, slipping her arm around his waist, and as he looked at her, he pulled her in close.

When there was nothing further for a moment, people began to mill. Soft talk broke the silence. Tohr took out his phone with hands that shook as he sat down on the concrete floor like his legs had fallen out from underneath him.

“Oh, God,” Rhage said. “This is . . .”

Unbearable, Mary thought.

To lose a child, no matter how premature, no matter the circumstances, was an agony like no other.

For the first time in his adult life, Vishous froze in the midst of a medical emergency. It was only a split second, and he came back online an instant later . . . but there was something about the little lifeless body in his palms that stopped, literally, everything about him.

He would never forget the sight of it.

Wouldn’t forget, either, the scream that Qhuinn let out.

Shaking himself into focus, however, he snapped back into action to do the one thing that might possibly help. With steady hands, he got a small tube down the infant’s throat, slid a mask over the face and hooked the breathing apparatus up to a piece of medical equipment that was not human, but strictly for vampires. When he initiated the flow, a fortified, oxygenated saline solution went into the young’s lungs, flushing out the sacs, blowing them open . . . and then sucking out the liquid, which was sent into a filtering system that would clean it, reoxygenate it, and send it back in.

Using his thumb, he pressed into the achingly tiny chest, massaging the heart with a rhythm.

Bad color. Really wrong color. Goddamn gray of a headstone.

And the young was lax, nothing moving, the arms and legs that were scrawny and wrinkled as a hatchling’s flopping loose from shoulders and hips.

The eyes were open, the all-white orbs showing no pupils or irises because the little girl was so fucking premature.

“Come on, wake up . . . come on . . .”

Nothing. There was nothing.

Without thinking, he shouted over his shoulder, “Payne! Get me fucking Payne—RIGHT NOW!”

He didn’t know who responded to the command. He didn’t fucking care. All that mattered was that a millisecond later, his sister was right next to him.

“Wake her up, Payne,” he barked. “Wake this kid up—I am not having this on my conscience for the rest of my goddamn life. You wake up this fucking kid right fucking now!”

Okay, yeah, his delivery sucked. But he didn’t care—and neither did his sister, evidently.

And she knew just what to do.

Extending her open hand directly over the infant, she closed her eyes. “Someone hold me up. I need—”

Qhuinn and Blay were on it, each of the males taking one of her elbows. And, shit, V wanted to say something to the pair, offer some kind of . . . anything . . . but there was nothing that could be helped with mere words here.

“Payne, you gotta do this.”

As the aching syllables hit the airwaves, it was a shock to realize that he had spoken them, that it was his voice that was cracking, that he, the one male on the planet who never begged, ever, for anything, was the person uttering the shaky—

Warm.

He felt a warmth.

And then he saw the light, the glow that, unlike the destructive force that he housed in his palm, was a gentle healing power, a rejuvenating force, a blessed, miracle-giving benediction.

“Qhuinn?” his sister said roughly. “Qhuinn, give me your hand.”

Vishous got the fuck out of the way, although he had to still hold the breathing mask in place because the infant was too premature for even the smallest one Havers had.

Qhuinn extended an arm, and, shit, the male was shaking so badly it was as if he were standing on an agitator. Payne took what he put out, though, and laid it under her glowing palm so that the energy had to pass through his flesh to get to the infant’s.

The brother gasped and jerked in response, his teeth beginning to chatter, his flushed face instantly paling.

“I need another set of hands over here,” Vishous barked. “We need to keep Dad off the floor!”

Next thing he knew, Manny was by Qhuinn, the human jacking a hold on the guy around the waist.

As energy began to leave him and channel into the young, Qhuinn started to breathe hard, his chest pumping, his mouth falling open, his lungs clearly burning—

The infant changed color in the blink of an eye, all that was matte and gray and the terrible hue of death going red and pink.

And then the tiny hands, the impossibly tiny, but nonetheless perfectly formed, hands twitched. And so with the legs, the feet kicking once, twice. And so with the belly, the hollow pit expanding and contracting along with the beat of the machine.

Payne didn’t stop. And Qhuinn lost his footing, only Blay’s strong arms and Manny’s extra support keeping his body from the floor.

Longer, Vishous thought. Keep going longer. Bleed the well dry if you have to. . . .

And that was exactly what his wonderful sister did. She kept pumping energy from herself into and through Qhuinn, where it was magnified and focused, and thereafter funneled into the young.

She kept going until she passed out cold.

Qhuinn wasn’t far behind her.

But Vishous couldn’t worry about them. He just kept his eyes on the young, looking for signs that the life force wouldn’t hold . . . that the gray would return and signal death’s renewed grip on the little thing . . . that the miracle would be but a short, cruel respite. . . .

Don’t you do this, Mother, he thought. Don’t you do this to these good people.

Don’t take this life from them.