The Shadows

EIGHTEEN

“Turn here?” Layla asked as she leaned into her sedan’s steering wheel.

“Yes. Here.”

She put her directional signal on, and as the Mercedes let out a little chck, chck, chck, she remembered Qhuinn teaching her the where’s and when’s of all the driving business. Safe guess that he never would have thought she’d use the skills to take Xcor anywhere.

“Where are we going?” she asked. The headlights were showing little more than a narrow dirt lane with a lot of autumnal trees choked up tight against the “road.” A short stone wall seemed to keep the arboreal aggression back, although what little shoulder there was was overgrown with brambles and long grass.

“Not far. ’Tis but a few kilometers the now.”

Was this it for her? she wondered. Was this the night when her paranoia turned well-founded, when Xcor took control of the situation in a way that not only harmed her, but her young and Qhuinn—who were both total innocents in all this?

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she needed to get out of—

The headlights swung around and what she saw made her heart stop and her foot pop off the accelerator.

It was a little cottage, which, in spite of the overgrown landscaping, was utterly charming. The front door was painted red, and with its two bay windows and pair of dormers on the second floor, the place seemed to be all wide-eyed and smiling. There was also a big fluffy tree to the left with golden leaves the color of sunrises she had seen only on TV or in books and magazines, as well as a slate walkway that led up to its welcoming visage.

“Do you like it?” he asked stiffly. As if he were afraid of the answer.

“Maybe this is naive,” she whispered. “But it looks like nothing bad could ever happen in there.”

“It is the caretaker cottage of the main house. The latter, which is down that lane there, has been abandoned, but an old doggen lived here up until a month ago.” He glanced over at her. “Let us go inside.”

She got out without turning the engine off, but Xcor took care of that, reaching over and silencing the purr as she walked in front of headlights. As the illumination was cut off, she saw that there were candles glowing inside of the house—or at least that was what she assumed was creating the flickering golden light.

At the door, she touched the paint. It was well-weathered, cracked but not chipped. Candy-apple red, she thought. And no doubt, it had been a high gloss when it had first been applied.

“Open,” he told her. “Please.”

The latch was made of brass that was old and worn, but polished in the places where hands had gripped. A subtle creak was released as she pushed at the surprisingly heavy panels, but the sound was more a chipper greeting than anything sinister.

It wasn’t candles. It was a fire.

The living space was open and paneled in a reddish wood, the hearth made from river stone of various sizes, shapes, and colors. The floor was bare, with wide panels that talked as she walked over them, chattering as if they had missed having company. Breathing in, she smelled the sweet smoke of the fire and an underlying clean, woodsy scent.

There was a slouchy couch off to the side of the hearth, positioned such that if you sat upon it, you could see out the bay window. The thing was slipcovered in a collection of quilts, the blankets laid one upon another, the swatches and colors so variable, the conglomeration formed its own unique pattern. There was also a big stuffed chair, some old-fashioned books in short shelves, and a circular braided rug that brought everything together.

“The kitchen is through here,” Xcor said as he closed the front door.

She walked past him, his huge body too still, his eyes refusing to meet hers. The bathroom was modest and equipped with a stall shower, toilet, and a sink. The stairs up to the second floor were steep and narrow and carpeted with a worn runner. And the kitchen on the far side was filled with ancient appliances interspersed with stretches of countertop.

Layla pivoted around. “How long have you had this?”

“As I said, the caretaker died a month ago. She was a doggen who took care of us, with no kin of her own.” He turned away and began to remove his heavy coat. “The family she looked after lived in the big house, but were killed in the raids. She stayed on the property because she had nowhere else to go. The lessers did not come back, so she lived.”

Xcor turned away and began to disarm, his broad shoulders flexing as he removed the halter that kept his daggers in place upon his chest. Next, he unbuckled the holster at his hips, his elbows shifting around, the leather strap coming loose.

For some reason, she noticed the body under the clothes he wore, how his muscles bunched and released under that thin black cotton shirt, how his pants stretched across his thighs, his calves, his backside.

He was talking to her, slowly, in measured syllables, but she didn’t hear what he was saying.

Xcor pivoted back around. Stared at her. Fell silent.

“Do you not wish to stay?” he said in a low voice.

“Why did you bring me here.”

He cleared his throat. “I cannot abide your being pregnant out in the cold on the nights that we meet. Not when you are this far along.”

From out of nowhere, she felt a flash of warmth. And she didn’t think it was the fire.

“Come.” He stepped back against the door, flattening himself. “It is warmer in here.”

She walked up to him. And then kept going.

Taking a seat on the chair, she pulled down her robing. Wrapped her coat around herself. Looked into the flames.

Xcor stalked across the room, closing all the drapes before easing his body down on the sofa.

“Thank you,” she heard herself say. “This is much more comfortable.”

“Aye.”

The silence stretched out between them. It was strange: In the field, with the vastness of the sky above and the rolling meadow around, she had not been so keenly aware of him. Within these four walls, however, his presence seemed to be amplified, any movement he made, whether it be breathing or blinking, registering a thousandfold.

There was a curious awkwardness between them, the fire’s cheery conversation failing to relieve the growing heaviness in the house.

“Do you intend to consummate our arrangement,” she blurted. “Is it . . . time?”

“It’s a ghost town up here, true?”

As V called out from up in the colonial’s attic, Rhage leaned into the bathroom of the master suite. “Nothing here, either. ’Cept a fuck load of pink.”

Heading back into the bedroom, he got a second chance at the rose-colored stuff. The shit was everywhere, from the rug and the drapes, to the wallpaper and the sheets, and Xcor’s scent was all over the place. Clearly, this was his private room—and there was some serious satisfaction that the fucker had had to crash in this estrogen-dominated nightmare.

Like sleeping in a goddamn womb.

Rhage shuddered as he walked out into the hall. “Wonder if he’s been suffering from a phantom urge to wear high heels.”

“There’s a picture.” V came out of the hole in the ceiling and down the folding stepladder. “Abandoned. They just ghosted off and left this place.”

Nothing. There had been absolutely, positively nothing suspicious or threatening, no booby-traps to catch them, no bombs set to detonate, no alarms.

There had also been nothing personal left upstairs, either—like in the living room, there were piles of trash here and there, but no clothes, no weapons, no computers or cell phones.

Moving quickly, they went down the staircase, and backtracked through the empty house. After dematerializing out through the open window in the kitchen, they rejoined Phury and Z.

“Nada,” V said.

Rhage took out his phone for a quick look-see, and when there were no replies to either of his texts, he frowned and disappeared the thing again. Antsy, he went to the other side of his jacket and snagged a Tootsie Pop—then saw that it was orange, and traded that for a grape one. The purple wrapper slid off easily, like the suckah was ready to go to work, and he eased the sugar ball into his mouth.

“It’s completely clean?” Phury asked. “That can’t be right.”

Rhage popped his mouth toy out. “Don’t get me wrong—I think disarming bombs and booby traps is a bore, but I was ready to put the time in. I don’t get it. They leave here because Throe’s out and likely defecting? They must know that we’re going to come as soon as we got the addy from that asshat.”

V’s white eyes shifted over the empty house. “They missed an obvious chance.”

“Didn’t think Xcor was that stupid—or lazy.” Rhage shrugged. “Maybe they’re hurting for money.”

“Doubt that it’s a lack of resources,” Phury muttered. “They’re well armed, going by their kills downtown.”

There was some fast conversation and it was decided they’d go back and report to Wrath that Throe hadn’t lied. Just before they dematerialized, however, Rhage spoke up around his lollipop.

“Listen, you boys mind if I take a little detour?”

“No problem, we’ll start the debrief,” V said.

“Thanks, my brothers. I just need ten minutes or so.”

He clapped palms with his fellow fighters, and then one by one, they all disappeared . . .

. . . but instead of re-forming in the backyard of Darius’s old house, where Wrath held audiences with his subjects, Rhage materialized in front of a large, but far less opulent, home in the suburbs. A blue Volvo XC70 station wagon was parked in the driveway, and though the drapes were all pulled, lights were on in every single window all around the three-story house.

Rhage took out his phone, went into Favorites, and hit green-means-go. As the ringing started, he shifted his weight back and forth between his shitkickers.

“Hey,” he said as the call was answered. “You okay?”

“Hey.” His Mary, his perfectly beautiful and brilliant female, sounded all wrong. “How did you know.”

Instantly, his beast surged under his skin, ready to tear into anything or anybody that threatened their mate. “What’s going on?”

“We’re having trouble with one of our moms.”

Rhage’s eyes sought out the windows. “Can I help?”

“Where are you?”

“Out on your lawn.”

“I’m coming down.”

Rhage hung up the phone and did a quick pass with the tidy-up, smoothing his hair, making sure his jacket was hanging right, pulling up his leathers.

Safe Place had been started by Marissa to meet the needs of victims of domestic violence within the Race. Although humans had a lot of programs and resources for their women and children, female vampires and their young had had absolutely nothing to turn to until Marissa had opened up this facility. Staffed with social workers trained thanks to the human world—night school or online—and nurses managed by Doc Jane and Ehlena, the residents were allowed to stay, without charge, for as long as they needed in order to get back on their feet and be safe.

Males were not permitted inside.

As far as he knew, there were at least twelve in the house at the moment, although that number fluctuated—and thanks to the Wellesandra Annex, built because of Tohr’s gift in memory of his beloved first shellan, there was always plenty of room.

The front door opened and Mary slipped out, locking up behind her. Tucking her arms into her chest, she shivered as she ran over the lawn—and it took every ounce of his self-control not to be the one to cross the distance between them. But he had to respect the boundary of the property.

Opening his arms wide, he sank down into his knees so that when she got within range, he could hold her flush to him and lift her up off the ground. To him, she weighed nothing, but oh, God, she was vital, her body warm against his, her arms going around his neck and squeezing, her scent hitting him like a Xanax and a jolt of espresso at the same time.

“My Mary,” he sighed. Deep inside him, his beast chuffed in satisfaction. “My Mary girl.”

He’d started calling her that a while ago. No idea why. Probably because every time he did, she smiled.

Rhage eased her back down, but kept her against him. Brushing her cocoa-colored hair back, he didn’t like how pale she was. “What the hell’s happening?”

The sound she made was one of exasperation. Exhaustion. Sadness. “Do you remember that mother and child you rescued with Butch about two years ago? Maybe two and a half? Mom had been a victim for years, so had her child.”

“Yeah, they were the first people in your program.”

“Well, mom’s not doing well. She didn’t tell anyone that she was pregnant when she came here. She hid it so completely, none of us had any idea what was going on. Typical gestation is like eighteen months, but from what Havers told us, some babies can die in utero and just stay there—not possible with humans. However, Havers said he’d seen that before in rare cases.”

“Wait. What? Are you saying she . . .”

“Yes. It’s just terrible.”

Rhage tried to imagine a female holding a dead young within her womb. “Jesus.”

“She got sicker and weaker—until she lost consciousness and we called Doc Jane and Ehlena in. Jane took the baby out, but the mom . . .” Mary shook her head. “Mom isn’t recovering. She’s got a low-level infection that refuses to clear, and she just doesn’t look right. And to make matters worse, she’s refusing to have more treatment, and nothing is getting through to her.”

Which meant Mary had been on the front lines.

Rhage tucked her in against his chest and felt like an asshole for coming on to her in text while she was dealing with life-and-death stuff. “Is there anything I can do?”

She eased back and looked up. “Actually, this little break is giving me a second wind. You’re timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

He thought about what was going on back at the clinic with Selena. The situation was weighing on him for some reason, even though he wasn’t that close to Trez.

Good male, though. Real hard-ass with a good heart.

“Well, let me know.” He brushed his mate’s hair back again. “Anything you need, at any time.”

As she lifted up onto her tiptoes, he met her more than halfway, kissing her lips once, twice, and again. She was, even more than his beating heart or his Brothers, the single most important thing in his life. From the instant she had first spoken to him, and he had closed his eyes and swayed at the sound of her voice, he had been lost in her.

Without her being his magnetic north? He would be worse than cursed.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Now and forever.”

“I’ll try to come home at dawn, but I don’t know how this is going to go.”

“You do what you need to here. I’ll check in and you’ll update me when you can.”

“You are always so understanding.”

Like she knew that being separated from her during the day was a kind of hell for him.

“You do the same for me, Mary girl. And your work here is very important.”

She tilted her head, her wide eyes grave. “Thank you. You know, that’s . . . just really kind of you.”

“It’s the truth.” He kissed her again. “Go on, now. Get back to your patient.”

His Mary took his hand and squeezed. “I love you, too.”

He stayed where he was, watching her run back to the front door, take out her key, and let herself back into the house. Just before she disappeared, she gave him a wave.

As the door shut, he imagined her turning the dead bolts, making sure everyone was safe. Working to improve the lives of the females and young inside.

After a moment, he took out his cell phone and checked again. Nope. Trez had still not gotten back to him.

That had been the second text he’d sent.

With a curse, he scattered his molecules over to Darius’s old house—and as he traveled, the image of Trez bolting out the door of the exam room dogged him. Ate at him.

Shit, he hoped Selena was okay.

For some reason, that was of vital importance to him.