The Shadows

TWENTY-SEVEN

When Layla woke up, she was lying on her side on a much softer surface than the vestibule’s floor. In a panic, she brought her hand to her belly.

Everything felt the same, the hard swelling, the size it had been—but dearest Virgin Scribe, had she injured the young? She could remember getting out of her car, struggling to walk over to the mansion’s entrance, losing consciousness—

“Young,” she mumbled. “Young okay? Young?”

Instantly, Qhuinn’s blue-and-green stare was right in front of her. “You’re all right—”

As if she cared about herself right now. “Young!”

With a curse, she thought, why had she ever complained about being pregnant? Maybe this was punishment for her having—

“Everything’s okay.” Qhuinn glanced across the room, focusing on someone she couldn’t see. “Fine, just . . . okay, yeah, fine.”

The relief was so great, tears flooded her eyes. If she had lost their young because she was meeting with Xcor? Because she’d been staring at him while he . . . did that to his sex?

She never would forgive herself.

With a curse, she wondered why had she asked that male to do those things. It was wrong on so many levels, adding to her guilt when she was already choking on the stuff.

After all, it was so much easier to take the high-road victim role if you were not asking your blackmailer to jerk off.

“Oh, God,” she moaned.

“Are you in pain? Shit, Jane—”

“I’m right here.” The good doctor knelt down beside Qhuinn, looking tired, but alert. “Hi there. We’re glad you’re back. Just so you know, Manny reset your arm. It was broken clean through. We’ve put it in a cast and . . .”

There was some kind of conversation about her recovery time and when the plaster could come off, but she didn’t pay attention to any of that. Doc Jane and Qhuinn were keeping something from her: Their smiles of reassurance were like photographs of the real thing—perfectly accurate, but flat.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she cut in.

Silence.

As she struggled to sit up, Blay was the one who helped her, gently grasping her good arm and giving her something to push against.

“What,” she demanded.

Doc Jane looked at Qhuinn. Qhuinn looked at Blay. And Blay . . . was the one who eventually met her eyes.

“There’s something unexpected,” the fighter said. “In the ultrasound.”

“If you make me ask ‘what’ again,” she gritted out, “I’m going to start throwing things, and to hell with my broken arm.”

“Twins.”

As if time and reality were a car that had suddenly had its brakes punched, there was a metaphoric screeching sound in her head.

Layla blinked. “I’m sorry . . . what?”

“Twins,” Qhuinn repeated. “The ultrasound is showing that you are carrying twins.”

“And they’re both perfectly healthy,” Doc Jane added. “One is significantly smaller, and its development has been delayed, but it appears viable. I didn’t catch the second fetus during your previous ultrasounds because I understand—from a consult with Havers—that vampire pregnancies are different from humans’. There was apparently another fertilized egg that had implanted but did not enter a significant embryogenesis stage until much later—your last ultrasound was two months ago, for example, and I did not see anything at that time.”

“Twins?” Layla choked out.

“Twins,” one of the three replied.

For some reason, she thought back to the moment when she’d found out she had, in fact, conceived. Even though pregnancy had been the goal, and she and Qhuinn had done what they’d had to do to get there, the news that the needing had been successful had been the kind that stunned. It just seemed so miraculous, and overwhelming—a joyous gauntlet that she was not entirely sure wouldn’t get the best of her.

This was the same.

Except without the joy.

She had known two of her sisters to carry twins, and one of the pregnancies had been lost. The other had resulted in only a single, living young.

Tears started to fall from her eyes.

This was not good news.

“Hey.” Blay leaned down with a handkerchief. “This is not bad. It’s not.”

Qhuinn nodded, although his face remained a mask. “It’s . . . unexpected. But not at all bad.”

Layla put her hands to her stomach. Two. There were two young that she now had to get over the ultimate finish line safely.

Two.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, how had this happened? What was she going to do?

As the questions ran through her head, she realized . . . well, hell. Like so much of life, this was out of her hands. An impossibility had become manifest—her job now was to do what she could to help herself and the young get the rest, nutrition and medical care that was required.

That was the only thing she could directly affect. The rest of it?

Up to fate alone.

“Could there be others?” Layla asked.

Doc Jane shrugged. “I believe that is highly unlikely, but I’d like to send a sample of your blood off to Havers. He has much more experience than I do in this, and after having a look at a vampire-specific pregnancy hormone, he believes he can take a good guess as to where you’re at. He did say, though, that triplets are virtually unheard-of, and yours is the typical course of multiples for females. If they are going to have twins, unless in the extremely rare case of identical twins such as Z and Phury, the second embryo will delay its development until the pregnancy is well along. Almost as if it is waiting to see whether things look good before deciding to join the party.”

Layla glanced down at her distended belly—and vowed never, ever to complain about a goddamn thing. Not the swollen ankles, or the over-sensitive, pendulous breasts, or the peeing every ten minutes. Not. One. More. Whinge.

Ever.

The fact that she’d somehow lost consciousness, fallen face-first on a marble floor, and still managed to have this young—

These young, she corrected with a shock.

—in her body safely was a reminder that the aches and discomforts were minor in comparison to the big picture, the big goal, the big concern.

Which was birthing them at the right time and having them survive.

“So do you consent?” Doc Jane asked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Is it okay to send a sample of your blood to Havers for analysis?”

“Oh, yes.” She extended her good arm. “Do it now—”

“No, we took the vial already.”

Ah. Which would explain the cotton ball taped to the inside of her elbow.

Her brain was not working right.

“Is that the reason she passed out?” Qhuinn asked. “The extra young?”

Doc Jane shrugged again. “Her vitals all look fine—and they’ve been stable for quite some time. When was the last time you fed, Layla?”

The problem was not whether she’d taken a vein lately. “I . . .”

“We’ll deal with that right now,” Qhuinn announced. “Blay and I will both give her our veins.”

Doc Jane nodded. “It would be logical that, with the second baby beginning to require more nourishment, your caloric and blood needs may be much greater than you’ve realized. I think it’s entirely possible you were pushing yourself and it caught up with you.”

Layla felt utterly numb and had to force a smile. “I’ll be more careful. And thank you. I really appreciate your caring for me.”

“You’re welcome.” Doc Jane gave Layla’s foot a squeeze through the light blankets. “Rest up. You’re going to do great.”

As the healer left, Layla thought about the strange sexual cravings that she’d been having lately, as well as the relatively sudden increase in her physical symptoms. Was it the second young—?

“Do you want something more comfortable than that?” Qhuinn asked.

She shook herself back into focus. “I’m sorry, more comfortable than . . . ?”

“That hospital johnny.”

Glancing down at herself, she saw that she wasn’t in her clothes anymore. “Oh. Well. Actually, it’s a bit chilly down here. One of my robes would be nice, but I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No problem. I’ll take your things back to your room and pick up a nightgown and a robe—meanwhile, Blay, you wanna offer her your vein?”

By way of answer, the soldier’s wrist appeared right in front of her. “Take as much as you need.”

In that moment, she had an overwhelming urge to tell them. Come clean. Wipe out the stress of the last year no matter the repercussions.

She just wanted to be free of the terrible burden that weighed her down. Scared her.

Tantalized her.

No doubt that would improve the chances of her carrying the young better—less stress was good for pregnant females, right? And now there were two lives at risk as well as her own.

“Layla?”

She swallowed hard. Looked up at the pair of them as they stood over her bed, concerned. She didn’t want to betray the only family she had ever had. Besides, maybe if she told them about Xcor, they could . . . make the compound safer. Or move everyone. Or . . .

Layla cleared her throat and gripped the covers on the bed as if they were a roll bar and she was about to go into a hairpin turn. “Listen, I need to . . .”

When she didn’t finish, Qhuinn jumped into the quiet. “You need to feed. That’s what you need to do.”

As if her fangs were listening, they punched out from the roof of her mouth, and she got in touch with the fact that, yes, she did need to take a vein.

And no, she really couldn’t tell them. She just . . . it was no good. There was no good solution for her. They would hate her for endangering herself and the pregnancy—and meanwhile, Xcor would still know where they all lived because the Brotherhood was never going to leave the compound. This was their home and they would defend it when he attacked after she stopped seeing him.

People would be killed. People she loved.

Shit.

“Thank you,” she said roughly to Blay.

“Anything for you,” he replied, brushing her hair back.

She tried to strike as gently as she could, but Blay didn’t even flinch. Then again, when he and Qhuinn made love, he was no doubt used to much, much harder bites.

Just as she began to draw against the familiar source, taking in the nutrition her body required and could get only from this gift by a male of her species, Qhuinn went over to where her clothes had been put on a chair in the corner. As he took them into his hands, he frowned and glanced down. Then rifled through the folds like he was searching for something.

A moment later, his mismatched stare shifted over to her and his body grew very still.

Ducking her eyes, she pretended to concentrate on what she was doing. She had no clue what he had found or why he was looking at her like that.

But given the way she was living, she had a lot to hide.

“When were you supposed to go?”

As Trez asked the question, Selena focused on the hot bowl of oatmeal he’d just made for her. As it was well after dawn, all of the household’s doggen were taking their rest in their quarters, so she and Trez were alone in the enormous kitchen, sitting side by side at the oak table.

“Selena. What time is your checkup.”

She should have watched her mouth. Two seconds ago, they’d been enjoying this Quaker Oats concoction, with its tributaries of heavy cream and meadows of brown sugar, the pair of them basking in the glow of what they had done in the shower, at peace and relaxed.

And now?

Not so much, as they say.

“First thing this morning.”

Trez checked his phone. “Okay, that’s okay. It’s about eight. So even if we finish this, we can still be on time-ish.”

“I don’t want to go.” She could feel him staring at her. “I don’t. I’m not in a big hurry to go back there at all.”

“Doc Jane said we had to X-ray your joints to monitor—”

“Well, I don’t want to.” She put a spoonful in her mouth and tasted nothing. It was just a texture. “I’m sorry, but I’m well right now. I don’t want to go down there and get poked and prodded again.”

Her reticence was grounded in the fact that now was the good part, and she didn’t know how long it was going to last. Given that nothing could stop this, why did they need to bother with—

“It would mean a lot to me if you would see Jane.”

She glanced up. Trez was staring at the windows behind her, even though the shutters were down and there was nothing to see in them.

His eyes were haunted. Like he knew she wasn’t going to go to the clinic—and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Do you know what I’m most scared of?” she heard herself say.

His face turned toward hers. “What?”

She stirred her oatmeal. Took another taste, which still registered just as something warm. “I’m afraid of getting trapped.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to get trapped in here,” she said with a catch in her voice. Then she patted her chest, her arms, her thighs beneath the table. “In my body. I’m scared of the episodes. I’m alive in there, you know, locked in and . . . when it happens, it’s hard to hear and see, but things register. I knew you had come for me. It made all the difference. When you were with me, I wasn’t . . . quite so trapped.”

When he didn’t say anything, she glanced at him again. He was back to staring at those windows that showed nothing of the day outside, not whether it was cloudy or sunny, or whether it was rainy, or if there was a wind whisking the autumn leaves along brown grass.

“Trez?” she prompted.

“Sorry.” He shook himself. “Sorry, I got lost there for a second.”

He pivoted in his chair, putting his feet in the rungs under the seat she was in. Then he took her hand, the one that didn’t have the spoon, and he smoothed it flat against his palm.

“You have the most beautiful hands I have ever seen,” he murmured.

She laughed. “I suspect you’re biased, but I’ll take the compliment.”

He frowned, his brows going tight. “I can imagine how . . .” He did a long, slow inhale, exhale. “I can think of nothing more terrifying in the world than being locked in a place that you can’t get out of— and to have your prison be your own body? That’s inconceivable. That’s a terrifying head fuck.”

“Yes.”

There was a long period of silence at that point, where he sat in front of his cooling bowl without touching the stuff, and she played with her oatmeal, making little S’s with the tip of her spoon.

The argument they were having played out in the air between them, his please-go-for-your-own-good’s at war with her not-until-I-absolutely-have-to’s. There was no reason to actually say the words. She wasn’t going to budge. And that meant his only option was to throw her over his shoulder and caveman her down to the training center.

Finally, Selena couldn’t stand it, and had to change the subject.

“I sometimes wonder . . .” She shrugged. “I mean, what if everyone’s lied about death? What if there is no Fade, but instead you’re just stuck in your body forever, conscious but unable to move?”

Great. She’d wanted to try to lighten the mood.

Nice. Try.

“Well, bodies do . . .” He cleared his throat. “You know, rot.”

“Hmm, good point.”

“Although, as afterlife nightmares go, for me? I worry about the whole zombie-apocalypse thing.” He picked up his spoon and started to eat, still holding on to her free hand. “That would suck. You kick it and then you roam the earth, stinking up the place on an Atkins diet that, like, never ends.”

She put up her spoon to stop him. “Well, now, hold on a minute—see, you’d just be hungry, right? And if you found people to eat, then, you know, life is pretty good if you’re a zombie.”

“Not if the lower half of your face drops off. Without a jaw, how do you feed yourself? Then you’re just hungry and you can’t do anything about it. Total suckage.”

“Straws.”

“What?”

“You just need straws.”

“Hard to fit a femur through a straw.”

“And a blender. Straws and a blender. Then you’re set.”

With bark of sound, Trez threw his head back and laughed so hard, it was a wonder he didn’t wake half the mansion up.

“Oh, my God, that is so sick.” He leaned in and kissed her. “So fucking sick.”

Suddenly, she was smiling, too—so hard her cheeks hurt. “Totally sick. Is this what they call gallows humor?”

“Yup. Especially if we keep riffin’.” Trez grew serious. “And okay, so you don’t go.”

“What? To the gallows? That is a relief.”

“Down to see Jane. If you don’t want to go, I’m not going to make you.”

Selena exhaled in a rush. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s not my call. It’s yours.” He ran his spoon around the inside of his bowl. “I think it’s important that you have as much say as possible in any and every part of your life, especially the disease and the way it’s managed. I’m guessing you feel like you have no choice about so much of this . . . fate . . . that’s come to you, and that makes the opportunities to call the shots especially important.” He glanced over at her. “I may have an opinion, and you can bet your ass I’ll tell you what it is, but the last thing I want you to feel is pressure from me. You’ve got enough penning you in already. I’m not going to add to that.”

“How do you know . . . God, it’s like you know exactly what I’m thinking.”

He shrugged and his eyes got a faraway look in them. Then he tapped the side of his head. “Good guess.” He refocused on her. “So, the question is, where do you want to go?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where do you want to go? The clinic is not on the list . . . what is?”

Selena sat back in her chair. Now she was the one staring at the windows. “I like Rehvenge’s Great Camp, if that’s what you mean?”

“Be bolder. Think bigger. Come on, there has to be somewhere exciting. The Taj Mahal, Paris—”

“We can’t go to Paris.”

“Says who?”

“Ahh . . .”

“Never met Ahhh, don’t know him, don’t care how big he is—if he’s standing in our way? I’ma murder the son of a bitch.”

“You are so adorable.” Selena bent in and kissed him on the mouth. Then tried to force her brain to cough up something, anything. “Isn’t this just my luck. Finally get a free pass . . . and can’t come up with—oh! I know.”

“Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

“I want to go to Circle the World.”

Trez sat back as well. “The restaurant?”

“Yup.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I want to go to Circle the World and have dinner.”

“That’s the one that goes around, that’s on the top of—”

“The biggest building in Caldwell! I saw it on TV once when I was keeping Layla company in her room. You can sit right next to the glass and look out all over the city as you eat.” She frowned as he seemed to swallow hard—and not because he’d taken a big spoonful of the oatmeal. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.” Trez nodded and puffed his chest out as he went all male on her. “I think it’s a great idea. We’ll have Fritz make the reservation for tonight—I’ve got some pull in this city so it won’t be a problem. And they have dinner service until nine and ten o’clock.”

Selena started to smile, picturing herself in one of the Chosen robes, her hair done properly, her body normal . . . and Trez across the glossy black table they’d shown on the TV ad, with the napkins so white, the plates so square, the silver glinting in the candlelight.

Perfect.

Romantic.

And nothing to do with being sick.

“I am so excited,” she said.

The next bite of oatmeal she put in her mouth was sweet and creamy and altogether the most perfect . . . what did humans call it? Brake feast?

That made no sense. But who cared.

“It’s a date, isn’t it,” she realized. “Praise to the Virgin Scribe, I have a date!”

Trez laughed, the sound a rumble in his broad chest. “You’d better believe you do. And I’ma treat you like a queen. My queen.”

As they both tucked in, she thought, wow, such a strange emotional landscape this all was, deep valleys of despair, followed by vast vistas that were so emotionally pure and beautiful, she felt honored to have them. It was almost as if her life, with its compressed time span, had been shoved together like a bolt of cloth, that which might have been smooth going and unremarkable, now undulating with great resonance.

She would have preferred the luxury of centuries. But in this moment, right now, she felt so very, deeply alive. In a way she couldn’t say she had been before.

“Thank you,” she said abruptly.

“For what?”

She stared down into her oatmeal, feeling a blush hit her cheeks. “For tonight. It’s the best night I’ve ever had.”

“We aren’t there yet, my queen.”

“It’s still the best night”—she looked into his dark eyes—“of my entire life.”