The Shadows

TWENTY-EIGHT

iAm woke up to the smell of soup, and as his brain started firing again, there was no Is this a dream? bullshit going on for him. In spite of the fact that he’d been out cold from a concussion, not one second of what had landed him in this cell in the Queen’s palace was lost on him: not the quick change of clothes in front of Almost Abraham Lincoln, not the back-end approach through the Territory, not the blow to the head followed by his brief wakey-wakey before.

The soup, though, was a surprise. It was something he remembered from his childhood, a blend of pumpkin and cream, spice and rice.

And there was another scent in the cell. The same one that filled his nose when that priest had come to double-check his markings.

Opening his eyes, he—

Recoiled.

A maichen, or maid, was kneeling before him, her body and head draped in the pale blue of her station, her face covered with a mesh mask that showed him absolutely nothing of her eyes or features. In her hands, a fine wooden tray held the bowl, a spoon, a carafe, and a glass, as well as a large torn-off piece of bread.

No priest. No one else was with them.

He inhaled again—and then realized that the female must have come in with the court offical before and he just hadn’t seen her.

He pushed against the floor. And that was when he discovered he was naked.

Whatever. He didn’t want to make the maichen feel awkward, but if she didn’t like the view, she could leave.

Not that she was looking at him. Her head was lowered in submission, as she had been trained.

s’Ex apparently was prepared to take some kind of care of him while he was in prison—or at least keep him alive for the time being. And for a moment, he pitied this poor female whose social rank was so low she was sent in, by herself, to possibly dangerous males without consideration for her safety or her sex.

Then again, in the hierarchy of things, she was considered to be essentially worthless.

Sad. But he had other problems to worry about.

Without acknowledging the maichen or his birthday-suit situation, he got to his feet and walked over to the screen in the far corner. The water facilities were behind it and he took advantage of them—getting another reminder he wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

As he bent over a commoners’ sink to wash his face, he had only a single crank to turn the faucet on, rather than separate ones for hot and cold.

It was not because he was a prisoner: The whole wait-for-hot-water issue was among the things he’d had to get used to outside of the Territory. Humans insisted on toggling some mix of opposites to a perfect temperature. Here at the s’Hisbe? All water was ninety-eight degrees. From drinking to washing to brushing your teeth, it was one single constant, neither hot nor cold.

Splashing his face, he picked up the black towel that hung on a wall rack and dried off. Soft. So soft. Nothing like human ones, and he was just a prisoner.

He retucked the damp length out of habit and stepped free of the screen. “Tell s’Ex I want to see him.”

Prisoners were typically not afforded requests, but he didn’t care. He also refused to speak in the Old Language or the Shadow dialect. Because of the predominance of human culture, English was taught in Shadow schools, and even staff were expected to have some rudimentary knowledge of the language.

“And I’m not eating that.” He nodded at the tray. “So you can take it away.”

God only knew what was in the shit, whether it was a drug or some kind of poison; he was very confident his treatment here wasn’t going to stay so benign. They were, in most likelihood, going to pull his arms and legs out of his sockets at some point—although not until they notified Trez of his captivity.

Shit. He should never have trusted—

The maichen placed the tray on the floor. Then she extended her hand, picked up the spoon, dipped it in the soup, and brought it upward. With her free hand, she lifted the mesh far enough to expose her mouth and take a sample. Then she did the same for the bread, and the fermented apple cider that was in the carafe.

Allowing the mesh to fall back into place, she sat back on the soles of the leather slippers on her feet.

Unfortunately, the gesture did nothing for his suspicions. maichens were so far down the food chain, again, that even the word itself was paid little respect at the beginning of sentences. That she might be poisoned or compromised? No one would care.

His stomach, however, was seriously encouraged as she continued to breathe.

Before he could stop himself, he went over to her and the tray. maichen did not look up, but then again, she was afraid of him—for good reason.

The scent of her fear mixed nicely with that spicy soup.

So did the scent of her skin.

Inhaling through his nose, he felt another shock go through his system, his muscles twitching—as did his cock.

Which made no sense. Here he was, stuck in shit up to his chin, and his sex decided to get interested? Really?

No wonder they called the damn thing a dumb handle.

Standing above her, he put his hands on his hips and watched for signs that she was going to hit the floor. When she remained upright, he waited a little longer. She was trembling, but she had been ever since he’d gotten to his feet.

iAm knelt down on the hard stone floor, mirroring her pose. Almost immediately his knees began to ache—another reminder of how long it had been since he’d been around his people. Such manner of sitting was a commonplace here in the Territory.

Handy if you’re buck-ass naked, too. Didn’t put your altogether on as full a display.

He ate fast, but not sloppily, and it was a good call. His brain needed the calories—his body, too, if he were going to bust out of here.

Which was the plan.

“s’Ex,” he demanded when he’d finished. “Go get him.”

With that, he pushed the tray toward the female. As was custom, she bent forward in supplication, her covered forehead nearly ending up in the empty white bowl.

She picked up the tray, straightened her torso, and gracefully got to her feet without wobbling or dropping any of the dishes. Backing out of the cell, she triggered the door by putting the sole of her shoe against a section of the wall. A moment later, because the exit was clearly monitored, someone opened things up remotely—either that, or the exit was footprinted somehow.

And out she went.

As the panel closed with a Star Trek sound, he knew it would have done him no good to overpower her and try to use her as a bargaining chip. s’Ex and his guards would be more likely to negotiate to save a dog.

Pacing around, he pictured his brother beside Selena as she lay on that examination table, under that bright light, her body all contorted, a frozen expression on her face.

God, he should never have done this. Talk about a no-win situation: Trez was going to want to come get him out, but leaving that female when she was ill was going to kill him.

Nothing like throwing gasoline on a fire. Along with about a hundred pounds of dynamite.

Trez had meant every word he’d said about Selena and her freedom of choice.

As he strode through the underground tunnel, heading for the training center’s clinic, he was one hundred on pretty much one and only one thing—well, two, but the fact that he was in love with her was a rock-bottom given. The other thing he knew for sure was that Selena, and Selena alone, was going to decide how her condition was managed, and if anybody tried to strong-arm her in any way? He was going to butt-out them like you read about.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to go see Doc Jane.

About his queen.

God, that pet name for Selena was so funny. The instant the sobriquet had come out of his mouth, it had locked in. As if his vocabulary had bonded to that word like his body had bonded to hers.

And she would be the only queen for him. No matter what happened to them, or where he ended up, she would be his reigning female, none other to supplant her place in his heart, his respect, or the utterance of that word.

Dragging his palm over his face, he forced his feet to stay at a walking stride even though a big part of him wanted to run at a full tilt to the clinic. There was no rush, however, at least as far as his female was concerned. Selena was up in his bedroom, naked in his tub, soaking her beautiful body in warm, scented water.

She was not completely pain-free. She hid the lingering stiffness and discomfort well, but the telltales were in the subtle winces of her face, and the jerky manner in which she moved her hands and arms. The bath and some OTC aspirin were going to help, though. And when she had had a good, long soak, she was going to get into his bed for a rest before their “date.”

Her joy at the prospect of their dinner together was contagious. He literally felt warm inside his skeleton, as if her happiness held a kinetic magic that, through his bonding, magnified within his own flesh. Hell, all he had to do was think of her at that breakfast table, grinning over their bowls of oatmeal, or think of the sound of her voice getting all excited about where they were going . . . and he was sublimely at peace.

There had never been anything close to it for him. Not even the love and commitment he had for his brother came near to the feeling.

In a sick way, he supposed her illness had been good for both him and Selena. He could not fathom how they would have wiped away the bullshit between them so efficiently or completely without . . .

Hell of a trade-off though, wasn’t it.

As he came up to the training center’s access point, he entered the proper codes, and then passed through the supply closet and into Tohr’s office. The Brother was not behind the desk, which was a good thing, and not a surprise. It was around five p.m., and Tohr was no doubt waking up in his mated bed with his Autumn, about to get ready for the night ahead.

What had been a surprise was that Doc Jane was willing to see him at this odd time of day. With the hours she’d been pulling lately between injuries and illness and Qhuinn’s brother, it seemed like she and Manny and Ehlena had been on shift constantly.

Made him respect the shit out of her.

Through the glass door. Down the concrete-block main corridor. Many doors down on the left.

Pushing his way into the examining room, he—

“Oh, shit!”

Leaping back out into the hall, he put the crook of his elbow up to his eyes, and prayed that what he’d just seen was not a permanent burn on his retinas.

There were some things that you didn’t need to know about the people you lived with, no matter how much you loved them.

A split second later, V opened the door, and the ziiiiiiiiip! as he did up the front of his leathers was loud.

“She’ll see you now,” he said matter-of-factly.

As if two seconds ago he hadn’t been banging the ever-loving shit out of his shellan as she sat on her desk.

“I can come back?” Trez asked.

“Nope, she’s ready. Selena okay?”

“I, ah . . . yes. She’s moving, she’s . . . well, I’m taking her out tonight.”

V took out a hand-rolled. “No shit. Where to?”

In all his ruminations, Trez had been studiously avoiding thinking about their precise destination. The date idea was great, the food was going to rock . . . there was just one problem that he was going to have to suck up and deal with.

“That restaurant.” He pointed to the ceiling. “You know the one downtown that, like, goes in circles?”

“Oh, yeah. Way up there.” The Brother exhaled. “Helluva view.”

Uh-huh. Fifty-plus stories. He’d gotten on the Web site to find out exactly how bad it was. “Yeah. Helluva view.”

“Lemme know if there’s anything I can do. For either of you.”

V gave him a clap on the shoulder, and started to stride off.

“Vishous.”

The Brother stopped, but did not turn around. And in the light above his head, the tendril of smoke from his hand-rolled struck an elegant swirl in the air.

“How much time do I have with her.”

The Brother turned his head so that his powerful goateed profile cut a pale slice out of that illumination, the tattoos at his temple seeming more sinister than usual.

“How much,” Trez repeated. “I know you saw it.”

There was a subtle hiss as the Brother inhaled, the tip of the cigarette glowing a vital orange. “What I get is not that specific. Sorry.”

“You’re lying.”

That dark brow popped up. “I’ll forgive you that cheap shot. Once.”

With that, the male resumed striding off, those massive shoulders shifting with his hips, his warrior’s body not exactly the kind of thing anyone, even someone of Trez’s size and with his Shadow skills, would voluntarily take on.

Especially with that glowing hand of his.

But there wouldn’t be a brawl between the two of them. Not on this topic, at least.

They both knew he’d lied.

V was the Brother with the intelligence, the mystical visions, born directly of the Scribe Virgin’s body. He was also incapable of bullshitting anyone about anything. It was just not part of his hardwiring, that incredible brain of his too busy to care about whether or not he offended or postured properly or couched things in ways that were palatable to the inquirer.

So when he had refused to turn around? When all he had done was show his profile?

He had answered the question well enough.

Vishous would never, ever voluntarily hurt or injure a male he respected. That was even more ingrained than the no-lying thing. And yes, Trez had heard that there was usually not a timeline on V’s visions about death—but clearly it was different in this case.

Maybe because what had been seen was less about the Chosen’s death, and more about what happened to Trez afterward.

There are two females. And in both cases, you’re running out of time.

“. . . Trez?” Doc Jane said, as if she had been trying to get his attention. “Are you ready to talk with me?”

No, he thought, as V disappeared through the glass doors of the office. He was not.