The Shadows

THIRTY-ONE

No sleep.

Paradise had gotten absolutely, positively no sleep whatsoever in the beautiful house. At first, it had been because she was so excited to have the run of the place that she’d gone through every parlor, bedroom, and bathroom, marveling at the art, the furnishings, the decor—twice. Then it had been a case of picking a bedroom underground (she’d chosen the one on the left) and unpack, unpack, unpack.

Her beloved doggen, Vuchie, had started to lay a pallet for herself out in the short, stone-walled corridor between the two subterranean suites, but Paradise had insisted her maid go across the way and stay in the other actual bedroom. This had led to a series of protests, whereupon her servant, trapped between a direct order and her discomfort at staying in such luxury, had nearly had a nervous breakdown.

In the end, though, and as usual, Paradise had gotten her way.

At which point, she’d retreated to “her” bedroom, changed into nightclothes and discovered the further good news that the Wi-Fi didn’t require a password. Stretching out on the velvet duvet, she’d checked Twitter, Facebook, a couple of blogs, and the New York Post and Daily News—and continued to ignore texts from Peyton. When her eyelids had finally started to drop, she’d put her phone aside and dragged half the covers over on top of herself, her Syracuse b-ball sweatshirt and her yoga pants the kind of pj’s she had slept in many, many times.

Annnnnd that was when the no-sleep thing had gotten its groove on.

Even as she’d closed her eyes, her mind had buzzed with what her father had told her she’d be doing at nightfall to help him with the King.

And then there was the fact that that long-lost cousin was alone with her father back at their house. What if he hurt her dad?

So, yup, she thought as she stepped in front of the mirror in the bathroom. No shut-eye . . . even when her lids had been down.

The good news was that the wait was over. And her father had texted her that his ETA was in about fifteen minutes—so clearly, he’d made it through the day okay, too.

Funny, she was shocked by how badly she needed to see him. After so many years of praying for some freedom, she had found the actual experience marked by a whole lot of homesick.

“But now I get to work.”

Turning to the side, she straightened her navy-blue blazer. Tugged at her white blouse. Fiddled with her strand of pearls.

As she stepped back, she decided she looked like a 1960s stewardess for PanAm. Like the ones they’d had in Catch Me If You Can.

“Ah, come on.” She yanked out the tie she’d pulled her hair back with, and fluffed things out. “Oh, yeah. That’s really different.”

Not.

Hair down so did not improve the situation. But she was out of time, and more to the point, who did she have to impress, anyway?

Okay, bad question to ask in any form if you were about to try to hold down your first job and it was not only for your father, but for the King of your entire race, and his personal guard of straight-up killers.

It was enough to get her praying to the Scribe Virgin.

Stepping out of her—

“Please, mistress. Allow me to make you some breakfast.”

Vuchie was standing just inside the room, dressed in her perennial gray-and-white uniform, her weight going back and forth between her crepe shoes. The doggen had brown hair, brown eyes and skin the color of white bread, but she was lovely in her own way—and probably only fifty years older than Paradise. The two had known each other since Parry could remember—as with many daughters of aristocratic parents, the pair of them had been matched with the hopes of a lifelong mistress/servant relationship being formed. In a lot of cases, one’s maid was the most important thing taken to your new home when you were mated to a male of similar privilege and breeding.

It was your tie to the past. Your sanity. And, a lot of times, the only person you could trust.

Boy, she much preferred this current relocation—that was because of a job, not some overbred hellren type.

“I’m fine, Vuchie.” She tried to smile. “Are you hungry yourself?”

“Mistress, you did not have Last Meal, either.”

Parry had no intention of coming clean with the truth—namely that if she had so much as half a nook or a quarter of a cranny, she was going to go golf sprinkler all over her stewardess-ness. That kind of candor was only to going to lead to a fight over bed rest, and likely, Vuchie calling in her father for R&R reinforcement.

“You know what I would love?” Parry forced a smile. “If you could prepare something for me to eat at my desk.” She went over and linked arms with Vuchie. “Come on, let’s do this.”

“But . . . but . . . but—”

“I’m so glad you agree. I just love it when we’re on the same page like this.”

Up at the top of the curving, rough-cut stone staircase, they stepped through a life-size portrait of a French royal into the parlor, where the receiving area was located.

“It’s so quiet,” Paradise said, stilling.

The room, like the rest of the house, was just so beautifully decorated, antiques everywhere, silks and satins on the walls and the floors, even the chairs people were to wait in covered in rich fabrics. It reminded her of articles she’d read in Vogue and Vanity Fair about Babe Paley and Slim Keith, the scale of the furnishings so perfect, the objets d’art little whimsies of jade and gold and brass, the colors restrained, but not weak.

“I guess Father isn’t here, yet.”

As if on cue, the automatic shutters rose from all the windows, the subtle whirring sound making her jump.

“I shall go attend to the kitchen,” Vuchie said. “And prepare your First Meal.”

As her maid walked off, Paradise nearly called the female back. But for God’s sake, the doggen was not a security blanket.

Determined to get herself ready, even though she didn’t know what she was going to be doing, she went over and sat down behind the desk and . . . played with the mouse, which got her to a password-protected screen she didn’t bother trying to crack.

Wi-Fi underground was one thing. The computer here? Was going to be locked and then some.

One by one, she opened the drawers, finding nothing but stationery supplies, stationery supplies . . . and yeah, wow, more stationery stuff—

She heard the voices first. Deep. Low. Very masculine.

Then the front door opened. And there was the bass chorus of many, many heavy feet in boots crossing the threshold—

Paradise’s first thought was to hide under the desk.

Members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood filed into the house, all of them dressed in black leather, each one of them armed with brutal-looking weapons.

They were bigger than she remembered from her introductions the previous night. And it wasn’t like she’d filed the memory of them in the pipsqueak category, either.

“. . . pump a couple of rounds off in their head,” one of them said.

There was some laughter, and another added, “Or their ass. I ain’t too proud.”

Cue the proverbial tire squealing as they all stopped short and looked at her. Thank God she was sitting down. And the desk added a barrier of sorts between her and all that warrior.

“Hey,” one of them said, the one with the Ben Affleck accent. “Your first night, huh?”

As she started to nod, her father flashed in through the open door.

“I am here, I am here!” Her dad pressed through the group. “Paradise, how fare you?”

As he came up to her, she got to her feet and hugged him hard. She could do this, she told herself. She could absolutely, positively do this.

Really.

Honest.

God, there were a lot of males in the house.

Twins. She was having twins.

As Layla lay in the hospital bed, she rubbed her belly with her free hand, the one that was not hanging out the end of the cast that ran up to above her right elbow. Her aches from her two falls had faded, and the bone break that Manny had taken care of was already knitted back together. The plaster or nylon or whatever it was was going to be cut off in a little bit.

Twins.

Even though she’d had all day to try to get used to the news, she was still stunned—and making things worse, she and Qhuinn hadn’t really talked about it.

Or what he’d gotten so interested in when it came to those clothes she’d been wearing.

By the time he’d come back with a flannel nightie and her favorite pink robe, she’d been asleep. He’d been good enough to lay the robe over her and leave her be.

Was he mad at her? Had he guessed that she’d been lying about where her car trips had been taking her?

Goddamn, as the Brothers would say—

The knock on her door brought her head up. “Yes?”

Sure as if he’d read her mind, Qhuinn leaned his heavy upper body into the room. “Hey. I just wanted to check in with you before I left tonight. How’re you feeling?”

Layla took a deep breath and tried to have nothing show in her face.

“I’m well. How are you?”

“Good.”

Long pause. That got her heart beating hard.

“So, thank you for the robe.” She stroked the fuzzy length. “I really appreciate it. I just woke up, but I’m going to put it on.”

After a moment, he came in and eased the door shut. His mismatched eyes went up and down her body, and for once, they were reserved.

“So how are you doing?” he said. “You know, with the twin thing.”

“Fine. I mean, it’s a shock . . .” She shrugged. “But I’m adjusting. I’m happy. Two, what a blessing. I mean, yes.”

“Good. Yeah. Uh-huh.”

Silence. That was filled by him shoving his hands into the front pockets of his leathers, and her playing with the lapels of the damn robe.

As well as breaking out in a cold sweat under the hospital sheets.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” Qhuinn asked.

The pounding in her ears was so loud, she was almost sure she answered him in a shout. “About what?”

“What you were doing last night?”

She forced herself to hold his stare. “I went for a drive.”

“Why were your clothes covered with leaves?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. Last night. When I took them upstairs, there were dirt and leaves on them. If you walked across the courtyard and fell in the vestibule, why were they like that?”

She dropped her eyes from his even though she knew that made her seem guilty. Then again, she was guilty.

“Layla?” He cursed softly. “Look, you’re a grown female. Even though you’re carrying my young, I don’t have any right to know what’s doing in your life except for pregnancy-related stuff. I just want to make sure you’re safe. For your sake. For the young.”

Shit.

Now was the time, she thought. Now . . . had to be the time.

“I feel trapped,” she heard herself say.

Between Xcor and the Brotherhood. Between danger and safety. Between desire and damnation.

“I kind of figured that.” Qhuinn nodded. “The drives. You’re going out a lot.”

“I walk.”

“Where?”

“Outside.” In her head, she tried on a variety of come-clean confessions, swapping out nouns and verbs, trying to find a way for her to describe what she was doing without having him lose his shit all over the place. “Out . . . in the country.”

Qhuinn walked across the room and straightened the already straight framed picture of a weeping willow. “People do that when they’re working on something. In their head.”

You got that right, she thought.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she wanted to tell him. She really did . . . but the revelation was stuck in her throat.

For the first time, she started to get pissed off. At herself. At Xcor. At the whole goddamn thing.

“Did you trip and fall while you were walking?” he said.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I was stupid. I fell over a root.”

So close to the truth. Just with all the salient parts left unspoken.

Man, this was killing her.

“Most females . . .” Qhuinn came over to the foot of her bed, put his hands on his lean hips and stared down at her feet. “Most females have a partner they can go through this with. I want to be that for you. So does Blay. We don’t want to let you down.”

Great, now she got teary that he might ever doubt how supportive he was. “You are incredible. Both of you are. You are utterly amazing. It’s just . . . there’s a lot going on.”

At least that was not a lie.

“More now with twins.” He shook his head. “Twins . . . can you believe it?”

“No.” She rubbed her belly. “I don’t know how they’re going to fit. I already feel huge, and I have how many more months to go?”

“Listen, please know, I got you. I’m here for you, anything you need—”

As a shrill alarm started to sound next door, the two of them frowned at the same time and looked around for the source of the noise.

“Is that coming from Luchas’s room?” she asked. “Oh, my God, is that . . . ?”

Shouting out in the hall. Running footsteps. Jane’s voice barking out orders.

“Fuck, I gotta go see,” Qhuinn said as he pivoted and lunged for the door. “I gotta go help . . .”

As he bolted for his brother’s room, Layla sat up. Got to her feet. Steadied herself.

Whatever was happening next door was bad news. And she was damned if Qhuinn was going to face it alone.