Lover Enshrined (31 page)

“Not exactly a candidate for
Playgirl
, huh,” he said awkwardly.

“How many of them were there?” Her voice wasn’t joking around.

“Eighteen. Hundred.”

“Four,” Blay interjected. “An honor guard of four.”

“Honor guard?” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t understand the race’s ways. “For Lash?”

“No, from Qhuinn’s own family,” Blay said. “And they weren’t supposed to kill him.”

Well, if that wasn’t his new theme song, Qhuinn thought.

Doc Jane opened her bag. “Okay, let’s see what’s doing under your clothes.”

She was characteristically all business as she cut off his shirt, listened to his heart, and took his blood pressure. As she worked, he passed the time looking at the wall, the blank TV screen, her bag.

“Handy . . .
bag . . .
you got there,” he grunted as her hands palpated his abdomen and hit a soft spot.

“Always wanted one. It’s part of my
Marcus Welby, M.D.
, fetish.”

“Who?”

“This hurt, too?” His gasp as she poked him again answered just fine, so he left it at that.

Doc Jane took off his pants, and as he went commando, he quickly pulled some sheets over his privates. She pushed them aside, looked him over professionally front to back, and then asked him to flex his arms and legs. After she lingered over a couple of spectacular black and blues, she covered him again.

“What did they work you over with? Those bruises on your thighs are severe.”

“Crowbars. Big, massive—”

Blay cut in. “Clubs. Had to be those ceremonial black clubs.”

“That would be consistent with the injuries.” Doc Jane took a moment, as if she were a computer processing an information request. “Right, here’s where we are. What’s going on with your legs is undoubtedly uncomfortable, but the contusions should heal on their own. You have no open wounds, and although it appears your palm was knifed, I’m assuming that happened a little earlier, because it’s healing already. And nothing appears broken, which is a miracle.”

Except his heart, of course. To be beaten by your own brother—

Shut it, you pantywaist,
he told himself.

“So I’m just fine, right, Doc?”

“How long were you out cold?”

He frowned, that vision from the Fade suddenly swooping down out of his memory like a black crow. God . . . had he died?

“Ah . . . I have no idea how long. And I didn’t see anything while I was out. It was just blackness, you know . . . I was down for the count.” No way he was talking about that little all-natural acid trip. “But I’m good, you know—”

“I’m going to have to disagree with you there. Your heart rate’s high, your blood pressure is low, and I don’t like that belly of yours.”

“It’s just a little sore.”

“I’m worried something’s ruptured.”

Great.
“I’ll be fine.”

“And your medical degree is from where?” Doc Jane smiled, and he laughed a little. “I’d like to give you an ultrasound, but Havers’s clinic got hit tonight.”

“What?”

“What?”
Blay asked at the same time.

“I assumed you knew.”

“Were there survivors?” Blay asked.

“Lash is missing.”

While the implications of that little news flash sank in, Jane reached into her bag of goodies and took out a sealed needle and a vial with a rubber top. “I’m going to give you something for the pain. And don’t worry,” she said wryly, “it’s not Demerol.”

“Why, is Demerol bad?”

“For vampires? Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Trust me.”

“Whatever you think sounds good.”

When she was finished shooting him up, she said, “This should last you a couple of hours, but I plan to be back way before that.”

“Dawn must be close, huh.”

“Yup, so we’re going to have to move fast. There’s a temporary clinic set up—”

"I can’t go there,” he said. "I can’t . . . That would not be a good call.”

Blay nodded. “We need to keep his whereabouts on the DL. He’s not safe anywhere right now.”

Doc Jane’s eyes narrowed. After a moment, she said, “Okay. Then I’ll figure out where I can get you what you need in a more private setting. In the meantime, I don’t want you to move from this bed. And no eating or drinking, in case I have to go in.”

As Doc Jane packed up her Marcus-whoever-he-was bag, Qhuinn counted the number of people who wouldn’t have come near him, much less try to treat his injuries.

“Thank you,” he said in a small voice.

“My pleasure.” She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m going to fix you. Bet your life on it.”

In that moment, as he looked into her dark green eyes, he honestly believed she could fix the whole wide world, and the wave of relief that washed over him was as if someone had tucked a soft blanket all around his body. Shit, whether it was the fact that his life was in capable hands or the result of whatever she’d pumped into his arm, he didn’t really care. He’d take the easing where he found it.

“I feel sleepy.”

“That’s my plan.”

Doc Jane went over and whispered to Blay for a moment . . . and though the guy tried to hide his reaction, his eyes widened.

Ah, so he was in deep shit, Qhuinn thought.

After the doc left, he didn’t bother to ask what had been said, because there was no way Blay was going to go there. His face was a closed cupboard.

But there was still plenty of other stuff to cover, thanks to the shit storm they were all in. “What did you tell your parents?” Qhuinn asked.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

In spite of the exhaustion that was dragging at him, he shook his head. “Tell me.”

“You don’t—”

“You tell me . . . or I’m going to get up and start doing fucking Pilates.”

“Whatever. You’ve always said that was for pansies.”

“Fine. Jujitsu. Talk before I pass out, would you?”

Blay took a Corona out of the little fridge. “My parents guessed it was us coming in. They’re just back from the
glymera
’s big party. So Lash’s folks must be finding out now.”

Fuck.
“You tell them . . . about me?”

“Yeah, and they want you to stay.” The beer made a gasping sound as Blay opened it. “We’re just not going to say anything to anybody. There’ll be speculation about where you’ve gone, but it’s not like the
glymera
’s going to do a house search for you, and our
doggen
are discreet.”

“I’m only staying today.”

“Look, my parents love you, and they’re not going to toss you out on your ass. They know what Lash was like, and they also know your parents.” Blay stopped there, but the tone he’d used added a lot of adjectives to the words.

Prejudicial, judgmental, cruel . . .

“I’m no one’s burden.” Qhuinn glowered. “Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

“It’s not a burden, though.” Blay’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I just have my parents and me. Who do you think I’d go to if something bad happened? John and you are all I have in this world apart from my mom and dad. The two of you are my family.”

“Blay, I’m going to jail.”

“We don’t have any jails, so you’re going to need a place to be under house arrest in.”

“And you don’t think that’ll be public record? You don’t think I’ll have to disclose where I stay?”

Blay swallowed half his beer, got out his phone, and started texting. “Listen, can you stop playing spot-the-obstacle? We’re going to have enough problems of our own without you pulling more out of your ass. We’ll figure a way for you to stay here, okay?”

There was a beep.

“See? John agrees.” Blay flashed the screen, which read, GREAT IDEA on it, then polished off his beer with the satisfied expression of a male who had sorted out both his basement and his garage. “This is all going to be fine.”

Qhuinn eyed his friend through lids that had become heavy as tile roofs. “Yeah.”

As he passed out, his last thought was that, sure, things were going to work out . . . just not how Blay had it planned.

Chapter Twenty-two

LASH, son of the Omega, was reborn on a scream that ripped out of his throat.

In confused madness, he returned to the world as he had come into it twenty-five years before: naked and gasping and bloodied, only this time his body was that of a full-grown male, not an infant.

His quick moment of conscious awareness passed fast, and then he was in agony, his veins filled with acid, every inch of him corroding from the inside out. He put his hands on his stomach, jacked over to the side, and threw up black bile onto a worn wooden floor. Too consumed by the retching, he didn’t bother to wonder where he was or what had happened or why he was voiding stuff that looked like old crankcase oil.

In the midst of the swirling disorientation and the crippling heaves and a blind panic he couldn’t control, a savior reached out to him. A hand smoothed down his back and stroked him over and over again, the warm palm falling into a rhythm that slowed his racing heart and calmed his head and eased his stomach. When he could, he rolled onto his back again.

In the midst of a blurry visual field, a black translucent figure came into focus. Its face was ethereal, a vision of male beauty in the bloom of its early twenties, but the malevolence behind the shadowy eyes made the visage horrible.

The Omega.
It had to be the Omega.

This was the Evil his religion and folklore and training had described.

Lash started to scream again, but the shadowed hand reached out to him and gently touched his arm. He calmed.

Home
, Lash thought
. I am home.

His head flickered in hysteria at the conviction. He was not home. He was . . . Sure as hell he’d never seen this decrepit room before.

Where the fuck was he?

“Be of ease,” the Omega murmured. “It shall all come back to you.”

And it did, in a rush. He saw the locker room at the training center . . . and John, that frickin’ pansy, getting all freaked out when his dirty little secret was exposed. Then it was the two of them pounding it out until . . . Qhuinn . . . Qhuinn had sliced his throat open.

Holy shit . . . he could even feel himself going down onto the floor in the shower, the tiles a hard, wet landing pad. He relived the cold shock and remembered putting his hands to his throat and starting to gasp as a suffocating, choking squeeze overtook his chest . . . his blood . . . he’d been drowning in his own blood . . . but then he’d been stitched up and sent to the clinic, where . . .

Shit, he’d died, hadn’t he. The doctor had brought him back, but he had definitely died.

“Which was how I found you,” the Omega murmured. “Your death was the beacon.”

But why would the Evil want him?

“Because you are my son,” the Omega said in a reverent, distorted voice.

Son?
Son?

Lash shook his head slowly. “No . . . no . . .”

“Look into my eyes.”

When the connection was made, more scenes were shown to him, the visions like pages flipped in a picture book. The story that unfolded made him both cringe and breathe easier. He was the son of the Evil. Born of a vampire female held against her will in this very farmhouse over two decades ago. After his birth he had been left at a gathering site for vampires, found by them, and taken to Havers’s clinic . . . where he was later adopted by his family in a private exchange that even he didn’t know about.

And now, having reached his maturity, he had returned to his sire.

Home.

As Lash grappled with the implications, a hunger swirled in his belly, and his fangs protruded into his mouth.

The Omega smiled and looked over his shoulder. A
lesser
the size of a fourteen-year-old stood in the far corner of the shitty room, his ratlike eyes trained on Lash, his small body tense as a coiled snake.

“And now for the service you shall provide,” the Omega said to the slayer.

The Evil extended his shadowy hand and beckoned the guy forward.

The
lesser
didn’t so much walk as move in a block, as if his arms and legs were paralyzed and his body were being lifted and carried upright over the floor. Pale eyes popped wide and rolled with panic, but Lash had other things on his mind than the fear of the man being presented to him.

As he caught the sweet scent of the
lesser
, he sat up, baring his fangs.

“You shall feed my son,” the Omega said to the slayer.

Lash didn’t wait for consent. He reached up, grabbed that little fucker around the back of the neck, and dragged the guy to his tingling canines. He bit hard and sucked deep, the blood sweet as treacle and just as thick.

It didn’t taste like anything he was used to, but it filled his belly and gave him strength, and that was the point.

As he nursed, the Omega started to laugh, softly at first, then louder, until the house shook from the force of mad, murderous glee.

Phury tapped his blunt on the lip of his ashtray and looked at what he’d done with his quill. The drawing was shocking, and not just because of the subject matter.

The damn thing was also one of the best he’d ever put on a piece of paper.

The female form on the creamy expanse was lying back on a bed of satin, with pillows puffed up behind her shoulders and neck. One arm was above her head, her fingers twining in her long hair. The other was down at her side, the hand resting at the juncture of her thighs. Her breasts were taut, her little nipples peaked for a mouth, and her lips were parted in invitation—as were her legs. Both were open, one knee bent up, her foot arched, her toes curled tight, as if she were anticipating something delicious.

She was staring straight out of the page, looking right at him.

What he’d done was no willy-nilly sketch, either. The drawing was fully rendered, painstakingly crosshatched, perfectly shaded to show the female’s allure. The result was sex personified in three dimensions, an orgasm about to be realized, all the things a male would want in a sensual partner.