He wasn't even breathing.
A minute later, Ehlena materialized in the alley with a backpack of supplies. And then Doc Jane arrived. And more Brothers.
From time to time, he could feel eyes passing over him, and there were whispers that he knew were all about what he had done. He didn't care about any of that. He just wanted to know Novo was going to live.
A pair of shitkickers marched across and stopped in front of him.
As Peyton looked up, the Brother Rhage said, "You didn't mean it, I know."
"Is she still alive?" Holy shit, that didn't even sound like his voice. "Please...tell me."
"I don't know. But we need to get you out of here."
"I swear I didn't mean for this to happen." He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into them, hard. "I don't want this."
"I know, son. We gotta go back now, you and I."
"What about her?" He dropped his hands. "What's going to happen to her?"
"Manny, Ehlena, and Jane are doing what they can. But we want all trainees back to home base. The bus is here."
Shit, he hadn't even noticed it.
As he struggled to get up, Rhage's big hand was there to help--and when he was on the level, the Brother started to pat him down.
"What are you doing?" he asked his teacher.
"Removing your weapons."
"Am I under arrest?"
Rhage shook his head. "No, you're looking really fucking suicidal."
--
Peyton had no idea how long it took to get back to the training center. Time had ceased to be something that could be measured in any kind of unit--it was more like the vastness of space, never ending, incalculable, larger than himself and anyone else. He also wasn't exactly sure how he came to be underground and in the Brotherhood's facility. He had no memory of the bus ride in, or of entering the facility, and he didn't recall how he'd ended up in the break room, sitting in a chair.
There must have been some ambulation involved. He sure as shit hadn't dematerialized down the corridor or been carried here. His brain was flatlined--
Oh, God, he didn't want to use that word.
Lifting his arms, he discovered that there was a bottle of booze in one of his hands--gin, this time, Beefeater. And the cap was off. And someone had had a quarter of what was in there.
With the resignation of a prisoner with a life sentence, he looked around the break room. He was alone, and the clock over there read that a couple of hours had passed.
How much longer would Novo be in surgery? he thought. Rhage had at one point come in and told him that she had been stabilized out in the alley, but that she needed more time in the OR here at the clinic.
Was she alive--
The door to the break room swung open, and when he saw who it was, he focused on the gin bottle. Ordering his arm to bring that open neck back to his mouth, he got frustrated when his limb refused to obey.
Interesting. It appeared that he had become paralyzed.
"How are...you doing?" Paradise asked from just inside the room.
As things could hardly get worse, he figured, what the fuck, and looked up at her. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying, her cheeks bright red from her having brushed away tears in the cold, and her hands were shaking as she zipped and unzipped and re-zipped her black fleece.
"Fine, and you?" he muttered.
"Peyton, come on."
"What do you want me to say? They stripped me of my weapons because they thought I was going to off myself--and you know, I think that logic was very sound. Does that answer your question?"
When she just stared at him, he cursed. "Sorry."
Lowering his eyes, he turned the bottle around in his hands until he could inspect the little English guard on the label. Man, if there was only a way to change places with a two-dimensional drawing--he'd rather like to be nothing more than an image.
"Any word about her?" he asked roughly.
"Not yet. We're just out there pacing. Ehlena said it was still going to be a while."
"Is that why you came in here? To tell me that."
"I thought you had a right to know."
"I appreciate that." He took a shuddering inhale. "You know, I really should have just let you do your damn job."
"Peyton..."
Dimly, he wondered if she was going to say his name like that for the rest of their lives. Like it was a sob with syllables.
She came forward and sat down in the chair opposite him. "It was a mistake. Some kind of knee-jerk reaction."
"If she dies, I'm a murderer."
"You are not."
Peyton just shook his head. Then he looked at her and made his eyes stay put.
The wisps of blond hair that had escaped her low ponytail glowed in the recessed lights of the ceiling, giving her a halo--and that seemed apt. She was a saint, a female with a heart of gold.
And then he thought of that crackerjack shot that had blown that lesser's head apart.
Okay, fine, she had a heart of gold and the marksmanship of a sniper.
With abrupt clarity, he remembered her back during orientation, helping him to keep going after he'd eaten those poisoned hors d'oeuvres and gotten sick, pulling him through until he had finally collapsed from exhaustion on the final leg of the brutal endurance test--after which she had kept going. He also had so many images of her in class, always paying attention, working so hard to prepare for tests, asking good questions. She brought the same focus and dedication to every part of the physical training, too, whether it was hand-to-hand combat, pumping iron in the weight room, or running obstacle courses.
She was utterly qualified to do the job she was in.
And what was more? He was willing to bet she never would have made the call he had back in that alley. She would never have stepped in where she wasn't needed.
"Knee-jerk," she had called his reaction.
No, it wasn't that. He'd been protecting her as if she were his female. Putting himself in danger to save her--when in fact, she hadn't required saving and wasn't his to worry about. If it had been anyone else tackling that lesser? He would not have interfered.
With a frown, he noticed that she was fiddling with something at her throat. A little charm on a chain. She'd never worn anything like that before, and God knew, her mother's jewelry was all statement pieces from major houses, not something so dainty and simple.
It had to be from Craeg.
White gold, probably, he thought. Not even platinum. And yet she no doubt thought it was priceless.
As he watched her slender fingers worry whatever the charm was on its delicate necklace, he had the very clear conviction that he needed to let go of his fantasy.
"Listen, Peyton, about what you said last night--"
"I said nothing. It was a joke. A bad-timed, stupid-ass joke."
The silence that followed suggested she had done the math on his Gronk/linebacker move on her in that alley and knew he was lying. But at that moment, sure as if the conversation was being broadcast over loudspeakers, the door opened--and yeah, of course, it was Craeg.
"They're closing her up now," the male announced in a hard voice.
Wow, Peyton thought as the male glared at him. That stare could do as much damage as a hollow-point bullet--and he should know, 'cuz he'd been shot in the head in the field.
"Is she going to be okay?" Paradise said as she got up and went to her mate. "Is she?"
"I don't know." The embrace the two shared was all about the mutual support--and didn't it make Peyton feel like an outsider. Appropriately. "She's in critical condition. But they're looking for volunteers she can feed from, which has to mean she's got a chance. Listen, are you okay if I give her my vein--"
"Oh, my God, yes. Of course."
Peyton spoke up. "She won't want it from me."
Those hostile eyes swung back his way. "No one is asking you."
Oh, so it's gonna be like that, Peyton thought. But it wasn't hard to unde
rstand the guy's position.
Fuck.
Before Craeg could throw down, Paradise put herself between them and pushed her boy back, palms to pecs. "Relax, okay? We do not need any more injuries on the team."
She lowered her voice at that point and there was a private exchange between the two of them, all quick words at a shhh'd volume. And then Craeg punched the door back open and left.
Paradise took a deep breath. "Look...I think we need to talk."
"No. We don't and we aren't."
"Peyton. What happened tonight--"
"Will never happen again. Mostly likely because they are going to throw me out of the program, but even if they don't, I'm not making this mistake again. You're on your own."
"Wait a minute. Excuse me? I don't need you looking after me. I can take care of myself."
"I know, I know." He rubbed his face. Took another swig from the bottle. Wanted to scream. "It's over, Paradise. Okay? It's done--and stop looking at me like that."
"Like what."
"I don't know."
There was a long quiet. "Peyton, I'm sorry."
"I was the one who made a mistake, not you." To cover up the double meaning, he shook his head. "I'll apologize to Craeg, too. You don't have to tell me."
The door swung open again, but this time, the Brother Rhage put his head in. "Okay, Novo's out of surgery, and at least she's alive. So you and I need to do an incident debriefing and then we'll make an appointment for you to get psych eval'd."
When Peyton didn't respond, the Brother nodded at the corridor behind him. "Come on, son, you gotta follow me to the office."
As Peyton got to his feet, he thought it was a sad commentary on your life when an interruption requiring you to justify an unjustifiable action was a step up from your other option--which happened to be a lively discussion about unrequited love with the object of your unreciprocated affections.
Ah, yes, choices, choices.
On his way to the exit, he put the Beefeater down on a side table, and as he came up to Paradise, he paused.
Reaching out, he put his hand on her arm and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sorry. For everything. It's all on me, all my fault."
Before she could respond, he released his hold and walked out.
In the concrete hall, the rest of the trainees, along with a number of Brothers, were milling around the clinical area, and everyone went statue as they saw him, shuffling boots halting, whispering words silenced.
He had no idea what to say to any of them.
So he just ducked his head and kept on going.
"You're going to want to take a right up here at that fork in the road."
As Saxton spoke, he pointed through the windshield even though the truck's headlights were already showing the way. Next to him, Ruhn was behind the wheel, one of the male's big hands resting comfortably at the twelve spot, the other palm on his thigh.
Bitty's uncle was a consummate driver. Smooth, steady, in total control of the enormous Ford-whatever-the-heck-it-was even though there was enough iced-over snowpack on the road to rival Alaska.
It was good to feel safe.
And then there was the fact the male smelled amazing. A clean, powerful scent, which was soap and shampoo and shaving cream, but none of the fancy kind. Then again, on Ruhn? Palmolive was a cologne.
"Next time we can dematerialize," the male said. "I'm sorry that I don't know the ins and outs of Caldwell yet."
Well, we could just have had you take my vein, and you could have followed me--
Saxton shut that thought process right down. "The drive hasn't been bad at all. In fact, it's been a while since I've ridden in a motorized vehicle. It's quite pleasant, isn't it."
He'd forgotten how hypnotic automotives could be, the quiet hum of the engine, the steady stream of warm air at the feet, the softly blurred landscape--which in this case was all about gentle rolling farm fields covered in pristine snow.
"May I ask you something?" he heard himself say.
"Are you too warm?" Ruhn glanced over. "I can turn down the heat?"
As the male reached for the dials, Saxton shook his head. "The temperature is perfect. Thank you."
After a moment, Ruhn looked across the interior again. "Am I going too fast?"
"No, you're a terrific driver."
Was that a blush hitting those cheeks? Saxton wondered.
"Anyway, I was just curious..." He cleared his throat and couldn't pinpoint why this felt awkward. "I was unaware that you had a background that involved fighting. I'm assuming it was in the war--did you engage with the enemy down in South Carolina?"
When there was no response, he glanced over. Ruhn's hand was no longer at ease on the wheel, his knuckles showing white--and those brows were now down tight.
"I'm sorry," Saxton murmured. "I have offended you. My apologies."
"No, it's not that."
The male did not continue, however, and their next turnoff arrived before any reply came.
"Up here, take another right," Saxton murmured.
Ruhn slowed them down, put a blinker on, and executed a directional change. Then, about two hundred yards farther, a discreetly lit sign reading Blueberry Farm Estates appeared at the side of the road.
Saxton spoke into the thick silence. "That's where his parents live--I mean, Rocke and Lyric. Blaylock's sire and mahmen. They were the ones who came to him with the issue, so the older female must be up here a little farther."
"Is this it?" Ruhn asked as they came upon a single mailbox with a hand-painted number on it.
"That's the address, yes."
The driveway into the property was unplowed, but there was at least one set of tracks marring the snow cover. Perhaps the humans who were harassing the female had paid her another visit?
"This will be bumpy," Ruhn said. "Hold on."
Saxton threw a hand out to catch the door as they lurched and lumbered off the plowed county road and onto a lane that could accommodate one car at the very most. Barren trees and brush choked the shoulders, as if Mother Nature disapproved of the ingress and was seeking to rectify the intrusion the only way she knew how.
Leaning forward, he glanced up and imagined in the warm months that a tunnel of leaves would form overhead.
And there was the farmhouse.
The manse was bigger than he thought it would be. He'd pictured in his head something the size of a hobbit cottage with maybe cockeyed shutters and a chimney that looked unreliable. Instead, the structure was a proper brick house, with four twelve-paned windows on the bottom, a wide front door, and eight six-paned windows on top. The slate roof was solid and clearly capable of surviving the apocalypse, and yes, there were shutters, but they were all perfectly hung and painted black.
Smoke curled from both of the chimneys. Which were straight as arrows.
There was also a tree.
Or more...a Tree.
In the center of the ring in front of the house, a gracious, thick-trunked maple tree grew out of the ground as if it were reaching for the heavens, great limbs stretching out and upward, the shape so perfectly balanced, surely it proved the hand of Providence existed and that the Creator was indeed an artist.
And yet all was not bucolic and at peaceful rest.
The second-floor window on the left corner was missing a pane of glass. Or at least, he assumed that was the case as there seemed to be a piece of plywood fitted into one of the six squares.
For some reason, that chilled him in a way the cold weather did not.
Ruhn brought the truck to a stop in front of the shallow steps that led to that glossy front door. "We are expected, yes?" the male said.
"Indeed. Or rather, I called the granddaughter. I don't have a contact number for the female."
Saxton opened his door, the winter chill rushing in like it was hell-bent on conquering the warmth they had artificially created, and as he put his Merrells into the snow, the squeaky, crunching sound was a testament that t
he ambient temperature was below zero. Taking a deep breath, the scent of wood smoke tingled in his sinuses and made him think of ads for Vermont.
There were lights on in the first floor, and through the parted curtains, he saw homemade furniture, the lines of which spoke to earlier ages, as well as walls covered in paper the flowered patterns of which had gone out of style in the Roaring Twenties.
This was not a life in decline, he thought, so much as the Old Ways preserved.
The front door opened just as Ruhn came around the bed of the truck, and the female in the doorway was in fact as Saxton expected: slightly stooped, with white hair cut into a bob, and a pleasant face that was deeply lined. But her eyes were alert and the smile was wide and the homemade dress was pressed and had a fine lace collar.
Given the way vampires aged, which was essentially in no manner at all until the very end of their lives, she had a decade, maybe more. But not much longer than that.
"You must be Saxton," she said. "The King's solicitor. I am Minnie. That's short for Miniahna, but please do call me Minnie."
As Saxton proceeded forward through the snow, he noted there had been footsteps coming and going off the front porch. "Yes, madam. And this is Ruhn, my...assistant."
From behind him, Ruhn mumbled something and bowed low.
"Please, won't you both come in."
As she stepped aside, Saxton went up the steps and Ruhn was right in line, following him into the warm, golden interior. The scents of cinnamon and something sweet permeated the air, making him realize he had forgotten to have anything for First Meal--and oh, was that beeswax?
Stomping the snow from his shoe treads on the mat, he glanced around. Directly ahead, there was a staircase with a carved wooden banister that had clearly been polished on a regular basis--and that had to be where he was picking up that undertone of lemon.
"I have made us tea." She indicated the front parlor. "If you'll sit down?"
"Of course, madam. I believe we shall remove our shoes."
"That's not necessary."
"It is but a moment." And what do you know, Ruhn was already working on the laces on his boots. "I hate to track in."
"I appreciate that," Minnie said. And as Saxton bowed again, the female smiled some more. "You have such beautiful manners. You remind me of my Rhysland, may he be blessed in the Fade."
"May he be blessed, yes."