Or at least it had been prior to Xcor's abduction--and there was little to suggest any change in the male's proclivities or ambitions might have happened in the passage of time.
Which was why Xcor had taken pains to warn Wrath about the male.
Xcor caressed Layla's shoulder and marveled again at her effect on him, her ability to cut through the armor of his aggression and hostility and reach the male beneath, the real one.
The one he had lost touch with long ago.
She was his reset, the mechanism of reverse that took him back to who he had been before his destiny had crossed paths with the Bloodletter's.
An image of that horrible warrior came to his mind as clearly as if he had seen the male the night before, everything from that heavy brow to those penetrating eyes, the jutting jaw and thick neck, the girth and breadth of that massive body. He had been a mesomorph among the huge, a force of nature to shame both the hot fury of summer's thunderstorms and the explosive, frigid nature of winter's blizzards.
He had also been a liar.
Whoever Xcor's sire was, it had not been he. The Bloodletter's actual progeny had told him that.
Xcor shook his head back and forth on the soft pillow to try to clear his thoughts.
For so long, he had wanted to know who his parents were, something that he supposed was true for most orphans in the world: Even if he was unwanted by them, even if he were to have no relationship with them, he still had a desire to learn their identities.
It was difficult to explain, but he had always felt he was subject to a certain lack of gravity as he moved about the earth, his body possessing an essential weightlessness that, in retrospect, had predisposed him to falling into the Bloodletter's ideology of destruction, chaos, and death.
When you had no compass of your own, anyone's would do.
And in his case, the most debased, evil one any could imagine had been that which he had fallen into and embraced.
God, did he have regrets.
The Bloodletter had spoken of training for war, but it had become amply clear that he served his own bloodlust rather than any defense of the species--and still Xcor had gone along with it all: Once he had had a taste of fatherly pride, however perverted it had manifested itself, the approval had become the drug he needed, the antidote to the hole inside of himself.
Except the paternalism had been naught but a chimera, as it turned out. A lie that had taken an unexpected truth to uncover.
With the male's loss, Xcor had felt as though he had been abandoned a third time: The first had been at his birth. The second had been when the female who had been his nursemaid...or someone else to him...had left. And then the third had been as the Bloodletter's falsity, undoubtedly constructed to ensure Xcor went with him to his war camp, had fallen away, the news delivered from a source that was undeniable.
V's blooded sister, Payne, had killed their true father, the Bloodletter.
Killed the lie, too.
But it was all right, Xcor thought. In finding his love? All his questing had ended. He was through pursuing a family that didn't exist because it had never wanted him. He was over searching for outside sources to fill his inner cistern. He was done assuming any value system other than his own.
And in no longer trying to find that which did not exist? He had discovered the destination he'd always sought within himself, and it felt...good.
It was good to be whole.
It was good to offer himself without reservation or hesitation to a female of worth whom he loved with all that he had in him.
Xcor frowned. But fates, how he was going to leave his Layla? Destiny was what it was, however, and as much as he had improved himself, as fine a track as he was now on...it couldn't erase his past or the dues he had to pay for all he had done. Nothing could do that.
In truth, he would be e'er unworthy of her. Even if the great Blind King had not mandated him into deportation, he would have volunteered for it willingly.
They just had to make what little time they had left together count.
For a lifetime.
THIRTY-TWO
The following evening, as night came over Caldwell, Blay tried to get out onto the back porch for his first smoke after he'd woken up. The setup was perfect. He had his YETI mug full of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, made by his mahmen from the little bricks you could order online, and his pack of Dunhills--which he was having to ration because he had only six left, and was sporting a Patagonia parka that had more down feathers in it than all the pillows in the house.
Yup, it was a good plan. Caffeine and nicotine were mission critical when you hadn't slept for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch all day and you didn't want to bite the heads off of everyone around you.
The problem? When he attempted to open the porch door, he had to put his shoulder into the effort.
And then he got a face full of driving snow.
Recoiling, he cursed and shut things back up. "Holy crap, it's bad out there--"
The crash from the kitchen was loud and involved something that sounded like a stainless-steel pan or maybe a baking sheet, at least going by the cymbal-like nature of the claaaaaaaaaaaaaaang.
"Mom?" he called out.
Forgetting all about his chemical start-up, he hustled for the other room--
--and found his mahmen down on the tile in front of the stove, her ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, the pecan roll she'd been putting in the oven on the floor, the pan it had been on three feet away from her.
Blay ditched the coffee and pack of cigs on the counter and rushed to kneel beside her. "Mahmen? Did you hit your head? What happened?"
Lyric sat up with a grimace, bracing her body with her elbows. "I just wanted to get this in before your father came down for First Meal."
"Your head, did you hit your head?" As he pushed her hair out of the way, he prayed he wasn't going to find all kinds of blood. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
She shoved his hand out of the way. "Blay, I'm fine. For goodness' sake, I didn't hit my head."
He sat back. The female was in her standard mom-jeans, her cheery red sweater and bright white turtleneck making her look like a cross between Santa Claus's wife and Mrs. Taylor from Home Improvement. And she did seem okay, her eyes tracking him, her coloring good, her affect one of embarrassment, not trauma.
"Blay, I just slipped on the throw rug. I'm all right."
"Good, because that means I can yell at you. Where the hell is your boot? Why isn't it on your foot?"
Abruptly, his mahmen feigned light-headedness, fluttering her lashes and throwing out her hands like she couldn't see. "Is it ten fingers? Twelve?"
When he glared at her, she winced sheepishly. "That boot thing is just so ungainly, and this is such a cramped space. I was going to put it on as soon as I made the eggs."
"Did you slip--or did your ankle give out?"
When she didn't say, Blay guessed it was the latter and moved down to her foot. The instant he attempted to even touch the slipper she had on, she hissed and went white as a sheet.
"It's fine," she said tightly.
He focused on her thin lips and the way her hands trembled. "I think you've dislocated your ankle again. And maybe you've broken something, I don't know."
"It'll be fine."
"You know, those are my three least favorite words. Qhuinn always says them whenever--" He cut that off, and pointedly ignored the way his mom looked at him. "Can you dematerialize? Because I am very sure Doc Jane needs to take a look at this. No, Manny. He's the bones guy."
"Oh, that's not necessary."
"Why don't we have Dad decide." As her eyes flared, he drawled, "Or you could be reasonable and go with me without complaint."
Lyric's expression became annoyed, but he knew he had her. Ever since the raids, his father had been a little overprotective of his mate. He seemed to get hysterical at the most ridiculous things--paper cuts, hangnails, a stubbed toe--which meant when Lyric had slipped on the front
stoop when going to get the newspaper a couple of nights before, the poor guy had just about lost his damn mind.
And this injury was worse than the first.
"Can you dematerialize?" Blay asked.
"Do you really think it is necessary?"
"You can answer that yourself. How'd you like to try and stand up?"
His mother glared down at her foot. "I wish I'd put that damn boot on."
"Me, too."
She frowned. "How do I get to the training center clinic? Even if I can dematerialize, I don't know where its true location is."
"We can get close and have them pick us up." Blay stood and looked to the ceiling. Up above, he could hear his father moving around, getting dressed. "Do you think it'll be better or worse if we go without him knowing?"
"We can text him? Tell him we're going to be right back. Tell him...we went to the grocery."
His mother hated lying, but she hated upsetting her hellren more. And Blay had to back her up in this rare instance. His father was going to be a thing about this.
"Let's go." Blay took out his phone and started to text Doc Jane. "Do you know that vegetable stand out on Route 9? The one that is housed in the barn?"
Except even as he spoke, he thought of trying to open the porch door and wondered what the hell he was thinking. His mother needed to dematerialize somewhere warm and dry with her ankle. That barn was unheated and probably locked up. It was better than the fucking forest, but really?
What was he thinking?
He lowered the phone with the text halfway done and regarded his mahmen. She had closed her eyes and laid her head back on the tile--and the hand that was on her stomach had contracted into a claw.
The other one was shaking on the floor beside her, her trimmed nails tap-dancing.
"You can't dematerialize," he said numbly. "No way."
"Sure I can."
But the denial was weak.
And then his father came into the kitchen, a tie half-knotted around his throat, his hair still wet and combed into something Barbie's Ken would rock, each individual strand well ordered and seemingly frozen in place.
"--video conference with my clients and--Lyric! Oh, my God, Lyric!"
As his father ran to his mom's side, Blay looked toward the door that opened into the garage. His parents started to argue, but he cut right through all that.
"Dad, make my night and tell me your car is four-wheel drive."
--
Back at the Brotherhood's mansion, Qhuinn was doing something that was inconceivable: He was stuffing a black duffel bag full of bottles, formula, and distilled water. Diapers. Wipes. Desitin. Rattles and pacis.
Of course, the whole filling-up-a-bag routine wasn't a big deal. Usually, though, his gear was more of the Smith & Wesson or Glock and Beretta variety, the kind of thing that came with bullets and laser sights, not Pampers and Evenflo.
The other reason it was strange was because he couldn't believe he was packing up for his kids to frickin' leave the house. Without him.
They were so little. And he really didn't want them around that female at all.
He refused to refer to Layla as mahmen anymore, even if it was just in his head.
But it was what it was. He'd gone up to the Sanctuary with Amalya, the Chosen's Directrix, and she'd walked him through the bucolic landscape, showing him the reflecting pool and the temples, the dormitory, the Scribe Virgin's private quarters.
Where Layla would be with his kids.
It had been impossible to argue with the setup. The shit was even safer than what was doing at the mansion, for fuck's sake, and Amalya had assured him that his children would be able to enter and return without a problem.
And when pressed, she had personally guaranteed him she'd bring back his young. If Layla caused a problem.
A soft knock on the bedroom door brought his head up from the bag. "Yeah."
Beth came in and she was a lot more toned down. Then again, she'd gotten what she'd wanted. "Looks like you've got everything ready."
He glanced back down at what he'd packed. "Yeah."
There was a long pause.
"It's going to be all right, Qhuinn. I'm proud of you for--"
"No offense, but you get to be with your kid twenty-four hours a day--because the person you had the thing with isn't a liar and a traitor. So you gotta excuse me if your version of 'all right' and mine are slightly different." He stepped back from the foot of the bed. "I'm not allowed to have my 'all right'--which would be my children staying here in this room while I go out to fight. My 'all right' is not being out in the field, defending the race, with half my mind on whether or not Layla is going to give them back to me when she's supposed to. And my 'all right' sure as shit doesn't involve that female having any contact with them ever again. I don't need you to be proud of me and I don't want your fake-ass concern. All I require from you is to baby-sit the two of them while I get the fuck out of this house."
Beth crossed her arms over her chest and slowly shook her head. "What's happened to you?"
The words were spoken so quietly, it was clear she was posing them to herself.
"Really. You're seriously asking that."
Qhuinn turned away from her and went to the bassinets. He glanced at Lyric and then focused properly on Rhamp, putting his pacifier back in his mouth.
"You be brave up there, my man." Qhuinn stroked back the thatch of dark hair. "I'll see you in twenty-four hours. Piece of cake, right?"
Wrong.
It was so fucking hard to turn away. His chest was on fire with a pain that went down into his DNA...especially as his eyes passed over Lyric one last time. He wanted to go to her, but he just couldn't look at that face.
Couldn't see it right now.
As he walked by Beth, he kept his eyes straight ahead. He didn't trust himself to open his mouth for even a good-bye. No doubt he'd end up going off on the Queen, and that wasn't going to help anyone.
Grabbing his weapons and his leather jacket from a chair, he stepped out and closed the door quietly behind himself. He didn't know exactly when Layla was going to come--after sunset, sure, but that had been a while ago. She was probably due to arrive at any minute--
"You ready for the meeting?"
He looked over his shoulder. Z was coming out of his suite of rooms, and the brother was strapped up and ready to fight, all kinds of metal hanging off him, his yellow eyes narrow and shrewd.
That scar on his face, the one that ran down his cheek and distorted his upper lip, made Qhuinn think of Xcor's fucked-up mug.
"We got a meeting?" Qhuinn asked as he fished his cell from his leather jacket.
He'd been checking the damn thing solely to see if Blay reached out with a call or a text. A picture. A fucking emoji.
Nothing. And he hadn't paid attention to anything else.
Well. What do you know. Group text calling the Brotherhood to Wrath's study. At precisely this hour.
"Guess we do," he muttered as he put the thing back in the jacket and followed Z.
There wasn't any conversation between them on the way to the study, and that was just fine with Qhuinn. And as he walked into the meeting, he kept his head down and went over into the corner farthest away from the fire. The last thing he needed was a re-live of the colossal goat fuck that the night before last had been about. Everyone knew the facts, and shit knew they'd all given him a piece of their minds when he'd been locked in the Tomb.
No reason they couldn't collectively chalk that up to a great time had by all.
Still, the whole him-discharging-a-weapon-in-the-house had some ground left to cover on it. There could always be a rehash on that.
Or maybe there was a door number three, something that had, blessedly, nothing to do with him.
Wrath was seated behind his ornate desk, in the throne that had been his father's for so many years. And Vishous was right beside him, a hand-rolled lit in his gloved hand, his icy eyes traveling over the assembled. Butch was
on the sofa with Rhage, that flimsy French antique looking like it was well over its weight capacity. Z had taken up res next to Phury by the bookshelves. And Rehv was there.
When John Matthew came in, the guy glanced around, and as he saw Qhuinn, he came over. He didn't sign anything, just eased back against the wall and put his hands into the pockets of his leathers.
Qhuinn glanced at his friend. "You and I are supposed to be paired up tonight."
John nodded and took his hands back out. I don't think we're going anywhere.
"They won't let me out into the field?"
No, the snowstorm. Record fall. Unheard of for this time of year.
Qhuinn let his head fall back so it hit the plaster behind him. Just his frickin' luck. There was no way he could stay all night in this house while his kids were with that female, Blay was not speaking to him, and his brothers were still pissed off over the whole Xcor-escaping-the-Tomb thing.
Fuck this shit, he thought. He wasn't in a prison. He didn't have to--
Wrath spoke up from the throne. "So let's get this over with."
Qhuinn crossed his arms over his chest and got ready for another round of how horrible he was.
"We know where Xcor is," the King announced. "And he is going to bring the Bastards to me."
Instantly, the room exploded with talk and cursing, the brothers stamping their shitkickers, everybody on their feet--and Qhuinn did some shocked-to-the-balls of his own. Was the male back in custody? Surely, someone would have told him--
He thought of the mess he'd made in the Tomb and decided...nah, the Brotherhood was pretty much done with him and Xcor for right now.
"He is mine!" Tohr yelled over the din. "He is mine to kill!"
That is fucking debatable, Qhuinn thought--but he kept it to himself. Finders, killers, and all that shit.
If he got to that sonofabitch first, he was going to slaughter him and to hell with--
"No, he's not," Wrath ground out. "He isn't anyone's to kill."
As the King's words sank in, everybody shut up, and V stepped in behind Tohr like he was prepared to put a choke hold on the brother.
Wait...say what? Qhuinn thought.
"Do you understand me," the King ordered. "No one is killing him."
And then, as if to drive the command home, Wrath looked first at Tohr...and then directly at Qhuinn himself.
THIRTY-THREE