“One other thing.” V tapped the tip of the hand-rolled. “It’s going to be a long, hard recovery for him. And I’m not just talking about the physical shit. You need to prepare yourself.”
What, like they’d had a relationship before this or something? He might share some DNA with the guy, but other than that, Luchas was a stranger. “I know.”
“Okay. Fair enough.”
In the distance, a pair of high-pitched whines cut through the darkness.
“Thank fuck,” Qhuinn bit out as he went back into the cabin.
Over in the corner, next to the drum that had been overturned, his brother was nothing but a pile of jackets, his twisted body covered by the makeshift blankets.
Qhuinn stalked across the floorboards, nodding to John Matthew and Rhage.
Kneeling down next to his brother, he felt like he was in a dreamscape, not reality. “Luchas? Listen, here’s what’s going to happen. They’re going to take you out on a sled. You’re going to our clinic for treatment. Luchas? Can you hear me?”
As the pair of snowmobiles tore up to the cabin, Blay tracked their progress from the porch, watching their headlights get bigger and brighter, the pair of engines dimming into steady purrs as they reached their destination. Oh…this was good: Behind one of them, there was a covered sled, the kind of thing he’d seen on TV during the Olympics when some skier had crashed through the ropes and been evac’d down a mountain.
Perfect.
Manny and Butch dismounted and jogged over.
“They’re right in there,” Blay said, getting out of the doctor’s way.
“Luchas? You with me?” he heard Qhuinn murmur.
Peering in, Blay wathced as Manny bent over Luchas’s body. Man, what a fucking night. And he’d thought the air show from a couple of evenings ago had been full of drama?
It’s always been you.
Turning back to face the forest, Blay rubbed his face again, like that was going to help. And he wanted to light up another Dunhill, but the longer this took, the more paranoid he became. The last thing this situation needed was a squadron of lessers showing up before they could get Luchas out to safety.
Better to have a forty than a cig in his hands.
It’s always been you.
“You okay?” Butch asked.
In the spirit of honesty, because that seemed to be tonight’s theme song, he shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”
The cop clapped him on the shoulder. “So you knew him.”
“I thought I did, yes.” Oh, wait, the question was about Luchas. “I mean, yes, I did.”
“It’s gotta be wicked tough, this whole thing.”
Blay glanced over his shoulder again and got another eyeful of Qhuinn crouching next to his brother. His old friend’s face was ancient in the beams of those flashlights, to the point where Blay wondered if he had actually seen it relaxed after they’d been together—or whether he’d been mistaken.
You were the only thing…actually.
“It is tough,” he muttered.
And strange, too.
Right after his transition, he had looked for some sign that the way he felt about his friend was reciprocated, some clue as to where Qhuinn was at. But there had been nothing that he had been able to see—nothing other than abiding loyalty, friendship, and kick-ass fighting skills: Through the hookups they’d had with other people, and the training, and then the nights out in the field…he had always been on the far side of the connection he’d wanted, staring into a wall he couldn’t get around.
That short time on this porch?
It was the first time he’d ever gotten a glimpse of what he’d longed for even more greatly than the sex.
Shit, for a treacherous moment, he wondered if there had in fact been an “in” involved when Layla had spilled the beans outside of his bedroom.
“They’re moving him.” Butch snagged Blay’s arm and got him out of the way of the door. “Come stand with me.”
Luchas had been properly covered now, a silver Mylar blanket wrapped around him from head to foot, nothing but the barest hint of his face showing. They had put him onto a collapsible stretcher, with Qhuinn at one end and V on the other. Manny walked alongside, as if he were not sure whether he was going to need to resuscitate things at any given moment.
Over at the sled, they transferred Qhuinn’s brother and strapped him down.
“I’m driving him out,” Qhuinn announced as he mounted up and gunned the snowmobile’s engine.
“Slow and steady,” Manny warned. “He’s a fucking mass of broken bones.”
Qhuinn glanced over at Blay. “Ride with me?”
No reason to answer that. He marched over and got on behind the guy.
Typical of Qhuinn, he didn’t bother waiting for the others. He just nailed the accelerator and took off. He did, however, listen to the good doctor: He made a broad turn and followed the tracks that had been made, keeping the speed fast enough to make some time, but not so much so that they blendered Luchas.
Blay kept two guns out.
As Manny and Butch rode up beside them, the other Brothers and John Matthew dematerialized at regular distances, appearing at the sides of the two parallel tracks.
It took a hundred years.
Blay literally thought they were never going to get out of there. It seemed as though the high-pitched, whining engines, and the blur of the dark forest, and the brilliant white patches of clearings were going to be the last things he saw.
He prayed the entire way.
When the big, boxy hangar structure finally came into view, parked right next to it was the single most beautiful thing Blay had ever seen.
V and Butch’s Escalade.
Things moved lickety-split from there: Qhuinn pulling up alongside the SUV, Luchas transferred into the backseat, snowmobiles reloaded onto the trailer hitched to the back, Qhuinn going over to the passenger seat of the vehicle.
“I want Blay to drive,” he said before getting in.
There was a heartbeat of a pause. Then Butch nodded and tossed the keys over. “Manny and I will be in the back back.”
Blay got behind the wheel, moved the seat to accommodate his legs, and powered up the engine. As Qhuinn settled next to him, he looked over.
“Put on your seat belt.”
The male did as he was told, stretching the nylon strap around his chest and clicking it into place. Then he immediately cranked himself around to focus on his brother.
A feeling of single-minded determination set Blay’s shoulders and tightened his hands. He didn’t care what he had to mow over, take down, or leave grille marks on; he was going to get Qhuinn and his brother to the training center and into the clinic.
Hitting the gas, he didn’t look back.
SIXTY-THREE
Trez frowned at the adding machine he’d been punching numbers into. Reaching out for the white tongue of paper that hung over the side of his desk, he tried to see the column of numbers he’d been making.
He blinked.
Rubbed his eyes. Reopened them.
Nope. The shimmering circle in the upper right-hand quadrant of his vision was still there, and it was not a function of glare.
“Fuck…me.”
Shoving the receipts he’d been totaling aside, he looked at his watch, then put his head in his hands. As he squeezed his eyes shut, the aura was still in place, the pattern of interlocking geometrics sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow.
He had about twenty-five minutes before all hell broke loose—and he was not going to be able to dematerialize.
Fumbling for his office phone, he hit the intercom. Two seconds later, Xhex’s voice came out of the speaker, tinnier than usual. Which meant the sensitivity to sound was kicking in.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said.
“I’m getting a migraine. I gotta bounce.”
“Oh, man, that sucks. Didn’t you get one just a week ago?”
Whatever. Not the point. “Can you take over?”
“You need a ride home?”
Yes. “No. I can make it.” He began gathering his wallet, his cell, his keys. “Call me if you need me, ’kay?”