SIXTEEN
As Wrath took form by the race’s clinic, he sensed Vishous materializing beside him—and resented the fact that he was required to have a fucking babysitter. But at least V’s medical knowledge was going to be a value add.
“Fifteen feet straight ahead,” his brother announced. “Four feet of cleared pavement in front of you. Then it’s snow-covered ground.”
Wrath threw out one stride and hit hard asphalt. With his next step forward, the snow absorbed his shitkicker.
There was no bringing George to this. Blindness was not a virtue in times of peace for a ruler. During war? It was a critical weakness—and nothing said lights-out better than a Seeing Eye service dog.
Naturally, the retriever had been apoplectic at being left behind—but with Beth already pissed off at him, of course he’d had to alienate his damn dog. Next thing to work on? The Brotherhood. Although that set of hardheaded motherfuckers was too tenacious to be put off by anything less than an H-bomb.
“Stop,” V said.
Wrath came to a halt even though he had to grit his molars. But it was better than walking into the side of the building.
There was a pause, during which V put in the code that changed every evening, and then they entered the shallow lobby, that trademark antiseptic hospital smell announcing that they were indeed in the right place.
And shit knew he felt sick: His chest was aching, his head was pounding, and his skin felt too small for his bones.
Clearly a case of asshole-itis.
And it was probably terminal.
“Greetings, my lords,” came a tinny female voice—and even through the speaker, it was filled with awe. “We’re sending the elevator for you at this moment.”
“Thanks,” V gritted.
Yeah, the brother hated Havers for a variety of reasons. Then again, so did Wrath.
Just think, when the good doctor had tried to kill him a couple of years ago, it had seemed like such a big deal. Now? Compared to the likes of Xcor and the Band of Bastards, one white coat with a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses coming after him was a goddamn cakewalk.
Shit, he wished he could go back to his father’s era, when people respected the throne.
There was the sound of an elevator opening and then V touched the back of Wrath’s arm. Together, they entered the compartment, and after a bing and slide of the doors, a sinking feeling confirmed they were heading underground.
When the doors reopened, Vishous got careful with the leading: He closed in so he was shoulder-to-shoulder and stayed that way, no doubt looking to casual viewers as if he were just a bodyguard doing his duty to the King of the race.
Instead of functioning as a surrogate set of eyeballs.
A sudden murmuring in the waiting area was a sure sign they’d walked into a public place. And the reception at Reception was likewise electric.
“My lord,” some female said, as a squeak broke out like a chair had been shoved back. “This way. Please.”
Wrath turned his head to the voice and nodded. “Thanks for fitting us in.”
“Of course, my lord. It is a rare honor to have your presence in our…”
Blah, blah, blah.
The good news was that he was fast-tracked to a private area with minimal interruption. And then it was a case of waiting. It wouldn’t be for long, though. He was willing to bet Havers would put his running shoes on to get to wherever they were.
Not that that tight-ass * would know what Nikes were necessarily.
“Do, like, all hospitals have to have Monets in them?” Vishous groused.
“Guess the posters come cheap.”
“This is an actual painting.”
Oh. Yeah. Clearly, they were in a VIP suite. “Leave it to Havers—a cliché even while at Sotheby’s.”
“He probably brought it over from the Old Country. Tasteless fool. Once you’ve seen a fucking water lily, you’ve seen them all. And I hate pink. I really hate pink. Although lavender is worse.”
As Wrath put his hands out to feel around, he thought of the Impressionist paintings he’d seen back when his eyesight had worked a little. Talk about blurred vision—nothing like a half-blind painter’s smudgey art being viewed by a half-blind ass-hat.
Surrealists with their razor-sharp edges had been much better if he’d wanted to— Wow. His brain really didn’t want to think about why they were here.
“There’s an examination table directly in front of you.”
“I’m not getting examined,” Wrath muttered.
“Fine, someone’s grandmother’s silk sofa is to your right.”
As he rerouted and took the couch route, he thought of how much he loved having his own in-house docs. Too bad Doc Jane and Manny couldn’t answer his questions in this case. And yeah, he supposed he could have gotten the information another way—like have Fritz come here and ask things. But sometimes firsthand was the only way to go: He wanted to catch the scent of the physician when the male spoke. It was the only way to be sure it was the truth.
“You going to tell me what this is about,” V demanded.
A flicking sound was followed by a scratch, and a moment later, the scent of Turkish tobacco did away with most, if not all, of the bleachy ferment of oh, so many Lysol moppings.
When Wrath didn’t say shit, V cursed. “You know, Jane can do this, whatever it is.”
“She know about vampire needings? No? Didn’t think so.”
That shut the brother up for a minute.
In the silence, Wrath had an overwhelming need to pace—but that was a no-go, assuming he didn’t want to run over all of Havers’s fancy furniture.
“Talk to me.”
Wrath shook his head. “Got nothing good to say.”
“Like that’s ever stopped you before, true?”
Fortunately, Havers picked that moment to come in—only to immediately stop short just inside the exam room.
“Forgive me…” he said to Vishous. “But there is no smoking here.”
V’s tone was bored. “Our species doesn’t get cancer—or is that a newsflash to you.”
“It’s because of the oxygen tanks.”
“Is there one in here?”
“Ah … no.”