J.R. Ward - The Shadows

“And the lamp.”

“Like I care.”

She nodded and stood up. She was wearing black skinny jeans and a loose white blouse—and he was struck by how good she looked in normal clothes, not all that Chosen formality. And it was funny, her language was loosening up too, becoming more vernacular.

Goddamn, he thought. . . . he would really love to have had children with her.

* * *

The trip down to the clinic felt endless, and Selena wasn’t sure whether that was a bad or a good thing. On the one hand, she was ready to have the news just so she could deal with whatever it was. On the other, she would have been content to live in the no-know zone a little longer.

Trez held her hand all the way to the training center, not letting her go even when he put the various passcodes in or when they had to go one after the other through the supply closet. Walking down the corridor to Doc Jane’s, she thought about all the doors they could have entered instead of the one they were destined for.

As they came to the examination room, she looked up at him. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

He leaned down and brushed her mouth with his. “The good news is that you won’t have to.”

Together, they entered the clinical space. Instantly, Selena had trouble breathing, that chemical scent and all the shiny-shiny getting to her once again. And the choking sensation got worse as Doc Jane and Manny straightened from the computer screen over at the desk and put on identical, professional smiles.

“Bad news, huh,” she said. As both doctors started to prevaricate, she cut them off. “Please. Respect me and my time enough not to waste words trying to sugarcoat all this. Tell me what my body told you.”

“We see some change in the joints.” Doc Jane stepped back. “Everywhere we X-rayed.”

Well . . . didn’t that take the starch out of her. Even though she had expected that very answer.

The two doctors were taking turns explaining things, and Trez was nodding like he was tracking the conversation. She, however, was focused on the computer screen’s side-by-side comparison of two images, one that had been taken after the last episode had happened . . . and the other that had been taken hours ago. Separated by a mere two days . . . the joints now had a gray haze in the spaces between the bones.

“It’s as if it is kindling,” Doc Jane said. “Maybe your body is holding it at bay?”

“For how long?” Trez asked.

“We have no idea.” Manny reached forward and adjusted and readjusted the contrast of the moniter, as if searching for something. “We would like to suggest that you come in for more imaging every six hours for the next day. That way we can see if things are continuing to change.”

“Are you in pain right now?” Doc Jane asked.

“No.”

“Because we can give you relief if you need it.”

Trez spoke up. “Are there any medications we can try?”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, her brain seemed to have shut down.

“Well, we’ve talked it over.” Manny glanced at Jane. “And we’re stuck.”

Doc Jane took the lead. “One of the things we’ve been considering is anti-inflammatories. Oral steroids would be problematic, because they suppress the immune system and it’s unclear to what extent an episode is being held off precisely by your body’s own defenses.”

“Your white blood cell count is very high,” Manny cut in. “So there’s definitely something happening right now.”

“And steroid injections into the joints, even if we stuck with only the largest ones in your body, would be but a partial solution.” Jane drew a hand through her short hair. “It would seem logical to start you on some NSAIDs—think prescription-strength Motrin.”

“Not a lot of negative side effects,” Manny chimed in.

“They would ease any pain up to a point, but also work as anti-inflammatories that wouldn’t affect your immune system.”

Selena closed her eyes and wished she could be anywhere else. Wished that she could be anyone else.

To think that the entire compound was filled with people who had no fear of whether they were going to wake up at dusk.

It wasn’t that she begrudged them that blessing. Not at all.

She just wanted to be a member of that club.

More conversation happened, but her brain had left the clinic and the clinical discussion. Instead, it was back up in Trez’s bedroom, reliving the knock-down, drag-out that had ultimately brought them even closer.

Trez was right. They had lived a lifetime over these last forty-eight hours.

“. . . you think?” he said to her.

“I’m sorry?” she mumbled.

“So what do you think? Would you like to try the pills?” When she stayed silent, he leaned down. “You okay? You need some time?”

“I need to make you dinner,” she blurted. Then shook herself. “I’m sorry, yes, sure, I’ll try whatever you want to give me. But after I get the pills . . . I want to make you dinner after sundown. At the Great Camp. With no one else around.”

Trez smiled a little. “Okay. You want to plan tonight’s date, you got it, my queen.”

She took a deep breath and nodded at the doctors. “That is what I want to do. And then I want to go for my boat ride.”

Both of the healers said all the right, caring things, reaching out and touching her hands, her shoulders—and she really appreciated the contact. It made her feel as if she weren’t some machine they were fixing from a distance, but someone they loved and cared about. A few minutes later, an orange bottle with a white lid was pressed into her palm and instructions she didn’t track were given.

More nodding. More thanking. Then she and Trez were leaving.

She waited until the door shut behind them. “Did any of that register for you? Like what I’m supposed to do with these?” The pills inside rattled against the plastic as she looked down. “Oh, there’s a label.”

“I remember everything,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Come on.”

He led her back to the office. Back out through the closet. Back into the damp-smelling, went-on-forever tunnel.

“Can I tell you something?”

She glanced up at him. “Of course. And I promise I won’t throw any more lamps—well, not like there are any around at the moment, but still.”

“You can throw anything you want.” He stopped and turned her to face him, brushing her hair back. “You are the bravest person I know.”

She laughed in a burst. “Okay, stop humoring the dead person, all right?”

“I’m serious. And don’t say that.”

“You live with the Brotherhood. They are the bravest people in the race.”

“No,” he whispered.

As he stared down at her, the admiration on his face was . . . simply stunning. But it was all wrong. “Trez, I’m terrified about everything.” She held up the pills. “I’m scared to take these. I’m scared to go to sleep—”

“You’re very brave—”

“I’m scared to cook you dinner.” She held up her forefinger. “And FYI, you should be, too. I can’t even make toast. Which is bread. In a toaster. How hard is that—and yet I have burned up loaves of the stuff.”

He shook his head. “Courage doesn’t mean you aren’t scared.” He dropped his mouth to hers and kissed her. “God, I love you so much. I love you so deeply. I love you forever.”

Putting her arms around him, she held on hard—and maybe wiped some tears on his shirt. “Fine, you think I’m brave . . . well, you’re the most romantic male I’ve ever known, seen, or heard about.”

Now he was laughing, and the deep rumble sounded so good against her ear. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Right.”

Melding her body to his, she said, “There is nothing more romantic on the planet than loving someone with your full heart, even though you know they’re leaving.”