J.R. Ward - The Shadows

Cradling Selena’s stiff, contorted body in his arms, he glanced over his shoulder. Doc Jane, V’s shellan , was standing off to the side in full doctor garb: blue scrubs, green nitrile gloves, little booties on her feet.

She didn’t approach Selena, however. She just stayed where she was, staring at them, for what seemed like forever.

Shit. Trez was no doctor type, but generally speaking, when someone with the big “DR.” in front of their name had to take a TO when they first saw a patient?

Not a good sign.

Rhage and V were across the way, and they were likewise gawking at him and Selena, as if they also had no clue how to help.

Doc Jane cleared her throat. “Trez . . . ?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Will you let me look at her?”

Trez frowned. “Yeah—come on.” When Doc Jane didn’t move, he started to lose his temper. “What the hell’s the problem—”

“Your fangs are bared and you’re growling. That’s the problem.”

He pulled a quick self-check, and discovered—gee-whiz, he had in fact gone all Cujo on them, sinking his weight down into his thighs, flashing his hardware, and making a sound like an industrial mower in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, sorry.” At that point, he noticed that he’d also backed into a corner and was holding Selena to his chest like someone was going to try to take her from him. “So I should put her down on the table.”

“That would be a good place to start,” V pointed out.

His body took its own sweet time as he gave it the command to move forward, and in the end, only the fact that she needed treatment by someone who had half a brain and a stethoscope got him anywhere close to the center of the room. Leaning down, he put her on the stretch of stainless steel—and he shuddered because he might as well have been handling a wooden chair: her body stayed in the exact same position she had been in when he’d found her, legs outstretched, torso twisted, arms curled up to her chest. And almost worse? Her head remained at that bad angle, wrenched around in the opposite direction of her shoulders as if she were in great pain.

His hand shook as he brushed her hair from her face. Her eyes were open, but he wasn’t sure she was conscious. She didn’t seem to focus on anything, periodic slow blinks the only indication she might be awake.

Might be still alive.

Trez put his face in her line of sight. “You’re at the training center. They’re going to . . .”

As his voice faltered, he ordered himself to get the fuck away and let Doc Jane do her job.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he backed off until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Rhage. And Trez was pretty sure that the gesture was part compassion, part insurance in case the bonded male in him decided to grab the reins again.

“Let them do their thing,” Hollywood said as Ehlena, who was Rehv’s shellan and the nurse, burst through the door. “Let’s just see where we are.”

Trez nodded. “Okay. Yeah.”

The good doctor leaned down and looked into Selena’s opaque eyes. Whatever she said was too soft to hear, but Selena’s pattern of blinking changed—although it was hard to know whether that was a good or a bad thing.

Blood pressure. Pulse. Pupils. The first three checks went quick, but Jane didn’t waste time announcing what the results were. She and her nurse just kept working fast, taking Selena’s temperature, putting an IV into the back of her hand because the crooks of her elbows were locked up.

“I want an EKG, but I can’t get to her chest,” Doc Jane said. Then she glanced over her shoulder at her mate. “Do you know any syndrome that causes this? It’s like a full-body seizure except her pupils are reactive.”

“I don’t. You want me to call Havers for a consult?”

“Yes. Please.” As V stalked out of the room, Jane shook her head. “I need to know what’s happening in her brain, but we don’t have an MRI here or a CT scan.”

“So we’re taking her to Havers,” Trez said.

“He doesn’t have that technology, either.”

“Fuck.” As Rhage’s hold tightened on him, Trez focused on Selena’s face. “Is she in pain? I don’t want her in pain.”

“Honestly?” the doctor said. “I don’t know. And until I get a handle on her neurological state, I don’t want to give her any drugs that would depress function. But I’ll move as fast as I can.”

It seemed to take an eternity, time grinding to a halt as all he could do was watch the complicated medical dance going on around that table. And Rhage stayed right next to him, playing babysitter sentry while Trez straddled the extremes of Shitting in His Pants and Wanting to Blow His Brains Out with no grace whatsoever.

And then the Chosen Cormia burst through the door.

The instant the female saw Selena, she gasped and brought both hands up to cover her mouth. “Dearest Virgin Scribe . . .”

Doc Jane looked over from taking a blood draw from a vein on the back of Selena’s other hand. “Cormia, do you know what could have—”

“She has the disease.”

Everyone went still. Except for Cormia. The Chosen rushed to her sister’s side and smoothed Selena’s dark hair, murmuring to her in the Old Language.

“What disease?” Doc Jane asked.

“The Old Language translation is roughly ‘the Arrest.’” The Chosen wiped at her eyes. “She has the Arrest.”

Trez heard his voice cut into the silence. “What is that?”

“And is it communicable,” Jane interjected.

EIGHT

As sunrise threatened in the East, Xcor, leader of the Band of Bastards, reassumed his form in front of a modest colonial. The house, which he and his soldiers had been using as a lair for nearly a year, was located on the far side of a boring cul-de-sac in a neighborhood full of middle-class humans halfway through their journey to the grave. Throe had secured the rental with an option to buy on the theory of hiding in plain sight, and the property had worked satisfactorily.

There were lights on in the interior, illumination bleeding out around the seams of the pulled drapes, and he imagined what his warriors were doing inside. Fresh from fighting lessers in the alleys of downtown Caldwell, they would be shedding their black blood-stained clothes and partaking of the victuals contained in the icebox and the cupboards of the kitchen. They would be drinking as well, although not blood to make them stronger, and not water to rehydrate them, but rather alcohol as an internal salve to treat fresh contusions, cuts, abrasions—

Abruptly, the nape of his neck began to tingle in warning, informing him, as if the burning of the exposed skin upon his hands did not, that he had little time to get safely indoors.

And yet he had no interest in going in there. Seeing his soldiers. Consuming food before he retired upstairs to that nauseating raspberry bedroom suite.

He had been denied that which he had counted down the hours for, and the disappointment was like his body’s response to the gathering dawn: His skin ached. His muscles twitched. His eyes strained.

His addiction had not been served.

Layla had not come this night.

With a curse, he took out his cellular device and dialed a number based on a pattern he had memorized on the numerical screen. Putting the phone up to his ear, he heard his heart pounding over the ringing.

There was no personalized voice-mail greeting activated on the account, so after six tones, an automated announcement detailing the number came over the connection. He did not leave a message.

Heading over to the door, he braced himself for an onslaught of noise and chaos. His bastards would inevitably be riding waves of adrenaline, the afterburn of their high-octane existence taking a while to dissipate.