J.R. Ward - The Shadows

Ask yourself what’s going to be left for you after I’m gone. If you’re honest, I don’t think you’re going to like the answer any more than I do.

Without being aware of having come to a decision, iAm turned on his heel and went out through the vestibule. On the front stoop of the massive gray mansion, he stood in the wind . . .

. . . and then took flight.

On the journey to his destination, flashes of the past battered at him: Trez escaping from the palace. iAm being held until he promised to bring the male back—which had been the last thing he’d actually intended on doing. The mad hunt.

The cabin on Black Snake Mountain.

As iAm resumed his form, he had a moment of straight-up nausea as he took in the ragged, weathered structure with its rough vertical siding and its cedar shingles and that rock chimney which extruded from the roofline like a bad tooth. It was . . . exactly the same. Not even kind of the same, with different windows or shrubbery growing or trees that had fallen or overgrown.

No, for a split second he wasn’t sure whether this was years ago or right now.

Shaking himself, he walked to the front door. The hinges creaked as he opened things up, and at least he was better prepared for what he saw.

Precisely the same. From the placement of the no-frills furniture, to the old-fire smell, to the drafts that wheedled their way through the walls.

He closed the door behind him and walked around, his boots making the rough-cut floorboards clap and groan. Over by the river-rock hearth, he found a generous supply of wood—guess the last hunters who had used the place had been good little helpers and ready to pay shit forward.

His hands shook as he laid logs on the andirons and shoved pine needles underneath. Taking out the lighter he kept on him thanks to having worked with a lot of temperamental gas cooktops, he lit things, fanned them, got the flames up and rolling.

He told himself it was a waste of time and heat. She wasn’t going to come. There was no way she was going to come.

He was just going to hang here for a half hour or so, play witness to his brain sinking into some dark, dangerous territory, and then put out the fire and head back to Caldie.

The clubs. He would go to the clubs first, and then—

The sound of that creaky door opening made him stiffen.

maichen ’s scent flooded the interior.

Cranking his head around, he lifted his eyes. There in the doorway, she stood in the flesh, her robes flapping in the cold wind rushing in from behind her.

She was both a ghost . . . and soul-shatteringly vital.

And as he looked at her, he knew exactly why they had both come.

FIFTY-THREE

Selena took the long underground tunnel to the training center slowly. It was a case of one foot after the other, from the base of the short stairs that led into the subterranean passageway to the door that opened into the office closet. Every time she had to enter a passcode or push her way through a jamb, she waited for the reconsideration to hit her. The turnaround to happen. The back-upstairs to be made manifest.

Instead, she ended up not just emerging into Tohr’s work space, but going through its glass door and coming out into the concrete corridor beyond.

The clinic was about thirty yards down, that collection of doors coming after all kinds of alternate destinations presented themselves: weight rooms, gyms, locker rooms.

Her feet didn’t stop at any of those.

No, they took her right to the one place she had resolved never to return to voluntarily.

Her knock was quiet, an opportunity for a no-reply either because nobody was there (score!) or they were busy helping someone else (sad, but a relief, too) or so engrossed in work they didn’t hear her (which was like leaving a voice mail for someone you didn’t really want to speak with anyway).

Doc Jane opened up. And did a whoa-hey! recoil. “Selena, hi.”

She lifted her palm up lamely. “Hi.”

There was a pause. And then the doctor said, “Is this a social thing or do you need . . .”

“You’re probably pretty busy, right.”

“Actually, after having been slammed for about three days straight, I’ve just been catching up on medical records.” The female eased back. “Come on in if you like.”

Selena braced herself. Stepped over the threshold. Tried desperately not to look at that exam table.

Meanwhile, Doc Jane went over and sat down on a rolling stool, folding her white coat around herself and crossing her legs. The scrubs she had on underneath were blue. Her Crocs were red.

Her eyes were forest green. And grave.

Selena started to walk around, but everywhere she looked, all she saw were glass-fronted stainless-steel cabinets with torture instruments in them. Rattled, she eyed the door to the corridor, which was shutting slowly, silently, on its own.

Like the lid of a coffin.

“Hey,” Doc Jane said, “I was just going to go stretch my legs. You want to join me for a couple of laps around the gym?”

“Oh, God, yes. Thank you.”

The pair of them went out together, heading down passed a number of doors and many, many yards of corridor. When they got to their destination, Doc Jane opened the heavy steel panel and turned on the caged ceiling lights.

“I know it’s weird, but I love this place,” Jane said. “The wood with that beautiful honey-yellow color and everything smells like floor cleaner. Which is kinda nuts, because I hate chemicals in the air or on things.”

As the doctor started them walking around the far edge of the basketball courts, Selena was pretty sure that the pace was kept slow on purpose.

They’d made it down the short side, under the hoop, and through the left turn to head along the bleachers before Selena said anything.

“I think . . .” Tears came to her eyes and she realized she was terrified.

“We have all the time you need,” Doc Jane said softly.

Selena wiped under both eyes. “I’m afraid to talk about it. Like if I do . . .”

“Are you having some symptoms?”

She couldn’t speak. But found herself nodding. “I think . . . yes.”

Doc Jane made an mmm-hmmm sound. “Do you want to tell me what they are?”

Selena put out her hand, the one that had gotten frozen on the doorknob, and flared her fingers wide. As she flexed things open and closed, her mind went on a wild ride of Are they worse? Are they better? Are they the same?

“Your hands?” When all she did was nod again, Doc Jane asked, “Anywhere else?”

At least this time she could shake her head.

“Do you remember,” the doctor said, “when an attack came before, whether or not you had any prodromals?”

“What does that mean?”

“Any sort of advance warning?”

Selena brushed at her eyes again and wiped her hands on the pants Trez had taken off her body no more than a half hour before. With a surge of agony, she wanted to go back to that moment, back to the time before her disease had started talking again.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember ever noticing anything. But before . . . I used to ignore it as much as I could. I didn’t want to think about it.” She glanced over at the doctor. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come back down to see you, you know, after I . . .”

Doc Jane batted at the air. “God, girl, don’t worry about it. There are no hard-and-fast rules, and you have to do what feels right. People need to direct their own lives.”

“Is there anything we can do for me? Anything . . . we should do?”

The healer took her time in answering. “I’m going to be straight with you, okay?”

Ah, yes. Nothing was available. “I’d appreciate it.”