“Real steady, angel, we clear?”
“Roger that.”
Unsheathing one of his daggers, he put it on the carpeted floor by Wrath’s head. Then he shed his water pack and ripped it apart: Taking the flexible plastic tubing that snaked from the mouthpiece to the bladder, he drew the thing out flat and cut it at both ends; then he blew the water out of the inside.
He leaned down to Wrath. “I’m going to have to cut it into you.”
Shit, the breathing was even worse, nothing but hitches.
Tohr didn’t wait for consent or even acknowledgment. He palmed his knife and, with his left hand, probed the soft, fleshy field between the terminals of the king’s collarbones.
“Brace yourself,” he said hoarsely.
It was a damn shame he couldn’t sterilize the blade, but even if he’d had a bonfire to draw it through, he didn’t have time for the thing to cool down: Those jerking breaths were getting quieter, instead of louder.
With a silent prayer, Tohr did exactly as V had trained him: He pressed the sharp point of his dagger through the skin to the tough tunnel of the esophagus. Another quick prayer… and then he cut deep, but not too deep. Immediately thereafter, he shoved the flexible hollow tubing into the king.
The relief was fast, the air rushing out with a little whistle. And right thereafter, Wrath sucked in a proper breath, and another… and another.
Planting a palm on the floor, Tohr focused on keeping that tube right where it was, sticking out of the front of the king’s throat. When blood started to seep from around the site, he ditched the prop-up routine and pinched the skin around the plastic lifeline, keeping the seal as tight as possible.
Those blind eyes with their pinprick irises found his, and there was gratitude in them, like he’d saved the guy’s life or something.
But they’d have to see about that. Every subtle bump that registered through the van’s suspension made Tohr mental, and they were still too far from home.
“Stay with me,” Tohr murmured. “Stay right here with me.”
As Wrath nodded and closed his eyes, Tohr glanced over at the Kevlar vest. The damn things were designed to protect vital organs, but they were not a home-safe guarantee.
On that note, how the hell had they managed to get the van out of there at all? Surely Xcor’s soldiers would have been manning the garage—those bloodthirsty bastards would have known that that was the only escape route for an injured king.
Somebody must have covered it—no doubt one of the Brothers arriving in the nick of time.
“Can you drive any faster?” Tohr demanded.
“I got the pedal to the metal.” The angel looked back. “And I don’t care what I have to mow over.”
FORTY-TWO
No’One was down in the training center, pushing along a bin full of clean linens to the recovery beds, when it happened again.
The phone rang in the main exam room, and then she heard through the open door Doc Jane talking fast and pointedly… and using the name “Tohr”—
What began as a hesitation turned into a dead stop, her hands tightening on the bin’s metal rim, her heart beating hard as the world tilted wildly, spinning her round and round—
Down at the far end of the hallway, the office’s glass door burst wide and Beth, the queen, skidded into the hallway.
“Jane! Jane!”
The healer stuck her head out of the examination room. “I’m on the phone with Tohr right now. They’re bringing him in right away.”
Beth tore down the corridor, her dark hair streaming out behind her. “I’m ready to feed him.”
It took a moment for the implications to sink in.
Not Tohr, it wasn’t Tohr, not Tohr… Dearest Virgin Scribe, thank you—
But Wrath—not the king!
Time became as a rubber band, stretching endlessly, the passing minutes slowing down to a crawl as people from the household began to arrive—except then suddenly, a terminal extension was reached and snap! everything became a blur.
Doc Jane and the healer Manuel flew out from the examining room, a rolling gurney between them, a black duffel bag with a red cross jangling off the male’s shoulder. Ehlena was right with them, with more equipment in her hands. And so was the queen.
No’One whispered down the hall in their wake, running on the balls of her leather slippers, catching the heavy steel door that led out into the parking lot and squeezing through before it closed. At the curb, a van with blackened windows screeched to a halt, steam curling up from its tailpipe.
Voices—harried and deep—fought for airspace as the vehicle’s rear doors were popped wide and Manuel the healer jumped inside.
Then Tohr got out.
No’One gasped. He was covered with blood, his hands, his chest, his leathers, everything stained red. Except he seemed otherwise all right. It had to be Wrath’s.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, the king—
“Beth! Get in here,” Manuel hollared. “Now.”
After Tohr helped the queen inside, he stood by the open doors with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his bleak stare trained on the treatment of the king. No’One, meanwhile, loitered on the periphery, waiting and praying, her eyes going back and forth from Tohr’s horrible, fixed expression to the dark recesses of the van. All she saw of the king were his boots, tough, thick soled, and black, the tread on them deep enough to make grooves in set concrete—at least when a male as great as he was wearing them.
Would that he would walk tall once again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she was a Chosen, a sacred female who had a line to the Scribe Virgin, some way of approaching the mother of the race for special dispensation. But she was no one like that.
All she could do was wait with the ring of others who had formed by the van.…
There was no way of knowing how long they worked upon the king in that vehicle. Hours. Days. But eventually Ehlena repositioned the gurney as close as possible and Tohr hopped back in the rear.
Wrath was carried forth by his loyal Brother and laid out flat upon the white-sheeted mattress—which would not stay so pure for long, she feared, as she measured the king’s neck: Red was already seeping through layers of gauze at the side.
Time was of the essence—but before they could roll him inside, the great male grabbed onto Tohr’s ruined shirt and then started motioning to his throat. Abruptly he made a fist, and then opened his palm upward as if he were holding something.
Tohr nodded, and looked at the doctors. “You need to try to take the bullet out. We have to have that thing—it’s the only way we’re going to be able to prove who did this.”
“What if it compromises his life?” Manuel asked.
Wrath started shaking his head and pointing again, but the queen overruled him. “Then you will leave it right where it is.” As her mate glared at her, she shrugged. “Sorry, my hellren. I’m sure your Brothers will agree—you need to survive first and foremost.”
“That’s right,” Tohr growled. “The lead is less important—besides, we already know who’s to blame.”
Wrath started working his mouth—except there was no speaking, because… there was a tube sticking out of his throat?
“Good, glad that’s settled,” Tohr muttered. “Have at him, will you?”
The healers nodded and off they all went with the king, the queen staying right with her male, speaking to him in soft, urgent tones as she jogged alongside. Indeed, as they passed through the doors into the training center, Wrath’s eyes, pale green and glowing, were locked, but unfocused, on her face.
She was keeping him alive, No’One thought. That connection between the two of them sustaining him just as much as anything that the physicians were doing.…
Tohr, meanwhile, also stayed with his leader, passing by without even looking at her.