“Fucking plows. Fucking snow. I’d move to Florida…but I hate the heat.”
Exhaustion dragged down every syllable, but Tohr was fighting it. Even as his brows got tight, and it was obvious that he was struggling to draw in a deep breath, he was rallying for his King. A quick glance in Autumn’s direction, and it was obviously the same for the female. She was blinking fast to keep tears from falling, but she was not going to let herself break down.
Beth understood how that felt—and it wasn’t hard to imagine what the next twelve hours were going to be like for the female. Autumn was going to pace around the residence, debating when and if to tell Doc Jane about some symptom or another, checking and rechecking and check-check-checking again on her mate until she felt like she was losing her mind.
Because she was losing it.
And Doc Jane would be doing the same with Vishous. And then after they were healed, maybe tomorrow night or the night after that or the week after that, it would be Blay worrying about Qhuinn, or John Matthew pacing next to Xhex in a hospital, or…any one of the other mates. Or maybe it would be worse. Maybe it would be someone walking the kind of unbearable, grief-filled road she herself had been on for thirty years, only this time with no magic relief at the end because their mate was truly dead…from an attack out in the field, or an accident while fighting, or the bullet from an aristocrat with delusions of the thronal variety—
Instantly, the past came forward and dragged Beth down, pulling her back to a night and a day when she had been in Autumn’s exact position, standing over a bedside with no idea what was going to happen to someone she couldn’t live without…
Phone, where was her phone, where did she put her fucking—?
The damn thing was in the same pocket she always put it in—ass cheek, left side. As she pulled the cell out, she dropped it onthe floor, and while she bent down to pick the Samsung up, she took L.W.’s hand.
“I’m right here, I’m right here—”
Her son turned his head in her direction, and as their eyes met, she had a moment of paralyzing terror. His pupils were nothing but pinpricks, and between one blink and the next, all she could see were his father’s. Wrath’s had been just like that, but blindness was the least of their worries now. They had to get L.W. through the change. Then they’d talk about the 20/20 stuff.
“What we got, true?”
As the words jumped out of her phone, she looked at the screen in confusion. Oh. She’d put the call through to Vishous.
“It’s L.W.” She squeezed her son’s hand and then backed away and lowered her voice. “It’s time.”
God, she was shaking.
“I’m coming with Jane,” the Brother said. “Salima will be there momentarily. I have your location, just tell him to hold on.”
“Hold on,” she said roughly as she went back over to the bed.
She kept the phone out even after V ended the connection because putting it back in her pocket seemed like cutting a vital cord to help. Even though there were limits to what all the best medical care in the world could offer—
The sound of the door opening out by the living area brought her head around. Surely, it couldn’t be them already?
Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, came striding down her little hallway, the size of his shoulders and reach of his height making her residence seem the size of a thimble. He had a hard-sided black bag with him, and even though he was the least likely to take emotions into account, he did pause to put his hand on her shoulder as he came up to her.
It was his version of a reassuring hug.
And then he was by L.W.’s side and taking off his Boston Red Sox hat. “Hey, son, you mind if I check your heart and blood pressure.”
L.W. nodded. Shook his head. “Sure…I mean, okay.”
“That’s good. You’re a good—” As V’s voice broke, he knelt down on the floor. “You’re a good male.”
Putting his bag beside him, he split the handles to reveal a variety of medical equipment inside, all of which she’d no doubt seen before, none of which she recognized. When he took out a cuff and a stethoscope, she told herself that they were going to help, even though that wasn’t true. No one whose heart stopped was ever magically revived just by that little silver disk getting put on their chest.
Salima was the only thing that was going to—
The residence’s main door opened again. What came down the hallway next was six feet tall, willowy as a sapling, with black hair that fell to her hips. Salima was a Chosen, one of the Scribe Virgin’s sacred females who had served for eons up in the Sanctuary. With blood that was as pure as Wrath’s had been, what was in her veins was L.W.’s best shot at surviving.
Only shot, really.
“My Queen,” the Chosen said as she bowed deeply.
Ordinarily, the female wore jeans and t-shirts in the summer, like everybody else. For this duty, she was dressed in white robing that fell from her straight shoulders down to her white satin slippers. Her hair was tied back, in the event L.W. needed to take her throat, and the sleeves of her ceremonial dress only came down to her elbows.
“Thank you,” Beth whispered.
