Layla looked at Cormia and the latter spoke up. “We prayed . . . that was all we could do. And still the attacks came.”
“So this is . . . an episode of some sort?” Doc Jane asked. “Not the terminus?”
“I don’t know how many of these she’s had.” Cormia brushed a tear off her cheek. “Usually there is a period of them before the final one from which they do not recover.”
Doc Jane frowned. “So the body unlocks? How?”
“I do not know.”
Trez spoke up to the Chosen. “Did either of you have any idea she was sick?”
“No one did.” Cormia leaned against her hellren as if she needed his support. “But considering the condition she’s in now . . . I believe she must be toward the end of the disease. It’s my understanding that the early episodes affect only parts of the body. This is all of hers.”
Trez deflated on his exhale, his strength expelling out of his mouth. The only thing that kept him from breaking down was the possibility that Selena might be aware of what was happening—and he wanted to appear to be strong for her.
Doc Jane leaned her hip against her desk and crossed her arms. “I can’t imagine how the joints can recover from this kind of state.”
Cormia shook her head. “The attacks, those few I’ve seen, come on fast and then . . . I don’t know what happens. Hours or a night later, they start to be able to move again. After a period of time, they regain mobility—but it always happens again. Always.”
“They also choose a position,” Layla said quietly as she, too, brushed at tears. “Like the humans you spoke of, our sisters always chose—they would tell us how they wanted to be and we would make sure . . .”
There were more things said. Questions asked. Explanations given to the best of people’s abilities. But he had stopped tracking.
Like a train gathering speed, his mind, his emotions, his sense of total impotence and all his regrets started to churn along a defined path, gathering speed and intensity.
He hated that her hair was a mess and he couldn’t fix it.
He hated that there were grass stains on her robing, bright green smudges where her knees had hit the ground.
He hated that her shoes had fallen off.
He hated that he couldn’t do one fucking thing to save her.
He hated the burden he carried with the s’Hisbe and everything it had made him do to his body—because maybe if his parents hadn’t sold him to the Queen, he wouldn’t have fucked all those humans, and maybe he would have been even slightly worthy of her. And then he wouldn’t have missed all those months. And maybe he could have seen something, or done something, or—
Like the conversation around him, the thoughts continued to pelt their way through his brain, but he couldn’t track them any more than he could whatever else was going on in the exam room. A violent roar had overtaken him, tsunami-ing through him, wiping everything away except a rage that could not be held in.
Trez wasn’t aware of moving. One minute he was holding on to Selena’s hand carefully; the next he was at the door to the examination room—then he was through it, his body exploding forward, more momentum than coordination.
Running, running . . . going by the jerks in his vision and the passing walls of the concrete corridor, he was running . . .
And there was a lot of noise. The empty hall was echoing with some kind of tremendous noise, like the gear of a great machine had locked or was grinding—
Something tackled him from behind before he reached the exit into the parking garage, an iron bar hold locking around him.
iAm.
Of course.
“Drop it,” came the shout in his ear. “Drop it . . . come on, now. Drop it—”
Trez shook his head. “What . . . ?”
“Drop the gun, Trez.” iAm’s voice cracked. “I need you to drop the gun.”
Trez froze except for his panting breath, and tried to make sense of what his brother was saying.
“Oh, Jesus, Trez, please . . .”
Shaking his head, Trez . . . gradually became aware that there was, in fact, someone’s forty in his right hand. Probably his own. He always wore one in the club.
And what do you know, the muzzle was up against his own temple—and unlike back with those X-ray plates, his hand wasn’t shaking at all.
“Drop it for me, Trez.” With his finger on the trigger the way it was, his brother obviously didn’t dare try to take control of the weapon for fear of causing a discharge. “You gotta put the gun down.”
At that moment, everything became clear: him bursting up, bolting fast, breaking out of the exam room and into the corridor. Running down toward the parking garage as he palmed his weapon.
Intending to blow his brains out as soon as he was free of the training center.
He’d had the conception that maybe, if there was actually a Fade, he and Selena could meet on the other side and come together, in a way they never could down on Earth.
“Trez, she’s still alive. Don’t you do this. You want to kill yourself? Wait until her heart stops beating, but not before that. Not one fucking moment before that.”
Trez pictured Selena back on that table, and thought, Shit . . .
iAm, as always, was right.
The shaking returned as he began to lower his arm, and he moved slowly for fear of some twitch setting the forty off. But he didn’t need to worry about that. As soon as that muzzle was out of the range of his gray matter, his brother took over, disarming him quick as a breath and putting the safety in place.
Trez stood there numbly as iAm patted him down and removed a couple more weapons, and then he allowed himself to be led back to that examination room and the group of people standing shocked and still around its door.
Not before she was gone, he told himself. Not while she was still here.
Unfortunately, he feared that was not likely to be very long at all.
TEN
Paradise, blooded daughter of Abalone, First Adviser to the King, frowned at the screen of her Apple lappy. She’d set herself up here in her father’s library ever since he’d started working each night for Wrath, son of Wrath, because in the old rambling Tudor mansion, Wi-Fi was strongest at this desk. Not that a good signal was helping her at the moment. Her Hotmail account was full of unread messages, because, with iMessage on her phone and her Twitter, Instagram, and FB accounts, there was no reason to sign into it very often.
“So hold up, what was it called?” she said into her cell.
“‘New Trainee Class,’” Peyton, blooded son of Peythone, replied. “I forwarded it to you, like, an hour ago.”
She sat forward in her father’s chair. “There’s just so much junk in here.”
“Lemme resend—”
“Wait, I got it.” She clicked and then clicked again on the attachment. “Wow. It’s on official letterhead.”
“Told you.”
Paradise scanned the date, the personalized greeting to Peyton, the two paragraphs about the program, and the closing. “Holy . . . it’s signed by a Brother.”
“Tohrment, son of Hharm.”
“Well, if it’s a fake, someone’s going to catch some serious—”
“But did you see in the second paragraph?”
She refocused on the words. “Females? Whoa, whoa . . . they’re accepting females?”
“I know, right?” There was a bubbling noise and an exhale as Peyton took another hit. “It’s unprecedented.”
Paradise reread the letter, this time more carefully. Operative words leaped out at her: Open tryouts for the training program. Females and civilians welcome to take physical performance test for entrance. Sessions taught by the Brotherhood themselves. Tuition? Nada.