At first the words didn’t register, but then . . .
“I’m not leaving you,” Trez said in a rough, scratchy voice. “I’m here and I’m not leaving you.”
Oh . . . shit.
They were the words iAm had said to the male in so many different variations throughout their lives together . . . words that had been represented by the deeds he had done, and days he had stayed up worrying, and years he had spent just praying they were going to make it through another night.
iAm collapsed on his brother’s now-scarred chest, his knees suddenly going out from under him.
In his fantasies, he had wondered what it would be like to be free of the curse of worrying about his brother.
He’d had a variety of iterations.
None came close to the real thing.
EIGHTY-FIVE
It was around noontime when Mary left the Brotherhood mansion . . . and the Shadow brothers returned.
Rhage had just sent his shellan off to Havers, after telling her that no, really, he was totally fine, when the security checkpoint at the main entrance went off.
Excusing himself from the restless cohort of his brothers in the billiard’s room, he beat Fritz to the monitor, and the instant he saw those two dark faces, he shouted.
“Who is it?” Butch asked.
“Who we’ve been waiting for!”
Releasing the locks, he positioned himself right at the inner doors—and there they were, looking like shit, both haggard and worn shadows of their former selves.
Har-har, hardy-har-har.
But they were alive. They were together. And the sight of them upright, walking and talking, relieved a little bit of the pressure that had been riding his chest for nights now.
“Hey, my man,” he said, embracing the nearest one, and then going to the other.
Trez’s voice was thin, but strong enough. “Hey, thanks for everything.”
“Thank you so much for—”
“Trez, buddy, good to see you—”
“Jesus Christ—what a story—”
“iAm, welcome back—”
And so it went, the Brotherhood filing out of the billiards room along with the females of the house, the greetings and exchanges like those of war survivors.
Or almost-war survivors . . .
“Oh, my God, you two made it back in time for Steve Wilkos!”
Everyone halted and looked at Lassiter, who was standing in the archway, naked to the waist in nothing but black leathers, that I’M HORNY baseball cap with its silver lamé protrusion sticking out the front of his head—and a pair of giant fuzzy slippers on his feet which, if you put them together, formed a complete Dalmatian.
The angel had returned twelve hours ago, saying that the pair of them were safe, but there was no telling whether Trez was going to make it. And for once, the asshat had seemed utterly and completely devastated by something. To the point where he’d been inconsolable.
In the silence following that happy TV announcement, Trez stared across the foyer . . . and then burst out laughing.
The poor bastard laughed so hard, he had to wrap his arms around his middle and wipe tears from his eyes.
As everybody joined in, the Shadow tilted his head up to the ceiling and said, “Thank you, my queen. I needed this.”
Then he walked over to the fallen angel and embraced the guy. Words were said, serious ones that made Lassiter duck his eyes.
Because he seemed to be tearing up.
But then the jackass broke rank and said, “Now take your hands off my ass. I’m not that kind of girl.”
And that struck the tone for the rest of the day. Rather like rolling a bandage over a wound, the community wrapped itself around the two Shadows, drawing them into the billiards room, offering them food and drink.
It was clear that, in spite of that moment of levity, Trez was hurting badly. He was wearing some kind of gray robe, and his skin was nearly the same color as the cloth. But he seemed determined to be present and participate.
iAm, on the other hand, appeared to have a serious case of vertigo. Like a guy who’d just stepped off a boat that had sustained heavy waves, he steadied himself on various things . . . the pool table, the sofa, the bar.
He declined the offer of booze. Took Coke instead.
Rhage was so damned happy they were home in one piece, but even so, he couldn’t man up for too much interaction. He told himself it was because of the raid on the Lessening Society they were going to do at that prep school with Assail and those two cousins.
It could well be a historic slaughter.
And then there was always the Band of Bastards on his mind. Even if he and his brothers killed off all the slayers and the Omega needed time to recoup the losses, there were still Xcor and his boys to worry about.
But the reality was, he still didn’t feel right.
And after a time, he became aware that he wasn’t the only one.
Layla was likewise standing on the periphery, one hand on her belly, her eyes straight ahead but not really focused on anything.
“You okay?” he asked as he went over to her. “You need Doc Jane or something?”
When she didn’t reply, he leaned in, “Layla?”
She jumped, and he reached out to calm her, as she mumbled, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Are you all right?”
“Oh. Yes.” She gave him the same sort of smile he’d given his Mary. “I’m fine.”
He was tempted to call her on the bullshit, but he wouldn’t have appreciated anyone doing that to him.
“You want me to call Qhuinn over?”
The male and Blay were talking with iAm, both of them nodding their heads . . . only to recoil in shock, as if they couldn’t believe the story that had, up until now, been delivered secondhand by Steve Wilko’s PR man over there with the phallic symbol on his forehead.
“Oh, no. No, thank you.”
As Rhage took in her affect, he thought, man, he really was as selfish as he thought he was. She had lost her blooded sister Selena just days ago.
Of course she would look like some version of Trez.
Standing next to her, Rhage wished he could help somehow. But he worried that he was as incapable of doing anything for her . . . as he was defining this seismic shift that had somehow occurred under his skin.
Ostensibly, everything was the same and all was well.
He just felt like a different male for no good reason.
And that . . .
. . . that he found terrifying.
Across town, at Abalone’s Tudor mansion, Paradise was sitting up in her own bed, in her own room, staring at the wall across the way.
She supposed she should have been happy. According to her father, the threat from the s’Hisbe had been neutralized, and everyone was safe . . . but she was completely unsettled.
Of course, she’d moved back home.
In spite of all her independent-streak posturing, the reality of living away from her father in uncertain times was just too dangerous. And this was a step back from her autonomy.
At least she still had her job—
The knock on her door was quiet.
“Yes?” she said.
As the panels swung wide, her father appeared in between the jambs. He was in his navy-blue silk bathrobe, the one that had the family crest stitched into the breast and the tie that was as long as the hem.
“You’re still up?” she asked.
“I could not sleep.”
“So much going on.”
“Yes.” He hesitated, looking around her room as if he were renewing himself with its acquaintance. “May I come in?”
“Of course, it is your house.”
“Our home,” he corrected gently.
When he only got as far as the edge of that needlepoint rug that covered the floor, she frowned. “Are you not feeling well?”
He opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. Tried again.
Failed.
Moving her legs over, she sat up. “Father?”
Her father finally came all the way forward, and that was when she saw that he had something in his hand. A piece of paper.