J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [292]
John felt his foot tapping and stopped it by putting his palm on his knee. Superstitious son of a bitch that he was, he kept thinking about that old wives’ tale that said bad news always came in threes. If Lash died, there would be two to follow.
He thought of the Brothers out on the streets with lessers . And Qhuinn in the night somewhere, alone. And Bella with her pregnancy.
He checked his phone again and mouthed a curse.
“If you need to go,” Cormia said, “I’m happy to be here on my own.”
He started to shake his head, and she stopped him by lightly touching his forearm. “Take care of whatever it is. It’s obvious you’ve had a difficult evening. I would ask you to talk about it, but I don’t think you would.”
Just because it was on his mind, he typed out: I wish I could go back and not put the shoes on.
“I’m sorry?”
Well, shit, now he had to explain or he looked like an idiot. Something bad happened tonight. Right before it went down, my friend gave me this pair of sneakers I’m wearing. If I hadn’t changed into them, the three of us would have been gone before . . . He hesitated, thinking that he and his buddies would have been gone before Lash got out of the shower. . . . what happened went down.
Cormia looked at him for a moment. “Would you like to know what I believe?”
When he nodded, she said, “If it hadn’t been the shoes, you would have dallied wherever you were for another reason. It would have been someone else putting something on. Or a conversation. Or a door that wouldn’t open. As much as we have free choice, absolute destiny is immutable. What is meant to happen does, through one measure or another.”
God, he’d been thinking along those lines back in the training center’s office. Except . . .
It’s my fault, though. It was about me. The whole thing happened because of me.
“Did you wrong another?” When John shook his head, she asked, “So how is it your fault?”
He couldn’t go into the details. No way. Just was. My friend did something horrible to save my reputation.
“But that was his choice as a male of worth.” Cormia squeezed his forearm. “Do not mourn his free will. Instead, ask yourself what you may do to help him now.”
I feel so damn powerless.
“That’s your perception. Not reality,” she said quietly. “Go and think. The path will come to you. I know it.”
Her quiet faith in him was all the more powerful because it was in her face, not just her words. And it was exactly what he needed.
You are really cool, he typed.
Cormia glowed with pleasure. “Thank you, sire.”
Just John, please.
He handed her the remote and made sure she knew how to work the thing. When she caught on quickly, he wasn’t surprised. She was just like him. Her silences didn’t mean she wasn’t smart.
He bowed to her, which felt a little weird but seemed like the thing to do, and then he beat feet out of there. On his way down the stairs to the second floor, he texted Blay. It had been about two hours at this point since they’d last heard from Qhuinn, and it was definitely time to go looking. As he was likely to have stuff with him, dematerializing wouldn’t be an option, so he couldn’t have gone far because he didn’t have a car. Unless he’d used one of the household’s doggen to take him somewhere?
John punched through the double doors that opened to the hall of statues and thought Cormia was so right: Sitting on his ass wasn’t going to help Qhuinn as he grappled with having been kicked out of his family, and it wasn’t going to change whether Lash lived or died.
And however awkward he felt about what his buddies had heard, the two of them were more important than those words that had been thrown out with cruelty in that locker room.
Just as he hit the stairs, his phone went off with a text. It was from Zsadist: Lash has f latlined. Doesn’t look good.
Qhuinn walked along the side of the road, his duffel slapping his ass as he put one foot in front of the other. Up ahead, a stripe of lightning snaked down out of the sky and illuminated the oak trees, turning their trunks into what looked like a line of thick-shouldered thugs. The