J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [59]
He certainly had the pallor of a corpse. And ill as he was, she wondered if she might be able to take him down.
Feeling the razor in her pocket, she measured the distance between them and decided to hang tight. Even though he was weak, the door was shut and relocked. If she attacked him, she’d just risk getting hurt or killed and wouldn’t be any closer to getting out. Her best bet was to wait next to the jamb until one of them came in. She was going to need the element of surprise, because sure as hell they would overpower her otherwise.
Except what did she do once she was on the other side? Was she in a big house? A little one? She had a feeling that the Fort Knox routine on the windows was standard-issue everywhere else.
“I want out,” she said.
Red Sox exhaled like he was exhausted. “In a couple of days you’ll go back to your life without remembering any of this.”
“Yeah, right. Being kidnapped has a way of sticking with a person.”
“You’ll see. Or not, as the case will be.” As Red Sox went to the bedside, he used the bureau, then the wall to steady himself. “He looks better.”
She wanted to shout at him to get away from her patient.
“V?” Red Sox sat down carefully on the bed. “V?”
The patient’s eyes opened after a moment, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Cop.”
The two men reached for each other’s hands at exactly the same moment, and as she watched them, she decided the two of them had to be brothers—except their coloring was so different. Maybe they were just tight friends? Or lovers?
The patient’s eyes slid over to her and ran up and down her body as if he was checking that she was unharmed. Then he looked at the food she hadn’t touched and frowned like he disapproved.
“Didn’t we just do this?” Red Sox murmured to the patient. “’Cept I was the guy in the bed? How about we call it even now and not pull this wounded shit anymore.”
Those icy bright eyes left her and shifted to his buddy. The frown didn’t leave his face. “You look like hell.”
“And you’re Miss America.”
The patient brought his other arm out of the sheets like the thing weighed as much as a piano. “Help me get my glove off—”
“Forget it. You’re not ready.”
“You’re getting worse.”
“Tomorrow—”
“Now. We do it now.” The patient’s voice lowered to a whisper. “In another day you won’t be able to stand. You know what happens.”
Red Sox dropped his head until it hung like a bag of flour off his neck. Then he cursed softly and reached for the patient’s gloved hand.
Jane backed away until she hit the chair she’d been passed out in. That hand had put her nurse flat on the floor with a seizure, and yet the two men were both going about their business like contact with that thing was no big deal.
Red Sox gently worked the black leather free, revealing a hand covered with tattoos. Good God, the skin seemed to glow.
“Come here,” the patient said, opening his arms wide to the other man. “Lay with me.”
Jane’s breath stopped in her chest.
Cormia walked the halls of the adytum, her bare feet silent, her white robe making no sound, her very breath passing in and out of her lungs with nary a sigh to note its travels. It was thus that she ambulated as a Chosen should, casting no shadow to eye nor whisper to ear.
Except she had a personal purpose, and that was wrong. As a Chosen you were to serve the Scribe Virgin at all times, your intentions always for Her.
Cormia’s own need was such as to be undeniable, however.
The Temple of Books was at the end of a long colonnade, and its double doors were always open. Of all the sanctuary’s buildings, even the one that contained the gems, this held the