“I do.”
Those gray eyes lost their focus, as if the male were seeing something that only existed in his mind. “Alas, my future is what it is.”
“So much has changed, though. I mean, everything is different.”
“Not from what I witness. The glymera may be lesser in number because of the raids, but they are just as great as ever when it comes to censure. I lurk online amongst them and see what they do. As it was, so it continues to be.”
“You don’t need to have anything to do with them. You’re a part of this community now, and with us, you have a future that is not bound by all those discriminations and rules. I mean, look at Qhuinn. Look at how far he’s come, he’s not only a Brother now, but he’s been promoted to the private guard of the King and—”
“I’m sorry.” Luchas stiffened. “What did you say?”
Blay frowned and looked around. Like the tunnel was going to help him out, though? “Ah, Qhuinn was elevated to Wrath’s personal guard. I thought . . . didn’t you know that?”
“No. I’m afraid I did not. When did this occur?”
“That’s not important—”
“When?”
“A little while ago?” Blay phrased it as a question, even though there was no lack of clarity around the date. Clearing his throat, he tried to smooth things over. “I’m sure he meant to share the news with you.”
“Indeed.” Luchas stared at the door to the OR. “As if being appointed to protect the King and First Family is something that easily slips one’s mind. ’Tis only the most venerable, august, and respected position within the race.”
“Qhuinn is a very brave fighter.”
“Of that I am very aware. And allow me to affirm that if there was e’er an individual to deserve such an honor, it is he. I am happy for him, and I can guess why he failed to bring it up. Quite a reversal of station he and I have had over the course of our lives.” There was a pause. “Well. I look forward to his full recovery, as I’m sure do you. And to his continued service unto the race.”
“Luchas, please . . .” Blay offered his open palms. Like a lame-ass. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Worry not, old friend.” Those gray eyes clouded over. “My brother chose wisely when he picked you. In truth, Blaylock, you are a male of worth.”
This time, Luchas did not try to bow as he turned away. Relying on that cane, he shuffled down the clinical area, the robe hem swinging side to side as weight was transferred back and forth, a load borne with unreliability. When he got to the door to his patient room, he tilted his head to the side in its downward position and looked back at Blay. And then he lifted his bony, mangled hand in a wave before disappearing into his private space.
With a curse, Blay remembered the male from before the raids, from before Luchas had been captured and tortured by the Omega’s son, Lash, and the Lessening Society. He had been so fit and healthy and perfect, the pride and joy of his parents, of the glymera as a whole.
A firstborn son of impeccable pedigree with all his fingers and toes.
And now here he was.
Even as Blay fought the tide of memory, images bubbled up and refused to be denied. Over all the centuries that vampires had fought against the Omega and his army of the undead, there had been countless truly tragic events. The raids, however, had been nuclear in nature, lessers attacking the hidden mansions of the aristocracy, slaughtering not just families, but whole bloodlines. Qhuinn’s had been among them, and he likely would have been killed that night, too, if they hadn’t kicked him out for his heterochromia iridum.
His blue and green eyes, long the bane of his existence, at least according to his parents and their ilk, had saved him.
At Qhuinn’s request, Blay had gone to the house and identified the bodies, and Luchas’s had been among them. Blay had seen the remains with his own two eyes—and that was supposed to be where it all ended, the terminal point of the catastrophic losses for that family, the bodies buried on the property. Except, no. Someone from the Lessening Society had returned.
And Lash had brought Luchas back.
The story had never been completely told, and no one had been inclined to press Luchas for details, but a year later, the male had been found in an oil drum at an abandoned site of the enemy’s, reanimated and preserved in a swill of the Omega’s vile essence. Qhuinn had been the one who found his brother, and the only identifier had been the gold signet ring Luchas been given by their sire the night after his transition.
The torture he’d been put through had been extensive, fingers cut off, broken bones all over his body, bruises, contusions, cuts. And then there had been the psychological trauma of it all. The Brotherhood had brought him here to the training center, and since then, Luchas had lost his lower leg as part of the continuing attempt to keep him alive and functioning.
Considering where the male had started out in life, it wasn’t how any of it was supposed to go. If the world had made any sense, if things had gone the way of history’s predictions, Luchas would likely be mated by now, or at least locked into an arrangement with a female of comparable breeding. He would be attending meetings of the Council with his sire, and enjoying grand functions and festivals. He would be rubbing shoulders with vampires like himself, secure in the knowledge that he had more money than he would ever need and an unassailable position in society.
But fiction could pale in comparison to destiny.
In ways both good and bad.
For instance, who’d have ever thought Qhuinn would have been made an official member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood?
Or that the male would ever have decided to settle down. With the best friend who had loved him since they were young.
Luchas was right about one thing. The two brothers had traded places.
It was just such a shame that the former’s fall from grace had been so devastating.
Paper cut.
Huge, weird, inexplicable paper cut.
As Qhuinn came out of anesthesia, his first thought was that someone had taken a manila folder, a crisp, brand-spanking-new manila folder, and whipped it right across his lower abdominals. It was the only way to explain the sweet sting striping between his hip bones, right below his belly button. Except . . . the discomfort wasn’t a surface kind of thing. The sensation was deep inside.
So maybe it was more like part of his intestines had decided to lick a Publishers Clearing House envelope.
Just as he was coming to the conclusion that he had been through so much worse in the owie department, his eyes flipped open.
The medical light fixture above him brought it all back, as did the beep, beep, beep that seemed to suggest that he had a heartbeat as regular as a metronome.
Another piece of good news—
Without warning, a face appeared above his own.
Manny Manello.
The dark-haired human had a surgical mask hanging loose in front of his neck, like a feed bag he’d emptied of grain. When he smiled, his fangless teeth were white and his dark eyes were kind.
“You’re all set.” Manny flashed a thumbs-up. “No internal damage, but it’s a good thing we already took out your spleen. It’s like your organs did some parkour and got away from the blade. Considering what could have been sliced? You’re very lucky.”