“Got it.”
Tohr knelt beside the king and ripped off his own leather jacket. “I’m going to see if I can help you, my brother—”
The king grabbed his arm. “Don’t… get… panties… in a wad.”
“I’m not wearing any, my lord.” And he was not being paranoid about the danger they were facing. If the king didn’t get some help with the breathing thing, he was going to die before anyone addressed whatever else was wrong.
Snapping into action, he tore open the king’s coat, stripped off the front of the Kevlar vest—and was only mildly reassured to find nothing doing on that big chest. The problem was the neck wound, and yup, closer inspection suggested the bullet was lodged in there somewhere. Christ only knew precisely what was wrong. But he was pretty sure that if he could open up an air access point below the injury, they might have a fighting chance.
“Wrath, I gotta get you breathing. And please, for the love of your
The king fumbled with his hand at his face, eventually finding his wraparounds and shoving them out of the way. As those incredibly beautiful, bright green eyes locked on Tohr’s own, it was as if they worked.
“Tohr? Tohr—” Clicking, desperate clicking as the king tried to draw breath. “Where… you?”
Tohr captured that flapping palm and squeezed it hard. “I’m right here. You’re going to let me help you breathe, okay? Nod for me, my brother.”
When the king did, Tohr shouted up to Lassiter, “Keep it real steady up there until I say so.”
“Hitting the bridge right now.”
At least they had a straightaway.
“Real steady, angel, we clear?”
“Roger that.”
Unsheathing one of his daggers, he put it on the carpeted floor by Wrath’s head. Then he shed his water pack and ripped it apart: Taking the flexible plastic tubing that snaked from the mouthpiece to the bladder, he drew the thing out flat and cut it at both ends; then he blew the water out of the inside.
He leaned down to Wrath. “I’m going to have to cut it into you.”
Shit, the breathing was even worse, nothing but hitches.
Tohr didn’t wait for consent or even acknowledgment. He palmed his knife and, with his left hand, probed the soft, fleshy field between the terminals of the king’s collarbones.
“Brace yourself,” he said hoarsely.
It was a damn shame he couldn’t sterilize the blade, but even if he’d had a bonfire to draw it through, he didn’t have time for the thing to cool down: Those jerking breaths were getting quieter, instead of louder.
With a silent prayer, Tohr did exactly as V had trained him: He pressed the sharp point of his dagger through the skin to the tough tunnel of the esophagus. Another quick prayer… and then he cut deep, but not too deep. Immediately thereafter, he shoved the flexible hollow tubing into the king.
The relief was fast, the air rushing out with a little whistle. And right thereafter, Wrath sucked in a proper breath, and another… and another.
Planting a palm on the floor, Tohr focused on keeping that tube right where it was, sticking out of the front of the king’s throat. When blood started to seep from around the site, he ditched the prop-up routine and pinched the skin around the plastic lifeline, keeping the seal as tight as possible.
Those blind eyes with their pinprick irises found his, and there was gratitude in them, like he’d saved the guy’s life or something.
But they’d have to see about that. Every subtle bump that registered through the van’s suspension made Tohr mental, and they were still too far from home.
“Stay with me,” Tohr murmured. “Stay right here with me.”
As Wrath nodded and closed his eyes, Tohr glanced over at the Kevlar vest. The damn things were designed to protect vital organs, but they were not a home-safe guarantee.
On that note, how the hell had they managed to get the van out of there at all? Surely Xcor’s soldiers would have been manning the garage—those bloodthirsty bastards would have known that that was the only escape route for an injured king.
Somebody must have covered it—no doubt one of the Brothers arriving in the nick of time.
“Can you drive any faster?” Tohr demanded.
“I got the pedal to the metal.” The angel looked back. “And I don’t care what I have to mow over.”
FORTY-TWO
No’One was down in the training center, pushing along a bin full of clean linens to the recovery beds, when it happened again.
The phone rang in the main exam room, and then she heard through the open door Doc Jane talking fast and pointedly… and using the name “Tohr”—
What began as a hesitation turned into a dead stop, her hands tightening on the bin’s metal rim, her heart beating hard as the world tilted wildly, spinning her round and round—
Down at the far end of the hallway, the office’s glass door burst wide and Beth, the queen, skidded into the hallway.
“Jane! Jane!”
The healer stuck her head out of the examination room. “I’m on the phone with Tohr right now. They’re bringing him in right away.”
Beth tore down the corridor, her dark hair streaming out behind her. “I’m ready to feed him.”
It took a moment for the implications to sink in.
Not Tohr, it wasn’t Tohr, not Tohr… Dearest Virgin Scribe, thank you—
But Wrath—not the
Time became as a rubber band, stretching endlessly, the passing minutes slowing down to a crawl as people from the household began to arrive—except then suddenly, a terminal extension was reached and
Doc Jane and the healer Manuel flew out from the examining room, a rolling gurney between them, a black duffel bag with a red cross jangling off the male’s shoulder. Ehlena was right with them, with more equipment in her hands. And so was the queen.
No’One whispered down the hall in their wake, running on the balls of her leather slippers, catching the heavy steel door that led out into the parking lot and squeezing through before it closed. At the curb, a van with blackened windows screeched to a halt, steam curling up from its tailpipe.
Voices—harried and deep—fought for airspace as the vehicle’s rear doors were popped wide and Manuel the healer jumped inside.
Then Tohr got out.
No’One gasped. He was covered with blood, his hands, his chest, his leathers, everything stained red. Except he seemed otherwise all right. It had to be Wrath’s.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, the king—
“Beth! Get in here,” Manuel hollared.
After Tohr helped the queen inside, he stood by the open doors with his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his bleak stare trained on the treatment of the king. No’One, meanwhile, loitered on the periphery, waiting and praying, her eyes going back and forth from Tohr’s horrible, fixed expression to the dark recesses of the van. All she saw of the king were his boots, tough, thick soled, and black, the tread on them deep enough to make grooves in set concrete—at least when a male as great as he was wearing them.
Would that he would walk tall once again.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she was a Chosen, a sacred female who had a line to the Scribe Virgin, some way of approaching the mother of the race for special dispensation. But she was no one like
