A Warm Heart in Winter(39)

“Shit,” Qhuinn breathed. “I mean . . . just shit—”

There was a hiccup in the electricity, things faltering before surging again—and then the sconces on the walls flared back fully to life, the chandelier in the dining room reigniting and all kinds of illumination streaming from sources you only noticed when they weren’t working.

“I got you,” Wrath was saying in a soft voice. “I got both of you.”

Beth trembled as she hung on to the King’s enormous upper arm. “How did you catch us?”

“Eyes aren’t everything, leelan.” Wrath tucked her head under his chin and stared out into space, his wraparounds hiding his expression. “And I’ve got a knack for knowing where things are. It’s what keeps me on my feet.”

The feel of a hand on Blay’s waist brought his head around. As he looked into Qhuinn’s eyes, he mumbled, “I can’t even.”

“I know. Come here.”

It seemed unmanly to turn to his mate and drop his face into that strong neck and close his eyes. But like he gave a fuck? All he could see against the backs of his lids was a pile of bodies, all broken bones and blood spilled on the tiles.

Before he could think of what to do, what to say, he felt his hand get taken in that warm, solid grip he knew so well—and the next thing he was aware of was being drawn into the billiards room by Qhuinn. As the pair of them hit the layout of pool tables, he had no clue where they were going, but then—presto!—they were at the bar.

“Sit.”

Qhuinn pulled out a stool and arranged Blay like you would a potted plant: He saw a flat place and put something on it.

Blay wasn’t inclined to argue. At least not with the ass support. “I thought we weren’t drinking tonight, though.”

“We’re not drinking. This is medicinal.”

Two shot glasses were outed, and then came the I. W. Harper’s. Qhuinn’s hand wasn’t completely steady as he poured a splash in each, and that was not what you wanted to see in your mate—but when you were quaking in your own boots, it was nice to know you weren’t alone with your shimmies.

“Drink up.”

As all kinds of talk bloomed out in the foyer, they did the shot together, and Qhuinn doled out another. After the two, they stopped and put the glasses in the sink—

That was when Blay heard the whistle. Or at least . . . he thought he did.

It was hard to tell because there were so many voices in the echo chamber around that grand staircase, people burning off their adrenaline with are-you-sure-you’re-okay conversations.

Looking to the open pocket door that led into the library, Blay closed his eyes and ordered his ears to sift through the other bird-like sounds the wind was making as it winnowed through the nooks and crannies on the front of the house—as well as the big-ass hole some tree had made in the back.

“What is it?” Qhuinn asked.

Blay got off his stool and proceeded over to the pocket door—oh, shit. A pointy evergreen the size of the one the Big Apple put up for the holidays at Rockefeller Center had barged in through a set of French doors, bringing with it snow and cold and all kinds of outdoor.

Not exactly a redecorating job that went with all the priceless books and the wonderful old rug.

“Well,” Qhuinn hedged, “at least we won’t have to cut down something to drape the garland and lights on.”

“So that’s what was chasing Rhage and Butch—”

The shout outside was muffled, but distinct enough.

Blay rushed forward, but not to the tree, to the other banks of French doors, which were still shut and locked. As he yanked open one set, more of the cold rushed in, but he didn’t pay attention to the deep freeze.

In the security lights, he saw the two figures, one back-flatted in the snow, the other crouched down and pumping at a chest.

Blay pivoted and shouted, “Medic! We need a medic!”

Then he and Qhuinn were out in the storm. Z was the one doing the compressions, Balthazar the person in cardiac arrest.

“Do you need me to take over?” Blay asked as he fell to his knees.

“You breathe for him when I say so. Three . . . two . . . one . . . breathe.”

Blay pinched Balz’s nose, sealed the male’s lips, and pushed oxygen into those lungs. When he backed off and took another deep inhale, he smelled the burn. Skin . . . and something metallic.

He’s not dead, Blay told himself. He can’t be dead.

“Breathe!” Z commanded.

Blay went back down again, forcing air out of his own lungs and into the other male’s. Beside him, Qhuinn had taken Balz’s hand and was rubbing it. Or maybe praying over it.

“Where are they?” Blay said as he wrenched around. “Medic!”

Jesus Christ, the fighter was dead—

Without warning—because hey, nothing was coming with any warning tonight—Balz arched back and hauled in a breath so big, it was as if he had been animated by an outside force, some dark magic rushing through him and bringing him back to life.

The male’s eyes popped wide, and the dilated pupils focused upward. Then the head swiveled toward Z.

In a voice that sounded all wrong, Balz said in the Old Language, “She is here. The demon is back.”



An hour later, Z was down in the training center. Instead of crowding the clinic, where everybody else was, he was over by the gym.