A Warm Heart in Winter(69)

Maybe it was a sign he was coming back some.

He glanced over to the bed and remembered curling in on himself and wailing. Man, he’d fucking lost it.

So no, absolutely not—he was not going hard into the therapy. Or even lightly. Z could keep all that shrink-couch bullcrap with the Kleenex box and the stories of Mommy and Daddy and how everyone had been mean to him because of his fucked-up eyes. He was not going to talk about that shit—and certainly not going to . . . what was the term? . . . oh, right, “unpack” the night of his brother’s death and how he’d felt as he’d gone from place to place, each time expecting to see the male and being let down, the ever more violent spikes of fear bungee-cording him around in his own skin.

Nope. He wasn’t cracking again.

But he was willing to buy in to Z’s cope stuff. The question was where to begin, and maybe it made him a pussy, but he couldn’t start with the hardest thing. That . . . he just could not manage. He did know that the brother was right, though. He couldn’t just stay in this limbo.

As he considered various possibilities, it was hard to know exactly when the plan hit him, but he took out his phone and—

Blay had texted him. To let him know that he’d gone to see his parents.

Qhuinn let his head fall back against the armchair’s cushioned contours. With a fresh wave of sadness, he pictured that lovely house Rocke and Lyric had built after the raids, the one set all the way in the back of that human development, by a pond. It was a new-built designed to look old, and Lyric had made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled with that part of things. Rocke, on the other hand, loved having all of the mechanicals under warranty.

In a lot of ways, the couple was old-fashioned, the traditional sex roles not just embraced years before, but lovingly maintained: Rocke earned the money and paid the bills; Lyric cooked and cleaned; and their home, no matter what house it was encapsulated in, was always warm, inviting, and serene.

He thought of the twins. The good news was that they could choose who they wanted to be. After all, traditional roles were fine, if they weren’t forced. He didn’t want either of his kids locked into any kind of social rules or expectations. He’d had plenty of that growing up—and the failures he’d racked up, though in large part nothing he’d had any control over, had nearly killed him.

Qhuinn glanced back to the bed. Refocusing, he called up a blank text message, and then tried to figure out what he was trying to say.

In the end, he could only plainly state his request of Vishous.

Not all journeys were literally on foot. Whether they were or were not, however, there was always a first step. And after that?

Qhuinn looked across to the rolling tray.

Abruptly, he frowned. Figuring he was seeing things, he got up and went over . . . to inspect the two burgundy bundles that had been left on the bedside table, next to the remote to the TV, the call button for the nurse’s station, and a blue Bic pen.

Which undoubtedly had been the writing instrument used by Luchas when he’d composed his last letter—which remained unopened, exactly where it had been left.

Qhuinn reached out and picked up one of the burgundy wads. Unfurling it, he saw that it was a sock, a cashmere-and-silk-blend sock.

He recognized whose it was, but he checked the tag that had been sewn inside anyway.

“Blaylock,” he said softly.



Blay returned to the mansion right before Last Meal. He’d ended up helping his mahmen in the basement for hours, rearranging plastic tubs of seasonal clothes, family mementos, and decorations. It had been pretty clear from the outset that there was a make-work component to the effort, but he’d been so grateful for the distraction and the parameters of the job. The project had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and it required not only physical effort, but just enough mental concentration that he couldn’t juggle the tasks at hand along with worrying about Qhuinn.

There had even been a break for another meal in the middle, and a cup of satisfaction cocoa, as his mahmen always called it, at the end.

He had wanted to stay the day, especially after Qhuinn had not responded to his text about where he was going. But Wrath had called a meeting, and however brokenhearted Blay was, his duty to his King was a responsibility he was honor-and duty-bound to carry out.

Hitting the grand staircase, he was fifteen minutes early, so there was time to put his coat away and gather his thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about running into Qhuinn. The male would be downstairs in Luchas’s room. That was where he always went after he worked out, and for the last four nights, he had stayed there until well after Last Meal.

Blay had tried not to take the withdrawal personally. And failed.

At the top of the stairs, he looked through the open doors of Wrath’s study. The Brothers were already gathering, and he lifted his hand in greeting. Several nodded in his direction, and he flashed them a pair of fingers, the universal language for: I’ll be back in two minutes.

Maybe Qhuinn would join them all tonight.

Maybe Santa Claus was real.

Heading down the Hall of Statues, Blay stripped off his parka and then zipped up both of the side pockets so his gloves didn’t fall out. As he opened the door to his room, the familiar scent that greeted him was fresh, not faded . . . and the male who was sitting on the edge of the bed was not a ghost.

Blay stopped dead.

“Hi,” the figment, who certainly seemed to be Qhuinn, said. In the correct voice.