The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #13)(18)

Trez’s arms were shaking so badly, he wondered whether he’d be able to hold her in his arms. But as soon as he bent down, a profound sense of purpose wiped away all the nerves and trembling: The goal of getting her to the training center’s clinic gave him a physical power and a mental clarity that he had never known before.

He would die in the effort.

God, she weighed so little. Less than he remembered.

And beneath the robes he could feel her hard bones, as if she were wasting away.

Just before that whirlpool effect overtook him again, his eyes shifted to a thick row of stocky trees that were broken by a trellis. On the far side of the arch, there was a courtyard of some kind in which marble statues of females in various poses were set up on pillars.

Had she been on the way there?

For some reason, the sight of those statues terrified him to the core.





SEVEN


Standing in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, Layla tried to pull the supposedly loose coat around herself, but getting what seemed like its copious folds across her belly was like asking a throw blanket to cover a king-size bed.

Looking down, she could no longer see her feet, and for once in her life, her breasts were big enough to create some serious cleavage beneath her robing.

Given the breadth of her, it was hard to believe she still had months to go with the pregnancy.

Why couldn’t vampires be more like humans? Those rats without tails took nine months to do this. Her species? Try eighteen.

Glancing over her shoulder, she checked herself out in the dresser’s mirror across the way. According to the various human birthing shows she’d watched on TV, she was supposed to feel all aglow. Revel in her body’s changes. Embrace the miracle that was conception, incubation, and impending expulsion.

Guess humans really were a different race.

The only positive thing she took from this experience—and arguably it was the only thing that mattered—was that her young was active and seemingly healthy. Regular checkups with Doc Jane had indicated that things were progressing with perfect order, milestones met and surpassed, stages entered and departed with grace.

That was it for the positives. The rest of the experience? No, thank you kindly. She detested the way she had to heave herself to her feet. The big melons sitting on her chest made it hard to breathe. The swelling in her ankles and hands turned elegant limbs into tree trunks. And then there were the surging hormones …

That made her want to do things she felt pregnant females really shouldn’t do.

Especially given who she wanted to do them with—

“Stop it. Just stop it.”

Dropping her head into her hands, she struggled with the piercing guilt that had been her shadow these past months, dogging her close as her own skin, heavy as a suit of chain mail.

Unlike the pregnancy, which had a termination date for all the discomfort and worry, there was no relief to be had with her other situation. No terminal event—at least not one that came with any joy.

She had made her bed, however. Now she must lie in it.

Going over to her door, she cracked the panels and listened for footsteps. Voices. The sound of vacuum cleaners. When there was nothing, she stepped out into the hall of statues and looked left and right. A quick check of her watch told her she had about an hour and a half before dawn would force her return to the Brotherhood mansion.

Stepping out, she wanted to jog, but she could barely manage a fast walk as she headed in the direction of the staff quarters.

Her route to the exit was preplanned and well-utilized, and she had the timing down to a science. Six minutes for her to get down the back stairs and out into the garage. Two minutes to the car that she’d been given to use and had told people she was taking out on a regular basis to “clear her head.”

Sixteen-minute drive into the tracks of farmland east of town.

Two-minute walk up that field to the maple tree.

Where she would find—

“Layla?”

She tripped over her own feet as she wheeled around. Blay was at the head of the hall of statues and in his fighting dress, his leathers stained and his face exhausted.

“Ah—hello,” she replied. “Have you come off the field?”

“Are you heading out?” Blay frowned. “It’s awful late.”

“Just for a short drive,” she said smoothly. “To, you know, clear my head.”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she hated the lying.

“Well, I’m glad I caught you. Qhuinn’s not doing so well.”

Layla frowned and walked back toward the fighter. The father of her young was one of the most important people in her life, as was Blay. The mated pair were her family. “Why?”

“Luchas.” Blay stripped his dagger holster off his chest. “He’s refusing to feed, and Qhuinn’s just hit the wall with it.”

“It’s been almost a month.”

“Longer.”

Ordinarily, if a healthy male vampire took the vein of a Chosen, he could easily go several months between feedings, depending on his activity level, stress, and general health. However, for someone who was as ill as Luchas? Much more than a week or two could quickly become a death sentence.

“Where is Qhuinn now?”

“Down in the billiards room. They called me off the streets early because…” Blay shook his head. “Yeah, he’s not doing well.”