As Payne stared up out of the cage of her dead-lead body, her twin's bleak profile was all she could see, and she despised herself for the position she'd put him in. She had spent the time since she'd arrived on this side trying to tease out another path, another option, another ... anything.
But what she needed was hardly something one could ask of a stranger.
Then again, he was a stranger.
"Thank you," she said. "Brother mine."
Vishous just nodded once and resumed staring straight ahead. In person, he was so much more than the sum of his facial features and the massive size of his body. Back before she had been imprisoned by their mahmen, she had long watched him in the seeing bowls of the sacred Chosen and had known the instant he had appeared in the shallow water who he was to her - all she'd had to do was look at him and she saw herself.
Such a life he had led. Starting with the war camp and their father's brutality ... and now this.
And beneath his cold composure, he raged. She could feel it in her very bones, some link between them giving her insight beyond that which her eyes informed her of: On the surface, he was collected as a brick wall, his composite components all in order and mortared in place. Inside his skin, however, he seethed ... and the external clue was his gloved right hand. From underneath its base, a bright light shone ... and got e'er brighter. Especially after she'd asked him what she had.
This could be their only time together, she realized, her eyes slicking over anew.
"You are mated to the healer female?" she murmured.
"Yeah."
When there was only silence, she wished she could engage him, but it was clear he answered her only out of courtesy. And yet she believed him when he said he was glad she'd arrived herein. He didn't strike her as the type to lie - not because he cared about morality or politeness as such, but rather because he viewed such effort as a waste of time and inclination.
Payne eased her eyes back to the ring of bright fire that hung o'erhead. She wished he would hold her hand or touch her in some way, but she had asked more than plenty of him already.
Lying upon the rolling slab, her body felt all wrong, both heavy and weightless in the same moment, and her only hope was the spasms that tore down her legs and tickled into her feet, causing them to jerk. Surely all was not lost if that was occurring, she told herself.
Except even as she took shelter under that thought, a very small, quiet part of her mind told her that the cognitive roof she was trying to construct would not withstand the rain that hung o'er what was left of her life: When she moved her hands, though she could not see them, she could feel the cool, soft sheeting and the slick chill of the table she was upon. But when she told her feet to do the same ... it was as though she were in the serene, tepid waters of the bathing pools on the Other Side, cocooned in an invisible embrace, sensing nothing against her.
Where was this healer?
Time ... was passing.
As the wait went from intolerable to downright agonizing, it was difficult to know whether the choking sensation in her throat was from her condition or the quiet of the room. Verily, she and her twin were alike steeped in stillness - just for very different reasons: She was going nowhere with alacrity. He was on the verge of an explosion.
Desperate for some stimulation, something ... anything, she murmured, "Tell me about the healer who is coming."
The cool draft that hit her face and the scent of dark spices that tunneled into her nose told her it was a male. Had to be.
"He's the best," Vishous muttered. "Jane's always talked about him like he's a god."
The tone was rather less than complimentary, but, indeed, vampire males did not appreciate others of their persuasion around their females.
Who could it be within the race? she wondered. The only healer that Payne had seen in the bowls was Havers. And surely there would have been no reason to search for him?
Perhaps there was another she had not been witness to. After all, she had not spent a vast amount of time catching up with the world, and according to her twin, there had been many, many, many years transpiring between her imprisonment and her freedom, such as it was ...
In an abrupt wave, exhaustion cut off her thought process, seeping into her very marrow, dragging her down even harder atop the metal table.
Yet when she closed her eyes, she could withstand the dimness only a moment before panic popped her lids open. Whilst their mother had held her in suspended animation, she had been all too aware of her blank, limitless surroundings and the grindingly slow passage of moments and minutes. This paralysis now was too much alike what she had suffered for hundreds of years.
And that was the why of her terrible request to Vishous. She could not come here to this side only to replicate what she had been so desperate to escape from.
Tears trickled over her vision, causing the bright light source to waver.
How she wished her brother would hold her hand.
"Please don't cry," Vishous said. "Don't ... cry."
In truth, she was surprised he noticed. "Verily, you are correct. Crying cures naught."
Stiffening her resolve, she forced herself to be strong, but it was a battle. Although her knowledge of the arts of medicine was limited, simple logic spelled out what she was up against: As she was of an extraordinarily strong bloodline, her body had begun repairing itself the moment she had been injured whilst sparring with the Blind King. The problem was, however, the very regenerative process that would ordinarily save her life was making her condition ever more dire - and likely to be permanent.
Spines that were broken and fixing themselves were not likely to achieve a well-ordered result, and the paralysis of her lower legs was testament to that fact.
"Why do you keep regarding your hand?" she asked, still staring at the light.
There was a silent moment. Atop all the others. "Why do you think I am?"
Payne sighed. "Because I know you, brother mine. I know all about you."
When he said not another thing, the quiet was about as companionable as the Old Country inquests had been.
Oh, what things had she set in motion?
And where would they all be when this came to an end?
Chapter Three
Sometimes the only way to know how far you'd come was to return to where you once had been.
As Jane Whitcomb, M.D., walked into the St. Francis Hospital complex, she was sucked back into her former life. In one sense, it was a short trip - merely a year ago, she'd been the chief of trauma service here, living in a condo full of her parents' things, spending twenty hours a day running between the ER and the ORs.
Not anymore.
A sure clue that change had come a-knock-knock-knockin' was the way she entered the surgical building. No reason to bother with the rotating doors. Or the ones that pushed into the lobby.
She walked right through the glass walls and passed the security guards at the check-in without their seeing her.
Ghosts were good like that.
Ever since she'd been transformed, she could go places and get into things without anyone having a clue she was around. But she could also become as corporeal as the next person, summoning herself into a solid at her will. In one form, she was utter ether; in the other, she was as human as she'd once been, capable of eating and loving and living.
It was a powerful advantage in her job as the Brotherhood's private surgeon.
Like right now, for example. How the hell else would she be able to infiltrate the human world again with a minimum of fuss?
Hurrying along the buffed stone floor of the lobby, she went past the marble wall that was inscribed with the names of benefactors, and wended her way through the crowds of people. In and among the congestion, so many faces were familiar, from admin staff to doctors to nurses she'd worked with for years. Even the stressed-out patients and their families were anonymous and yet intimates of hers - on some level, the masks of grief and worry were the same no matter whose facial features they were on.
As she headed for the back stairs, she was on the hunt for her former boss. And, Christ, she almost wanted to laugh. Through all their years of working together, she had come at Manny Manello with a variety of OMGs, but this was going to top any multicar pileup, airplane crash, or building collapse.
Put together.
Wafting through a metal emergency exit, she mounted the rear stairway, her feet not touching the steps but floating above them while she ascended as a draft did, going up without effort.
This had to work. She had to get Manny to come in and take care of that spinal injury. Period. There were no other options, no contingencies, no lefts or rights off this road. This was the Hail Mary pass ... and she was just praying that the receiver in the end zone caught the f**king football.