Lover At Last(16)

Qhuinn refocused on the windshield. And considered putting his face through it. “John, pull over.”

The fighter glanced across. Then started shaking his head.

“John, pull the fuck over. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Qhuinn was vaguely aware that his chest was pumping up and down and that his hands had become fists.

“Pull the fuck over!” he roared as he punched the dashboard hard enough to send one of the vents flying.

The flatbed shot to the side of the road and the brakes squealed as their velocity slowed. But Qhuinn was already out of there. Dematerializing, he escaped through that crack in the window, along with Blay’s frustrated exhale.

Almost immediately, he re-formed at the side of the road, unable to keep himself in his molecular state because his emotions were running way too high for that. Putting one shitkicker in front of the other, he trudged through the snow, his need to ambulate drowning out everything, including the ringing pain in both sets of knuckles.

In the back of his head, something about the stretch of road registered, but there was too much noise in his skull for specifics to break through.

No idea where he was going.

Man, it was cold.



Sitting in the flatbed, Blay focused on the lit end of his cigarette, the little orange glow going back and forth like a guitar string.

Guess his hand was shaking.

The whistle that went off next to him was John’s way of trying to get his attention, but he ignored it. Which got him slapped in the arm.

This is a really bad stretch for him, John signed.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Blay muttered. “You’re absolutely fucking kidding me. He’s always wanted a conventional mating, and he’s knocked up a Chosen—I’d say this is a great—”

No, here, right here. John pointed out to the asphalt. Here.

Blay shifted his eyes to the windshield only because he was too tired to argue. Out in front of the flatbed, the headlights illuminated everything, the snow-covered landscape blindingly white, the figure walking at the side of the road like a shadow thrown.

Red drops of blood marked the path of the footprints.

Qhuinn’s hands were bleeding from when he’d bashed up the dash—

Abruptly, Blay frowned. Sat up a little higher.

Like puzzle pieces sinking into their proper slots, the random details about where they were, from the bend in the road, to the trees, to the stone wall beside them, came together and completed a picture.

“Oh, shit.” Blay banged his head back against the rest. Closing his eyes briefly, he wanted to find another solution to this, anything other than him going out there.

He came up with a big, fat nada.

As he pushed open the door, the cold rushed into the warm interior of the truck cab. He didn’t say anything to John. No reason to. Things like going out into a snowfall after someone were self-explanatory.

Taking a deep drag, he clomped through the accumulation. The road had been plowed earlier, but that was a much-earlier kind of thing.

Which meant he probably had to act fast.

Here in this rich part of town, where the tax base was as broad as the rolling lawns, you’d better believe that another one of those house-size yellow muni plows was going to come by right before dawn.

No need to play this out in front of humans. Especially with the pair of leaking, dead-and-gones in the Hummer.

“Qhuinn,” he said roughly. “Qhuinn, stop.”

He didn’t yell. Didn’t have the energy. This…thing, whatever it was between them, had gotten exhausting long ago—and this current side-of-the-road showdown was just one more episode he didn’t have the strength for.

“Qhuinn. Seriously.”

At least the guy slowed down a little. And with any luck he was so pissed off, he wouldn’t put all the clues to their location together.

Jesus Christ, what were the chances, Blay thought as he glanced around. It was right about in this next half mile or so where that Honor Guard had done their business—and Qhuinn had nearly died from the beating.

God, Blay remembered tooling up that night, a different set of headlights picking out a dark figure, this time bleeding on the ground.

Shaking himself, he gave the name game one more shot. “Qhuinn.”

The guy stopped, his shitkickers planting in the snow and going no farther. He didn’t turn around, however.

Blay motioned for John to kill the headlights, and a second later all he had to deal with was the subtle orange glow of the truck’s parking lights.

Qhuinn put his hands on his hips and looked up to the sky, his head tilting back, his breath escaping upward in a cloud of condensation.

“Come back and get in the flatbed.” Blay took another drag and released the smoke. “We need to keep moving—”