Unsure whether he was dreaming or any of this was real, his first thought was that he was glad Blay wasn’t with him. The guy had already found him dead at the side of the road once. No one needed a replay on that.
His second was that he was going to take out as many as he could before they finally finished the job on him.
With a battle cry, Qhuinn exploded out of his bed, his naked body going on the attack with such power, he actually plowed over the first two males. Spinning with his legs, he kicked and punched at anything that came at him, and there was a brief satisfaction as his targets cursed and jumped out of range—
Something locked around his chest from behind, and swung him around with such force, his feet popped off the ground and flew in a crazy circle—
Hellllllllllo, wall.
The impact was a three-point bulletin to his fight-back bright idea, his face, torso, and hips slamming into the plaster so hard, he no doubt left a cartoon-style 3-D rep of himself on the shit.
Instantly, he palmed the flat plane, prepared to shove his way off—
The grip that latched onto his nape and held him in place might as well have been steel. There was literally no give in the flesh and bone, even as he strained, his body refusing to be dominated—
“Chill, asswipe. Just fucking chill before I’m forced to hurt you.”
The sound of Vishous’s voice made no fucking sense.
And then abruptly, from out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that a ring had formed around him, all those black robes surrounding him, just like that grip on his neck.
But they were not attacking.
“Just relax,” V said into his ear. “Breathe for me, come on, now—just breathe easy. No one’s going to hurt you.”
The talking helped, that cool, calm voice reaching through the fight-or-flight response and turning down the volume on his panic’s roar.
In the aftermath, Qhuinn started to shake, his muscles processing the adrenaline. “Vishous?”
“Yup. It’s me, buddy. You need to keep breathing.”
“Who…else?”
“Rhage.”
“Butch.”
“Phury.”
“Zsadist.”
“Tohr.”
The voices all matched the names, those deep, serious, no-bullshit tones sinking into his brain, helping to ground himself in a reality that didn’t involve the past.
And then the last one was the final rung of the ladder that got him out of that mental tailspin and back to what was real. “Wrath.”
Qhuinn went to jerk his head toward the king, but the impulse got him nowhere.
“I’m going to let you go, buddy, okay?” V said. “You gonna mind your manners?”
“Yeah.”
“On three. One. Two. Three—”
Vishous leaped back and landed in a hand-to-hand combat pose: arms up, fists ready, stance stable. In spite of the fact that the Brother’s face was covered by the hood, Qhuinn could just picture the expression: No doubt that if Qhuinn made any move, he’d be reintroduced to the wall—and that acquaintance had already been well and truly made, fuck him very much.
He felt about six inches flatter.
With a curse, Qhuinn turned around slowly, keeping his hands where the Brotherhood could see them. “Are you kicking me out of the house?”
He had no clue what the hell he’d done, but with his history of pissing people off—on purpose and by default? Could be anything.
“No, you idiot,” V said with a laugh.
Facing the lineup of hooded, solemn figures, he searched where the faces were, making contact, reminding himself that these were the guys he had fought with side by side, that they’d always had his back, that they’d worked together.
So what the hell was going—
The third figure from the left lifted his arm, a long finger extending out and pointing to the dead center of Qhuinn’s chest.
Instantly, Qhuinn was back in the carcass of the Cessna, the in-flight drama over, Zsadist alive and well, the goal reached…that male singling him out as he was now.
In the Old Language, Wrath said, “You shall be asked a question. You shall be asked it only once. Your answer shall stand the test of time, extending out from this moment unto your bloodline forever more. Are you prepared to be asked.”
Qhuinn’s heart began to thunder. Eyes bouncing around, he couldn’t believe that this was…
Except…how was it possible? Based on his bloodlines and his defect, it wasn’t legal for someone like him to—
From out of nowhere, the image of Saxton working in that library for all those nights hit him.
Holy…fuck.
So many questions: Why him? Why now? What about John Matthew, whose chest already, magically, bore the marking of the Brotherhood?