Lover At Last(44)

Although he was beginning to believe he was wasting his time.

Stepping up on the cabin’s shallow porch, he shone a flashlight in through the nearest window. Potbellied stove. Rough wood table with two chairs. Three bunks that had no mattresses or sheets on them. Galley kitchen.

Heading around back, he found an electric generator that was out of gas, and a rusted-out oil tank, which suggested the place had had some kind of heating in it at some point.

Returning to the front, he toggled the door latch and found it locked.

Whatever. Not much in there.

Taking the map out of the inside of his bomber jacket, he unfolded the thing and located where he was. Checking off the little square, he got out his compass, adjusted his heading, and started walking in a northwesterly direction.

According to this map—which he’d found at the former Fore-lesser’s crack house, this tract of property totaled some five hundred acres and had these cabins sprinkled around at random intervals. He gathered that the place had once been a camping area owned by multiple people, a kind of modern-day hunting preserve that had been lost to the New York State tax burden, and purchased by the Society back in the eighties.

At least, that was what the handwritten notations in the corner said, although God only knew if the Society was still the owner of record. Considering the financial state of the organization, the good ol’ NYS might well have a gorilla-size tax lien on the acreage now, or have reseized the shit.

He paused and checked the compass again. Man, being a city boy, he hated rooting around out in the woods at night, clomping through the snow, checking shit off like some kind of forest ranger. But he had to see with his own eyes what he had to work with, and that was happening only one way.

At least he had a revenue stream lined up.

In another twenty-four hours, when those boys of his were finally on their feet again, he was going to start refilling the coffers. That was the first step to reclamation.

Step two?

World domination.





FIFTEEN


She was bleeding.

As Layla looked down at the toilet paper in her hand, the red stain on all that white was the visual equivalent of a scream.

Reaching behind herself, she flushed, and had to use the wall to steady her balance as she got to her feet. With one hand on her lower belly and the other thrown out at the sink counter and then the doorjamb, she stumbled into the bedroom and went right for the phone.

Her first instinct was to call Doc Jane, but she decided against that. Assuming she was in the process of miscarrying, there was a possibility of sparing Qhuinn the wrath of the Primale—provided she kept this under wraps. And using the Brotherhood’s personal physician probably wasn’t the best way to ensure privacy.

After all, there was only one reason a female bled—and questions about her needing and how she’d handled it would inevitably follow.

At the table by the bedside, she opened the drawer and drew out a small black book. Locating the number for the race’s clinic, she dialed with a shaking hand.

When she hung up a little later, she had an appointment in thirty minutes.

Except how was she going to get out there? She couldn’t dematerialize—too anxious, and anyway, pregnant females were discouraged from that. And she didn’t feel as though she could drive herself. Qhuinn’s lessons had been comprehensive, but she couldn’t imagine, in her condition, getting on a highway and trying to keep up with the flow of human traffic.

Fritz Perlmutter was the only answer.

Going to the closet, she retrieved a soft chemise, twisted it into a thick rope, and secured it between her legs with the help of several pairs of underwear. The solution to her bleeding issue was incredibly bulky and made it hard to walk, but that was the least of her problems.

A phone call to the kitchen secured the butler to drive her.

Now she just had to get down the stairs, out the vestibule, and into that long saloon car in one piece—and without running into any of the males of the household.

Just as she was about to leave her room, she caught her reflection in the mirrors upon the wall. Her white robe and her formal hairstyle announced her rank of Chosen as nothing else could: Nobody beside the Scribe Virgin’s sacred females in the species dressed like this.

Even if she appeared under the assumed name she had provided to the receptionist, all would guess her other-worldly affiliation.

Throwing off her robing, she attempted to draw on a pair of yoga pants, but the wadding she had applied to herself made that an impossibility. And the jeans she and Qhuinn had bought together wouldn’t work, either.

Withdrawing the chemise, she used paper towels from the bath to deal with her problem and managed to get the denim on. A heavy sweater provided bulk and warmth, and a quick brush out and tieback of her hair made her look…almost normal.