Lover At Last(52)

Rhage was on it, throwing Zsadist into the airplane with all the gentleness of a longshoreman. The Brother landed in a crumpled pile, but at least he was cursing—which meant he was with it enough to feel pain.

Qhuinn didn’t wait for any door-shutting bullcrap. He released the foot brake, hit the accelerator, and prayed they didn’t skid out in the snow—

Half the glass windshield shattered in front of him, the bullet that did the damage ricocheting around the cockpit, the whiff! from the seat next to him suggesting the headrest had caught the slug. Which was better than his arm. Or skull.

The only good news was that the plane seemed ready to get the hell out of there, too, that rusty-ass engine spinning the prop at a dead run like the POS knew getting off the ground was the sole way to safety. Out the side windows, the landscape started striping by, and he oriented the middle of the “runway” by keeping the two sets of trees equidistant.

“Hold on,” he yelled over the din.

Wind was ripping into the cockpit like there was an industrial fan filling up the space where the pane of glass had been, but it wasn’t like he was planning on going high enough to require pressurization.

At this point, he just wanted to clear the forest up ahead.

“Come on, baby, you can do it…come on….”

He had the throttle down flat, and he had to tell his arm to ease off—there was no more juice to be had, but breaking the goddamn thing was guaranteed to fuck them even harder.

The din got louder and louder.

Trees moved faster and faster.

The bumps became more and more violent, until his teeth were clapping together, and he became convinced one or both of the wings were going to unhinge and fall by the wayside.

Figuring there was no time to waste, Qhuinn pulled back as hard as he could on the steering wheel, gripping the thing tightly, as if that could somehow be translated to the body of the plane and keep it all together—

Something fell from the ceiling and fluttered back in Z’s direction.

Map? Owner’s manual? Who the fuck knew.

Man, those trees at the far end were getting close.

Qhuinn pulled even more, in spite of the fact that the wheel was as far toward him as it could go—which was a crying shame, because they were out of runway and still not off the ground—

Scraping sounds raked down the belly of the plane, as if underbrush were reaching up and trying to grab onto the steel plating.

And still those trees were even closer.

His first thought as he stared death in the face was that he was never going to meet his daughter. At least not on this side of the Fade.

His second and final was that he couldn’t believe he’d never told Blay he loved him. In all the minutes and hours and nights of his life, in all the words he’d spoken to the male over the years they’d known each other, he’d only ever pushed him away.

And now it was too late.

Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was.

’Cuz it sure as hell appeared that his library card was getting stamped tonight.

Straightening up so the full force of that cold blast hit him square in the face, Qhuinn glared into the rush, picturing those pines ahead that he couldn’t see because his eyes were watering from the wind. Opening his mouth, he screamed bloody murder, adding his voice to the maelstrom.

Goddamn it, he wasn’t going down like a pussy. No ducking, no pathetic oh-please-God-no-saaaaaave-me. Fuck that. He was going to meet death with his fangs bared and his body braced and his heart pounding not from fear, but from a whole boatload of…

“Blow me, Grim Reaper!”



As Qhuinn was trying to get airborne, Blay had his gun muzzle pointed into the tree line and was pumping off rounds like he had an endless supply of lead—which he didn’t.

This was a total goat fuck. He and John and Rhage were without any cover; there was no way of knowing how many slayers were in those woods; and for the love of God, all that ancient airplane was doing was leaving a toxic cloud of smoke in its wake as it rattled off like it was on a Sunday stroll.

Oh, and that POS was far from fucking bulletproof, but evidently had gas in its tank.

Qhuinn and Z were not going to make it. They were going to slam into that forest at the end of the field—assuming they didn’t get blown up first.

In that moment, when he knew that one way or another a fireball was imminent, he split in half. The physical part of him remained plugged into fending off the attack, his arms sticking straight out, his forefingers squeezing out bullets, his eyes and ears tracking the sounds and sights of muzzle flashes and the movements of his enemy.

The other part of him was in that airplane.

It was as if he were watching his own death. He could imagine so very clearly the violent vibrating of the plane, and the out-of-control bumps over the ground, and the sight of that solid line of trees coming at him—sure as if he were staring out of Qhuinn’s eyes and not his own.