Chapter Four
Wrath caught his dog in time, just before the collision.
He’d heard the municipal snowplow first, the bass cadence of its massive engine weaving its way into his ears, even with his distraction and the chatter and the storm.
That was when he’d yelled—and that was when his dagger hand had shot down and locked onto the harness handle.
As the impact had turned everything inside the Suburban into a projectile, his seat belt had locked him in place, and his arm strength had kept George from slamming into the console between the front seats.
But just because the two of them were okay didn’t mean shit about the others. There was blood on the cold air rushing through the interior, along with snow and salt.
As another blast of wind whistled through the SUV, he released the lock on his torso. “Tohr.” When there was no response, he tested the scents on the cold air again. “V, I can smell his blood. What’s going on—”
Shit, there was V’s blood, too.
From the back, Butch’s voice was grim and urgent. “We’re northbound on the Northway, between exits three and four. Front impact. Two injured, Wrath’s with us. We need the mobile surgical unit now.”
For as much as Wrath’s nose and hearing could orientate him, he was still trapped in a sightless void. But fuck that for laughs. Reaching forward, he patted around and found a shoulder on the left and a shoulder on the right.
There was no response on either side.
“Stay,” he ordered George.
Willing the car locks to disengage, he cranked the handle and shoved the door wide.
A blizzard gust barreled into him like it was trying to stuff him back in the SUV. Forcing his upper body forward, he went to put a shitkicker out—
“No!”
A pair of hands locked on his arm and dragged him back.
At the same time, there was the holler of a car horn, a fresh roar of wind, and the high-pitched scream of metal being ripped as the door was torn from its hinges.
In the shocked aftermath, the Suburban rocked from side to side, and George whimpered and pushed his way under Wrath’s knee.
There was so much more wind now, whipping through from the busted front windshield to the newest hole next to him.
Holy fuck—
“Holy fuck,” Rhage muttered. “That was way too close.”
Collapsing back and closing his useless eyes, Wrath listened to his heart thunder as he breathed through his nose. When the stench of gas and burning plastic got to be too much, he had to crack his mouth to keep up with the inhaling.
He hadn’t heard that one coming.
“What’s the ETA, cop?” he asked over the din.
“On Manny and the surgical RV or the fucking human we ran into? ’Cuz that last one is now—”
“Jesus,” a voice with a New Yorker accent announced. “My salt box got you boys fucked up.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Rhage muttered grimly. Then, more loudly, “Right? Fuck. Everybody okay in your truck?”
There was some grunting, and then Wrath got walked over by his brother, like they were playing clown car with the SUV.
Yeah, that was fun. Hollywood squeezing by him and George was like trying to get Sasquatch through a mouse hole.
And of course, something mashed his nuts. Shitkicker? Knee? Who the fuck knew.
Thank God the door was ripped off.
“It’s just me in the plow,” the human answered over the whirling fury of the storm. “I stopped because of the wrecks up ahead—”
The man quit talking mid-sentence, so clearly Rhage was erasing things. Too bad there was no mental tricksy-trick that could get rid of a wreck on the highway. As well as the police, who were no doubt about to show up.
“Please stay in the vehicle,” Butch said softly. “Doc Jane’s already here and Rhage is handling the humans. It’s wicked dangerous with all this snow.”
The cop wasn’t the demanding kind so his tone was well far off from any kind of this-is-an-order. The advice was also common sense.
Naturally, Wrath’s first instinct was to tell the brother to back the fuck off. Except he’d been so helpful already.
This was all his fault.
Up in front, the shotgun seat’s door was opened, and Wrath flared his nostrils, testing the air for a scent. When he didn’t get one, he knew it was V’s mate—and hell, she was triaging her own hellren along with Tohr, wasn’t she?
“Where the fuck’s Manny?” Wrath growled to the cop.
“Already on his way.” More softly, “And Ehlena’s with him—”
The other front door opened with a horrible screeching, like the steel had gone self-aware and had plenty of pain receptors.
“What’s going on,” he hissed. “You’ve got to give me something.”
He only had smells, all of them bad.
Up in front, Doc Jane and Ehlena fell into a fast back-and-forth of medical speak that his brain couldn’t track. The one thing he got was confirmation that the surgical RV was on the way, and they were going to move Tohr first. That much he understood—
“Oh, my God! I’m calling nine-one-one—”
A new human voice now. A woman’s. Someone else on the scene.
“We already did.” Rhage cut her off, all casual—and given the sudden flaring of female arousal, it was clear he’d stepped in front of her, and she was getting a load of him. “They’re coming.”
“Oh…that’s good…”
As those syllables trailed off, no doubt Hollywood was stripping her memories, but there was a strong possibility she was just drinking in all that blond with the Bahamas-blue eyes and shorting out even with the accident and the snowstorm.
Meanwhile, George bumped Wrath’s hand, seeking reassurance.
The poor dog was scared, all kinds of muscles tense and quivering.
“It’s okay,” Wrath said as he burrowed deep into the chest fur and found warmth. “I’ve got you.”
The wind howled even harder, and more snow blew into the interior, flakes hitting his forehead and cheeks, a couple getting up his nose. In the next lane over, cars passed by slowly, the engines murmuring at a timid idle against the aggression of the blizzard.
“They’re coming soon.” He stroked George’s shoulder. Then more loudly, “What’s going on now?”
He didn’t know who he was talking to, and he didn’t care. He was flailing in the darkness that consumed him, drowning in all he could not see, choking in a sea of vacancy that only gave him pops of sound and smell and touch.
“What the fuck is happening!” he barked.
“The van’s here,” Butch said. “Let’s get you out of here first.”
A new voice now, Phury’s: “We’re ready for you, my Lord.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the exhausted words, and that’s when he sensed that people were looking at him.
All of them, including the humans. In his blanket of blindness, he strained to reach the world around him, to access through secondary channels what others had at their fingertips so readily, thanks to their sight.
All he found was his own isolation and anger.
And a mourning for his shellan as if she were the one who was hidden in time, and he was stuck here in a present he couldn’t get free of.
“Please, my Lord,” Phury said softly. “Let’s get you safe.”
The last thing he wanted to do was leave, but he had no options, not unless he wanted to act like the asshole he honestly was.
Grabbing his dog, he slid out of his seat, and he had to brace himself forward against the wind to stay upright. Good thing he had the wraparounds. The blizzard lashed at his face, and as he closed his eyes, George tucked into his neck.
A steady hand at his elbow led him through the calf-deep snow.
After only about ten or fifteen feet, he was packed like luggage into some kind of warm, dry interior.
As a seat came up against his ass, he settled George in his lap and yanked the seat belt across his chest. Going by the scent and the lack of a verbal greeting, John Matthew was behind the wheel.
As soon as Phury and Qhuinn got in, forward momentum started.
“Everything is canceled at the Audience House for tonight.” Phury’s voice was grim up front. “We need to see…what happens.”
“What’s our ETA to the garage?” Wrath asked.
“I…ah, we thought we’d take you back home?”
“I’m going to where they’re taking V and Tohr. And I already know the training center is way too far from here for their injuries.”
He dubbed in a bunch of eye contact pinging around the inside of the van like stray bullets looking for a soft-tissue target, but the one thing he had going for himself was that he was still King. He didn’t make suggestions. Ask for permission. Request anything.
His words were law.
“Yes, my Lord,” Phury said with resignation.
There was a jerk and a series of bumps, and he guessed they were easing onto the shoulder. Then he felt the big wheel turn around.
“Don’t stop,” Phury said. “Okay, yeah. Right.”
No doubt he and John Matthew were communicating in American Sign Language.
Gritting his molars, Wrath shoved his dagger hand into his leather jacket. As he took out his cell phone, he put it up to his face for the unlocking.
“Call leelan,” he said. A series of electronic ringing started.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick—
When voicemail kicked in, he imagined Beth screening his call and cursed. He didn’t want to leave a message, not about all of this so he hung up and put the phone back.
“No, no, keep going,” Phury continued. “We’re not the priority. Other people will—no, we’re leading the way. There are cars behind us. Exit’s half a mile.”
And then a phone rang.
Phury didn’t put it on speaker. All there was was a series of uh-huh, uh-huh, yes, uh-huh’s...
When the brother hung up, Wrath bit out, “Tell me what their conditions are.”
Up in front, Phury cleared his throat. “Tohr has a collapsed lung, broken ribs, and a concussion. V has a broken nose, a very bad gouge out of his neck, and a superficial shoulder wound that needs stitches. When you guys hit the back of the plow, the upper compartment of the salt box broke through the windshield, and that was what caused the damage.”
“They’ll pull through, though.” There was a pause. “Right.”
“That’s the plan.”