The Beast

  Motivating herself, she stretched once more and got out of bed. By the time she made it into the bathroom, Rhage was leaning back under the spray, rinsing his hair. With a quick strip, she took off her shirt and then she was in with him, his slick, aroused body glistening in the light from the mirrors.

  "There she is," he murmured as he pulled her in close.

  It was a while before they got out, and by the end of it, her legs were so loose, it was a good thing she didn't have far to go. Wrapped in Rhage's robe, she padded over to the bureau to take out her pearl earrings while he went to the laundry hamper in their walk-in closet with the clothes they'd left everywhere.

  She'd taken one of the studs out when she noticed the folder. "What's this?"

  "What's what?" he said from the closet.

  Opening the front cover . . .

  . . . she felt the breath leave her lungs.

  FORTY-NINE

  When Rhage came out of the walk-in, he was feeling really damn good about life. Yeah, sure, the cop had prevailed at pool again, but after what his Mary had just treated him with? He was the true winner.

  That shower sesh had been straight-up Olympian, top-of-the-mountain, land-speed-record stuff.

  Walking out, he . . .

  . . . stopped where he was.

  Mary was sitting in the chair beside their bureau, her little pink feet on the carpet, her body engulfed by his bathrobe, her head down with her damp hair hanging forward. In her lap, open wide, was a folder that Rhage didn't recognize.

  But he knew what she was looking at.

  Rhage went back into the closet and pulled on a pair of nylon track pants. On second thought, he added that AHS sweatshirt he'd worn the other night. Coming back out, he walked over to the bed and sat down.

  Mary looked up when she got to the last page. "What is this? I mean . . ." She shook her head. "I think I know what it is. I just . . ."

  Rhage gripped the edge of the mattress and leaned into his arms. Strangely, the antiques in the room, the heavy drapes, the pattern in the carpet, it all became much too clear, everything around him sharpening to the point that he winced.

  "I didn't ask Saxton to print all that out," he blurted.

  "Adoption papers? That's what these are, aren't they? I mean, I'm not completely versed in the Old Language, but I can catch the drift."

  "Look, we don't have to do anything with them. It's not like . . . I mean, I'm not suggesting we adopt her. I asked Vishous if he could help find her uncle--yes, I know you didn't tell me to, but I thought if any of my brothers could help, it was him. He went into some databases kept at the Audience House and found nothing. Checked some other places, too. There was no trace of anything, no family, no uncle. And, ah, I talked to him about you and me and the kid thing. He was the one who brought up the adoption process and then followed through with it on his own."

  Mary closed the folder and laid her hand on it. When she didn't say anything further, he cursed. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have talked to you first about my going to Vishous--"

  "Marissa thinks I'm over-involved. With Bitty, that is. That's what we were going back and forth about before Last Meal. She thinks I'm crossing professional lines, making it too personal."

  "Wow."

  "And even though I argued with her . . . she's right. I am."

  Rhage's heart skipped a beat from dread. "What are you saying?"

  There was a long period of quiet. And then she shrugged. "I've been around a lot of young people. Not just at Safe Place, but also before, when I was working with my autistic kids." She looked over. "Do you remember when I was staying at Bella's? And I told you I didn't want to see you anymore?"

  Rhage closed his eyes, memories of that horrible confrontation coming back to him. For some reason, he remembered the quilt in that guestroom she'd been sleeping in, that handmade quilt with its blocks and slices of color. Mary had been on the bed when he'd come in. And even though she had been just across the way from him, he'd felt as if they were a world apart.

  "Yes," he said roughly. "I remember."

  "I was in so much pain that I couldn't imagine bringing anyone down with me. I was blocked off, closed up, ready to go lose the battle that I really wasn't interested in fighting anymore. I pushed you hard. But you came anyway. You came and . . . and in you, I saw a beacon I couldn't turn away from."

  I'm not okay.

  In his mind, he heard her say those words. Felt her body nearly tackle his as she ran out of that house after him as he'd stood there, holding the moon in his palm just as she'd shown him to.

  "I guess I've felt as though Bitty was like me. I mean, for the last however long I've known her, she's been completely closed up. Even when her mother was around, she was like this insular little creature, watching, pushing people away, closing herself off. And after the abuse, and then the deaths? I never blamed her. I just wanted desperately to reach her. It was like . . . well, in retrospect, I think I've been trying to save my old self."

  "She really opened up last night," Rhage offered. "At least, I felt like she did. I wouldn't know, though--"

  "That was my point to Marissa. I don't know if the normal protocols of treatment would have reached her. And she is responding. I took her to my mom's grave. Then we bought M&M's at the local Hannaford. She is just beginning a very hard journey and I don't want to stop helping her."

  "Is Marissa reassigning you?" he demanded.

  "No, she just thinks I'm emotionally involved--and I am, I admit it. Bitty's special to me."

  Rhage glanced down at the folder, which Mary had brought to her chest and held in place--in a way that he wasn't sure she was aware of.

  "Mary."

  When she finally looked up, he felt like he was leaping off a cliff. The good news? If he had to be flying through mid-air with anyone, he could think of nobody better than his shellan.

  "We could give her a good home."

  As Mary's eyes grew watery, he got up and went to her, kneeling down in front of his shellan and putting his hands on her legs.

  "You don't want to say it, do you," he whispered.

  She took a shuddering breath. And then shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen for us. We were just talking about it. It's not . . . supposed to happen for us. The parent thing."

  "Says who?"

  Mary opened her mouth. Then it shut as she held those papers even harder to her heart. "I was okay with it. I really was. I really . . . with me never being a mother."

  As her tears started to fall, Rhage reached up and wiped his love's face. "It's okay if you can't say it. Because I'll say it for you. You would be . . . the most wonderful mahmen to that little girl. Bitty would be so lucky to have you in her life."

  The words he spoke seemed to crush her in some way, and he knew exactly how she was feeling. He had been prepared to come to terms with missing out on a huge part of life, because among the many blessings he had been given, being a father was not among them. And yes, it was a sort of cruelty to have that door that he had so resolutely closed get knocked on so soon.

  But there was one thing he knew for damn sure.

  If by some miracle they were called upon by fate to step up to the plate for that little girl? He was going to be there without hesitation. And he knew without asking that his Mary was going to be the same.

  Parents.

  It would be a miracle.

  *

  Mary was surprised by the great, yawning chasm of pain that had opened up in the center of her chest.

  And as she thought about it all, she decided, yes, it was entirely possible that she might have been sublimating the whole child-less thing . . . self-medicating an unacknowledged agony with honest good works that served those who needed help during their most vulnerable moments.

  With a shudder, she leaned forward and Rhage was there to catch her as she fell off the chair and into his lap on the floor. As his arms wrapped around her and held her close, she hugged that folder full of papers as tightly as
she could.

  It had been too terrifying to admit to herself, or to Rhage, the idea that had been kindling in her heart over the last year. But a maternal yearning had taken root at some point along the journey with Bitty--although Mary had been careful never to infringe or intrude upon the true mother/daughter bond, or even acknowledge her feelings in her own mind.

  She had, however, from time to time, wondered what the little girl would do if she were left alone in the world.

  And yes, there might have been an occasional daydream about bringing her into their lives.

  It was no doubt why, on the night of the death, Mary had driven toward the compound and the mansion instead of Safe Place.

  But she had known that such feelings were not appropriate or professional, so she had said nothing, done nothing, acted no differently than she did around the other young she worked with.

  Her heart had been on another page, though.

  Easing back, she looked up into Rhage's handsome face. "What did Vishous say about the uncle?"

  Even though she'd thought she'd heard him tell her that V had come up with nothing also.

  "He said he could find no one by that name. And no formally recorded details of Bitty, her mother, or any family, either." Rhage wiped beneath her eyes with his thumbs; then dried her tears on his sweatshirt. "She really is orphaned."

  They were quiet for a while. And then Mary said, "It won't all be fun trips to the ice cream parlor."

  "I know."

  "And she might not want to come live with us."

  "I know."

  "But you like her, right? She's special, right?"

  "Very." He laughed in a short burst. "I think I decided I wanted to adopt her when she ordered that waffle cone."

  "What?"

  "Long story. But it just . . . it kind of feels like it's supposed to be."

  "That's what I think."

  Rhage moved around so that he was leaning back against the wall, and she settled in between his legs, easing up against his chest. Maybe they should have moved over to the bed. It would have been more comfortable, after all. But the sense that some tremendous shift was occurring in their lives made it seem safer to stay on the ground--just in case the earthquake happening for both of them on an emotional level translated into the physical world somehow.

  The damn thing would level the mansion into a pile of rubble.

  "This is going to be a process, Rhage. It can't happen overnight. There are going to have to be things we need to do, together and apart, to make sure this is real."

  But all that was just rhetoric.

  In her heart, as far as she was concerned, the decision had been made.

  Mary sat up and twisted around. "Do you want to be her father? I mean, I know where I stand--"

  "It would be my honor and privilege." He placed his dagger hand over his heart as he spoke in the Old Language. "It would be a duty that I would seek to fulfill all the nights I am upon this earth."

  Mary took a deep breath. And then cursed. "We're going to have to explain to her what . . . I am. What you have."

  Oh, God, what if his beast and her . . . existential situation . . . precluded them from being prospective parents? And who made that decision? And where did they go to figure out how to do this?

  With a groan, she fell back against Rhage's strength. And it was funny . . . as she felt the pads of his muscles all around her, she knew that he would stand beside her for however long it took, never ducking from a challenge, pressing on with purpose and focus, going until they crossed the finish line.

  That was just how he was made. He didn't quit. Ever.

  "I love you," she said as she stared straight ahead.

  "I love you, too." He tucked her hair behind her ear and massaged her shoulders. "And, Mary . . . it's all going to be okay. I promise."

  "They might not let us have her. Even if she wants us."

  "Why?"

  "You know why. We're not exactly 'normal,' Rhage."

  "Who is?"

  "People who are alive in the conventional sense. And don't have a beast who lives inside their body."

  As he fell silent, she felt bad, as if she'd ruined something. But they needed to be realistic.

  Except Rhage just shrugged. "So we'll get counseling. Or some shit."

  Mary laughed a little. "Counseling?"

  "Sure. What the hell. I can talk about how I feel about the beast. And maybe he can eat a couple of counselors so he can internalize their constructive comments. I mean, jeez, acupuncture the fuck out of me and maybe the dragon will turn into a bunny or a titmouse or--"

  "A titmouse."

  "Yeah, or like, a gopher. It could end up like a giant purple gopher who's, like, a vegetarian." As Mary started laughing harder, he stroked her arms. "What about a Cavalier King Charles spaniel."

  "Oh, come on--"

  "No, no, I got it. I know what it's going to be."

  Mary rolled over in his lap and smiled up at him. "Be gentle. I've had a rough morning. Well, except for the shower part. That wasn't hard at all."

  Rhage held up his forefinger. "Okay, first of all, something was hard in there. And you know that firsthand." As she laughed again, he nodded. "Uh-huh. That's right. And as for the beast's alter identity--how about an enormous purple jack-alope."

  "They don't exist!"

  "Fine. A snape."

  "Also doesn't exist."

  "Then I could make the dreams of snape hunters worldwide come true." Rhage smiled. "Who could turn us down then. After I pull a public service like that?"

  "You're absolutely right." She stroked his face. "We need to put the acupuncture/jack-alope plan into immediate effect."

  Rhage scrunched down and kissed her. "I love it when we're on the same page. I just love it."

  FIFTY

  When night fell, Layla was largely nonplussed. One of the disadvantages of living in the training center underground was that she was unable to set her internal clock to the rhythms of the sun and moon. Time was just numbers on a clock face, meals appearing when they did, visitors and traffic coming and going in random patterns that eventually meant little in terms of night and day.

  Her sleep had fallen into a cycle of six hours of wakefulness followed by three hours of fitful dreams. Repeat, ad nauseam.

  Usually.

  This evening, however, as the electronic clock showed a glowing red eight followed by a sixteen after the two vertical dots, she closed her eyes with a purpose beyond that of sleep.

  She had agonized over this since her resolution after the ultrasound. Had run the yes's and no's through her brain until she thought she would go mad.

  In the end, she had made up her mind, for better or for worse.

  Probably for worse. Because that was just how things always went for her when it came to Xcor.

  Taking a deep breath, she found that everything irritated her. The sheets felt itchy. The pillow under her head was not in the correct position, and her moving it up and down didn't help. The weight of her belly seemed enormous, an entity separate from the rest of her body. Her feet twitched as if someone were tickling them with a feather. Her lungs seemed to only partially inflate.

  Take out the "seem."

  And the darkness of her room amplified everything.

  With a curse, she discovered her eyes had opened themselves, and she wished she had tape so she could make her lids stay shut.

  Concentrating, she forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. Relaxed the tension in her body starting at her toes and going to the tips of her ears. Calmed her mind.

  Sleep arrived in a gentle wave, submerging her beneath common consciousness, setting her free of the aches and pains, the worry and fear.

  The guilt.

  She gave herself a moment to enjoy the weightless float. And then she sent her core self, her soul, that magic light that animated her flesh, not just off the hospital bed and out of the room, not just down the corridor and free of the training center . . . but out
of the realm of earthly reality.

  To the Sanctuary.

  Given her pregnancy, it was unsafe for her to travel to the Other Side in her physical form. This way, however, she covered the distance with grace and ease--plus, even as she left her body, she could sense her flesh back under the sheets and was thusly able to continuously monitor her corporeal incarnation. If aught were to occur, she could return in the blink of an eye.

  Moments later, she was standing on resplendent green grass. Overhead, the milky sky provided illumination from no definable source, and all around in the distance, a forest ring established the sacred territory's boundaries. White marble temples glowed pristine and fresh as the night they had been called into existence so many millennia ago by the Scribe Virgin, and brilliantly colored tulips and daffodils were like gems spilled from a treasurer's satchel.

  Breathing the sweet air, she could feel a recharging happen, and it reminded her of her centuries spent serving the mother of the race up here. Back then, all had been white, no shades or variation in anything, not even shadows thrown. The current Primale, Phury, had changed all that, however, freeing her and her sisters to live lives down below, to experience the world and themselves as individuals, instead of as cogs in a homogeneous whole.

  Unconsciously, she put her hands to her belly--and had a fright. Her stomach was flat, and she panicked--only to sense her body's function down on Earth. Yes, she thought. The flesh was with young; the soul was not. And this representation of her was a moving mirage, both existent and nonexistent.

  Gathering the folds of her ceremonial robe, she ambulated across the rolling expanse, passing the Primale's private quarters where the impregnations used to occur, and continuing on until she stood on the threshold of the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes.

  A quick look around confirmed what had been true not just since her arrival this moment, but for such a time since the Primale had released them all: As beautiful as the Sanctuary was, as much as it had to offer in terms of peace and refreshment, it was as empty and abandoned as a useless factory. A gold mine with no more veins to plunder. A galley with bare cupboards.

  For her purposes, this was good.

  And in her heart, it was bittersweet. Freedom had led to an abandonment, a cessation of service, an end of the way things were.

  Change, however, was more the nature of destiny than anything else. And much good had come from it--although perhaps not for the Scribe Virgin. Who knew how she felt, though, as none had seen her now for how long?