“Okay?” he prompted.

She looked at Blay. And when the male nodded, she found herself nodding back. “Okay.”

“Can we feed her?” Qhuinn asked.

Jane stepped in and shook her head. “We need her stomach empty for the anesthesia. And we have to put her under, there’s no time for an epidural.”

“Whatever you . . .” Layla cleared her throat. “Whatever needs to be done to save the young . . .”

She remembered when this had happened to Beth, what had had to be done to save her and L.W. If it turned out Layla could have no more young? Then so be it. She would have two. Or . . . perhaps one.

Or mayhap . . . none.

Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, she prayed as she started to weep. Take me. Leave the young and take me instead.

Turning her head, she looked through her tears at those two neonatal medical cribs that had been rolled in and put against the wall. She tried to picture the young in them, small but alive.

She could not.

Moaning, she was struck by an absurd impulse to just get up and walk out, as if this were a movie she could depart from because she didn’t like the plotline. Or a book she could close because she didn’t care for the direction in which the author had taken the characters. Or a painting she could abandon with her brush because the scene she had intended to depict had turned into a mess.

Suddenly, there seemed to be people everywhere. Vishous had come in, his goateed face covered with a surgical mask, his street clothes hidden beneath a large sterile yellow suit. Ehlena was there. Qhuinn and Blay were suiting up. Manny and Jane were speaking back and forth in a kind of shorthand that didn’t register.

“I can’t breathe . . .” she groaned.

Abruptly, some kind of alarm went off, the shrill sound separating out from the generalized beeping of the machines that were monitoring her and the young.

“I can’t . . . breathe. . . .”

“She’s arresting!”

Layla had no idea who said that. Or even if it had been a male or a female that had spoken.

A strange feeling came over her, as if she were submerged in lukewarm water that muffled her sight and her hearing and caused her body to become weightless. The pain also drifted off, and that terrified her.

If she was hurting, she was still alive, correct?

As the abyss came up and claimed her consciousness, like a monster devouring prey, she tried to shout for help, to beg for the lives of her young, to apologize once again for transgressions only she knew about.

No time, though.

There was no more time left for her.

FIFTY-NINE

Assail sat in a fairly comfortable chair in a room that was of a rather nice temperature—and yet felt as though his skin was being burned off his bones.

Across the shallow space, the slave he had rescued was on a hospital bed, looking more like a pretrans than a full-grown adult male. Sheets and blankets had been set upon his naked form in order to warm him. Nutrients and fluids were being introduced into his veins via tubing. Various machines assessed the performance of his organs.

He was asleep.

Markcus had fallen asleep. Or passed out.

And so Assail sat in the hospital room of a total stranger, as incapable of leaving as if his own blood were under those covers, hooked up to those monitors, resting on that mattress.

Rubbing his arms, he wanted the sensation of heat to stop in his own flesh so he could concentrate more fully on Markcus’s health. But he had already removed his suit jacket and taken off his tie. Next stop was naked.

It took him a while to realize what the problem was.

With a curse, he extracted his vial of cocaine, and held it in his palm, looking at the brown transparent belly and the black screw on top.

He took care of his gnawing need quickly, feeling embarrassed that he had to snort the drug no more than a matter of feet away from the male.

How long before Naasha discovered what had been taken from her? he wondered.

And how could she have done that to another? Especially considering she had a stable of vital young males to service not only her sex, but her blood needs.

Indeed, every time Assail closed his eyes, he saw that cell, smelled that stench, re-lived bursting into that underground prison.

Where had she stolen him from? Was his family looking for him?

How long had he suffered down there, naught but a meal to be tapped into?

The diagnosis thus far was malnourishment, a kidney infection, fluid in the lungs and a sinus infection. But the medical staff had indicated there were further tests to be done.

The horror of it all made it difficult to breathe, and Assail had to sit forward in the chair.

Outside, he heard the Brothers talking and pacing in the hall. Clearly, someone was injured seriously, given the anxiety level, but he had not asked and no one had offered an explanation. Further, Vishous had had to go be of aid to whatever emergency was being dealt with, although he had promised to return—

The knock was soft.

“Do come in,” Assail murmured, even though he felt as though he had no right to invite or disinvite visitors for Markcus.

It was a while before the door opened even a little.

“Hello?” Assail called out.

When he saw who it was, he recoiled.

Zsadist was a Brother he had long heard tales of. After all, such was the warrior’s history and behavior that his reputation, even in the New World, had traveled to ears all around the Old Country. And yes, the male’s scarred face was something to fear, the ragged, badly-closed old wound distorting his upper lip whilst his narrowed eyes glowed with malice. Standing just inside the room, with his nearly shaved head and his tremendous body, he appeared to be exactly what gossips had suggested he was—a sociopath to be avoided at all costs.