“So how is the prisoner doing?” Layla put her hands out. “I know it’s none of my business—well, our business. We’re just curious. And I didn’t ask in front of Qhuinn and Blay because they want me to exist in a bubble where nothing worries me and, you know, there is no ugliness to speak of in the world. I just thought maybe you could tell Luchas and me what’s going on with him now that he’s been moved. Has he recovered from his strokes?”
Doc Jane shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I’m not going to answer that. I’m sorry, Layla. I know you must be curious, I get it. But I just can’t go there.”
“Can you at least tell me if he lives?”
Doc Jane took a deep breath. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Now, if you’ll excuse me? Time for me to have something to eat.”
Layla lowered her eyes. “I apologize. I don’t mean to force the issue.”
“It’s all right—and don’t worry about anything other than taking care of yourself and those kidlets, okay?” Doc Jane patted her on the knee. “Do you need help getting back down the corridor?”
Layla shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Shifting off the table and onto the floor, she rearranged her robing, left the exam room and started the shuffle back to where she stayed. As a prevailing guilt dogged her, she told herself it was what happened when you made bad choices—
From out of nowhere, her belly tightened front to back, to the point where she stopped and sagged against the corridor wall. A moment later, though, the invisible band was gone as if it had never been, nothing lingering in its place—and she suffered no dreaded loss of bladder control, either.
It was fine.
“You guys okay in there?” she whispered to her belly as she stroked it in a circle.
When someone kicked as if they were answering, she was incredibly relieved.
Doc Jane was correct: She needed to focus on what she was doing here—eating well, sleeping well, and making sure she wasn’t responsible for anything going wrong that was within her control.
Besides, it was better for everyone if she let this Xcor thing go.
On so many levels.
As she resumed her rocking walk, she cursed. Why did she have to have the same conversation with herself over and over again?
* * *
After Vishous left Rhage in the alley, he rematerialized on the mansion’s front steps, grabbed a set of car keys from Fritz and took Qhuinn’s Hummer back down the mountain. Cueing up the sound system, he mellowed out with some old-school Goodie Mob, cranking “Soul Food” before he slid into some ’Pac. He didn’t light up. That would be rude.
See, he was a fucking peach. A real stand-up motherfucker.
When he got to the road at the base of the compound’s property, he hit the accelerator and roared toward the twin bridges downtown. Twenty minutes later, he headed over the river, took the first exit on the far side and proceeded onto a thin road that followed the shore to the north.
Assail’s glass house was on a peninsula that jutted out into the Hudson, and V pulled into the rear parking area by the banks of garage doors. As he killed the lights and the engine, he remembered a different night when he had come here, all kinds of chaos reigning—especially after Wrath had been shot in the fucking throat.
Goddamn nightmare.
The back door opened and Assail stepped out of the modern mansion, dressed like he was going to a French restaurant for dinner—except for the fact that his tie was hanging out of one of his side pockets.
“You ready for me?” V asked as he lit up.
“Always. But you’re going to want to pull in, if you do not mind.”
On cue, one of the garage doors began to roll up, revealing a brightly lit interior with a van, a black Range Rover, and a spot for Qhuinn’s whip.
“Gimme a minute,” V said as he took another drag.
Assail laughed. “Alas, I am in need as well. For something different, however.”
The male turned away, as if the dirty little secret he stroked off by sniffing up one nostril and then the other was going to be cooooompletely missed.
V smiled through his own exhale. “That monkey’s riding you so hard, true.”
Assail tucked his vial back into his jacket’s inside pocket. “Cannot you smoke in the vehicle?”
“Not my ride. And hey, at least your little problem doesn’t need an air freshener.”
As the male rubbed his nose, once . . . twice . . . and again, V frowned as he caught a scent on the air. “You got a bleed there, buddy.”
Next thing you knew, Assail had taken that perfectly nice silk tie, which was the color of the inside of a cantaloupe and covered with some kind of pattern, and pressed it to his schnoz. Because it was either that or ruin that fancy-schmancy shirt and jacket of his.
Vishous lifted one shitkicker, stabbed his hand-rolled out on the tread, and put the smudged butt into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Back up, asshole.” He shoved the guy against the SUV, forced his jaw up and took over holding the tie in place. “How often does this happen?”
As Assail made some kind of a sound, V rolled his eyes and pinched the SOB’s nose. “Whatever, this is your lucky night. I’m a medic, and I’m going to look in there as soon as you stop doing this imitation of a golf sprinkler. And you can shut it unless it’s a thank-you.”
The two of them stood out there in the cold for a while. From time to time, Assail muttered some shit, which came out sounding like Pee-wee Herman, but V ignored him.