Manny put his hand on Layla’s shoulder and addressed her. “The bleeding is slowing. That’s good news. But now both of them are showing signs of fetal distress, with the boy’s heart rate beginning to fluctuate as well. Moreover, I remain particularly worried about the little girl, what with her being the smaller of the two of them. I strongly recommend that we do a Cesarean section—”

“But it’s too soon!” Layla looked at Qhuinn in a panic. “It’s too soon—”

Manny took the female’s hand. “Layla, you’ve got to listen to me. The babies are struggling—but more to the point, you are not going to make it unless we get them out.”

“I don’t care about me! You said that the bleeding is stopping—”

“It’s slowing. But we’re running out of time and I need you as strong as possible when I put you under.”

“I don’t care what you do to me! You need to keep them inside—”

Layla hitched a breath as another contraction hit her, and Qhuinn rubbed his face. Then he motioned for Manny to step away with him.

Lowering his voice, Qhuinn said, “What the fuck’s going on?”

Manny’s eyes were steady in the midst of all the panic, a harbor in the thrashing sea of emotions. “I’ve spoken with Havers. There’s nothing that can be done to keep the pregnancy going. On ultrasound, it’s obvious that the placenta is separating from the uterus. It’s exactly what happened to Beth—this is extremely common, especially with multiples, and the cause of most maternal and fetal deaths in your species. Layla hasn’t done anything wrong—she did everything right. But the bottom line is, the pregnancy is failing and we’re at the decision point where we need to save her life, and try to save theirs.”

There was a pause. And Qhuinn ran the words that had been spoken to him back and forth in his head. “What about their lungs? We need another couple of nights—”

“We have special breathing apparatuses from Havers that can help them. We’ve got the right equipment. If we get them out, I know the protocol and so do Ehlena and Jane.”

Qhuinn scrubbed his face and wanted to vomit. “Okay, all right. We’re going to do it.”

Shoring himself up, he went to Layla, stroking her blond hair back from her clammy face. “Layla—”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! This is my fault—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” He continued to run his hand over her head to soothe her protests. “Listen to me—no, listen me. Hear what I’m saying—there is no fault in this. And your life matters. I can’t lose . . . I’m not going to lose everyone in this, okay? It’s in the Scribe Virgin’s hands, all of this. Whatever happens, it’s what is meant to be.”

“I’m so sorry. . . .” Her eyes clung to his, tears pouring out of the far corners, wetting the thin white pillow under her head. “Qhuinn, forgive me.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “There is nothing to forgive. But we need to do this—”

“I don’t want to lose your young—”

“It’s our young.” He glanced over at Blay. “We did this together, and no matter the outcome, I’m at peace, okay? You did the absolute best you could, but at this point, we need to move forward.”

“Where’s Blay?” Another contraction hit her and she gritted her teeth, straining in the pain. “Where is—”

Blay came over. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

At that moment, Jane came in. “How are we?”

“Layla,” Qhuinn said. “We need to do this. Now.”

As Layla lay on the gurney, her body outside of her control, her youngs’ futures in doubt, she felt as though she were in a speeding car, heading for a sharp turn on a slick road. The metaphor was so apt that every time she blinked, she felt the careening velocity, knew the ringing screech of the tires, braced herself for impact as she went into a flipping, tire-over-roof accident that was surely going to kill her.

In fact, the pain of the impact was already with her, emanating from the small of her back in a steady hum, and then peaking in contractions that racked her belly.

“It’s time,” Qhuinn said, his mismatched eyes burning with a will so fierce she was momentarily reassured.

It was as if he were prepared to go to battle with death for her and the young.

“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.