Qhuinn, on the other hand, was laying into the Herradura, the bottle of Seleccion Suprema at his elbow, his crystal glass full of the outstanding tequila that had recently become his drink of choice.
Christ, with him sucking back that and John into Jack, Blay was thinking he needed to upgrade his own tipple. Beer abruptly seemed sophomoric.
"How's he doing?" Blay asked softly.
Qhuinn took a sip and swallowed. "Pretty rough. I called Layla. He needs to feed. "
Blay approached the bed. John's eyes were not so much closed as on lockdown, his brows drawn so tightly it looked like he was trying to solve a law of physics in his sleep. His face was preternaturally pale, his hair appearing darker in contrast, and his breathing was too shallow. His clothes had been removed and most of the lesser blood had been washed off him.
"Tequila?" Qhuinn asked.
Blay held his hand out to the guy without looking, still focused on their buddy. What hit his palm was the glass instead of the bottle, but he didn't care and he drank hard.
Well, at least he knew why Qhuinn liked the stuff.
As he gave the glass back, he crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the quiet, glugging refill. For some reason, the loose, charming sound of that expensive booze hitting cut crystal eased him.
"I can't believe he cried," Blay murmured. "I mean. . . I can, but it was a surprise. "
"She'd obviously been held in that room. " The Herradura was put back on the side table with a subtle thump. "And we'd just missed her. "
"Did he talk at all?"
"Nope. Not even when I shoved him in the shower and got in with him. "
Okay, that was a visual Blay could do without. Good thing John didn't flip that way--
There was a soft knock at the door and then a waft of cinnamon and spice. Blay walked over and let Layla in, bowing to her in deference.
"How may I be of. . . " The Chosen frowned and glanced toward the bed. "Oh, no. . . he is injured?"
As she went over to John Matthew, Blay thought, Yeah, but mostly on the inside.
"Thanks for coming," Qhuinn said as he got up out of his chair. Leaning down over John, he gently pushed on the guy's shoulder. "Hey, my man, can you wake up for a sec. "
&nb
sp; John roused like he was fighting against a tidal wave, his head lifting slowly, his eyelids flipping up and down like there was a rush of water on his puss.
"Time to feed. " Without glancing over his shoulder, Qhuinn motioned for Layla by holding out his hand. "We need you to focus for just a little longer and then we'll leave you alone. "
The Chosen paused. . . then stepped forward. She took the outstretched palm slowly, sliding her skin against Qhuinn's and stepping in with a kind of shy beauty that made Blay feel sorry for her.
Going by the blush that suddenly flared in her cheeks, he had a feeling she, like everyone else, it seemed, had a spark for Qhuinn.
"John. . . my man? Come on, I need you to pay attention here. " Qhuinn tugged at Layla so that the Chosen took a seat on the bed, and the instant she got a good look at John, she was all about him.
"Sire. . . " Her voice was quiet and impossibly kind as she pulled up the sleeve of her robe. "Sire, rouse thyself and take what I may give you. Verily, you are in need. "
John started to shake his head, but Qhuinn was on it. "You want to go after Lash? Ain't going to be in this shape. You can't lift your fucking head--'scuse the language, Chosen. You need some strength. . . . Come on, don't be an asshole, John. "
Qhuinn's mismatched eyes shot to Layla as he mouthed, Sorry. And she must have smiled at him because for a moment, he tilted his head as if he were struck by her.
Or maybe she'd just mouthed something back.
Had to be it.
Really.