Lifting his hand in return, he tried to speed up, but his body just wouldn’t allow it. Thus he continued his trudging.
Certain now of his evacuation, his mind was free to rehash the meeting. In the flesh, Lash had not disappointed. He had been fair and quite beauteous, the kind of male who would have turned many a head, and one had to approve of the accent. He had been taught to speak properly, and with good diction, clearly by members of theglymera.
Did that make the tales true, Whestmorel wondered. Had the evil once been one of them, raised among aristocrats?
Whom he had later gone back and slaughtered, the start of the raids that horrible night so long ago.
When the great Blind King had once again failed the species.
Except Whestmorel was confused. Surely one as powerful as the Omega’s son would have seen not only the logic, but the opportunity, that had been presented to him. Instead, Lash had walked away.
Not the outcome one had wanted or anticipated.
Focusing on his car, Whestmorel continued to battle through the drifts—and the fact that Conrahd stayed with the sedan was irksome. But the male was not a butler, and in any event, what could be done to shorten the distance?
Still, as Whestmorel finally got within range, he gave into his dissatisfaction with everything and snapped, “Do come help me!”
Conrahd strode around the front grille, but hesitated at the nearly waist-high snowbank that curbed the thoroughfare. “You’re almost to it. Nearly here. Allow me to get the door.”
Well, wasn’t he accommodating, Whestmorel thought bitterly.
The last ten feet felt like ten miles, and then mounting what had been plowed and frozen into place was the kind of obstacle course that tried the last of his patience. When he finally fell into the bucket seat on the passenger side, he closed his eyes and felt a sickening dizziness.
Conrahd did the duty with shutting him in, at least—what a male—and then came around and got behind the wheel.
“Rather good timing,” the male muttered as he put them in gear and started off. “A cop-bot is approaching us.”
Just what they needed.
Fumbling with the seatbelt, Whestmorel buckled himself in, and looked out the back. Indeed, a CPD unit was on their tail, and stayed that way as they took the nearest northbound ramp onto the highway. As the municipal vehicle eventually pared off, there was a spot of relief, but then the queasiness started.
Dearest Lassiter, he was sick to his stomach all of a sudden.
“So what happened,” Conrahd demanded.
“We are in process.” Whestmorel cracked his window, the cold air whistling in. “Get off at the next exit.”
“I beg your pardon? We are well far from our—”
“The next one.”
Conrahd did as he was told—except then the medical predicament became clear: There was no going to Havers’s clinic to get his heart checked out. What was he thinking? The healer’s first phone call would be to the Black Dagger Brotherhood, as he and Havers had been acquainted since they were young, and there was no way there wasn’t an alert out for him.
There was also no going to a human provider. All they needed was imaging of a six-chambered cardiac muscle to be set loose on humanity.
“Pull over,” Whestmorel choked out.
Conrahd glanced across the console. “Whatever has gotten into you. You’re making no sense—”
“Stop the car!”
Even before they came to a full halt on the highway’s shoulder, Whestmorel opened his door and emptied the contents of his stomach into the briny slush. After he threw up a second time, he then endured a round of dry heaves. When he felt as though things had resolved, he unknotted his Hermès scarf, and wiped his mouth on the silk.
“Verily, are you all right—”
“Shut up.” Collapsing back against the seat, he left the panel cracked so he could get some cold air. “Proceed back unto the safe house. Fast.”
“I cannot until you close the—”
