Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (126 page)

as a breeze would, invisible and quick, her shadow thrown against the gray stone wall such that it

seemed to disappear—

Ahhhhhhh.

She’d chosen the route specifically for that, hadn’t she.

Yes, indeed, the angle of the moonlight placed her shadow exactly on the stones, effectively

creating further camouflage.

An odd tingle went through him.

Smart.

Assail flashed forward, finding a hiding place in and among the plantings at the side of the house.

Up close, he saw that the grand manse was not new, although not ancient, either—then again, in the

New World, it was rare to run into anything constructed earlier than the eighteenth century. Lots of lead-paned windows. And porches. And terraces.

All in all? Wealth and distinction.

That was no doubt protected by plenty of alarms.

It seemed unlikely she was simply going to spy on the property as she had on his own. For one,

there was a ring of forested growth on the far side of that stone wall she’d traversed. She could have jettisoned the skis, negotiated that stretch of ten- to twenty-foot-high bramble, and gotten plenty of view shed to the house. For another? In that case, she wouldn’t need whatever was in the backpack

she’d slung onto her shoulders.

The thing was nearly big enough to carry a body in, and it was full.

As if on cue, she stopped, got out her binoculars and surveyed the property, staying stock-still,

only her head subtly moving. And then she started across the lawn proper, moving even faster than she had before, to the point where she was literally racing toward the house.

Toward him.

Indeed, she headed directly for Assail, for this juncture between the bushes that marked the front

of the mansion, and the tall hedge that ran around to the rear garden.

Clearly, she knew the property.

Clearly, he had chosen the perfect spot.

And upon her approach, he stepped back only a little…because he wouldn’t have minded getting

caught spying.

The woman skied right up to within five feet of where he was, getting so close he could catch her

scent not only in his nose, but down the back of his throat.

He had to stop himself from purring.

After the effort of covering that stretch of lawn so quickly, she was breathing heavily, but her

cardiovascular system recovered fast—a sign of her overall health and strength. And the speed with

which she now moved was likewise erotic. Off with the skis. Off with the pack. Open the pack.

Extract…

She was going onto the roof, he thought, as she assembled what appeared to be a speargun, aimed

the thing high, and pulled the trigger on a grappling hook. A moment later, there was a distant metal clang from above.

Glancing upward, he realized that she had picked one of the few stretches of stone that had no

windows in it…and it was shielded by the very long wall of tall shrubs that he himself was

obstructed by.

She was going inside.

At that point, Assail frowned…and disappeared from where he’d been watching her.

Re-forming around the back of the house at ground level, he peered into a number of windows,

cupping his hands on the cold glass and leaning in. The interior was mostly dark, but not completely so: Here and there, lamps had been left on, the bulbs casting a glow on furnishings that were a

combination of old antiques and modern art. Fancy, fancy: In its peaceful slumber, the place looked like a museum, or something that had been photographed for a magazine, everything arranged with

such precision that one wondered if rulers hadn’t been used to arrange the furniture and the objets d’art.

No clutter anywhere, no casually thrown newspapers, bills, letters, receipts. No coats cast over

the back of a chair or pair of shoes kicked off by a sofa.

Each and every ashtray was clean as a whistle.

One and only one person came to his mind.

“Benloise,” he whispered to himself.

THIRTY-SIX

Based on the regular vibrations that came from his breast pocket, Xcor knew his presence was

being sought by his fighters.

He did not respond.

Standing outside the facility that his Chosen had been taken into, he was powerless to

leave even as a regular flow of others of his kind drove up or materialized before the portal she had been taken through. Indeed, as so many came and went, there was no doubt this was a health clinic.

At least none appeared to notice him, too preoccupied were they with whate’er ailed them—in

spite of the fact that he was standing all but out in the open.

Fates, the very thought of what had brought his Chosen here made him nauseated to the point of

clearing his throat—

Dragging icy air into his lungs helped fight the gag reflex.

When had her needing come? It must have been fairly recently. He had last seen her…

Who was the sire? he thought for the hundredth time. Who had taken what was his—

“Not yours,” he told himself. “
Not
yours.”

Except that was his mind talking, not his instincts. At the core of him, in the most male part of his marrow, she
was
his female.

And ironically, that was what kept him from attacking the facility—with all of his soldiers, if

necessary. As she was receiving care, the last thing he wanted to do was interrupt the process.

Whilst time passed, and the information void tortured him to the point of madness, he realized that he hadn’t even known about this clinic. If she had been his? He wouldn’t have known where to take

her for help—certainly he would have sent Throe to find someplace, somehow, to ensure her care, but in the event of a medical emergency? An hour or two spent hunting for a healer could mean the

difference between life and death.

The Brotherhood, on the other hand, had known exactly where to deliver her. And when she was

released from the facility, they would undoubtedly return her to a warm, safe home, where there

would be food aplenty, and a soft bed, and a stout force of at least six full-blooded warriors to

protect her as she slept.

Ironic that he found ease in that vision. But then again, the Lessening Society was a very serious

adversary—and say what one would about the Brotherhood, they had proven over the aeons to be

capable defenders.

Abruptly, his thoughts shifted to the warehouse where he and his soldiers stayed. Those cold,

damp, inhospitable environs were, in fact, a step up from some of the other places they had all made camp. If she were with him, wherever would he keep her? No males could e’er see her in his

presence, especially if she were to change clothes or bathe—

A growl percolated up his throat.

No. No male would cast his eye upon her flesh or he would flay him alive—

Oh, God, she had mated with another. Had opened herself up and accepted another male within

her sacred flesh.

Xcor put his face in his palms, the pain in his chest making him weave in his combat boots.

It must have been the Primale. Yes, of course she had lain with Phury, son of Ahgony. That was

the way the Chosen propagated, if memory and rumor served.

Instantly, his mind was clouded by the image of her perfect face and her slender frame. To think

that another had disrobed her and covered her with his body—

Stop it, he told himself.
Stop it.

Dragging his mind away from that insanity, he challenged himself to define any appropriate living

quarters he could have provided her. In any circumstance.

The only thought that came to him was going back and killing that female his soldiers had fed

from. That cottage had been quaint and lovely….

But where would his Chosen go during the day?

And besides, he would never shame her by allowing her to so much as walk upon that rug where

all that sex had gone down.

“Pardon us.”

Xcor went for the gun inside his jacket as he wheeled around. Except there was no need for force

—it was simply a diminutive female with her young. Apparently, they had gotten out of a station

wagon parked about ten feet away from him.

As the young cowered behind its mother, the female’s eyes flared in fear.

Then again, when a monster was stumbled upon, its presence was not often greeted with joy.

Xcor bowed deeply, in large measure because the sight of his face surely could not be helping the

situation. “But of course.”

At that, he backed away from them both and then pivoted, returning to the original spot he’d

occupied. Indeed, he had not realized how exposed he’d become.

And he did not want to fight. Not with the Brotherhood. Not with his Chosen as she was. Not…

here.

Closing his eyes, he wished he could go back to that night when Zypher had taken him out to the

meadow and Throe, under the guise of saving him, had condemned him to a kind of walking death.

A bonded male who was not with his mate?

Dead though animated—

Without warning, the portal pulled back and his Chosen appeared. Instantly, Xcor’s instincts

screamed for action, in spite of all the reasons to leave her be.

Take her! Now!

But he did not: The grim expressions of those who shepherded her with such care froze him where

he stood—bad news had been imparted during their tenure inside.

As before, she was all but carried to the vehicle.

And even still, there was the scent of her blood upon the air.

His Chosen was resettled in the back of that sedan, with the female at her side. Then Phury, son of Ahgony, and the warrior with the mismatched eyes got into the front. The vehicle was turned about

slowly, as if out of concern for the precious cargo in its rear compartment.

Xcor followed in their wake, materializing apace to the steady speed that was gained first upon

the rural road at the end of the lane, and then upon the highway. When the car approached the

suspension bridge, he once again spotted it from atop the highest girder, and then after his female passed beneath him, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop as the sedan circumvented downtown.

He tracked the vehicle north until it exited the highway and entered the farmland area.

He stayed with her the whole time.

And that was how he found the location of the Brotherhood.

THIRTY-SEVEN

As Blay twisted his family’s signet ring around on his forefinger, his lit cigarette smoldered

gently in his other hand, and his ass grew numb…and no one came back in through the

vestibule’s doors.

Sitting on the bottom step of the mansion’s grand staircase, he wasn’t going to fulfill his

promise to his mother and head home. Not tonight, at least. After the craziness of the evening before, what with the crash landing and the attendant drama, Wrath had ordered the Brotherhood and the

fighters to take twenty-four off. So technically, he should have called the ’rents and told his mom to bust out the mozzarella and the meat sauce.

But there was no way he was leaving the house. Not after hearing yelling from Layla’s room, and

then seeing her all but carried down the grand staircase.

Naturally, Qhuinn had been with her.

John Matthew had not.

So whatever had gone down apparently trumped the
ahstrux nohtrum
thing, and that meant…she

had to be losing the young. Only something that serious would get a pass.

As he continued to bump-on-a-log it, with nothing but worry to keep him company, naturally his

mind decided to make things worse: Shit, had he really slept with Qhuinn last night?

Taking a hard drag off his Dunhill, he exhaled a curse.

Had it really happened?

God, that question had been banging around his skull from the moment he’d woken up out of a hot-

as-hell dream, with an erection that seemed to think the other male was sleeping next to him.

Replaying the scenes, for the hundredth time, all he could think was…talk about a plan misfiring.

After he’d turned Qhuinn down when the guy had been on his knees, he’d gone back to his room and

paced around, a debate he wasn’t interested in having with himself turning his brain to
foie gras
.

But he’d made the right decision in leaving. Really. He had.

The problem was, it hadn’t stuck. As the daylight hours had worn on, all he’d thought about was

the time he’d gotten caught by his father stealing a pack of cigarettes from one of the family’s
doggen
.

He’d been a young pretrans, and as a punishment, his dad had made him sit outside and smoke every

one of those unfiltered Camels. He’d been horribly sick, and it had been a year or two before he’d

been able to stomach even secondhand smoke.

So that had been the new plan.

He’d wanted Qhuinn so badly for so long, but it had all been a hypothetical, parceled out in

fantasies in ways he could handle. Not all at once, not the full-bore, overload, wrecking-ball stuff—

and he’d known damn well that in real life, Qhuinn wasn’t going to hold back or be easy. The “plan”

had been to have the actual experience, and learn that it was just rough sex. Or hell, find out that it wasn’t even
good
sex.

You weren’t supposed to smoke all the cigarettes in the pack…and only want more.

Jesus Christ almighty, it had been the first time reality had been better than a fantasy, the absolute best erotic experience of his life.

Afterward, however, the kindness that Qhuinn had shown had been unbearable.

In fact, as Blay recalled that tenderness, he burst up from where he’d been sitting and marched

around the apple tree—as if he had somewhere to go.

At that moment doors opened. Not the vestibule ones, however.