Lover Reborn (33 page)

His eyes narrowed. But then he nodded. “Okay.”

She smiled stiffly and turned away.

Just as she got to the door, he said, “No’One.”

“Yes?”

“I want to return the favor to you.”

Well, didn’t that stop the female in her tracks.

Kind of made Tohr’s heart freeze, as well.

As No’One stood at the door with her back to him, he couldn’t believe
what had come out of his mouth—but it was the goddamned truth, and he was determined to follow through on it.

“I know you go to the Sanctuary to take care of your blood needs,” he said, “but that can’t be enough. Not tonight. I’ve taken so much from you in the last twenty-four hours.”

When she didn’t reply, he caught her scent and had to tamp down an answering growl in his throat. He wasn’t sure she knew it in her mind, but her body was clear: It wanted what he could provide to her.

Badly.

Except… God, what was he getting into? He was going to feed someone other than his Wellsie?

God help you if she ever wanted you back.…

No, no, noooooo, this wasn’t about sex. It was about him taking care of her after she had allowed him at her vein. It was just blood—which was unsettling enough, fuck him very much.

You sure about that, the small voice shot back.

Just as he was about to fuck-off himself again, Lassiter’s
fakakta
lecture came back to him: You
are alive.
She
is not. And your hanging on to the past is putting you both in an In Between.

Tohr cleared his throat. “I mean it. I want to be there for you now. It’s simple biology—”

Oh, really? that voice demanded.

Fuck off—

“Excuse me?” she said, shooting a stare over her shoulder, her brows to the ceiling.

Great, so he wasn’t just talking to himself.

“Look,” he said, “come to me after they’re done patching me up. I’ll be in my room right afterward.”

“You may be more injured than you know.”

“Nah, I’ve been here before. Lots of times.”

She lifted the hood into place. “You need your strength to recover.”

“You’ve given me more than enough for the two of us. Come with me—I mean—” Shit. Fuck. “Come
to
me.”

There was a long pause. “I’ll get the healer.”

As No’One left, he let his head fall back—and as it slammed into the gurney’s hard pillow, the thud reverberated through his skull. The sting felt good. So he did it again.

Manello strode into the exam room. “You two finished in here?”

The guy’s tone was snark-free, something Tohr would have appreciated
more if it didn’t just dawn on him that he’d come all over the sheet.

“Okay, let’s do this, big man.” The surgeon snapped on a pair of latex specials. “I took X-rays while you were out cold, and I’m happy to report you only have two slugs in you. Chest and shoulder. So I’m going to go in, perform a lead-ectomy, and then stitch up the other sets of entrance and exit wounds. Piece of cake.”

“I need to clean up first.”

“That’s my job, and trust me, I got enough distilled water to hose all that dried blood off and still wash a car afterward.”

“Yeah… um… I’m not talking about that kind of mess.”

Cue the screeching tires. As Manello’s expression went from relaxed to resolutely professional, it was obvious that the message had been received.

“Sounds good. How about I get you another sheet?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Fucking hell. He was blushing. Either that or he’d been shot in the face, too, and was only just now noticing.

As a clean sheet awkwardly changed hands, neither one looked at the other—and then Manello got studiously busy over at a stainless-steel rolling table, checking the needles and thread and scissors and sterile packs that had been laid out.

Amazing how sex could turn two fully grown adult males into teenagers.

Tohr tidied himself up and told his hard-on to can it. Unfortunately, his cock seemed to be speaking another language, because the thing stayed hard as a crowbar. Maybe it was deaf?

He was kind of done throwing fists at it.

Dumping the dirty cloth on the floor, he covered himself with the fresh one. “I’m, ah, ready.”

The good news was that at least he hadn’t been hit in the thigh, so Manello was going to stay above the waist.

“Good,” the doc said as he came back over. “Now, I think we can handle this all locally, and the fewer drugs the better. So I’d like to take a shot at not putting you out cold, okay?”

“I don’t care, Doc. You just do you.”

“I like your attitude. And we’re going to start with this one on your upper chest. This may sting as I numb you up—”

“Fuuuuck.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Nothing you can do.” Well, other than taking a spike and nailing him to the table.

As Manello settled into his work, Tohr closed his eyes and thought of No’One. “I don’t have to stay down here after this, do I?”

“If you were a human? Absolutely. But this shit’s already healing up. Goddamn, you guys are amazing.”

“So I can go right back to the mansion.”

“Well, yeah… eventually.” There was a resounding
bonk!
—as if the guy had dropped one of the lead slugs on the tray. “I think Mary wanted to check in with you first.”

“Why?”

“She just wants to, you know, check in.”

Tohr focused a glare on the guy. “Why.”

“Do you realize how lucky you are that you didn’t end up—”

“I don’t need to ‘talk’ to her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Look, I’m not going to get in the middle of this.”

“I’m fine—”

“You got yourself shot up tonight.”

“Hazard of the job—”

“Bullshit. You are not ‘fine,’ and you do need to ‘talk’ to someone. Asshole.” On the
fine
and the
talk
, the human gestured with his hands, doing air quotes in spite of the fact that his fingers were busy holding instruments.

Tohr shut his eyes in frustration. “Look, I’ll follow up with Mary when I can… but right after this, I’m busy.”

In reply, the surgeon covered all kinds of mental health territory, most of which was punctuated by f-bombs.

Not Tohr’s problem, though.

O
ver to the east, in the thick of Caldwell’s farm country, Zypher sat in silence upon his top bunk. He was far from alone in the Band of Bastards’ basement accommodations. The three cousins were with him, each as capable of conversation as he was, but likewise not inclined to indulge.

There was no real movement among them. No sounds except for the whispers of his whittling knife as he cleaved it into soft wood again and again.

No one was sleeping.

Whilst dawn settled over the land and claimed its illuminative dominion, their thoughts were similarly subsumed, the weight of the actions of their leader settling heavily upon them.

It was not at all unfathomable that Xcor had so brutally stabbed Throe for his insubordination. It was not unbelievable that he had then ordered the rest of them away such that their fellow soldier was left for dead for the enemy.

And yet he somehow could not understand it. And clearly, neither could the others.

Throe had always been the glue that bound, a male of worth with more honor than the rest of them had put together… as well as a way with logic that had landed him in the role of facilitator with Xcor: Throe was typically on the front lines with their cold, calculating leader, the only voice that could get through to the male—well, usually. He’d also been the translator between all of them and the rest of the world, the one with Internet access who had found this house and was trying to get them females of the race to feed from, the one who coordinated money and servants.

He was right about the technology, too.

Except Xcor had snapped, and now… if slayers hadn’t gotten Throe in that alley, the Brothers might well have killed him just on principle.

Then again, there was going to be a price on all of their heads soon. It was only a matter of time.…

Examining his carving, he thought it was a piece of crap, no more obviously a bird than it had been as a thick maple stick. Indeed, he had no artistry in his hands, his eyes, or his heart. This was just a way to pass the time whilst he was busy not sleeping.

Indeed, he wished there was a female around. Fucking was his best talent, and he’d been oft known to pass hours between the legs of a maid with great effect.

He could certainly use the distraction.

Tossing the hunk of wood to the foot of his bunk, he examined his blade. So pure and sharp, capable of so much more than poorly rendering a wretched swallow.

He hadn’t liked Throe at all at first. The male had come to the Band of Bastards on a rainy evening, and he’d looked as out of place as he was: a dear boy among death dealers, standing outside a hovel that no doubt he wouldn’t have stabled a horse in.

From his top hat to his perfectly buffed-up shoes, they had all despised every inch of him.

And then Xcor had had them draw straws to find out who would beat him down first. Zypher had won, and had smiled as he’d cracked his knuckles and gotten ready to hand the male’s masculinity to his royal self on a silver plate.

Throe had flailed at the first couple of punches that had come at him, providing no proper defense and absorbing the blows in his head and gut. But sooner than was at all expected, something had clicked within him—his stance had changed for no good reason, his fists coming up, his body filling out those fancy clothes in an altogether different way.

The turnabout had been… nothing short of extraordinary.

Zypher had kept fighting the male, throwing out combinations of punches that were abruptly parried… and, after a bit, returned, until he himself had had to step up his efforts.

That dandy had been learning, right then and there, even as his fine clothes had gotten shredded and torn, even as he had become soaked by the rain and his own blood.

During that very first fight, and at each succeeding one, he had demonstrated an uncanny ability to assimilate. Between the initial fist that had been thrown at him, to the moment when he had finally landed on his ass with exhaustion, he had evolved more as a fighter than soldiers who had spent years in the Bloodletter’s war camp.

They had all stood around Throe as he sat there in the mud, his chest heaving, his pretty face bruised, his top hat long lost.

Standing over the male, Zypher had spit the blood out of his mouth… and then he’d leaned down and offered his palm. The dandy had still had much to prove—but he’d been no lackey during that fight.

In fact, no lackey had he e’er proved to be.

’Twas strange to feel any allegiance to someone of the aristocracy. But Throe had earned the respect time and time again. And he had long been one of them now—although that may well have ended on several levels tonight.

Zypher turned his knife back and forth, the candlelight on its blade a beautiful thing, as lovely as when it fell upon the skin of a female’s inner thigh.

Xcor had used one of these for what it was intended—to cut, to maul, to kill—but his target? Considering all that Throe did for them, their leader, in his rage, had done more harm than good. Indeed, Xcor’s blood hunger was making him mercurial. And with a mind like his and plans such as he had, that was not a good combination—

The back of Zypher’s neck tickled, one of the spiders that lived with them eight-legging across his nape. Reaching around with a curse, he scrubbed at his flesh, destroying the thing.

He should probably try for some sleep. In truth, he had been waiting up for Xcor’s return, but dawn had long since arrived and the male had not come back. Mayhap he was dead, the Brotherhood having caught him out alone. Or perhaps one of those clandestine meetings he had with that member of the
glymera
had gone sour.

Zypher was surprised to find he didn’t care. He rather hoped, as a matter of fact, that Xcor never arrived home again.

It was a big change in his thinking. Back when the Band of Bastards had first come together in the Old Country, they had been a mercenary lot, each out only for themselves. The Bloodletter had been the only one capable of uniting them: that killing machine, who had had no humanity to temper any of his urges, had been the rawest male to ever walk in a soldier’s boots, and they had individually followed him as a symbol of freedom and strength in the war.

After all, there was no way the Black Dagger Brotherhood would ever take any of them.

Over time, however, bonds had grown. Regardless of how Xcor thought of things, the soldiers who fought under him had developed loyalties… and they extended even to the former aristocrat, Throe.

“ ’Re ye gonna talk with him?” Syphon asked softly from down below.

He and Syphon had shared bunks for aeons, with Zypher always on top. It was the same with the females and women as well, and they were a good pair. Syphon could keep up: in the bed, on the floor, against a wall… in the field as well.

“Aye. If he comes home.”

“Wouldnae kill m’ if he dint.” The brogue was thick in that deep voice, putting a different twist on the syllables. And it was the same for the male’s cousins. “He shouldnae done that.”

“Aye.”

“You dinnae haft t’ stand up to him y’self.”

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

The grunt that came in reply suggested that there was backup available at a moment’s notice and he might well need it. Xcor was as ugly a fighter as he was a lover—

“Damn spiders,” Zypher muttered as he slapped at the back of his neck again.

“We should ’ave done aught,” somebody said in the dimness.

It was Balthazar.

And a rumble of
aye
s rippled through the candlelight.

“We shan’t sit idly by again,” Zypher announced. “And shan’t do so the now.”

Assuming the fucker came back. Which, if he didn’t, would not be because he had second thoughts or regrets about what he’d done. Not Xcor. He was as decisive as his blades.

One thing was clear, however: If Throe was dead, Xcor was going to have a mutiny on his hands. Hell, that might be true regardless of whether that
soldier lived. No one was going to put their heads on the chopping block in pursuit of the throne for someone who didn’t honor the bonds of—