Lover Reborn (34 page)

Zypher smacked the nape of his neck so hard, someone remarked, “If you’d prefer some floggers, we have ’em.”

Wetness on his palm made him bring the thing forward—

Blood. Red blood. A lot of it.

Damn it, he must have been bitten by the fucker. Putting his other hand up, he investigated the area, probing with his fingertips—

A droplet hit the back of his wrist.

Looking up to the floor joists above him, his cheek caught the next one that fell through a small crack in the hardwood.

He was off his bunk with knives in both hands before there was another.

The others went on instant alert, not even proffering a question—just seeing him ready to fight called them up out of their beds and to attention.

“You’re bleedin’,” Syphon whispered.

“It’s not me. Someone’s upstairs.”

Zypher inhaled in an attempt to catch a scent, but all he could smell was the musty, clinging stench of the damp underground.

“Could the Brotherhood have delivered Xcor back to us?” somebody breathed.

In a matter of seconds, guns were checked and armor plates were strapped on chests.

“I go first,” Zypher announced.

There was no argument—then again, he was already at the base of the sturdy stairs, and beginning to ascend. The others followed him, and even though the lot of them easily weighed a total of seventy-two stone, they went up without making a sound, no creaks or groans of old wood tipping their hand. Or their feet, as it were.

At least until they got to the top. The final three planks were set badly on purpose so as to give away any infiltration. He skipped them by dematerializing directly to the steel-reinforced door that was locked into a steel frame set into four walls that had steel mesh nailed to the plaster.

No way anyone could get in or out the easy way.

With care, he gently threw the steel bolt and cranked the knob. Then he eased the way open a quarter of an inch.

The scent of fresh blood rushed into his nose and his sinuses, so thick he tasted sweet metal in the back of his throat. And he recognized the source.

It was Xcor. And there was nothing and no one else with him: no stench of
lesser
, no dark spice of a male vampire, no pathetic cologne of a human.

Zypher motioned for the others to stay back. He was going to need them to save his ass if his nose had misinformed him.

Opening the door on a quick, soundless shove, he stepped out into the artificial darkness created by the boards and drapes that covered all the windows—

Across the chipped tile of the kitchen and the dusty hardwood of the hall, in the far corner of the living room, in a circle of honey-colored candlelight… Xcor sat in a pool of blood.

The soldier was still dressed in his fighting clothes, his scythe and his guns set beside him on the floor, his legs outstretched, his bare and bloodied forearms resting on his thighs.

There was a steel dagger in his hand.

He was cutting himself. Over and over with the blade of his killing knife, he was cutting his ropy, strong arms such that they dripped from too many striped wounds to count. But that was not the shocker. There were tears on the male’s face. Running down his cheeks, falling off his jaw and chin, mixing with what seeped from his flesh.

Words, hoarse and low, drifted over. “… goddamn pussy… crying, worthless, pussy… stop it…
stop it
… you did what you had to do to him… goddamn pussy…”

It appeared as though someone else had developed a bond with Throe.

Indeed, their leader was abject in his misery and his regret.

Zypher slowly backed up through the door and shut it again.

“What?” Syphon demanded in the darkness.

“We need to leave him be.”

“Xcor’s alive then?”

“Aye. And he’s suffering at his own hand, for the right reason—spilling his blood for whom he offended so mortally.”

There was a grumble of approval, and then everyone turned around and descended.

It was a start. But there was a long way yet to go to regain their loyalty. And they needed to learn what had happened to Throe.

Sitting upon the hard floor, in a pool of his own blood, Xcor was stretched thin between his training at the hands of the Bloodletter and his… heart, he supposed.

Odd at this age to discover that he actually had one of those, and difficult to count its discovery as a blessing.

It seemed more a badge of failure. The Bloodletter had taught him well the requirements of a good soldier, and emotions other than rage, vengeance, and greed were not part of that lexicon: Loyalty was something you demanded of your subordinates, and if they did not provide it to you and you alone, you did away with them as malfunctioning weapons. Respect was given solely in response to your enemy’s strength, and simply because you did not want to be bested by an underestimation of the opposition. Love was associated only with the acquisition and successful defense of your power—

Digging the red-stained knife blade into his skin again, he hissed as the pain tingled through his arms and legs, making his head buzz and his heartbeat flicker.

As fresh blood welled, he prayed that it would carry out of his body the confusing tangle of regret that had claimed him shortly after he had left Throe upon that pavement.

How could this all have gone so awry…

The chaos, indeed, had started when he had not departed from that alley.

After he had sent his males away from Throe, he had intended to do the same… but had ended up lurking upon the rooftop of one of the buildings, staying hidden whilst he watched over his soldier. Ostensibly, he told himself that it had been because he wanted to ensure that the Brothers found his second in command, not the Lessening Society—because the information he needed was on the former enemy rather than the latter one.

Except as he had watched Throe writhing in pain on the asphalt, limbs cocking at odd angles as he sought relief in repositioning, the reality of a proud warrior rendered defenseless had seeped into him.

For what reason had he caused such agony?

As the winds had rushed against Xcor, clearing his head and cooling his anger, he’d realized his actions sat uncomfortably within him. Unbearably.

As the slayers had arrived, he had outted his gun, prepared to defend the very male he had disposed of. But Throe had made a formidable first strike… and then the Brothers had come and acted as predicted, dispatching the
lessers
with ease, picking up Throe and putting him in the back of a black vehicle.

In that moment, Xcor had resolved not to follow the SUV. And the reason he so chose was an anathema as measured against his prior actions.

Throe would get treated with great competence back at the Brotherhood’s lair.

Say what one would about how the fuckers preferred luxury, he knew they had access to superior medical care. They were the king’s private guard; Wrath would not provide them with anything less. If he followed them, with the idea of infiltrating their compound? They might well discover him and fight him along the way, instead of get Throe to the help he needed.

Indeed, Xcor stayed away for the wrong reason, the bad reason, an unacceptable reason—in spite of all his training, he found himself choosing Throe’s life over ambition: His anger had taken him in one direction, but his regret had led him in another. And the latter one was what won out.

The Bloodletter no doubt had turned in his grave.

Decision made, he had languished in the rubble of night and his intentions when gunfire had lit up the alley even before the vehicle Throe was in had had a chance to depart.

As he’d gathered his wits, there had been a brief lull… and then Tohrment, son of Hharm, had walked out into the center of the lane, eschewing cover, becoming a target to the newly arrived
lessers
even as he discharged his firearms at them.

It was impossible not to respect that.

Xcor had been directly above the slayer who had commenced to fire back upon the Brother—and yet even as the enemy’s bullets had been driven into the male, Tohrment continued to lead with both barrels, undeterred, unwavering.

One shot to the head and he would be done forever.

Motivated by something he had refused to name, Xcor had dropped to his belly, snaked over to the lip of the building, and extended his own gun, emptying his clip upon the
lesser
who was behind cover, putting to rest any possibility of the Brother’s death. It had seemed like an appropriate reward for that manner of courage.

Then he had dematerialized out of the area and walked the streets of Caldwell for hours, the Bloodletter’s teachings banging on his inner door, demanding to be let in so that they could extinguish the sense that what he had done to Throe had been wrong.

The regret had just intensified, however, festering under his skin, redefining his relationship with his soldier… as well as the male he had once called
Father
.

The conception that he might not be cut from the same cloth as the Bloodletter had rankled. Especially given that he had set himself and his bastards on a collision course with the Blind King—and execution of that plan was going to require the kind of strength that came only from the compassionless.

In fact, it was too late to back out of that course now, even if he wanted to—which he did not. He still intended to take down Wrath—for the simple reason that the throne was for the taking, no matter what the Old Laws or blind tradition dictated.

But when it came to his soldiers, and his second in command…

Refocusing upon his forearms, habit and a blind search for himself had him once again applying his blade unto his flesh, dragging the point up against its cutting side so that the damage was ragged, unclean, and properly painful.

It was getting increasingly difficult to find fresh skin.

Hissing through his clenched teeth, he prayed for the pain to reach his core. He needed it to burrow through his emotions in the way the Bloodletter’s remembered voice had never failed to, strengthening him, giving him a clear mind and a cold heart.

It was not working, however. The pain just redoubled in his heart, amplifying the betrayal he had wrought upon a good male with a good soul who had served so very well.

Slick with his own blood, swimming in his own torture, he reapplied the blade again and again, waiting for the old, familiar clarity to come.…

And when it did not, he found himself arriving at the realization that, if he ever got the chance, he would set Throe free, finally and forevermore.

A
s Tohr lay in his bed alone, he was aware of nothing except the heartbeat in his cock. Well, that and the smell of fresh-cut flowers from Fritz doing his midday vase routine out in the hall.

“Is this what you want from me, angel?” he asked aloud. “Come on, I know you’re here. Is this what you want?”

To emphasize the question, he put his hand under the covers and let it drift down his chest and his belly until it got to the front of his hips. As he gripped himself, he couldn’t suppress the racking arch that rocked his spine or the groan that rose in his throat.

“Where the fuck are you?” he growled, unsure in the dim glow who he was talking to. Lassiter. No’One. The merciful Fates—if there were any.

On some level, he couldn’t believe he was waiting for another female—and the fact that the tipping balance between urgency and guilt was quickly shifting to the former was a—

“If you say my name while you do that, I’m going to throw up a little in my mouth.”

Lassiter’s voice was rough and disembodied as it came from the far corner of the room where the chaise was.

“Is this what you meant.” God, was that really him? Tohr wondered. Hungry, impatient. Cranky because he was juiced up.

“It’s a better direction than you walking out into a bullet shower—” There was a shuffling sound. “Hey, no offense, but do you mind if you put both your palms where I can see ’em?”

“Can you make her come to me.”

“Free will is what it is. And palms, motherfucker? If you don’t mind.”

Tohr outted both his arms and felt compelled to declare, “I want to feed her, not fuck her. I wouldn’t put No’One through that.”

“I suggest you let her make up her own mind about the sex.” The guy coughed a little bit—but then, yet again, fucking was an awkward subject between guys if they were talking about females of worth. “She may have her own ideas.”

Tohr thought back to the way she had looked at him in the clinic when he’d worked himself out. She had not been afraid. She had appeared captivated.…

He wasn’t sure how to handle that—

His body arched on its own, as if to say,
The fuck you don’t, buddy.

As another cough sounded out, Tohr laughed a little. “You have allergies to those flowers?”

“Yeah. That’s it. I’m going to leave you now, ’kay?” There was a pause. “I’m proud of you.”

Tohr frowned. “What for?”

When there was no answer, it was clear the angel had already taken off—

A soft knocking at the door shot Tohr upright, and he barely felt the pain of his wounds: He knew exactly who this was. “Come in.”

Come to me.

The door opened a crack, and No’One slipped inside, shutting them in with each other.

As he heard the click of the locking mechanism, his body shut his mind down completely: It was going to feed her… and, God help them both, fuck her if she let him.

For one brief moment of lucidity, he thought he should tell her to go, so they could be spared the aftermath when sex cooled down and heads cleared up… and two people learned that those Molotov cocktails that had seemed like such a fun, exciting idea to make and throw, had, in actuality, decimated their landscapes.

Except he just extended his hand to her.

After a moment, she reached up and removed her hood. As he rememorized her face and form, he saw that she was nothing like his Wellsie. She was smaller and more delicately built. Fair of coloring instead of vibrant. Proper instead of blunt.