Lover Reborn (6 page)

Until it came to a sudden stop… in Xhex’s chest.

For the second time in one evening, John screamed without making a sound.

As his body surged forward, Xhex whipped around to the slayer, an expression of rage tightening her features. Without losing a beat, she grabbed onto the handle and tore the weapon out of her own flesh—but how long would her strength last? That was a direct hit—

Jesus Christ! She was going to try to take care of the bastard. Even injured, she was going to go after him tooth and nail… and get herself killed in the process.

The one thought that shot through John’s mind was that he didn’t want to be like Tohr. He didn’t want to walk that stretch of hell on earth.

He didn’t want to lose his Xhex tonight, tomorrow night, any night. Ever.

Opening his mouth, he roared all of the air out of his lungs. He wasn’t conscious of dematerializing, but he was on that
lesser
so fast that going ghost and re-forming was the only explanation. Locking onto the thing’s throat with his palm, he pushed the piece of shit backward off its feet and let his own weight follow. When they hit the ground, he head-butted its face, smashing the nose, and likely breaking a cheekbone or an eye socket.

No stopping there.

As black blood splashed up all over him, he bared his fangs and tore into the enemy with his teeth while he held the thing down. The destructive instinct was so finely tuned and focused, he would have kept going until he was chewing on pavement—but then his rational side sent up a hi-how’re-ya.

He needed to assess Xhex’s injuries.

Taking out a dagger, he raised his arm high and locked eyes with the slayer. Or what was left of the
lesser
’s pair of peepers.

John buried that blade so deep and hard that after the flash and bang faded, he needed a two-handed grip and a full-body pull to free the weapon out of the asphalt. Scrambling around, he prayed to see Xhex—

She was more than up on her feet. She was engaging another one of the quartet—even though there was a growing red stain on the front of her chest, and her right arm was hanging loose.

John nearly lost his mind.

Leaping up, he threw his body between his mate and the enemy, and as he shoved her out of the way, he took a hit meant for her—a solid swing with a baseball bat that rang his church bell and made him momentarily lose his balance.

Exactly the kind of thing that would have knocked her flat and put “paid” to her coffin.

With a quick shift, he reestablished equilibrium, and then caught the second try at turning him into a homer with both hands.

Quick punch forward and he slammed the
lesser
in the face with its
own Louisville slugger, giving the undead a split second of show tunes in its head. Then it was domination time.

“What the hell!” Xhex hollered at him as he forced the slayer onto the ground.

No good way to communicate, considering his hands were locked on the
lesser
’s throat. Then again, it wasn’t going to help them for her to know what was on his mind.

With a quick stab, John dispatched the slayer back to the Omega and got up. His left eye, the one that had gotten corked with the bat, was starting to swell, and he could feel his heartbeat in his face. Meanwhile, Xhex was still bleeding.

“Don’t you
ever
do that to me again,” she hissed.

He wanted to jab his finger in her face, but if he did, he couldn’t talk.
Then don’t fight when you’re injury-injer-injured!

Christ, he couldn’t even communicate, his fingers clogging up over words.

“I was just fine!”

You’re fucking bleeding—

“It’s a flesh wound—”

Then why can’t you lift up your arm!

The pair of them were closing in on each other, and not in a good way, their jaws jacked forward, their bodies hunched in aggression. And when she didn’t counter him on his last potshot, he knew he’d guessed right—knew, too, that she was hurting.

“I take care of myself, John Matthew,” she spat. “I don’t need you looking over my shoulder because I’m a female.”

I would have done the same for one of the Brothers.
Well, mostly he would have.
So don’t push that feminist bullshit on me—

“Feminist
bullshit
?!”

You’re the one making it about your sex, not me.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Funnily enough, I’m not persuaded. And if you think my standing up for myself is a goddamn political statement, you mated the wrong
goddamn
female.”

This is not about your being female!

“The fuck it isn’t!”

On that note, she inhaled deep, as if to remind him that his bonding scent was so strong, it knocked out even the stench of all the
lesser
blood splattered around.

John bared his fangs and signed,
It’s about your stupidity creating a liability on the battlefield.

Xhex’s mouth cranked open—but then, instead of countering, she just stared up at him.

Abruptly, she crossed her good arm over her chest and focused out over his left shoulder, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

Like she was regretting not just what had happened a moment ago, but maybe meeting him in the first place.

John cursed and went to pace around, only to find that everyone else in the alleyway—and that would be Tohr, Qhuinn, Rhage, Blaylock, Zsadist, and Phury—was watching the show. And what do you know, each of the males wore an expression that suggested he was really, truly, completely, and utterly glad that John’s last statement hadn’t come out of
his
piehole.

Do you
mind
, John signed with a glare.

On cue, the bunch of them started milling about, looking up at the dark sky, down at the pavement, across at the brick walls of the alley. Manly muttering floated over on the stinky breeze, as if they were a convention of movie critics discussing what had just been screened.

He didn’t care what their opinions were.

And in this moment of anger, he didn’t care what Xhex’s was, either.

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, No’One had her daughter’s mating dress in her arms—and a
doggen
planted in front of her, thwarting her quest for directions to the second-story laundry room. The former was welcome; the latter was not.

“No,” she said again. “I shall take care of this.”

“Mistress, please, it is a simple thing to—”

“Then letting me tend to the gown will be no problem for you.”

The
doggen
’s face fell so far, it was a wonder he didn’t have to look up to meet her eyes. “Perhaps… I shall just check with Superior Perlmutter—”

“And perhaps I shall tell him how helpful you were in showing me the cleaning supplies—and how much I appreciated your fine service unto me.”

Even though her hood was up and shielding her face, the
doggen
seemed to gauge her intention clearly enough: She wasn’t budging. Not to this member of the staff or any other. His only option was to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off—and that would never happen.

“I am—”

“Just about to lead the way, aren’t you.”

“Ah… yes, mistress.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“May I take the—”

“Lead? Yes, please. Thank you.”

He was not holding the dress for her. Or cleaning it. Or hanging it up. Or redelivering it.

This was between her and her daughter.

With dejection worthy of a castaway, the servant spun about and started walking, taking her down the long corridor that was marked by beautiful marble statuary of males in various positions. Then it was through a pair of swinging doors at the end, to the left, and through another set of doors.

At this point, everything changed. The runner on the hardwood flooring was no longer an Oriental, but a plain, well-vacuumed cream. There was no art on these pristine creamy walls, and the windows were covered not with great swaths of color with fringe and tassels, but heavy bolts of cotton in the same pale color.

They had entered the servant portion of the mansion.

The juxtaposition had been the same at her father’s manse: One standard for the family. One standard for the staff.

Or at least she had heard it was as such. She had never gone to the back side of the house when she had lived therein.

“This should be”—the
doggen
opened a pair of doors—“everything you seek.”

The room was the size of the suite she had had at her father’s estate, big and spacious. Except there were no windows. No grand bed with a matching set of handmade furniture. No needlepoint rugs in peaches and yellows and reds. No closets full of fashions from Paris or drawers of jewels or baskets of hair ribbons.

This was where she belonged now. Especially as the
doggen
described the sundry white contraptions as washing machines and dryers, and then detailed the operation of the ironing boards and irons.

Yes, the servants’ quarters rather than the guest accommodations were her home, and had been ever since she had… found herself in a different place.

In fact, if she could convince someone, anyone, to let her have a room down in this part of the mansion, it would be preferable. Alas, however, as the mother of the mated
shellan
of one of the household’s prime fighters, she was accorded privilege that she did not deserve.

The
doggen
began to open cupboards and closets, showing her all manner
of equipment and concoctions that were described variously as steamers and stain removers and pressers.…

After the tour was completed, she went over and rose up awkwardly on her good foot to link the top of the gown’s hanger upon a knob.

“Are there any stains of which you are aware?” the
doggen
asked as she flounced out the skirting.

No’One proceeded to go over every square inch of the full bottom, the bodice, the capped sleeves. “There is only this that I can see.” She bent down carefully so as not to put a lot of weight on her weak leg. “Here where the hem meets the floor.”

The
doggen
did likewise and inspected the faint darkening on the fabric, his pale hands so sure, his frown one of concentration instead of confusion. “Yes, the manual dry cleaner, I think.”

He took her to the far side of the room and described a process that was easily going to fill hours. Perfect. And before she allowed him to depart, she insisted that he stay at her side for the first couple of treatments. As this made him feel more useful, it worked for the both of them.

“I believe I am ready to continue on my own,” she said eventually.

“Very well, mistress.” He bowed and smiled. “I shall go down and endeavor to ready Last Meal. If you should need anything, please call me.”

From what she had learned since her arrival, that required a telephone—

“Here,” he said, over by the counters. “Press ‘star’ and ‘one’ and ask for me, Greenly.”

“You have been most helpful.”

She looked away quickly, not wanting to see him bow to her. And she didn’t try for a deep breath until the door shut behind him.

Now alone, she put her hands on her hips and let her head hang for a moment, the pressure in her chest making it difficult to fill her lungs.

When she had come here, she expected to struggle—and she was, just not with the things she had anticipated.

She hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to exist in an aristocratic house. The home of the First Family, in fact. At least when she had been up with the Chosen, there had been other rhythms and rules, with no one below her. Here? The lofty position people forced upon her cut off her oxygen a lot of the time.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, mayhap she should have asked the servant to stay. At least the innate need for composure had given her a draw in her ribs. With no one to hide from, however, she fought for breath.

The robe was going to have to come off.

Limping over to the doors, she went to lock them, but found there was no bolting mechanism. Not what she was expecting.

Opening them a crack, she put her head out and double-checked the long hallway.

All the servants would be downstairs preparing food for the people of the house. Even more significant, there was no way anyone but
doggen
would be in this part of the mansion.

She was safe from other eyes.

Ducking back in, she loosened the tie around her waist, removed her hood from the crown of her head and then stripped herself of the weight she bore anytime she was in public. Ah, glorious relief. Reaching her arms up high, she stretched her shoulders and her back, then pulled her neck from side to side. Her last reclamation was to lift the heavy braid of her hair and put it over her shoulder, relieving some of the pull at her nape.

Save for that first night that she had come unto this house and confronted her daughter—as well as the Brother who had tried to save her life so long ago—no one had seen her features. And no one would henceforth. Ever since that brief revelation, she had been e’er covered, and she was going to stay that way.

Proof of identity had been a necessary evil.

As always, she wore beneath her robing a simple linen sheath she had made herself. She had a number of them, and when they grew too thin, she recycled them as towels to dry herself with. She wasn’t sure where she would find the fabric for replacements here, but that was no problem. In order to refresh herself so that she did not need to feed, she went regularly to the Other Side, and she could get what she needed then.

So different the two places were. And yet in either, her hours were the same: infinite, solitary—

No, not entirely solitary. She had come to this side to find her daughter, and now that she had, she was going to…

Well, tonight, she was going to clean this gown.

Stroking the fine fabric, she couldn’t stop the memories from bursting forth, a geyser, unwelcomed.

She had had gowns like this. Dozens of them. They had filled the closet of her nighttime quarters, those beautifully kitted-out rooms that had had the French doors.