by J. R. Ward
"Says who."
Acting on a desperate surge, she grabbed his nape and brought him back to her mouth--and then she kissed him with everything she had, her tongue entering him such that he gasped, her body arching into his, her thighs splitting so that he could get even closer to her core.
"Layla," he groaned. "Dearest Fates...this isn't right..."
He was perfectly correct, of course. This wasn't right at all, assuming they used the abacus of the rest of the world. But here and now, in this otherwise empty house, it was--
All at once, he set her back from him--and just as she was about to protest, she heard the footsteps overhead. Two sets. Both very, very heavy.
"Vishous," she whispered.
The Brother's disembodied voice came down the stairwell. "Yeah, and I came with a friend."
Layla put herself in front of Xcor, but he was having none of that. He moved her bodily behind him, his protective side clearly refusing to allow her to be before him.
The Brother came down the stairwell first, and he had both his guns out--and at first, she couldn't comprehend who was behind him. But there was only one set of legs that was that long. Only one chest that was that broad. Only one male vampire on the planet who had black hair that fell down to his hips.
The King had come.
And as Wrath took the final step down into the basement, he planted both shitkickers and breathed in deep, his nostrils flaring. Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was an enormous male, and those black wraparound sunglasses, which allowed nothing to show of his eyes, made him seem like a straight-up killer.
Which, she supposed, he was.
"Well, well, well, romance is in the air," he muttered. "Ain't that a bitch."
TWENTY-FIVE
As Xcor stared his previous enemy in the face, he felt no animosity toward the male. No anger, nor greed for the King's position. No aggression toward a target.
"So," Wrath said in a voice suitable for both the aristocrat and the warrior he was, "last time you were able to look me in the eye, I ended up with a bullet in my throat."
Off to the side, the Brother Vishous cursed under his breath and lit up a cigarette. It was obvious that this visitation was not something the fighter supported, but it was not difficult to imagine that if the Blind King made up his mind about something, nothing would disabuse him of his notion.
"Shall I proffer an apology?" Xcor asked. "What is appropriate in situations such as this?"
"Your head on a stick," V muttered. "And your balls in my pocket."
With the way Wrath shook his head at the Brother, one could imagine he was rolling his eyes behind those pitch-black sunglasses. And then the King refocused. "I don't think there's any way of going back from something like a murder attempt."
Xcor nodded. "I believe you are right. And thus we are left exactly where?"
Wrath glanced in Layla's direction. "I'd ask you to leave us, but I have a feeling you won't."
"I would prefer to stay," the Chosen said, "thank you."
"Fine." Wrath's lips thinned to a slash of disapproval, but he didn't force the point. "So, Xcor, leader of the Band of Bastards, traitor, murderer, yada yada yada--hell of a bunch of titles you got going for you, FYI--you mind me inquiring what your plans are?"
"I rather think that is up to you, is it not?"
"What do you know, he's got a brain." Wrath laughed coldly. "And let's wait on that, actually. I'm gonna ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind? Great. Thanks for being so accommodating."
Xcor nearly smiled a little. The King was his kind of male in so many ways.
"What are your intentions when it comes to my throne?"
As Wrath spoke, his nostrils flared and Xcor gathered the Blind King had some way of sussing out the truth. Fortunately, there was no reason to keep it from the male.
"I have none."
"Do you now. How 'bout your boys?"
"My Band of Bastards served me in all ways. They went where I did, both literally and figuratively. Always."
"Past tense. They kick you out?"
"They think I am dead."
"Can you find them for me?"
Xcor frowned. "And now I shall ask you, what are your intentions?"
Wrath smiled again, revealing descended fangs. "They don't get a pass just because the murder plot they were a part of was your bright idea. Treason is like a head cold. You sneeze on your friends and give the shit to 'em."
"I don't know where they are. And that is the truth."
The King's nostrils flared once again. "But you can find them for me."
"They will not be staying where we once did. They will have moved, perhaps even gone back to the Old Country."
"You're evading my rhetorical. Can you find them for me."
Xcor glanced back at Layla. She was staring at him intently, her green eyes wide. He hated to let her down, he truly did, but he would not give up his fighters. Not even for her.
"No, I will not hunt for them. I will not double-cross my brethren. You can kill me, here and now, if you wish. You can torture me for information that will never come because I do not know of their location. You can put me out for the sun. But I will not lead you unto them so that you may lead them unto their deaths. They are not innocent, 'tis true. They have not attacked you or your fighters, however. Have they."
"Maybe they're not very good at their jobs. They tried to kill me, remember?" The King pounded his heart. "Still kickin'."
"They present you no harm. They are powerful, but the ambition was all mine. They have been content for centuries in the Old Country to fight and to fuck, and I have no reason to believe that status will not be resumed in my absence."
As he realized his candor, he flicked his eyes to Layla--and he wished he hadn't been so crude. She did not seem bothered, however.
After a moment, Wrath mused, "What do you think is going to happen after tonight?"
"I beg your pardon?"
The King shrugged. "Say I decide to let you live and release you--" As Layla gasped, the mighty male shot her a glare. "Don't get ahead of yourself, female. We got miles to go here."
The Chosen lowered her head in submission. But her eyes remained rapt, burning with an optimism that Xcor did not share.
"So say I set you free," Wrath continued. "What are you going to do with yourself?"
Now, Xcor refused to look at his female. "Indeed, I am well aware that the Old Country is favorable this time of year. Far more so than Caldwell. I have property there, and a source of income that is peaceable. I should like to return from whence I came."
Wrath stared at him for the longest time, and Xcor met those wraparounds even though the eyes behind those lenses could not see him.
In the silence, no one moved. He wasn't sure anybody was even breathing.
And the sorrow that rose up from Layla was tangible. Yet she did not argue.
She knew, Xcor thought, exactly how intractable the situation was.
"I've heard that, too," Wrath said finally. "About the Old Country. Nice spot. Especially if you have a defensible position to crash in and the humans leave you alone."
Xcor inclined his head. "Aye. Very much so."
"I am not forgiving or forgetting one goddamn thing here." Wrath shook his head. "That shit's not in my nature. But this female right here"--he pointed to Layla--"has been through more than enough thanks to the likes of you. I don't need to prove my power to anybody, and I'm not going to fuck her head up for the rest of her nights simply to be a vindictive hard-ass. Everything you've said just now has been the truth as you know it, and as long as you get the fuck out of Caldwell, I think both sides can live with that arrangement."
Xcor nodded. "Aye, both sides indeed." He cleared his throat. "And if it helps bring further peace, I would tell you that I do regret my actions against you. I am sorry for them. There was much anger in me, and the effect was corrosive. Things are...different...the now."
He glanced at the Chosen and then quickly lo
oked away from her.
"I am..." Xcor took a deep breath. "I am not as I was."
Wrath nodded. "Love of a good female and all that. Not unfamiliar with it myself."
"So are we done here?" Vishous snapped like he disapproved of pretty much everything.
"No," Wrath said without looking away from Xcor. "Before we kumbaya this shit, you're going to do something for me, right here and now."
The King pointed to the carpet at his feet. "On your knees, bastard."
--
Of course Xcor was going to have to leave, Layla thought as she tried to keep herself together. He couldn't stay in Caldwell. The other Brothers might accept Wrath's pardoning on the surface, but things happened out in the field in war. There was no way of assuring that in the heat of conflict, one of the King's fighters wouldn't find himself in a frame of mind and a position that was incompatible with this detente.
Especially Qhuinn.
And Tohr.
Except she wasn't going to waste time thinking about all that. As the King pointed to the floor in front of him, her heart jumped into her throat and she nervously looked at Vishous.
Wrath was giving off every indication that this was a meeting of the minds, an agreement to live and let live, by virtue of him proclaiming it as such. But Vishous had well-fooled her before, pulling a double-cross that he'd ultimately relented upon, yet which quite readily could have been adhered to.
Was there a dagger or a saber about to be unleashed upon Xcor's throat? Killing him where he was?
"To what end?" Xcor inquired of the King.
"Get down there and find out."
Xcor glanced at Vishous. Refocused on Wrath. And stayed yet where he was.
Wrath smiled in a gruesome way, like a killer about to strike. "Well? And bear in mind, I'm holding all your cards."
"I bowed my head once and only once to another. It nearly killed me."
"Well, if you don't do it right now, it will be the death of you."
At that, there was a sound of metal on metal, and with a shock of alarm, she found that Vishous had unsheathed one of the black daggers that was strapped, handles down, to his chest.
"Put that thing away," Wrath bit out. "This will be voluntarily or not at all--"
"He doesn't deserve--"
Wrath bared his fangs at the Brother and hissed. "Go upstairs. Get the fuck upstairs, right now. That is an order."
The fury in Vishous's face was such that it seemed as though the tattoos at his temple were moving across his skin. But then he did as he was told--which made Layla rethink exactly how much power Wrath had over the Brotherhood. At the end of the day, even the Scribe Virgin's begotten son clearly took orders from the King.
Although Vishous was obviously not pleased: The sound of his boots going up the stairwell was loud as thunder, and when he got to the first floor, he slammed the door so hard she felt the clap in her teeth.
"Did you have fun with morale when you were in charge?" Wrath muttered to Xcor.
"All the time. The stronger the warrior--"
"The harder the head."
"--the harder the head."
As they finished the sentence with the same words, and in an identically exhausted tone, she was surprised. And yet they had faced the same issues, hadn't they, both leaders of groups of males that were highly charged in the best of situations...and downright dangerous in bad ones.
While Vishous paced around right above their heads, his footfalls a nonverbal protest that was clearly intended to be logged by those down in the cellar, Xcor closed his eyes for the longest time.
And then...he slowly sank onto both knees.
For some reason, seeing him thus brought her to tears. But then witnessing a proud male submit, even under these circumstances, was emotional.
Wrath mutely put out his hand, the one on which the huge black diamond that signified his station rested. In the Old Language, the King proclaimed, "Swear your fealty unto me, this night and forever more, placing none upon the earth above me and mine."
Xcor's own hand trembled as he reached forth. Grasping Wrath's palm, he kissed the ring and then placed it upon his bowed forehead. "Fore'ermore, I pledge my allegiance unto to you and yours, serving none other."
Both males took a deep breath. And then Wrath put his hand on top of Xcor's head, as if in benediction. Looking up, the King sought Layla out with his blind eyes.
"You should be proud of your male. This is no small thing for a warrior."
She brushed at her eyes. "Yes."
Wrath turned his hand over, offering Xcor a palm with which to help himself to his feet. And Xcor...after a moment...accepted the aid.
When the two fighters were standing eye to eye, Wrath said, "Now, you get each one of your fighters to do that, and you're all free to go back to the Old Country. But I'm going to need that pledge from them all, do you understand."
"What if they've already returned across the ocean?"
"Then you're going to bring them back to me. This is the way it's going to be. The Brotherhood who serve me have to buy in on this, and that is the only path to get them to stop hunting you fuckers down."
Xcor rubbed his face. "Aye. All right, then."
"You will stay here while you're looking for your boys. This will be our meeting site. I will have V leave you a phone to use to get in touch with us. Assuming your fighters are still on this side of the pond, you will call us when you are ready and we will do this one by one, here. Any deviances from our agreement will be regarded as a declaration of aggression and dealt with accordingly. Do you understand this."
"Aye."
"I'm willing to be lenient, but I'm not going to be a pussy. I will eliminate any and all threats against me, do you further understand this."
"Aye."
"Good. We're done." Wrath shook his head ruefully. "And shit, you think you have problems? At least you don't have to go back home with that."
As the King pointed up to the ceiling, Vishous let a particularly hardy step fall--like he knew he was a topic of discussion.
Just as Wrath was turning away, Xcor spoke up. "My Lord--"
The King looked over his shoulder. "You know, I like the sound of that."
"Indeed." Xcor cleared his throat. "With regard to threats against you. I would care to apprise you of a certain individual you would be wise to watch with care."
Wrath cocked an eyebrow over the rim of his wraparound. "Do tell."
TWENTY-SIX
Sacrifice was also in the eye of the beholder.
Like beauty, it was a personal, subjective assessment, a cost-benefit analysis that had no right answer, only a compass that spun around an individual's variant of true north.
Throe, begotten and then forsaken son of Throe, pulled his fine cashmere coat closer around his lithe body as he strode down a cracked sidewalk. The neighborhood, if one could refer to the grungy walk-ups and shitty little shops with such an otherwise homey word, was more a demilitarized area than anything one would wish to claim for housing.
But for him, the sacrifice of beholding such decay and decrepitness was worth what awaited him.
What hopefully awaited him.
In large measure, he could not believe he was on his current quest. It seemed...unseemly...for a gentlemale of his stature. But life had gone in many directions that he would not have predicted or chosen of his own volition, so he was rather used to such surprises--although he supposed, even under those auspices, this tangent was still rather out there.
Even for an aristocrat who had been conscripted into the Band of Bastards, become a fighter, tried to topple the crown, and then been freed from that group of outlaws to fend with the rich and ambitious on his own...only to narrowly survive being burned alive when his lover was killed for keeping a blood slave in her basement.
Craziness, indeed.
And his strange destiny had had much effect upon him. There had been a time when he had been ruled by conventional principles of loyalty and de
corum, when he had conducted himself as a male of worth in high society. But then he had had to rely upon Xcor to ahvenge a disgrace that, in retrospect, he should have addressed on his own. Once in Xcor's circle of fighters, after he'd risen above his torture in a manner that had surprised not only those bastards but he himself, he had started to learn that one only had oneself to rely upon.
Ambition, once disdained by him as an affect of the nouveau riche, had taken root, and culminated in that coup against the Blind King that had almost worked. Xcor had lost the will to go any further with it, however.
And Throe had discovered that he himself had not.
Wrath may have won a populist vote and castrated the glymera's Council, but Throe still believed at his core that there was another ruler far better for the race.
Himself, as it were.
So indeed, he was going to press on alone, finding levers and pulling them to engender the result he wanted.
Or in the case of tonight's endeavor? Creating the lever, as it were.
He stopped and looked around. The promise of heavy snow was thick in the air, the night humid and cold at the same time, the clouds gathering above in such density that the sky ceiling was getting lower and lower to the ground.
The numbers on a street such as this were hard to ascertain as this was hardly a sector of Caldwell where people tended well their real estate. Here, they were more likely to break into their neighbors' and steal than borrow cups of sugar or screwdrivers. Thus, there were few markers, and even the street identifiers had been taken down on some corners.
But his destination must be here somewhere--
Yes. There. Across the street.
Throe narrowed his eyes. And then rolled them.
He couldn't believe there was actually a flashing PSYCHIC sign in the window. Right next to the obligatory open palm sign that was up-lit. In purple.
As he waited for a car to pass, and then had to place his suede loafer into a snowbank to get over the curb, he decided that, yes, the sacrifices he'd had to make were distasteful, but they were necessary, things that he had to endure only for as long as he was forced to. For example, he didn't abide living off of wealthy females the way he'd done since leaving the Band of Bastards. But even with the money he'd managed to scrape together over the last two hundred years, he couldn't possibly keep himself to the standard he deserved. No, that required capital in the millions of dollars, not the hundreds of thousands.
