by J. R. Ward
"I think you need to focus more on who Xcor is rather than on what she did."
"I know who he is. That's the issue."
"Well, I just spoke with Tohr, who told me everything--"
Qhuinn threw up his hands and walked around. "Oh, come on--"
"And I really think you need to recast things."
"I'm not going to forget what happened, Blay. I can't."
"No one's asking you to do that."
As Qhuinn paced around, he decided these conversations about that Bastard were turning things into fucking Groundhog Day. Without Bill Murray. So yes, it sucked.
"Look, I don't want to debate you," he said as he stopped and looked across the room at Blay.
"I don't want that, either. And we're not debating this because I'm not discussing it any further. You make it right with Layla, or I'm not coming back."
"What the hell, Blay--how can you make you and me about her?"
"I'm making you and me about this family. The two of them"--he pointed to the bassinets--"and the three of us. We're a family, but only if we stick together. Blood only means so much, and after the shit your parents pulled, you know this firsthand. If we can't--if you can't--forgive and love and move on, then you and I aren't going to last, because I'm not going to sit by and pretend I'm okay with you resenting that poor daughter of yours just because she looks like her mahmen. Or waiting until I do something that you can't get over. You challenged me to forgive you for what you did--and I have. Now I'm expecting you to do the same for Layla."
Blay went back to the door. "I love you with everything I've got, and when you and Layla had those kids? You gave me a complete family. And I want my family back, the whole thing--and that includes Layla."
"Blay, please--"
"That's my condition. And I'm going to make it stick. See you out in the field."
--
As Xcor got ready to leave the ranch just before midnight, he let his shellan check the fastenings on the bulletproof vest. She was very thorough, to the point where he had a feeling if she could have strapped herself to his chest, she would have.
Capturing her hands, he kissed her fingertips one by one.
"I am a lucky male, to be cared for thusly."
Fates, he hated her distress. Would have done anything he could have to replace it with joy--especially as he feared that only more sorrow was before her. If he lived through tonight, if the Brotherhood held true to what Wrath wanted, they were still out of road for their journey.
"I fear I can't let you leave," she said through a wobbling smile. "I fear...I cannot bear you to go."
As her voice broke, he closed his eyes. "I will be back home here soon enough."
He kissed her so that they couldn't talk about it anymore, and as she fiercely returned his embrace, he tried to remember every detail about the way she felt against him, and how her lips tasted, and what it was to have her scent in his nose.
When he finally inched back, he stared into her pale green eyes. His favorite color, as it turned out. Who knew he had one?
And then he stepped away and didn't look back. He didn't dare.
Going over to the slider, he could smell her tears, but again, he did not stop on his way. There was no stopping any of this now.
The door made no sound as he pulled it open and stepped through, and he was careful not to turn around as he closed it behind himself.
Progressing outside the glow of the porch's security lights, he went around the far corner of the garage. There was an old shed there, one that was big enough for a riding mower, and tall enough for the handles of hoes and shovels.
As he opened the flimsy door, its hinges let out a squeak of protest.
Reaching into the darkness, he retrieved his scythe and flipped it onto his back, securing it with a simple rope tie that ran across his chest. He hadn't wanted to bring it into the house with Layla there. It had just seemed wrong.
With the knives and the guns he already had on him, he was ready for war no matter who brought it, be it lesser or Brother.
As he closed his eyes and prepared to dematerialize off to meet his males, he prayed for two things.
One, that he made it back here to see Layla one more time before he left.
And two, that Wrath had as much control as he seemed to think he did over the Brotherhood.
Funny how the two were intimately connected.
SIXTY
As Tohr sat alone in the bedroom he shared with Autumn, he held a black dagger in his hands. The blade had been both fashioned and maintained by Vishous, the weapon constantly kept sharp, its handle perfectly fitted to Tohr's grip, and Tohr's grip alone.
It was unfathomable to think he would never wield it again.
When he had told his shellan what had happened, and why, she had been saddened. It was the first time, he realized, that he'd really let her down--and given that he was still only half a male because of all the Wellsie shit? That was really saying something.
At least the two of them had somewhere to go. Xhex was going to let them crash for the next couple of nights at that hunting cabin of hers--the one where he and Layla had had their showdown.
He was sooooo happy about returning there.
Turning the knife over, he angled the black blade so that the light from the bedside table hit the tiny nicks on the sharp edges. He'd been about to suggest V do a little polish job on the thing--it wasn't as if Tohr would be allowed to. That brother worked so hard crafting the weapons that he got shirty if anyone tried to hone one themselves.
But guess all that was moot now--
Okay, why the hell was fucking Simon and Garfunkel going through his frickin' head? Hellllllloooooo darrrrrknesssss myyyy olllllld friiiiiend--
"Fuck me."
Hard to know what was worse. That god-awful sixties music refraining through his gray matter, or the fact that he'd been fired from the only job he'd ever done, ever wanted to do, ever been good at.
Although come on, how hard could it be to work a deep fryer? There was that to look forward to.
And meanwhile, his beautiful female was down in the basement with Fritz trying to find boxes for their shit--
The knock on his door was a welcome diversion. At this rate, he was going to end up on Prozac and M&M's to deal with the depression he was rocking.
"Come in?" Maybe it was a doggen with a bunch of containers. "Hello? Come in?"
When there was no answer, he frowned and got up to go to the door. He had put his leathers and shitkickers on when he'd gotten dressed because that was just what he did. Maybe now he'd swap them out for a bunch of cardigans and loose grandpa khakis that pooled in the butt and stayed in place thanks to suspenders.
Yeah, 'cuz that was hot--
As he opened the door wide, words failed him.
Wrath was standing there, looking like the King he was, all dressed in black with those wraparounds on. Behind him, in a semi-circle, the Brotherhood, and Blay and John Matthew, were like a war waiting to happen, all those males armed and ready to fight.
"Hello, my old friend," Wrath said as he offered his hand. "Want to come to the party?"
Tohr swallowed hard. "What, ah...um...I'm sorry?"
Wrath just shrugged. "Saxton is all up my ass about human resources policies and procedures. Apparently in these times, you gotta warn someone before you can 'em. You know, bring 'em in, offer them retraining, wipe their ass for them, you know, this type of thing. Before you fire them."
Rhage piped up. "Also, let's face it. You're the most reasonable one in this group."
"A full cock going off," somebody chimed in. "Instead of a half cock like the rest of us."
"Quarter cock in Rhage's case--"
Hollywood wheeled around and glared at V. "Okay, fuck you--"
"With what?"
Wrath put a hand over his face. "Jesus, will you people stop!" Dropping his arm, he said with exhaustion, "So let's just put your ass on probation, all right? Great. I'm so glad we can mov
e forward from this."
The King grabbed him and yanked him forward into a hard hug. "Now let's go sort this Xcor thing the right way, okay? And Beth has gone to tell Autumn. There isn't time for you to, we have to go now."
Dazed, but getting less confused by the second, Tohr ducked his eyes and pulled a manly wipe of them. Long, long ago, he had been chosen to join the Brotherhood, and it had never once occurred to him that, short of death, he would ever find himself looking in from the outside. But he had certainly deserved that and so much more for what he had done.
And although he couldn't put this reprieve on a par with losing his mate and son? It was a reminder that destiny was not totally cruel.
In a hoarse voice, he said, "Yeah, all right. Let's do this."
There was a general cheer and some serious backslapping. And yes, he wanted to go find his mate and talk to her, but the grandfather clock down the hall started chiming.
There was no more time. It was midnight.
The Brotherhood and the Band of Bastards had to go try and make peace. And he had to go look his brother in the face.
--
As V re-formed in front of the abandoned warehouse, he tested the air with his nose and gave his instincts as much breathing room as they wanted.
Natch.
Fifteenth and Market was a good setting for this historic and potentially dangerous meeting, he decided, the old barn-y building adequately deserted, with enough broken panes in its capitalist version of a clerestory that if they had to bail once they got inside, it was a quick trip to a number of exits.
Walking forward, he had Rhage on his right and Butch on his left, and it felt fucking awesome to be heading into possible conflict. He really wanted to fight something, and he figured if the Bastards didn't prove to be total assholes, then after this was done, he and his brothers could go find some slayers.
Or maybe he went off on his own and did something else.
Whichever it was, he knew he didn't have to go back home for a good six hours and he was going to make use of the time.
Fuck, was he actually going to--
Whatever, he thought as he shut down his case of mental seizures. One thing that you didn't have to be a genius like him to know was that if you went into a fight distracted, you weren't going to have to worry about anything, because you were gonna wake up dead the next morning.
The warehouse was your bog standard forty-five-thousand-square-foot deserted birdcage, not much left aside from its rotting, rusted exoskeleton and a metal roof that was a crash helmet on someone with a death wish. There were a number of doors, and after the troika walked down the side of the building they'd been assigned, they waited for the signal to enter after the sweep inside was completed by Phury and Z.
With his back flat against the building's pitted siding, and his guns out and up, V scanned the area. Visibility was fantastic, no trees to block his view, nothing but more vacated buildings, rubble, and pavement for blocks and blocks and blocks, the neighborhood a wasteland from the industrial era that had sustained this part of the city for so long--
Just as everyone's cells went off announcing it was clear in the interior, five figures appeared, one by one, in the vacant lot across the street.
V took out his phone and texted an audible: We have them. Going to approach.
He didn't have to tell Rhage and Butch what the fuck to do, and that was why he loved them. The three of them just strode forward, crossing over the crusty snow before mounting the snowbank and walking into the center of the road. As if the Band of Bastards had the same playbook, they likewise came forward from their position, their big bodies moving in unison, their weapons out, but not up, Xcor in the center.
The two groups met in the middle of the road.
Vishous spoke first. "Evenin', boys. How we doing?"
He sensed neither hate nor love coming out of the other fighters. Well, except for the guy on the end: That one on the far left was giving off a vibe like maybe he wanted to get aggressive, but V had the impression that that was his idling speed and not anything specific to this situation.
V did not lower his guns, but he did not demand that they disarm, either, even though it made him twitchy as shit. The drop-your-load was going to happen inside.
"We are prepared to follow you," Xcor said in clearly enunciated tones.
"Good." V met the eyes of each one of them. "Here's the way we're going to do this, true? We'll escort you in. You'll meet everyone, and we'll have a little cocktail mixer with passed hors d'oeuvres and drinks. Then we'll go see a show, and we'll cap the night off with a shopping spree at Saks and a round of mani-pedis. Sound all right? Great. Walk on, motherfuckers."
Xcor didn't hesitate, and V took that as a good sign.
And the others were right on his heels.
This, he took as an even better sign: If those boys were willing to show their backs, there was some kind of trust going on here.
Falling in line behind the Band of Bastards, V followed along, going back over the low snowbank, across that "lawn" of snow and ice, and over to the door.
V put his lips together and whistled in a short burst. As soon as he did, the metal panel broke open and John Matthew held it wide.
You want to talk about tense? The Band of Bastards, as they filed into the drafty interior, were about as relaxed as prisoners going to the electric chair. But they held their position as they looked around and no one started shooting as they continued to walk forward.
V was willing to bet they assessed the same exits in the open space the Brotherhood did. The same doors. The same rafters. The same empty window panes.
"Stop here," he told them. And they did.
Showtime, V thought as he came around to stand in front of the lineup.
"Now, gentlemen, before we bring the King in, I'm afraid I'm going to have to get you naked." He pointed to the concrete floor. "All your weapons go here. You behave yourselves and you get them back. You don't, and we'll leave you bleeding all over them."
SIXTY-ONE
Tohr's heart was pounding as he stepped out from where he'd been standing against the warehouse wall. He was supposed to keep his position by this western door, but he couldn't stay put. His feet took him inexorably forward, his eyes on Xcor.
"Where are you going?" Blay hissed after him.
"Just a little closer. Stay there."
Little closer his ass. He walked all the way over to where the Band of Bastards had lined up in the center of the warehouse wasteland.
V was addressing them, the brother's voice echoing through the high ceiling. "Right there," he repeated while nodding to his feet.
In the back of his mind, Tohr knew that this was going to tell a lot. If the Bastards balked at disarming, or getting searched, then it was a good bet this was an ambush of Trojan Horse proportions. But if they--
One by one, each of Xcor's fighters complied with the order, dropping guns and knives to the concrete slab and kicking them in Vishous's direction. Even Xcor took that huge scythe of his off his back and sent it over to V.
"You want to help search 'em?" V said. "Or did you come here to give me another coat of lip gloss?"
It took a moment to figure out that Vishous was talking to him. "I'll search."
As the brother nodded, and Butch and Rhage stared at the Bastards like the males were grenades with the pins out, Tohr walked right up to Xcor and met him in the eyes.
God, why hadn't he noticed before? They were the exact color of his own.
"Tohr?" V said sharply. "What are you doing, my man?"
And that jaw. It was the shape of his. The dark hair. That lip was a distraction that made you not consider the rest, but now that he looked past it?
Tohr felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. And then V's voice was loud in his ear. "I'd really prefer that if someone does something stupid, it's one of them. Let's not have it be one of us, true?"
Xcor stared back at him calmly, without fear or aggression: He was a
male who was resigned to his fate, unafraid of whatever was before him, and you had to respect that.
"Tohr. Remember that whole probation thing?"
Tohr nodded absently, not really hearing anything. The thing was, he had wondered, ever since Wellsie had died with his son still in her womb, what it would be like to look into the eyes of a blood relation. The loss of that possibility had been one more thing to mourn.
He had never considered that some night he would meet the stare of his brother.
Xcor spoke softly. "What are you going to do?"
That was when Tohr realized that he hadn't put his guns down. But before he could rectify that, V said, "FYI, I'll have you know you're alive today because of him."
That got Tohr's attention and he looked at Vishous. "I'm sorry?"
"I found a little video clip of this motherfucker right here, defending you against a lesser. It's a real classic. I watched it on a loop for hours today."
"Wait, what?"
"You remember, when you were trying to turn yourself into a screen door by walking into a shower of bullets? Good times." V rolled his eyes. "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you friend him on Facebook, and then you can look forward to the day when you get a memories post with him in it. Great stuff. Just so fucking Hallmark. Now either disarm him or get the fuck back into position."
Tohr knew exactly what craziness V was referring to, remembered precisely the moment when he had ignored his own mortality and all the laws of physics and had stepped out into the enemy's line of fire.
Frowning, he said to Xcor, "Is this true?"
When the Bastard nodded once, Tohr exhaled. "Why?"
"It is not important now," the Bastard replied.
"No, it's everything. Why?"
Xcor looked to V as if trying to sense whether the brother was going to completely lose his patience with all this.
Too late on that, Tohr thought. But fuck it, he might never get this chance again.
"Why?" he demanded again. "We were enemies."
When Xcor finally answered, his voice was steady and very heavily accented. "You were so brave. You walked out into that gunfire unafraid. Regardless of our positions at the time, I didn't want a warrior of that courage to be killed in that manner. In honest conflict, yes. But not like that, a sitting duck. So I shot the shooter."
