by J. R. Ward
Or scream at the side of the road was more like it.
Where the hell could they go—
Frowning, he lifted his eyes up from the view, up past the molding, up to the ceiling.
After a moment, he took out his cell phone and made a call.
When he hung up, he went down to his brother’s room. Opening the door a crack, he said into the dense, black silence, “I’m going out for a second. Won’t be long.”
Trez’s moan could have meant anything from, “Cool,” to, “Oh, God, not so loud,” to, “Have fun, I’m going to hang here and hurl some more.”
iAm walked fast. Out of the apartment. To the elevator.
Inside of which, he hit the button marked “P” for “Penthouse.”
When the doors slid open, there were two choices: One direction took him to the Brother Vishous’s place. The other to his old friend’s.
He strode down and rang Rehvenge’s bell.
When the symphath opened up, Rehv appeared as he always was: mohawked, purple-eyed, mink clad. Dangerous. Little bit evil.
“Hey, my man, how you be,” the male said as they embraced and clapped each other on the shoulder. “Come in.”
As iAm entered the Reverend’s private space for the first time in a good year or so, he found that nothing had changed, and for some reason, that was a relief.
Rehvenge went over to a leather sofa and sat down, propping his cane up next to him and crossing his legs at the knees. “What do you need?”
As iAm tried to put together the right words, Rehv swore a little. “Man, I knew this wasn’t a social call—but I didn’t expect your emotions to be a fucking mess.”
Ah, yes, the sin-eater way meant that there was no hiding anything from the male.
Still, it was difficult to speak of it all. “I’m not sure you’re aware of what’s been going on with Trez?”
Rehv frowned, his dark brows narrowing that intense, violet stare. “I thought the Iron Mask was doing good business. You boys in trouble? I’ve got plenty of cash if you need—”
“Business is great. We’ve got more money than we can spend. The issue is my brother’s extracurricular activities.”
“He’s not into drugs, is he,” Rehv said darkly.
“Women.”
Rehv laughed and brushed that off with the flick of a dagger hand. “Oh, if that’s all it is—”
“He’s completely out of control—and one of them magically appeared in his bed tonight. We got home and there she was.”
Rehv went back to the frowning. “In your apartment? How the fuck did she get in?”
“The lowest common denominator with a security guard.” iAm paced around the modern room, dimly noting that the view was, in fact, better from this height. “Trez has been fucking anything that moves for years, but lately he’s been so reckless—not wiping memories, hitting ’em more than once, not worrying about consequences.”
“What the hell is wrong with him?”
iAm turned and faced the half-breed who was the closest thing to family he had outside of his flesh and blood. Matter of fact, he trusted the guy more than ninety-nine percent of his own bloodline.
“Trez is mated.”
Long silence. “Excuse me?”
iAm nodded. “He’s mated.”
Rehv got up off that couch. “Since when?”
“Birth.”
“Ohhhhhh.” Rehv whistled softly. “So it’s a s’Hisbe thing.”
“He was promised to the queen’s first daughter.”
Rehv was silent for a while. Then he shook his head. “That would make him the future king, would it not.”
“That’s right. And even though we are a matriarchal society, that is not an irrelevancy.”
“Check us out,” the male murmured. “He and I and Wrath. Quite the trifecta.”
“Well, it’s different for the s’Hisbe, of course. The queen is the one who dictates everything for us.”
“So what’s he still doing on the outside. With all us UnKnowables?”
“He doesn’t want anything to do with the s’Hisbe.”
“Has he got a choice?”
“No.” iAm glanced over at the wet bar in the corner. “Mind if I have a drink?”
“Are you kidding me? I’d be getting hammered if I were you.”
iAm wandered over, considered his options, and ended up picking a decanter that had a little necklace reading Bourbon around its throat. He went straight up, and as he took a pull off the rim of a cut-crystal glass, he savored the burn over his tongue. “Nice.”
“Parker’s Heritage Collection, Small Batch. The best.”
“I didn’t think you were a big drinker.”
“That’s no excuse for not knowing what you serve your guests.”
“Ah.”
“So what’s the plan?”
iAm tilted his head back, emptied the glass into his mouth and swallowed hard. “We need somewhere safe to stay. And not just because of the women thing. We had a visit by the high priest this past week—and given we’re on the outside, that means they’re getting serious back home. They’re looking for him—and if they find him? I’m afraid he’s going to kill the s’Hisbe’s representative. Then we’ve really got a problem.”
“You think he’d take it that far?”
“Yes, I do.” iAm poured a refill. “He’s not going back there, and I need time to figure out how to resolve the conflict before something disastrous happens.”
“You guys want to move into my house up north?”
iAm downed his second bourbon on a oner. “No.” He leveled his eyes. “I want us to move into the Brotherhood compound.”
As Rehv cursed long and low, iAm poured himself a third. “It’s the safest place for us.”
Xcor was covered in lesser blood and sweat as he returned to his new lair. His fighters were still downtown, engaging with the enemy, but he had had to pare off and seek shelter.
Damn cut on his arm.
The house that Throe had found them was located in a modest neighborhood full of modest homes with two-car garages and swing sets in their backyards. Among its advantages was that it was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, and there was an empty building lot on one side and a Caldwell Sewer Department processing unit on the other.
They had it for three months, with an option to buy.
As he dematerialized through the heavily draped windows of the family room, he scoffed at the padded sofa that formed an L, its tufted cushions like rolls of fat, its color akin to beef stew.
Although he appreciated working heat, the fact that the facility had come “furnished” was annoying to him. He feared he was alone in this, however: Over the past few days, he’d oft caught one or another of his soldiers reclining on that godforsaken monster, their heads lying back, their legs stretched out in comfort.
What was next? Throw blankets?
Stalking up the narrow staircase, he missed the doom and gloom of the castle they still owned back in the Old Country. Longed for the heft of the stone that had surrounded them, and the impregnable nature of the layout, with its moat and high walls. Mourned, too, the fun they had had spooking the villagers, giving physical presence to the stuff of myth.
Good times, as they said here in the New World.
On the second floor, he refused to look into the bedrooms. The pink of the one in front burned his eyes, and the sea foam green of the other was another assault on the senses as well. And there was no relief to be had as he walked into the master bedroom. Flowered wallpaper, everywhere. Even on the bed, and across the windows, and all over that chair in the corner.
At least his combat boots crushed the thick carpet, leaving tread prints like bruises on his way to the bath.
For godsakes, he was not even sure what color to call the scheme in here.
Raspberry?
Shuddering, he wanted to keep the lights over the sink off, but with the rosebud curtains drawn, the illumination from the streetlamps below
was drowned out completely, and he needed to see what he was doing—
Oh, dearest Fates.
He’d forgotten about the lace shades on the sconces.
Indeed, in any other environment, the twin red glows might have suggested something of a sexual nature. But not in this land of nicey-nicey. Here, they were a set of gumdrops glowing on the wall.
He nearly choked from the estrogen.
In a fit of self-preservation, he popped both of the offenders free of their lightbulbs and put them under the sink. The glare was offensive to his retinas, but it was the difference between cursing and hand-wringing: Always, he would choose the former.
Removing his scythe first, he placed her on the counter between the twin sinks. Next, he took off her halter, then stripped his coat, his daggers and his guns from his body. The undershirt he wore was stained from long nights of fighting, but it was cleaned regularly—and would be used again. Clothes, after all, were naught but the hides vampires had not been given at birth.
They were not for personal decoration—at least, not for him.
Turning to the mirror, he muttered at the sight of himself.
The slayer that he’d been fighting hand-to-hand had been viciously good with a knife, likely the result of its former life on the streets, and what a rush to combat with one of fine skills. He had won, of course, but it had been a bracing battle.
Unfortunately, however, he’d taken home a lovely souvenir of the conflict: The gash ran up the front of his biceps and around to the side, terminating at the top of his shoulder. Quite nasty. But he’d had worse.
And accordingly, he knew how to treat himself. Lined up upon the counter were the various and sundry items that he and his fighters required from time to time: a bottle of CVS rubbing alcohol, a BIC lighter, several sewing needles, a spool of black nylon fishing line.
Xcor grimaced as he took off his shirt and the short sleeve that had been sliced through raked over the wound and split it wide. Gritting his teeth, he went still, the pain sharpening to the point that his stomach clenched up like a fist.
Breathing deep, he waited until the sensations passed, and then went for the alcohol. Twisting off the white cap, he leaned over the sink, braced himself and—
The sound that came out from his locked teeth was part growl, part groan. And as his vision checkerboarded, he closed his eyes and leaned his hip into the lip of the sink.
Inhaling hard, his sinuses stung from the smell, but there was no putting the cap back on yet: his fine motor skills were no doubt shot.
Taking a walk to clear his head, he went back into the bedroom and gave his body a chance to recalibrate. As the pain stayed with him, like he had a dog attached to his arm that was trying to eat him alive, he cursed many times.
And ended up downstairs. Where the liquor was.
Never one for imbibing, he investigated the canvas bag of bottles that Zypher had brought with them from the warehouse. The soldier enjoyed a drink from time to time, and although Xcor did not approve, he had long ago learned that one had to make certain allowances when it came to aggressive, restless fighters.
And on a night like tonight, he found himself grateful.
Whiskey? Gin? Vodka?
What did it matter.
He picked one randomly, split the seal on the cap, and tilted his head back. Opening his throat, he poured whatever it was down, swallowing in spite of the fact that his esophagus burned like it was afire.
Xcor continued to drink as he went back upstairs. Further drinking as he paced around some more and waited for the effects to kick in.
Even more drinking.
He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he was back in the bright light of the bathroom, drawing a two-foot length of black line through the head of a thin needle. Facing the broad, rectangular mirror over the sinks, he was grateful that the lesser’s blade had found his left arm. It meant that, as a right-handed male, he could handle this on his own. Had it been the other side? He would have had to get help.
The booze helped greatly. He barely flinched as he pierced his own skin and made a neat knot with the help of his teeth.
Indeed, alcohol was a curious substance, he thought as he began to make a row of stitches. The numbness that had come upon him made him feel as though he had been submerged in warm water, his body loosening, the pain still making an appearance, but the volume on the agony turned way down.
Slow. Precise. Even.
When he got to the top of his shoulder, he made another knot; then he snipped the needle free, put everything back where he’d found it, and started the shower.
Stripping his leathers down his legs, he kicked off his combat boots and stepped beneath the spray.
This time, the groan was from relief: As the warm water blanketed his sore shoulders, stiff back, and tight thigh muscles, the sense of comfort was nearly as overwhelming as the agony had been.
And for once, he allowed himself to give in to it. Probably because he was drunk.
Easing against the tile wall, the water hit him right in the face, but in a gentle way, like rain, before it traveled down the front of his body, going over his chest and his hard belly, past his hips and his sex—
From out of nowhere, he saw his Chosen leaning over him, her eyes glowing green in the moonlight, the tree overhead seeming to shelter them both.
She was feeding him, her slender, pale wrist at his mouth, his throat swallowing rhythmically.
In the midst of his alcohol-induced haze, the sexual need came upon him, seeming to unfold in his pelvis like an open hand.
He became hard.
Opening his eyes—not that he’d been aware of shutting them—he stared down at himself. The brilliant light over the sinks had been dimmed by the opaque curtain that kept the water from getting loose in the bathroom, but there was more than enough illumination to go by.
He wished it had been completely dark…for it brought him no joy to see the arousal, that length standing out so stupid and proud from his body.
He could not fathom what it was thinking: If the likes of whores had to be paid extra to accommodate his impulses, he was hard-pressed to imagine that lovely Chosen doing aught but run screaming in the opposite direction—
Abruptly, that struck him as depressing, especially as the throbbing between his legs grew stronger. In truth, his body was such a sad instrument, so pathetic in this desire—remaining unaware that it was unwanted by all.
In particular, by the one it desired.
Turning around, he tilted his head back and pushed his hands through his hair. Time to stop thinking and get clean. The soap in the dish that was mounted on the tile did its duty with alacrity upon his skin and his hair—
And he was still erect when it was time to get out.
The cold air would take care of that.
Stepping onto the bath mat, that was also done in that god-awful deep pinky red, he toweled himself off.
Still erect.
Glancing at his fighting clothes, he found himself loath to put them upon his skin. Rough. Scratchy. Dirty.
Mayhap the feminine environment was contaminating him.
Xcor ended up in the big bed, naked, upon his back.
Still erect.
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table and he knew he didn’t have long before the house was inundated with fighters.
This was going to have to be quick.
Funneling his hand under the sheets and down his body, he gripped himself….
Xcor’s eyes shut hard and he moaned, his torso twisting from the heat and need that curled up from his lower body. As the pillow came up to greet the side of his face—logically, it was the other way around, he supposed—he began to pump up and down.
Delicious. Especially at the top, where his blunt head ached for attention and got it on every upstroke. Faster. Tighter.
All the while seeing his Chosen.
In truth, the image of her did more for him than what he attended t
o down below. And as the sensations grew ever stronger, he realized for the first time why his soldiers did this so often. So good. So very, very good…
Oh, his female was beautiful. To the point where, in spite of the power of what he was doing to himself, he was not distracted from her visage. Instead, she became achingly clear to him, from her pale hair to her red lips to her slender neck—all the way down that long, elegant body that was both hidden and revealed by the pristine white robing she had worn.
What would it be like to be wanted by such a creature? To be held within her sacred body as a male of worth…
At that very moment, the reality of her pregnancy re-landed on him like a physical weight. But at least it was too late. Even as his heart chilled and his chest began to ache with the knowledge that she had accepted another, his body continued on its joyride, the conclusion as unstoppable as a—
The orgasm that swept through him made him cry out—and thank the Fates for the pillow that caught his capitulation: At that very moment, down below, he heard the first of his soldiers walk through the house, the drumbeat of combat boots an unmistakable thunder he would recognize anywhere.
The aftermath of his release was wretched on too many levels to count. He had turned upon his injured shoulder; he had come all over his hand and abdomen as well as the sheets; and the vision of loveliness was gone from his head, his hard reality all that remained.
The pain inside of him was raw as a fresh wound.
But at least none would otherwise know of it.
He was, after all, first and foremost, a soldier.
SIXTY-SIX
“Yes, absolutely you can go see him. He’s groggy, but aware.”
As Doc Jane smiled up at Qhuinn, he jacked his leathers higher on his hips and tucked in his muscle shirt. He drew the line at smoothing his hair down, however, forcing his arms to stay at his sides even though his palms were itching to pull a drag-through.
“And he’s going to be okay?”
The doctor nodded as she began to untie the surgical mask that was hanging around the front of her neck. “We removed the vampire equivalent of the human spleen, and that took care of the internal bleeding. We also went through him with a fine-toothed comb. Near as we can figure, he was in some kind of stasis in that oil drum, the Omega’s blood somehow preserving him in his current state in spite of the injuries. If he’d been left out, I’m very certain he would have died.”
