by J. R. Ward
“What is your source for this?” Tohr asked.
“Well, in all honesty, I thought he would be here tonight.”
“Really.” Tohr glanced at the empty chairs and shrugged. “You want to tell me what you heard?”
“The male made reference to a visitation by the king. Similar to when Wrath came and saw me at my home over the summer.” This was reported with self-importance, as if that was the highlight of Wrath’s year, right there. “He said that the Band of Bastards shot at the king whilst on his property.”
Again with the no reactions.
“But obviously, your king survived.” The pause suggested Elan was expecting details to be filled in. “He’s doing rather well, as a matter of fact.”
There was a long silence, as if both sides of the conversation were expecting the other to put the quiet to good use.
Tohr cocked his brows. “With all due respect, you haven’t told us much of anything, and gossip has been going on since the beginning of time.”
“But here’s the odd thing. He also talked to me about it before it occurred. I didn’t believe him, however. Who would arrange for an assassination attempt? It seemed…simply the boasting of a male otherwise dissatisfied with the way things were being handled. Except then, a week later, he said that the Band of Bastards had followed through, that Wrath had been shot. I didn’t know what to do. I had no way of getting in touch with the king personally, and no way to verify that the individual was speaking the truth. I let it all go—until this meeting was called. I wondered if maybe it was…well. It clearly wasn’t, but then I wondered why he wasn’t here.”
Tohr stared down at the smaller male. “It would help if you gave us a proper noun.”
Now, Elan frowned. “You mean you don’t know who is on the Council?”
As Rehv rolled his eyes, Tohr shrugged. “We have better things to do than worry about Rehvenge’s membership.”
“In the Old World, the Brotherhood knew who we are.”
“There’s an ocean between us and the motherlands.”
“More’s the pity.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Qhuinn took a step forward, with the intention of stepping in, in the event the Brother locked hands on the SOB’s skinny neck: Someone should probably catch the head before it bounced all over their hosts’ rugs. And the deadweight of the body.
Seemed only hospitable.
“So who are you talking about,” Tohr pressed.
Elan looked around at the still, deadly males who were focused on him. “Assail. His name is Assail.”
* * *
Deep in downtown Caldwell, where the darkened streets formed a rats’ maze, and the sober humans were few and very far between, Xcor swung his scythe in a fat circle about five and a half feet up from the slushy, black-stained ground.
The lesser was caught in the neck, and the head, now freed from its spinal tether, flew chin over temple, chin over temple, through the cold, gusty wind. Black blood spiraled out from the severed arteries as the rudderless lower half of the body collapsed forward into a pratfall.
And that was that.
Rather disappointing, really.
Spinning around, he held his beloved over his shoulder so that she curled behind him protectively, watching his back as he braced himself for whatever was coming next. The alley he had entered to chase that now incapacitated slayer was open at the far end, and behind him, the three cousins were stationed shoulder-to-shoulder should more arrive from that direction—
Something was coming.
Something was…on a fast approach, the din of an engine growing louder and louder and—
The SUV skidded into the alley, its tires finding little or no purchase on the icy roadway. As a result of the lack of traction, the vehicle slammed into the wall, its high-beams blinding Xcor.
Whoever was behind the wheel didn’t hit the brakes.
The engine roared.
Xcor faced off at the vehicle and closed his eyes. No reason to keep his lids peeled, as his vision had ceased to function. No real concern who was driving, whether it was slayer, vampire or human.
They were coming at him, and he was going to stop that. Even though it was probably easier to get out of the way.
He had never particularly cared for easy, however.
“Xcor!” someone yelled.
Grabbing a deep breath of that icy air, he let out a battle cry as he tracked the approach, his senses reaching out and positioning the SUV in space as it traveled forward. His scythe disappeared in a moment, and his guns, eager to participate, came out in both palms.
He waited another twenty feet.
And then he started pumping off rounds.
With his silencers on, the bullets made only impact sounds as they blew out the front windshield, pinged off the grille, took out a tire….
At which point those blinding headlights swung away, the back end of the vehicle hinging around, the overall trajectory unchanged thanks to that tremendous acceleration—even as everything went haywire.
Just before the side panel took him out, Xcor leaped off the ground, his boots springing up, the roof just barely going under their treads as three thousand pounds plus of out-of-control streaked beneath his airborne body.
As Xcor’s combats landed back on the ground, the end of the car’s forward momentum came at the expense of a Dumpster, the trash receptacle stopping the vehicle better than any set of brakes could.
Xcor wasted no time in closing in, both guns up, triggers ready. Although he had discharged a number of rounds, he knew he had at least four left in each gun. And his soldiers had once again fallen in behind him.
Coming up to look inside, he didn’t care what he found: one of his own kind, a man or a woman, a lesser, it mattered not to him.
The smell of spoiled meat and treacle informed him which of his many enemies he confronted, and indeed, as he leaned in through the blown-out front windshield, two new recruits, who still retained their dark hair color and ruddy skin tones, were lolling in the front seat.
Even with their seat belts engaged, they were in rough shape. Aside from being riddled with bullets, their visages carried the wear and tear of their having banged around in the sedan’s cabin, slammed into the dashboard, and been pelted with shattered glass: Black blood greased up their busted noses and lacerated cheeks and chins, the shit dripping onto their chests as water from faucets in the bath.
No airbagas. Mayhap a malfunction.
“I dinnae think ye were gonna make it,” Balthazar muttered.
“Aye,” someone else agreed.
Xcor threw off the concern as he holstered his guns, grabbed hold of the driver’s side door, and yanked the thing clean off its mountings. As the squeal of metal torn asunder echoed in the alley, he tossed the panel aside, unsheathed his steel dagger, and leaned in.
As with all lessers, these denizens of the Omega still moved and blinked in spite of their catastrophic injuries—and would continue to do so in perpetuity if left in this state, even as their forms decayed over time.
There was one and only one way to kill them.
Xcor drew his right forearm across over his left shoulder and buried the blade of his dagger square in the chest of the one who had been behind the wheel. Turning his head aside and shutting his eyes so he wasn’t blinded again, he waited for the pop and flash to fade before leaning over the seat and doing the same to the passenger.
Then he turned to go over and dispatch the beheaded, squirming corpse…that had tire tracks across its chest, thanks to the car’s path through the alley.
Stalking through black-stained slush, he lifted his dagger hand again over his shoulder and buried the blade into the sternum with such power, the point of the weapon went into the asphalt.
When he rose to his feet once again, his breath left his nose in locomotive puffs. “Search the vehicle, and then we must needs depart.”
He checked the time. The Caldwell police were disappointing
ly responsive, even in this part of town—and the constant threat of human involvement that he lived under was, as always, a bore. But with all luck, they would be gone as if they had never been in a matter of minutes.
Sheathing his blade, he glanced up to the sky, cracking his neck and loosening his shoulders.
It was impossible not to think of that Council meeting which had been scheduled; it had been on his mind all night long. Had Wrath shown? Or had it only been Rehvenge and representatives of the Brotherhood? If the king had in fact been in attendance, Xcor could well imagine the agenda: show of strength, warning, then a quick departure.
As mighty as the Brotherhood was, and as much as Wrath would want to flex his muscle before that group of faithless aristocratic sycophants, it was hard to imagine that a male who’d nearly been killed so recently was going to take any chances: If solely through self-interest, the Brotherhood would want him alive, as that was their seat of power, too.
And that was why he’d chosen to stay away.
There was no harm in letting Wrath attempt to regain some of his lost stature, and much to lose in a direct confrontation with the Brotherhood in front of that particular audience: The potential for collateral damage was too great. The last thing he wanted was to spook the glymera into retreating from him…or kill them off altogether in the process of taking out the king.
But he had in fact discovered, thanks to Throe’s contacts, exactly where and when the assembly was occurring. Which would be now…and at that female’s estate, the one from whom his soldiers had fed in that little cottage.
Evidently, she was willing to allow others the use of not only her garden, but her halls as well.
And soon enough, he would have a transcript of what had transpired provided to him by the mouthpiece that was Elan—if for no other reason than that the male would want to enjoy the access that he’d had and show off a bit—
A whistle of appreciation by the back end of the ruined car brought his head around.
Zypher was standing by the open trunk door, his brows high as he bent in and brought out…a cellophane-covered brick of something white.
“’Tis quite a bounty they have,” he said, holding it high.
Xcor marched over. There were three more like it, just tossed into the back loose as if the pair of slayers had been more concerned with their physical safety than the disposition of the drugs.
At that moment, sirens began to sound from the east, mayhap related to the crash, mayhap not.
“We take the packages with us,” Xcor ordered. “And depart the now.”
FIFTY-FOUR
All in all, the date wasn’t half-bad.
As Sola got up from her chair and started to put her coat on, Mark came in behind her and helped settle the wool on her shoulders.
The way his hands lingered suggested he was more than open to this being the end of dinner, but the beginning of the rest of the night. He wasn’t pushy, though. He stepped back and smiled, indicating the way to the exit with a gallant hand.
Moving in front of him, it seemed like some kind of mental-health felony that he didn’t make her blood boil…and yet that highly aggressive, dominating man from the night before did.
She was going to have to give her libido a pep talk. Or maybe a spanking…
Perhaps from that other guy, part of her suggested.
“No,” she muttered.
“Sorry, what?”
Sola shook her head. “Just talking to myself.”
After wending their way through the crowd, they got to the restaurant’s door, and wow, what a sinus-clearer when they stepped out into the night.
“So…” Mark said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his well-developed torso bunching up—and yet still not managing to get close to the size of—
Stop it.
“Thanks for dinner, you didn’t have to pay.”
“Well, this was a date. You said so.” He smiled again. “And I’m a traditional kind of guy.”
Do it, she said to herself. Ask him if you can go back to his house.
After all, there could be no hanky-panky going on at hers. Ever. Not with her grandmother upstairs—the woman’s deafness was highly selective.
Just do it.
This is why you asked him….
“I’ve got an early-morning meeting,” she blurted. “So I have to head off. But thank you very much—and I’d like to do this again.”
To give Mark credit, he covered any disappointment he might have felt with another of those winning grins.
“Sounds good. This was cool.”
“I’m just parked back here.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “So…”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Thanks.”
They were silent as their boots crackled through the salt that had been put down over the ice.
“Nice night.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
For some reason, her senses began to fire in warning, her eyes searching the darkness outside of the lit parking lot.
Maybe it was Benloise coming after her, she thought. He undoubtedly knew by now that someone had broken into his home and his safe, and had also probably noticed the shift in that statue’s position. Hard to know whether he would retaliate, though. In spite of the business he was in, he had a certain code of conduct that he adhered to—and on some level, he must be aware that what he’d done in canceling that job and cutting her pay had been wrong.
He would most certainly understand the message.
Besides, she could have taken everything he’d locked up.
Approaching her Audi, she disengaged the alarm. Then she turned around and looked up.
“I’ll call you?”
“Yes, please,” Mark said.
There was a long pause. And then she reached a hand up, slid it behind his neck, and drew his mouth down to her own. Mark immediately went with the invitation, but not in a pushy, domineering way: As she tilted her head, he did the same, and their lips met, brushing lightly, then with a little more pressure. He didn’t crush her to him, or trap her against the car…there was no sense of out-of-control.
No feeling of great passion, either.
She broke the contact. “I’ll see you soon.”
Mark exhaled hard, like he’d gotten turned on. “Ah, yeah. I hope so. And not only in the gym.”
He lifted his hand, smiled one last time, and walked to his truck.
With a quiet curse, Sola got behind her wheel, shut the door, and let her head fall back against the rest. In the rearview mirror, she watched his taillights come on, and saw him make a fat turn and head out of the parking lot.
Closing her lids, she didn’t see Mark’s gleaming smile, or imagine his lips against hers, or feel his hands roaming her body.
She was back to being outside of that cottage looking in, playing witness to a pair of hot, slightly evil eyes looking up at her over the exposed breast of another woman.
“Oh, for the love of God…”
Shaking herself out of the memory, she feared that in this case, her craving for, oh, say, chocolate, was not going to be eased by a diet soda. Or a Snackwell’s cookie. Or even one single Hershey’s Kiss.
At this rate, she was going to have to melt down a case of Lindt truffles and run them through an IV directly into her vein.
Putting her foot on the brake, she hit the button on the dash and heard the engine flare to life. As the headlights lights came on—
Sola jerked back into her seat and let out a scream.
* * *
When Qhuinn returned to the mansion with the others, he broke rank as soon as he was through the vestibule and into the grand foyer. Moving at a quick jog, he mounted the staircase and headed directly to Layla’s room: According to her texts, she’d decided to leave the clinic after all, and he was anxious to find out how she was doing.
Knocking on the door, he started praying. Again.
Nothing like pregnancy t
o make an agnostic religious.
“Come in?”
At the sound of her voice, he braced himself and ducked inside. “How’re you feeling?”
Layla looked up from the Us Weekly magazine she was reading on the bed. “Hi!”
Qhuinn recoiled at the cheerfulness. “Ah…hi?”
Glancing around, he saw Vogue, People, and Vanity Fair on the duvet around her, and across the way, the TV was nattering on, a commercial for underarm deodorant segueing into one for Colgate toothpaste. There were ginger ales and saltines on the side table next to her, and then, on the opposite stand, a cleaned-out carton of Häagen-Dazs and a couple of spoons on a silver tray.
“I’m feeling really nauseous,” Layla said with a smile. Like that was good news.
He supposed it was. “Any…you know…”
“Not in the slightest. Not even a little. I’m not throwing up, either. I just have to make sure I eat a little all the time. Too much and I feel sick—same if I go too long without putting something in there.”
Qhuinn eased back against the jambs, his legs literally wobbling from relief. “That’s…awesome.”
“Do you want to sit down?” As if he were looking as pale as he suddenly felt.
“No, I’m good. I’m just…I’ve been really worried about you.”
“Well, as you can see”—she indicated her body—“I’m just doing my thing—and thank the Virgin Scribe for that.”
As Layla smiled over at him, he really liked the way she looked—and not from any sexual sense of the word. It was just…she appeared calm and relaxed and happy, her hair down loose over her shoulders, her coloring perfect, her hands and her eyes steady. In fact, she seemed…really healthy all of a sudden, that sallow cast to her skin now noticeable for its absence.
“So I guess you’ve had some visitors,” he commented, as he nodded to the mags and the dead soldier of ice cream.
“Oh, everyone’s been by. Beth stayed the longest. She stretched out right next to me—we didn’t talk about anything in particular. We just read and looked at pictures and watched a Deadliest Catch marathon. I love that show—it’s where all these humans go out on boats into the sea? It’s very exciting. Made me feel glad to be warm and on dry land.”
