by J. R. Ward
At first, the scent entered her nose surreptitiously, weaving in and amidst the mix of fresh dirt and wet stone and urban pollution. So initially, she didn’t notice the odor as anything distinctive.
Her brain stem soon came alive in recognition, however.
With a tingle of instinct, her head turned of its own volition, cranking around on the top of her spine. Her shoulders followed . . . then her hips.
That rancid odor was the enemy.
A lesser.
As she fell into a light jog, she felt in her blood an aggression that was not solely tied to her heartache and frustration at what fate had wrought upon her. Closing in on the scent, she was animated by a deep heritage of violence and protection, her limbs and her dagger hand and her fangs prickling. Transformed by deadly purpose, she was neither male nor female, neither Chosen nor sister nor daughter. As she dodged and surmounted the alleys and streets, she was a soldier.
Into an alley she turned, and at the base of it, she found the pair of slayers whose scent had called her forth from the river. Standing together, clustered around what she identified as a phone, they were new recruits, with dark hair and twitchy bodies.
They did not look up as she stopped. Which gave her time to pick up a silver metal disk with FORD marked on it. ’Twas a fine weapon—one she could block with or use to throw.
A moment later, the wind blew up and frothed her robe, pulling it out from her body, and the movement must have caught their eyes, because they turned.
Knives came out. And so did a pair of smiles that made her blood boil.
Silly boys, she thought. Thinking that as a female, she would present no contest.
The saunters with which they approached her were nothing she saw fit to disrupt. In fact, she was going to enjoy the surprise that they would receive—and ultimately not survive.
“What you doing out here, girlie?” the bigger of the two asked. “All alone.”
I’m about to cut your throat open with what I have behind my back. After which I shall break both of your legs, not because I have to, but because I shall enjoy the sound. And then I will locate something steel with which to pierce your empty chest cavity and send you back to your maker. Or mayhap I’ll leave you to writhe on the ground.
Payne stayed silent. Instead of talking, she distributed her weight equally between her braced feet and sank down onto her thighs. Neither of the lessers seemed to notice the change in position; they were too busy coming up to her and showing off like peacocks. And neither did they split and flank her. Or have one engage her face-to-face so the other could come from behind.
They stayed right in front . . . where she could reach them.
Alas, this was going to be but a good warm-up. Although perhaps some others who knew something about proper fighting would show up to amuse her . . .
Xcor could feel the stirring change in his bastards.
As they walked in formation through the streets of downtown Caldwell, the energy behind him was a drumming beat of aggression. Sharp. Refreshed. Stronger than it had been for a decade.
Indeed, moving here had been the best decision he’d ever made. And not just because he and Throe had had some good sex and a drink the night before. His males were as daggers pulled quick from the forge, their killing instincts renewed and glinting in the artificial moonlight of the city. No wonder there had been no slayers in the Old Country. They were all here, the Lessening Society having focused all its efforts—
Xcor’s head shifted around and he slowed.
The scent on the air made his fangs elongate and his body thump with power.
His change of direction was nothing to announce. His bastards were right with him, tracking as he did the sickly sweet sting that was upon the wings of the night gusts.
As they rounded the corner and surfed down a straightaway, he prayed for many. A dozen. A hundred. Two hundred. He wanted to be covered with the blood of the enemy, bathing in the black oil that animated their flesh—
At the mouth of an alley, his feet didn’t so much stop as become cemented unto the ground.
Betwixt one blink and the next, the past rushed forward, surmounting the distance of interceding months and years and centuries to come to fruition in the present.
Centered in the alleyway, a female in a billowing white robe was fighting a pair of lessers. She held them off with kicks and punches, pivoting and jumping around so fast that she had to wait for them to come back at her.
With her superior fighting skills, she was but toying with them. And there was a very clear impression that they didn’t recognize all she was holding back.
Lethal. She was lethal and just waiting to strike.
And Xcor knew exactly who she was.
“She is—” Xcor’s throat cut off the rest of the words.
To have searched for aeons and be ever denied this target . . . only to find it upon a random evening in a random city across a vast ocean . . . was manifest destiny.
They were meant to meet again.
Here. This night.
“She is the killer of my father.” He withdrew his scythe from its harness. “She is the murderer of mine own blood—”
Someone caught his hand and froze his arm. “Not here.”
The fact that it was not the bleeding-heart Throe was the only thing that stopped him. It was Zypher.
“We take her and bring her home.” The warrior laughed darkly, the erotic tone in his voice deepening. “You have been relieved, but there are others among us who require what you had last night. After that? Then you can teach her the repercussions of vengeful acts.”
Zypher was the one among them mostly likely to think up a plan like that. And though the idea of slaughtering her outright held vast appeal, Xcor had waited too long not to savor her demise.
So many years.
Too many years—until he had given up hope of finding her, only his dreams keeping alive the memory of what had defined him and given him his position in life.
Yes, he thought. It would be fitting to have this done the Bloodletter’s way. No easy out for the female.
Xcor resettled his scythe, just as the murderess went to work properly on the slayers. Without warning, she leapt forward and took one of them at the waist, ducking under its flailing arms and driving it back against the building. It happened so fast that the second lesser was too surprised—and obviously untrained—to save its friend.
Although even if number two had been more of a match for her, it wouldn’t have stood a chance. In virtually the same moment as she attacked, the female spun out a hubcap from behind her and it hit the slayer right in the neck, slicing deep and distracting it immediately from the quest to get her. As black oil sprang forth and its knees wobbled, she dispatched the slayer she had pinned against the brick by punching it twice in the face and once in the Adam’s apple. Then she picked it up bodily and slammed it down upon her upraised knee.
The crack of the spine was loud.
And as it faded, she spun around to confront those who had been watching her work. Which was not a surprise. Someone as good as she was would have been immediately aware that others were upon her.
Tilting her head to one side, she was not alarmed—but then, why would she be? They were in the shadows and very clearly of her species: Until Xcor revealed himself, she would have no idea the danger she was in.
“Good evening, female,” he said in a low tone from the darkness.
“Who is there?” she called out.
Now is the time, he thought, stepping forward into a shaft of light—
“We are not alone,” Throe whispered abruptly.
Xcor stopped his advance, his eyes narrowing on the seven slayers that had stepped into view at the far end of the alley.
Indeed. They were very much not alone.
And later, Xcor would come to believe that the only reason he successfully took the female into his custody was the arrival of those fresh lessers. The advancing front of the enemy demande
d her eyes—and her attention. But before she could dematerialize into another position, Xcor was upon her.
In spite of the way his heart was pounding, vengeance gave him the focus to scatter his molecules just as she turned to confront the squadron which approached. His steel cuff went upon her wrist in the blink of an eye, and as she wheeled around with bald fury in her face, he was reminded of the incineration she had cast upon his sire.
What saved him was a lesser’s gunshot.
The pop was of little note, but its consequence was of spectacular benefit: Just as she was lifting her free hand to lay upon him, her leg went loose and she tumbled toward the ground, the bullet clearly having hit something vital. And in her moment of weakness, Xcor dominated her—he had one chance to get her under his control. If he didn’t take it, he was not sure he would walk away from this.
Slapping the other cuff on her free wrist, he then grabbed her braid and wound it around her throat. Pulling the hair tight, he cut off her air supply just as his fighters surged forward with weapons drawn.
Oh, how she struggled. So valiant. So powerful.
She was but a female . . . except so much more than that. She was nearly as strong as he was, and that was not her only advantage. Even captured and on the verge of asphyxiation, her pale eyes remained locked on his own, until he felt as though she could reach into his mind and take over his very thoughts.
But he would not be daunted. Whilst the sounds of fighting broke out in the alley, he held the diamond stare of his sire’s killer as his huge arms cranked the noose tighter and tighter about her neck.
Struggling to breathe, she gasped and writhed, her lips moving.
Dipping down his ear, he wanted to hear what she had to—
“. . . why . . . ?”
Xcor recoiled, just as the fight went out of her and those stunning eyes rolled back into her head.
Dearest Scribe Virgin, she didn’t even know who he was.
FIFTY-ONE
As man caves went, V had always thought that the billiards room at the Brotherhood’s mansion had it all. Giant-screen TV with surround sound. Couches with enough padding to qualify as beds. Fireplace for heat and that attractive smolderingember shit. Bar with every conceivable drink, soda, cocktail, tea, coffee, beer, whatever in it.
And a billiards table. Duh.
The only “bad” thing was a bene, anyway: The popcorn machine was a recent addition—and an odd sort of battlefield. Rhage loved to play with the damn thing, but every time he did, Fritz got nervous and wanted in on the action. Either way, it was cool. The little wicker baskets would get filled and then whichever of the pair hadn’t done the loading and dispensing got a shot at it.
As Vishous waited to take his next pool shot, he snagged a square of blue chalk and polished the tip of his cue. Across the green felt, Butch bent over and lined up his angles while Rick Ross’s “Aston Martin Music” pumped.
“Seven in the corner,” the cop said.
“You’re going to make that, aren’t you.” V put the chalk back down and shook his head as there was a smack, a roll, and a clunk. “Bastard.”
Butch glanced over, a whole lot of “gotcha” glowing on his puss. “I’m just that good. Sorry, sucker.”
The cop took a drink from his Lag and repositioned himself on the other side of the table. As he sized up the balls, his smart-ass smile was right where it should be: front and center, revealing that slightly off porcelain cap.
V had been keeping his eye on the guy. After they’d spent hours alone together, they’d parted awkwardly and taken separate showers. Fortunately, though, the hot water had been a reset for them both, and when they’d met up again in the Pit’s kitchen, it had been business as usual.
And shit had remained that way.
Not that there wasn’t the temptation to ask the guy whether all was still cool. Like, every five minutes. It felt like they had fought a battle together, and were sporting the stress fractures and the fading black-and-blues to prove it. But V was going with what was in front of him: his best friend whipping his ass at pool.
“And that’s game over,” the cop announced as the eight ball circled and got good and sunk.
“You beat me.”
“Yup.” Butch grinned and raised his glass. “You want another round.”
“You bet your balls.”
The scent of melted butter and the buckshot sound of kernels going apeshit announced Rhage’s arrival—or maybe Fritz’s? Nope, it was Hollywood over by the machine with his Mary.
V leaned back so he could look through the archway, across the foyer and into the dining room, where the butler and his staff were setting up Last Meal.
“Man, Rhage is playin’ with fire,” Butch said as he started to rack up the balls.
“I give Fritz thirty seconds before he’s—Here he comes.”
“I’m going to pretend I’m not here.”
V took a swig of his Goose. “Me too.”
While they got busy grabbing balls, Fritz came steaming across the foyer like a missile seeking a heat source.
“Watch your ass, Hollywood, true?” V muttered as Rhage came over with a basket of popped-and-fluffy.
“It’s good for him. He needs the exercise—Fritz! How are you, buddy?”
While Butch and V rolled their eyes, Rehv came in with Ehlena under his mink-clad arm. The Mohawked motherfucker was bundled up, as usual, and he was as always relying on his cane, but his matedmale perma-grin was in place, and his shellan was glowing at his side.
“Boys,” he said.
Various grunts greeted him as Z and Bella came in with Nalla, and Phury and Cormia arrived because they were spending the day. Wrath and Beth were likely still up in the study—maybe looking at paperwork; maybe putting George briefly at the head of the stairs so they could have some “private time.”
When John and Xhex came down with Blay and Saxton, the only people not in attendance were Qhuinn and Tohrment, who were likely in the gym, and Marissa, who was at Safe Place.
Well, those three and his Jane, who was down in the clinic restocking the supplies that had been drained from the other night.
Oh, and of course his twin, who was no doubt . . . “um, yeahing” . . . with that surgeon of hers.
With all the new arrivals in the room, the sound of deep voices multiplied and exploded as people poured drinks and passed the baby around and copped handfuls of popcorn. Meanwhile, Rhage and Fritz were opening a fresh load of kernels. And someone was changing the channels on the TV—likely Rehv, who was never satisfied with whatever was on. And another person was poking at the roaring fire.
“Hey. You still all right?” Butch said softly.
V camouflaged his startle routine by taking a hand-rolled out of the pocket of his leathers. The cop had spoken so quietly there was no way anyone else had heard it, and this was a good thing. Yeah, he was trying to ditch the ultrareserved shit, but he didn’t want anyone to know how far he and Butch had gone. That was private.
Flicking up a light, he inhaled. “Yeah. I really fucking am, true.” Then he glanced into the hazels of his best friend. “And . . . you?”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Heeeeeeeeeeey, check his shit out with the relating. Any more of this and he was going to get a gold star on his chart.
A knuckle tap later and Butch was back to the game, lining up his first shot as V basked in the glow of interrelating like a pro.
He was taking another hit from his short-and-squat of Goose when his eyes skipped to the arched doorway of the room.
Jane hesitated as she glanced inside, her white coat opening as she leaned to the side, as if she were looking for him.
When their eyes met, she smiled a little. And then a lot.
His first impulse was to hide his own grin behind his Goose. But then he stopped himself. New world order.
Come on, smile, motherfucker, he thought.
Jane gave a sho
rt wave and played it cool, which was what they usually did when they were together in public. Turning away, she headed over to the bar to make herself something.
“Hold up, cop,” V murmured, putting his drink down and bracing his cue against the table.
Feeling like he was fifteen, he put his hand-rolled between his teeth and tucked his wife-beater tightly into the waistband of his leathers. A quick smooth of the hair and he was . . . well, as ready as he could be.
He approached Jane from behind just as she struck up a convo with Mary—and when his shellan pivoted around to greet him, she seemed a little surprised that he’d come up to her. “Hi, V . . . How are—”
Vishous stepped in close, putting them body to body, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist. Holding her with possession, he slowly bent her backward until she gripped his shoulders and her hair fell from her face.
As she gasped, he said exactly what he thought: “I missed you.”
And on that note, he put his mouth on hers and kissed the ever-living hell out of her, sweeping one hand down to her hip as he slipped his tongue in her mouth, and kept going and going and going . . .
He was vaguely aware that the room had fallen stone silent and that everything with a heartbeat was staring at him and his mate. But whatever. This was what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it in front of everyone—and the king’s dog, as it turned out.
Because Wrath and Beth came in from the foyer.
As Vishous slowly righted his shellan, the catcalls and whistling started up, and someone threw a handful of popcorn like it was confetti.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Hollywood said. And threw more popcorn.
Vishous cleared his throat. “I have an announcement to make.”
Right. Okay, there were a lot of eyes on the pair of them. But he was so going to suck up his inclination to bow out.
