Lover Unleashed bdb-9

by J. R. Ward

  The cuffs burned away, falling down to the packed dirt floor with a clanking.

  And the male before her leaped back and braced into a fighting stance while the others grabbed for weapons. But she was not going to attack—at least, not physically.

  “Listen to me now,” she proclaimed. “I am birthed of the Scribe Virgin. I am of the Chosen Sanctuary. So when I say unto you the Bloodletter, my father, bore no other male issue, that is fact.”

  “Untrue,” the male breathed. “And you—you cannot have been born unto the Mother of the race. There is none born unto her—”

  Payne lifted her glowing arms. “I am what I am. Deny it at your peril.”

  The male’s complexion drained of what color had been in it, and there was a long, tense standoff, as conventional weapons pointed in her direction and she glowed with holy fury.

  And then the head soldier’s fighting stance relaxed, his hands falling to his sides, his thighs straightening. “It cannae be,” he choked out. “None of it . . .”

  Fool male, she thought.

  Kicking up her chin, she declared, “I am the begotten issue of the Bloodletter and the Scribe Virgin. And I say to you now”—she stepped forward to him—“that I killed my father, not yours.”

  Lifting her palm, she peeled back and slapped him across the face. “And do not insult my blood.”

  As the female struck him, Xcor’s head whipped so far and so fast to the side that he pulled his shoulder in the attempt to keep the damn thing stuck to his spine. Blood immediately flooded into his mouth, and he spit some of it out before righting himself.

  Verily, the female before him was majestic in her fury and her resolve. Nearly as tall as he was, she stared him straight in the eye, her feet planted, her hands in fists she was prepared to use against him and his band of bastards.

  No ordinary female, this. And not just because of the way she had dissolved those cuffs.

  In fact, as she met his gaze full-on, she reminded him of his father. She had the Bloodletter’s iron will not just in her face or her eyes or her body. It was in her soul.

  Indeed, he had the very clear sense that they could all fall upon her and she would fight them each and every until the last breath and beat of her heart.

  God knew she slapped like a warrior. Not some limp-wristed female.

  But . . .

  “He was my father. He told me that.”

  “He was a liar.” At that, she did not blink. Nor did she duck her eyes or her chin. “I have witnessed within the seeing bowls countless bastard daughters. But there was one and only one son, and that is my twin.”

  Xcor was not prepared to hear this in front of his males.

  He glanced over at them. Even Throe had armed himself, and on each of their faces was impatient rage. One nod from him and they would set upon her, even if she incinerated them all.

  “Leave us,” he commanded.

  Not surprisingly, Zypher was the one who started to argue. “Let us hold her whilst you—”

  “Leave us.”

  There was a beat of immobility. Then Xcor screamed, “Leave us!”

  In a flash, they peeled off and disappeared up the stairwell to the darkened house above. Then the door was shut, and footsteps rang out from up above as they paced around like caged animals.

  Xcor refocused on the female.

  And for the longest time, he just stared at her. “I have searched for you for centuries.”

  “I was not upon the Earth. Until now.”

  She remained unbowed as he confronted her in private. Totally unbowed. And as he searched her face, he could feel a glacial shift in the ice fields of his heart.

  “Why,” he said roughly. “Why did you . . . kill him.”

  The female blinked slowly as if she didn’t want to show vulnerability and needed a moment to make sure she put none out. “Because he hurt my twin. He . . . tortured my brother, and for that he needed to die.”

  So perhaps the lore had a veracity after all, Xcor thought.

  Indeed, like most soldiers, he had long known the gossiped story of the Bloodletter having demanded for his begotten son to be pinned upon the ground and tattooed . . . and then castrated. The tale had it that the wounding had been but partial—it was rumored that Vishous had magically burned through the binds that had held him and then escaped into the night before the cutting had been complete.

  Xcor looked over to the cuffs that had fallen from the female’s wrists—burned off.

  Lifting his own hands, he stared down at the flesh. That had never glowed. “He told me I was born unto a female he had visited for blood. He told me . . . she didn’t want me because of my . . .” He touched his malformed upper lip, leaving the sentence unfinished. “He took me and . . . he taught me to fight. At his side.”

  Xcor was vaguely aware that his voice was rough, but he didn’t care. He felt as though he was looking into a mirror and seeing a reflection of himself he did not recognize.

  “He told me I was his son—and he owned me like his son. After his death, I stepped into his boots, as sons do.”

  The female measured him, and then shook her head. “And I say unto you that he lied. Look into my eyes. Know that I speak the truth you should have heard long, long ago.” Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “I know well the betrayal of blood. I know that pain which you feel now. It is not right, this burden you carry. But base not a vengeance on fiction, I beg of you. For I shall be forced to kill you—and if I do not, my twin will hunt you down with the Brotherhood and make you pray for your own demise.”

  Xcor searched into himself and saw something he despised, but could not ignore: He had no memory of the bitch who had born him, but he knew too well the story of how she had cast him out from the birthing room because of his ugliness.

  He had wanted to be claimed. And the Bloodletter had done that—the physical disfigurement had never mattered to that male. He had cared only about the things Xcor had had in abundance: speed, endurance, agility, power . . . and deadly focus.

  Xcor had always assumed he’d gotten that from his father’s side.

  “He named me,” he heard himself say. “My mother refused to. But the Bloodletter . . . named me.”

  “I am so very sorry.”

  And the strangest thing? He believed her. Once ready to fight to the death, she now appeared to be saddened.

  Xcor paced off from her and walked around.

  If he was not the son of the Bloodletter, who was he? And would he still lead his males? Would they follow him into battle e’er again?

  “I look into the future and see . . . nothing,” he muttered.

  “I know how that feels as well.”

  He stopped and faced the female. She had linked her arms loosely over her breasts and was not looking at him, but at the wall across the way from her. In her features he saw the same voided emptiness he had within his own chest.

  Pulling his shoulders up, he addressed her. “I have no issue to settle against you. Your actions directed unto my”—pause—“the Bloodletter . . . were taken for your own valid reasons.”

  In fact, they had been driven by the same blood loyalty and vengeance that had animated his search for her.

  As a warrior would, she bowed at the waist, accepting his reversal and the clearing of the air between them. “I am free to go?”

  “Yes—but ’tis daylight.” When she looked around at the bunks and cots as if imagining the males who had wanted her, he interjected, “No ill shall befall you herein. I am the leader and I . . .” Well, he had been the leader. “We shall pass the day upstairs for your privacy. Food and drink are upon the table o’er there.”

  Xcor made the concessions for modesty and provision not because of the bullshit propriety issues that revolved around a Chosen. But this female was . . . something he respected: If anyone was likely to understand the importance of revenge against an insult upon your family, it was him. And the Bloodletter had done permanent damage to her brother.


  “Upon nightfall,” he said, “we shall take you out from here blindfolded, as you cannot know where we tarry thus. But you shall be released unharmed.”

  Turning his back on her, he went over to the only bunk that did not have an upper layer. Feeling like a fool, he nonetheless straightened the rough blanket. There was no pillow, so he bent down and picked up a stack of his laundered shirts.

  “This is where I sleep—you may use this for your rest. And lest you feel worried for your safety or virtue, there is a gun under each side upon the floor. But worry not. You shall find yourself arriving unto the sunset in safety.”

  He did not take a formal vow upon his honor, for verily, he had none. And he did not look back as he took to the stairs.

  “What is your name?” she said.

  “You do not know that already, Chosen?”

  “I know not everything.”

  “Aye.” He put his hand on the rough banister. “Neither do I. Good day, Chosen.”

  As he mounted the stairs, he felt as though he had aged centuries since he had carried the unanimated, warm body of that female underground.

  Opening the stout wooden door, he had no idea what he would be walking into. Following his announcement of his status, his males could well caucus and decide to shun him—

  There they all were, in a semicircle, Throe and Zypher bookending the group. Their weapons were in their hands, and their faces were death-knell grim . . . and they were waiting for him to say something.

  He closed the door and leaned back against it. He was no coward to run from them or what had happened down below, and he saw no benefit to padding what had been revealed with careful words or pauses.

  “The female spoke the truth. I am not a blooded relation of the one who I thought was my sire. So what say you all.”

  They didn’t utter a word. Didn’t look at each other. And there was no hesitation.

  As one, they fell down upon their knees, sinking to the floorboards, and bowing their heads. Throe spoke up.

  “We are e’er yours to command.”

  Upon the response, Xcor cleared his throat. And did it again. And one more time. In the Old Language, he pronounced, “No leader has o’erseen stronger backs with greater loyalty than those gathered afore me.”

  Throe’s eyes lifted. “It has not been the memory of your father that we have served all these years.”

  There was a great whoop of agreement—which was better than any vow that could have been spoken in flowery language. And then daggers were buried in the wooden floorboards at his feet, the hilts clasped in the fists of soldiers who were, and remained, his to send forth.

  And he would have left things there, but his long-term plans demanded a revelation and a further confirmation.

  “I have a larger purpose than fighting parallel to the Brotherhood,” he said in a quiet tone, so that the female on the lower level could hear naught. “My ambitions are a death sentence if discovered by others. Do you understand what I’m saying.”

  “The king,” someone whispered.

  “Aye.” Xcor looked into each of their eyes. “The king.”

  None of them glanced away or got up. They were a solid unit of muscle and strength and lethal determination.

  “If that changes anything for any of you,” he demanded, “you shall tell me now and you shall leave at nightfall, ne’er to return without penalty of death.”

  Throe broke ranks by dropping his head. But that was as far as it went. He did not get up and walk away, and no one else did either.

  “Good,” Xcor said.

  “What of the female,” Zypher said with a dark smile.

  Xcorshook his head. “Absolutely not. She deserves no punishment.”

  The male’s brows popped. “Fine. I can make it good for her, instead.”

  Oh, for chrissakes, he was just too much like the damned Lhenihan . “No. You shall not touch her. She is a Chosen.” This got their attention, but he was going to go no further with the revelations. He’d had quite enough of them. “And we are sleeping up here.”

  “What the hell?” Zypher got to his feet and the rest followed. “If you say she is off-limits, I shall leave her alone, as will the others. Why—”

  “Because that is what I decree.”

  To buttress the point, Xcor sat down at the foot of the door, putting his back in place against the panels. He trusted his soldiers with his life in the field, but that was a beautiful, powerful female down there, and they were rutting, horny sonsabitches, the lot of them.

  They would have to get through him to get to her.

  After all, he was a bastard, but he was not completely codeless, and she deserved protection she likely did not need for the good deed she had done him.

  Killing the Bloodletter?

  Now, that had been a favor to Xcor, as it turned out.

  Because it meant he did not have to render the liar’s demise upon the fucker’s ugly head himself.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Manny was behind the wheel of his car, hands cranked down hard, eyes sharp on the road in front of him, when he took a tight turn . . . and drove right into exactly the kind of scene Vishous had described.

  About. Fucking. Time. It had taken him only a good three hours of making boxes and boxes around block after block after cocksucking block to run across the damn thing.

  But yeah, this was what he was looking for: In the ten a.m. sunlight that bled in between the buildings, a slick, oily mess gleamed all over the pavement and the brick walls and the Dumpster and those chicken-wired windows.

  Popping the clutch, he flipped the gearshift into neutral and hit the brakes.

  The instant he opened the door, he recoiled. “Fucking hell . . .”

  The stench was indescribable. Likely because it shot directly into his nose and shut down his brain, it was so frickin’ awful.

  But he did recognize it. The guy with the Sox hat had reeked of it that night Manny had operated on the vampires.

  Cocking his phone, he called up Vishous’s supersecret number and hit send. The line barely rang once before Payne’s twin answered.

  “I got it,” Manny said. “It’s everything you told me about—man, the smell. Right. Yeah. Got it. Talk to you in two.”

  As he hung up, part of him was losing it, thinking of Payne’s possibly have been involved in what was clearly a bloodbath. But he kept it together as he searched around for something, anything, that could tell them what had happened—

  “Manny?”

  “Motherfucker!” As he spun on his heel, he grabbed his cross—or maybe it was his heart, so the damn thing didn’t break out from behind his sternum. “Jane?”

  The ghostly form of his former head of trauma solidified before his eyes. “Hi.”

  His first thought was, Oh, God, the sun—which showed just how much his life had changed. “Wait! Are you okay with daylight—”

  “I’m fine.” She reached out and calmed him. “I’ve come to help—V told me where you were.”

  He gripped her shoulder briefly. “I am . . . really fucking glad to see you.”

  Jane gave him a quick, hard hug. “We’re going to find her. I promise.”

  Yeah, but what kind of condition was she going to be in?

  Working together, the pair of them scoured the alleyway, weaving in and out of both the shadows and the lit parts. Thank God it was still early and this was a deserted part of the city, because he was not in a mind-set where he could deal with the complication of people—especially the police—showing up.

  Over the next half hour, he and Jane went through every square inch of the alley, but all they found were the remnants of drug use, some litter and a number of condoms he had no intention of looking very closely at.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “Goddamn nothing.”

  Fine. Whatever. He was just going to keep moving, keep combing, keep hoping—

  A rattling sound snapped his head around and then took him over to the Dumpster.


  “Something’s making a noise over here,” he called out as he knelt down. Except knowing their luck, it was nothing more than a rat having breakfast.

  Jane came over just as he reached under the bin. “I think . . . I think it’s a phone,” he grunted as he stretched and paddled with his fingertips, hoping to get purchase—“Got it.”

  Easing back, he found that, yup, it was a busted-up cell phone and the thing was ringing on vibrate, which explained the noise. Unfortunately, whoever was calling dumped into voice mail just as he tried to hit answer and got locked out.

  “Man, there’s inky shit all over it.” He wiped his hand clean on the edge of the Dumpster—which was saying something. “And the thing’s password-protected.”

  “We need to take it back to V—he can hack into anything.”

  Manny got to his feet and looked over at her. “I don’t know if I’m allowed there.” He tried to hand the phone over. “Here. You take it, and I’ll see if I can find any other sites like this.”

  Although honestly, it seemed like he’d been through all of downtown.

  “Wouldn’t you rather know what’s going on firsthand?”

  “Fuck, yeah, but—”

  “And if V finds something, wouldn’t you rather go out to deal with it with the right equipment?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “So haven’t you ever heard of doing something and apologizing after the fact?” As he popped a brow, she shrugged. “It’s how I dealt with you at the hospital for years.”

  Manny tightened his hand on the cell phone. “Are you serious?”

  “I’ll drive us back to the compound, and if anyone has a problem, I’ll take care of it. And may I suggest we stop by your house first and get anything you might need to stay a while?”

  He slowly shook his head. “If she doesn’t come—”

  “No. We don’t say ‘doesn’t.’ ” Jane’s eyes were dead on his. “When she comes home, no matter how long it takes, you will be there. V said you’ve left your job—because Payne told him. And we can talk about that later—”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. The St. Francis board all but asked me to resign.”