by J. R. Ward
More crying.
He put his mouth to the fucker’s ear again. “I’m just revealing what everyone can see.”
With a sure and steady stroke, he drew the knife downward, tracing the orderly stacks of vertebra whilst his prey squealed like a pig. And then he shifted his knees to the back of the slayer’s legs, planted a palm on the thick of its shoulder… and reached in to lock a grip on the top of the spine.
What transpired as he threw all his strength upon his goal was nothing that a human could live through. The lesser, however, remained animated, even though afterward, respiration was no longer possible for him, and he would not be able to stand ever again: his core infrastructure, that which had defined his posture and his mobility, his height and girth, was now hanging from Xcor’s hand.
The slayer was still crying, tears seeping from its eyes.
Xcor sat back, and breathed heavily from the exertion. It would be a fine thing to leave this weakling here in its current state, its destiny to be a spineless waste forever, and he took a moment to enjoy the suffering and imprint this vision of punishment in his mind.
Remembering back through the years, he recalled being in a similar position. Reduced to raw emotion, down on the ground, naked and degraded.
You are as worthless as your face. Get out.
The Bloodletter had been coldly dismissive, his subordinates efficient and pitiless: Xcor’s arms and legs had been gripped and he had been carried to the mouth of the war camp’s cave—whereupon he had been tossed out as if they were removing horse excrement.
Alone and in the cold white snow of winter, Xcor had lain where he had landed much as this slayer was, incapacitated, at the mercy of others. He had been faceup, however.
Indeed, that hadn’t been the first time he’d been cast out. Starting with the female who had birthed him; then going through to the last orphanage he had stayed in, he’d had a long history of being denied. The war camp had been his final chance to find any community, and he had refused to be expelled from its confines.
He’d had to earn his way back in by bearing pain. And even the Bloodletter had been impressed at what he’d proven he could withstand.
Tears were for the young and females and castrated males. Too bad the lesson was wasted on this piece of—
“You’ve been busy.”
Xcor looked up. Throe had come out of nowhere, no doubt materializing to the scene.
“Are the women ready,” Xcor demanded gruffly.
“It’s time.”
Xcor endeavored to gather his strength. He had to take care of this mess—there was no leaving a twitching corpse behind for humans to find and extrapolate over until their heads exploded.
“There is a lavatory o’er there.” Throe pointed across the lawn. “Finish this and let us wash you.”
“As if I am a babe?” Xcor glared at his lieutenant. “I think not. You go back to the whores. I shall be there shortly.”
“You can’t bring your trophies.”
“And where would you suggest I leave them.” His tone suggested “up your ass” was an option, at least from his point of view. “Go.”
Throe disapproved, and disagreed, but nonetheless—and per protocol—he nodded and spirited away.
Left on his own, Xcor spared the desecrated carcass one last look. “Oh, get over yourself.”
The urge to further punish the weakness gave him the energy to stab the thing through the chest. The instant the steel tip penetrated, there was a pop, a flare… and then nothing but a stain on the grass where the lesser had lain.
Dragging himself to his feet, he took the spine of his prey and put it in his shoulder satchel with his other trophies.
It did not fit, one end protruding out the cinched top.
Throe had a point about the grisly bag of keepsakes. Damn it.
Dematerializing to the top of the bathroom shed, he left his trophies under the contours of the ventilation system and willed himself inside, where the sinks and the toilets were. He was quite sure the place smelled of fake air freshener, but nothing was able to penetrate the cloying, spoiled-meat stink of his prey.
Motion-activated lights came on as he moved around, creating a fluorescent haze. The basins were stainless steel and rudimentary, but the water ran cold and clean, and, leaning down, he cupped his hands and splashed his face once. Twice. Again.
So dumb to waste time on this tidy-up, he thought. Those prostitutes would remember nothing. And it wasn’t as if washing would improve the comeliness of his features.
On the other hand, best not to scare them into flight: Dragging them back was such a bore.
As he lifted his head, he saw himself in the crude metal sheets that were supposed to be mirrors. Even though the reflection was dull, he noted his ugliness and thought of Throe just now. In spite of the fact that the soldier had been out fighting all night, his handsome visage had appeared fresh as a daisy, his well-bred looks overshadowing the reality that he had slayer blood on his clothes and had been scraped and bruised.
Xcor, however, could have taken rest for two weeks straight, eaten a large meal, and fed from a fucking Chosen, and he would still appear as repulsive.
He rinsed his face one more time. Then looked around for something to use as a wipe-off. All there appeared to be were machines bolted into the wall for drying one’s hands with hot air.
His leather duster was filthy. The loose black shirt underneath was the same.
He left the facility with cold water dripping from his chin, reappearing up top on the roof. His bag was not secure enough here, and he was going to have to leave his scythe and his coat somewhere very safe.
As exhaustion dogged him, he thought… such a bloody fucking nuisance, all this.
SIXTEEN
Up high above the chaos of Caldwell, in the silent marble library of the Chosen, Tohr had a scream in his head that was so loud, it was a wonder that No’One didn’t cover her ears from the din.
He threw his hand out. “Give me that.”
Taking the volume from her, he forced his eyes to focus on the characters of the Old Language that had been so carefully constructed.
Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, blooded daughter of Relix, passed from the earth on this night, taking with her her unbirthed young, a son of some forty weeks.
Reading the short passage, he felt as if the whole event had happened a mere moment ago, his body submerging in that old, familiar river of grief.
He had to go over the symbols a couple of times before he could concentrate not only on what was there, but what wasn’t.
No mention of the Fade.
Sifting through other paragraphs, he sought the notations of other passings. There were a number.…
Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the—he flipped the page—earth unto the Fade.
“Oh, God…”
As a screeching noise echoed around, he did not lift his eyes. But abruptly, No’One started pulling on his arm.
“Sit, please sit.” She yanked hard. “Please.”
He let himself go, and the stool that she had dragged over caught his weight.
“Is there any chance,” he said in a guttural voice, “that they simply forgot to put it in?”
There was no need for No’One, or anybody else, to answer that question. The sequestered Chosen had had a sacred job, something they did not fuck up. And that kind of “oopsie” would be a big one.
Lassiter’s voice knocked on his inside door: That’s why I’ve come—I’m here to help you, help her.
“I have to go back to the mansion,” he mumbled.
Next move was to get to his feet, but that didn’t go well. Between a sudden weakness in his body and that fucking foot, he slammed into one of the stacks, the contour of his shoulder pushing a wave into the books whose spines were so carefully arranged. Annnnnnnd then it was a case of the floor tipping in the opposite direction, pitchi
ng him into free air.
Something small and soft got in the way of his falling.…
It was a body. A diminutive female body with hips and breasts that suddenly, shockingly imprinted on him even through the freak-out.
Instantly, the vision of No’One in that pool, her naked form glistening and wet, exploded like a land mine in his brain, the detonation so great that it blasted its way through everything that had been driving him.
It happened so fast: the contact, the memory… and the arousal.
Underneath the fly of his leathers, his cock punched out to its full length. Without apology.
“Let me help you back into the chair,” he heard her say from a vast distance.
“Don’t touch me.” He pushed her off. Stumbled away. “Don’t get anywhere near me. I’m… losing it.…”
Floundering his way down the stacks, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t… stand himself.…
As soon as he was free from the library, he raced away from the Sanctuary, returning his faithless body to his bedroom at the mansion.
He was still erect when he got there.
Duh.
Staring down at his button fly, he tried to find another explanation. Maybe he’d thrown a clot? A cock clot… or maybe… shit…
There was no way he could be attracted to another female.
He was a bonded male, goddamn it.
“Lassiter,” he looked around. “Lassiter!”
Where the fuck was that angel?
“Lassiter!” he bellowed.
When there was no reply, no burst-through-the-door, he was stuck alone… with his hard-on.
Rage curled his right hand into a fist.
With a vicious swing, he punched himself where it counted, nailing himself in the cojones—
“Fuck!”
It was like getting hit with a wrecking ball, and his skyscraper went down, the pain buckling him so fast he ate carpet.
As he retched and tried to push himself up on his knees, all the while wondering if he hadn’t done some serious internal damage, a dry voice filtered in through the ow-ow-ows.
“Shit, that musta hurt.” The angel’s face entered his line of watery vision. “On the plus side, you could probably sing Alvin’s part on a Christmas CD.”
“What…” Hard to talk. But then it was hard to breathe. And every time he coughed, he wondered if his balls were coming up his throat. “Tell me… the In Between…”
“You want to wait until you’re not hypoxic?”
Tohr snapped out a hand and gripped the angel’s biceps. “Tell me, motherfucker.”
It was a universal truth among males that anytime you saw a guy get it in the nuts, you experienced a shot of phantom pain in your own croquet set.
As Lassiter crouched beside the Brother’s pretzel of a body, he was feeling a little nauseous himself, and he took a moment to cup what hung between his legs—just to reassure the boys downstairs that however much of an iconoclast he was, some things were sacred.
“Tell me!”
Impressive that the guy could still summon the energy to yell. And, yeah, there was no maybe-later-after-you-recover option with a son of a bitch who could punch himself like that.
No reason to pad shit, either. Natch.
“The In Between is not really the jurisdiction of the Scribe Virgin or the Omega. It’s the Maker’s territory—and before you ask, that would be the creator of all things. Your Scribe Virgin, the Omega, all of it. There’s a couple ways of ending up there, but mostly it’s because you won’t let go or because someone won’t let go of you.”
When Tohr was silent, Lassiter recognized the signs of brain-fry and took pity on the poor son of a bitch.
Placing a hand on the Brother’s shoulder, he said gently, “Breathe with me. Come on, we’ll do it together. Let’s just breathe shit out for a minute.…”
They stayed there for the longest time, Tohr bowed around the front of his hips, Lassiter feeling like a plank.
In his long life, he had seen suffering in all its forms. Disease. Dismemberment. Disenchantment on epic scales.
Staring at his outstretched hand, he realized he had become detached from it all. Hardened by overexposure and personal experience. Separated from any compassion.
Man, he was the wrong angel for the job.
Helluva situation the pair of them were in.
Tohr’s eyes lifted, and they were so dilated, if Lassiter hadn’t known they were blue, he would have said they were black.
“What can I do…?” the Brother moaned.
Oh, man, he couldn’t stand it.
Abruptly, he got up and went to the window. Outside, the landscape was discreetly lit, the gardens far from resplendent in their nascent state. Indeed, spring was a cold, cruel incubator, summer’s wallowing warmth months off.
A lifetime away.
“Help me help her,” Tohr said hoarsely. “That’s what you told me.”
In the silence that followed, he had nothing. No voice. No thoughts, even. And this was in spite of the fact that unless he pulled something out of his ass, he was headed back to a hell custom-made for him, with no hope of escape. And Wellsie and that young were stuck in theirs. And Tohr was stuck in his.
He’d been so arrogant.
It had never dawned on him this wasn’t going to work. When he’d been approached, he’d been flippant, confident, and ready for the aftermath—which had been all about freedom for himself.
A struggle had never occurred to him. The concept of failure had not been anywhere near his radar screen.
And he’d never expected to give two shits about what happened to Wellsie and Tohr.
“You said you were here to help me, help her.” When there was no reply, Tohr’s voice lowered. “Lassiter, I’m on my knees here.”
“That’s because your balls are in your diaphragm.”
“You told me—”
“You don’t believe me, remember.”
“I saw. In the books on the Far Side. She is not in the Fade.”
Lassiter stared out at the gardens and marveled at how close to life they were—in spite of how shriveled and decrepit they appeared, they were about to burst forth and sing for spring.
“She is not in the Fade!”
Something grabbed him, spinning him around and slamming him ass-first into the wall so hard, if he’d had his wings on, they would have been snapped off.
“She is not there!”
Tohr’s face was twisted into a facsimile of its features, and as a hand clamped on his throat, Lassiter had a moment of clarity. The Brother could kill him, right here, right now.
Maybe that was how he ended up in the In Between again. Couple of head shots, then maybe a snapped neck, and poof! You failed. Hello, infinite nothingness.
Funny, he’d never even considered going back. Probably should have.
“You’d better open your fucking mouth, angel,” Tohr growled.
Lassiter traced that face again, measured the power in that body, took the temperature of the rage. “You love her too much.”
“She is my shellan—”
“Was. Goddamn you, was.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then a crack, and a light show, and a lot of pain. As well as a little wobble of the knees—not that he’d have admitted that.
The bastard had coldcocked him.
Lassiter shoved the guy off him, spit blood out on the carpet, and thought about hitting back. Fuck the fighting, though. If the Maker was going to reclaim him, then the Be All and End All was going to have to come get him; Tohr was not going to be airmailing him in.
Time to get the hell out of this room.
As he headed for the door, the muttered cursing from behind him was easily ignored. Especially given that he was wondering whether one of his eyes was hanging by its optic nerve.
“Lassiter. Fuck, Lassiter—I’m sorry.”
The angel wheeled around. “You want to know what the problem is?” He pointed right in
to the guy’s puss. “You are the problem. I’m sorry you lost your female. Sorry you’re still suicidal. Sorry that you have nothing to get out of bed for—or get into bed for. I’m sorry that you’ve got a boil on your ass and a toothache and goddamn fucking swimmer’s ear. You are alive. She is not. And your hanging on to the past is putting you both in an In Between.”
Catching his flow, he marched up to the cocksucker. “You want the fine print? Well, here it goddamn is. She is fading out—not heading for the Fade. And you are the reason it’s happening. This”—he motioned around the male’s stringy body and his bandaged foot and hand—“is why she’s there. And the longer you hold on to her, and your old life, and everything you lost, the less of a chance she has of getting free. You are in charge here, not her, not me—so how about you punch yourself again next time, asshole.”
Tohr dragged a shaking hand down his face, like he was trying to sand off his features. And then he clasped the front of his muscle shirt—right over his heart. “I can’t just stop… because her body did.”
“But you’re acting like it happened yesterday, and I’ve got no sense this is going to change.” Lassiter went over to the bed where the mating gown was laid out. Fisting the satin, he dragged the thing off by the thick skirt and shook it. “This is not her. Your anger is not her. Your dreams, your fucking pain… none of it is her. She is gone.”
“I know that,” Tohr shot back. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
Lassiter shoved the gown forward, the satin falling like a rain of blood. “Then say it!”
Silence.
“Say it, Tohr. Let me hear it.”
“She is…”
“Say it.”
“She is…”
When nothing came back at him, he shook his head and tossed the gown on the bed. Muttering under his breath, he went for the door again. “This is going nowhere. Unfortunately, the same is true for her.”
SEVENTEEN
As dawn grew near, Xhex wrapped up her first night back in her old boots. The pace of the hours had been good, the Ping-Pong nature of dealing with a fuckload of people in an enclosed space with alcohol in the mix making the time pass fast enough. It was also good to be Alex Hess, head of security, once again—her own female, even if the name she used among the humans was fake.
