Lover Avenged

SIXTEEN

She was with him…oh, God, she was finally back with him.

Tohrment, son of Hharm, was naked and pressed against the flesh of his beloved, feeling her satin skin and hearing her gasp as his hand went to her breast. Red hair…red hair everywhere on the pillow he’d rolled her back against and on the white sheets that smelled like lemons…red hair wrapped around his thick forearm.

Her nipple was tight against his circling thumb and her lips soft beneath his own as he kissed her deep and slow. When she was begging for him, he was going to roll onto her and take her from above, driving into her hard, holding her down.

She liked the weight of him. She liked the feel of him covering her. In their life together, Wellsie was an independent female with a strong mind and a stubborn streak to rival a bulldog’s, but in bed, she liked him on top.

He dropped his mouth to her breast, sucking her nipple in, rolling it around, kissing it.

“Tohr…”

“What, leelan? More? Maybe I’ll have you wait…”

But he couldn’t. He nursed at her and stroked her stomach and her hips. As she writhed, he licked up to her neck and raked his fangs across her jugular. He couldn’t wait to feed. For some reason, he was starved for blood. Maybe he’d been fighting a lot.

Her fingers dug into his hair. “Take my vein…”

“Not yet.” The sting of delay was just going to make it better-the more he wanted it, the sweeter the blood.

Moving up to her mouth, he kissed her harder than before, his tongue penetrating her as he deliberately rubbed his cock against her thigh, a promise of another, deeper invasion down below. She was thoroughly aroused, her scent rising up through the lemony sheets, making his fangs pound in his mouth and the tip of his sex weep.

His shellan had been the only female he’d ever known. They’d both been virgins on their mating night-and he’d never wanted anybody else.

“Tohr…”

God, he loved the low sound of her voice. Loved everything about her. They had been promised to each other before they’d been born, and it had been love at first sight the moment they’d met. Destiny had been so kind to them.

He swept his palm down onto her waist, and then…

He stopped, realizing something was wrong. Something…

“Your belly…your belly is flat.”

“Tohr…”

“Where’s the young?” He pulled back in a panic. “You were with young. Where’s the young? Is he okay? What happened to you…are you all right?”

“Tohr…”

Her eyes opened, and the stare he had looked into for over a hundred years focused on him. Sadness, the kind that made you wish you’d never been born, drained the sexual flush from her beautiful face.

Reaching up to him, she put her hand on his cheek. “Tohr…”

“What happened?”

“Tohr…”

The sheen over her eyes and the quaver of her lovely voice snapped him in half. And then she began to drift away, her body disappearing under his touch, her red hair, her exquisite face, her despairing eyes fading so that only the pillows remained before him. Then in a final blow, the lemony smell of the sheets and her naturally clean scent left his nose, replaced by nothing-

Tohr jacked upright off the mattress, his eyes spilling over with tears, his heart aching as if he’d had nails driven into his chest. Breathing raggedly, he clutched at his breastbone and opened his mouth to scream.

No sound came. He didn’t have the strength.

Falling back against the pillows, he wiped his wet cheeks with hands that shook and tried to calm the hell down. When he finally caught his breath, he frowned. His heart was skipping in his rib cage, not so much beating as fluttering, and no doubt because of the erratic spasms, dizziness spun his head in a tight circle.

Pulling up his T-shirt, he stared down at his deflated pecs and his shrunken torso and willed his body to keep failing. The spells had been coming with increasing regularity and strength, and he wished to hell they’d just get organized and help him wake up dead. Suicide was not an option if you wanted to get into the Fade and be with your deceased loved ones, but he was operating under the assumption that you could effectively neglect yourself to death. Which wasn’t technically suicide, like eating a bullet or throwing a noose around his neck or doing a slit-the-wrist special would be.

The scent of food from out in the hallway had him looking at the clock. Four in the afternoon. Or was it morning? The drapes were drawn, so he didn’t know whether the shutters were up or down.

The knock that sounded was soft.

Which, thank fuck, meant it wasn’t Lassiter, who just came in whenever he wanted. Evidently fallen angels weren’t big on manners. Or personal space. Or boundaries of any kind. Clearly the great, glowing nightmare had been booted out of heaven because God hadn’t liked his company any more than Tohr did.

The quiet knock was repeated. So it must be John.

“Yeah,” Tohr said, letting his shirt fall as he pushed himself up on the pillows. His arms, once strong as cranes, struggled under the weight of his wilted shoulders.

The boy, who was no longer a boy, came in bearing a tray heavily laden with food, and a face full of baseless optimism.

Tohr glanced over as the burden was put on the bedside table. Herbed chicken and saffron rice and green beans and fresh rolls.

The shit might as well have been roadkill wrapped in barbed wire, for all he cared, but he picked up the plate and rolled out the napkin and took the fork and the knife and put them to use.

Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. More chewing. Swallow. Drink. Chew. Eating was as mechanical and autonomic as his respiration, something he was only dimly aware of, a necessity, not a pleasure.

Pleasure was a thing of the past…and a torture within his dreams. As he recalled his shellan up against him, naked, in lemony sheets, the fleeting image lit up his body from the inside out, making him alive, and not just living. The strike of his mortal match head faded quick, though, a flame with no wick to sustain it.

Chew. Cut. Chew. Swallow. Drink.

As he ate, the boy sat down in a chair by the closed drapes, elbow on knee, fist on chin, a living, breathing Rodin’s The Thinker. John was always like that lately, always with something on his mind.

Tohrment knew damn well what it was, but the solution that was going to end John’s sad preoccupation was going to hurt the kid like a bitch first.

And Tohr was sorry about that. Very sorry.

Christ, why couldn’t Lassiter have just left him where he’d lain in that forest? That angel could have kept right on going, but no, His Lordship Halogen had to be a hero.

Tohr shifted his eyes over to John and his gaze locked on the kid’s fist. The thing was huge, and the chin and jaw that rested on it were strong, masculine. The boy had turned out to be a handsome guy; then again, as Darius’s son, he’d had a good gene pool. One of the best.

Come to think of it…he really looked like D, a carbon copy, actually, except for the blue jeans. Darius wouldn’t have been caught dead in blue jeans, even fancy designer-distressed ones like the kind John was sporting.

Matter of fact…D had often assumed that exact position when he’d been stewing over life, pulling the Rodin, all frown and churn-

A flash of silver winked from John’s free hand. It was a quarter, and the kid was weaving the coin in and out and around his fingers, his version of a nervous twitch.

Tonight was more than John’s usual silent perching. Something had happened.

“What’s doing?” Tohr asked, his voice a rasp. “You okay?”

John’s eyes shot over in surprise.

To avoid the stare, Tohr looked down, speared some chicken, and put it in his mouth. Chew. Chew. Swallow.

Going by the shifting sounds, John was uncurling himself from his wood-burning routine slowly, as if he were afraid that sudden movements would spook away the question hanging between them.

Tohr glanced over again, and when he waited, John put the quarter in his pocket and signed with economy and grace, Wrath is out fighting again. V just told me and the guys.

Tohr was rusty with American Sign Language, but not that rusty. Surprise lowered his fork. “Wait…he’s still king, right?”

Yeah, but he told the Brothers tonight that he’s going back on rotation. Or I guess he’s been on rotation and kept it to himself. I think the Brotherhood’s pissed at him.

“Rotation? Can’t be. The king’s not allowed to fight.”

He is now. And Phury’s coming back, too.

“What the fuck? The Primale’s not supposed to…” Tohr frowned. “Is there some change in the war? Something going on?”

I don’t know. John shrugged and settled back into the chair, crossing his legs at the knee. Another thing Darius always did.

In the pose, the son seemed as old as the father had been, although that was less about the way John’s limbs were arranged and more about the exhaustion in his blue eyes.

“It’s not legal,” Tohr said.

Is now. Wrath met with the Scribe Virgin.

Questions started to buzz in Tohr’s head, his brain struggling with the unaccustomed load. In the midst of the disjointed swirl, it was hard to think coherently, and he felt as if he were trying to hold a hundred tennis balls in his arms; no matter how hard he tried, ones slipped through and bounced around, creating a mess.

He gave up trying to make sense of anything. “Well, that’s a change… I wish them luck.”

John’s low exhale pretty much summed it all up as Tohr unplugged from the world and went back to eating. When he was finished, he folded up the napkin neatly and took a final drink from the water glass.

He turned the TV on to CNN, because he didn’t want to think and he couldn’t handle the quiet. John stayed for about a half hour, and when he clearly couldn’t stand being still any longer, he got to his feet and stretched.

I’ll see you at the end of the night.

Ah, so it was afternoon. “I’ll be here.”

John picked up the tray and left with no pause, no hesitation. There had been plenty of both at first, as if each time he hit the door, he hoped that Tohr would stop him and say, I’m ready to face life. I’m going to soldier on. I’m better enough to give a shit about you.

But hope didn’t spring eternal.

When the door was shut, Tohr pulled the sheets off his stick legs and shuffled his feet over the edge of the mattress.

He was ready to face something, all right, but it wasn’t his existence. With a groan and a lurch, he stumbled into the bathroom, went to the toilet, and popped up the porcelain throne’s seat. Bending over, he gave the command and his stomach evacuated the meal without a fuss.

In the beginning, he’d had to cram his finger down his throat, but no more. He just clenched his diaphragm and up it all came, like rats fleeing an overflowing sewer.

“You gotta cut that shit out.”

Lassiter’s voice harmonized with the sound of the toilet flushing. Which so made sense.

“Christ, don’t you ever knock?”

“It’s Lassiter. L-A-S-S-I-T-E-R. How is it possible you’re still getting me confused with someone else? Do I need a nametag?”

“Yes, and let’s put it over your mouth.” Tohr sagged onto the marble and dropped his head into his hands. “You know, you can go home. You can leave anytime.”

“Get your flat ass in gear, then. ’Cuz that’s what’ll do it.”

“Now, there’s a reason to live.”

There was a soft chiming sound, which meant, tragedy of tragedies, the angel had just popped himself up onto the countertop. “So, what are we doing tonight? Wait, let me guess, sitting in morose silence. Or, no…you’re mixing it up. Brooding with soulful intensity, right? What a fucking wild child you are. Whoo. Hoo. Next thing you know, you’ll be opening for Slipknot.”

With a curse, Tohr stood up and went over to turn on the shower, hoping that if he refused to look at the loudmouth, Lassiter would get bored more quickly and move on to ruin someone else’s afternoon.

“Question,” the angel said. “When are we going to cut that rug that’s growing out of your head? Shit gets any longer, we’re going to have to mow it down like hay.”

As Tohr stripped out of his T-shirt and boxers, he enjoyed the only consolation to be had in suffering Lassiter’s company: He flashed the motherfucker.

“Man, flat ass is right,” Lassiter muttered. “You’re sporting a pair of deflated basketballs back there. Makes me wonder…Hey, I’ll bet Fritz has a bicycle pump. I’m just saying.”

“You don’t like the view? You know the door. It’s the one you never knock on.”

Tohr didn’t give the water time to warm up; he just got under the spray, and he cleaned himself for no good reason he knew of-he had no pride, so he didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of his hygiene.

The throwing up had a purpose. The showering…maybe it was simply habit.

Closing his eyes, he parted his lips and stood facing the nozzle. Water licked into his mouth, whisking away the bile, and as the sting left his tongue, a thought walked into his brain.

Wrath was out fighting. Alone.

“Hey, Tohr.”

Tohr frowned. The angel never used his proper name. “What.”

“Tonight is different.”

“Yeah, only if you leave me alone. Or hang yourself in this bathroom. Got six showerheads to choose from in here.”

Tohr picked up the bar of soap and went over his body, feeling the hard, jabbing thrusts of his bones and joints coming through his thin skin.

Wrath out alone.

Shampoo. Rinse. Turn back to the spray. Open mouth.

Out. Alone.

He ended the shower, and the angel was front and center with a towel, all manservant and shit.

“Tonight is different,” Lassiter said softly.

Tohr looked at the guy truly, seeing him for the first time, even though they had been together for four months. The angel had black-and-blond hair that was as long as Wrath’s, but he was no cross-dresser in spite of all the Cher dripping down his back. His wardrobe was straight-up army/navy, black shirts and camo pants and combat boots, but he wasn’t all soldier. Fucker was pierced like a pincushion and accessorized like a jewelry box, with gold hoops and chains hanging from holes in his ears and wrists and eyebrows. And you could bet the mountings were on his chest and below the waist-which was something Tohr refused to think about. He didn’t need help throwing up, thank you very much.

As the towel changed hands, the angel said with gravity, “Time to wake up, Cinderella.”

Tohr was about to point out that it was Sleeping Beauty when a memory came to him as if it had been injected into his frontal lobe. It was the night he’d saved Wrath’s life back in 1958, and the images came to him with the clarity of the actual experience.

The king had been out. Alone. Downtown.

Half-dead and bleeding into the sewer.

An Edsel had nailed him. A piece-of-shit Edsel convertible the color of a diner waitress’s blue eye shadow.

As near as Tohr could figure out later, Wrath had been on foot in pursuit of a lesser and barrel-assing around a corner when the boat of a car had plowed into him. Tohr had been two blocks away and heard the screeching brakes and the impact of some sort, and he’d been prepared to do absolutely nothing.

Human traffic accidents? Not his problem.

But then a pair of lessers had run past the alley he’d been standing in. The slayers had been hauling nut through the fall drizzle like they were being pursued, except there was no one riding their bumpers. He’d waited, expecting to see one of his brothers. None had come pounding along.

Didn’t make any sense. If a slayer had been hit by a car in the company of his cronies, they wouldn’t have left the scene. The others would have killed the human driver and any passengers, then packed their dead up in the trunk and driven off from the scene: The last thing the Lessening Society wanted was an incapacitated lesser leaking black blood on the street.

Maybe it was just coincidence, though. A human pedestrian. Or someone on a bike. Or two cars.

Only one set of squealing breaks though. And none of that would explain the pair of paled-out flip-heels who’d passed him like they were arsonists running from a fire they’d lit.

Tohr had jogged onto Trade and around the corner and caught sight of a human male in a hat and trench coat crouched over a crumpled body twice his size. The guy’s wife, who had been dressed in one of those petticoated, frothy fifties numbers, stood just beyond the headlights, huddled into her fur.

Her brilliant red skirt had been the color of streaks on the pavement, but the scent of the spilled blood hadn’t been human. It was vampire. And the one who’d been struck had long dark hair…

The woman’s voice had been shrill. “We need to take him to the hospital-”

Tohr had stepped in and cut her off. “He’s mine.”

The man had looked up. “Your friend…I didn’t see him… Dressed in black-he came out of nowhere-”

“I’ll take care of him.” Tohr had stopped explaining himself at that point and just willed the two humans into a stupor. A quick thought suggestion sent them back into their car and on their way with the impression that they had hit a trash can. He’d figured the rain would take care of the blood on the front of their car, and the dent they could fix on their own.

Tohr’s heart had been going as fast as a jackhammer as he’d leaned over the body of the heir to the race’s throne. Blood had been everywhere, leaking fast from a gash in Wrath’s head, so Tohr had shrugged out of his jacket, bit into the sleeve, and ripped off a strip of leather. After wrapping up the heir’s temples and tying the makeshift bandage as tight as he could, he’d flagged down a passing truck, pulled a gun on the greaser behind the wheel, and been chauffeured by the human out to Havers’s neighborhood.

He and Wrath had ridden in the back bed, with him keeping pressure on Wrath’s head wound, and the rain had been cold. A late-November rain, maybe December. Good thing it hadn’t been summer, though. No doubt the chill had slowed Wrath’s heart and eased his blood pressure.

Quarter of a mile from Havers’s, in the ritzy part of Caldwell, Tohr had told the human to pull over and brainwashed him on his way.

The minutes it had taken Tohr to walk to the clinic had been among the longest of his life, but he’d gotten Wrath there, and Havers had closed what had turned out to be a temporal artery slice.

It had been touch and go that next day. Even with Marissa there to feed Wrath, the king had lost so much blood, he hadn’t rebounded as expected, and Tohr had stayed for the duration, sitting in a chair by the bedside. As Wrath had lain so still, Tohr had felt as if the whole of the race were tipping between life and death, the only one who could take the throne locked into a sleep that was only a few firing neurons off a permanent vegetative state.

Word had gotten out and people had come undone. The nurses and the doctor. The other patients who had stopped by to pray over the king who would not serve. The Brothers, who had used rotary phones to call every fifteen minutes.

The collective sense was that without Wrath, there was no hope. No future. No chance.

Wrath had lived, however, waking up with the kind of crankiness that made you sigh in relief…because if a patient had the energy to be that pissy, he was going to pull through.

The following nightfall, after having been out cold for twenty-four hours straight and having scared the shit out of everyone around him, Wrath had unplugged the IV, dressed himself, and left.

Without a word to any of them.

Tohr had expected…something. Not a thank-you, but an acknowledgment or…something. Hell, Wrath was a gruff son of a bitch now, but back then? He’d been downright toxic. Even so…nothing? After he’d saved the guy’s life?

Kinda reminded him of the way he’d been treating John. And his brothers.

Tohr wrapped the towel around his waist and thought about the more important point of the memory. Wrath out there fighting alone. Back in ’58, it had been a stroke of luck that Tohr had been where he had and found the king before it was too late.

“Time to wake up,” Lassiter said.