Lover Reborn

TWENTY

From the vantage point behind binoculars, the mansion on the far side of the Hudson River looked enormous, a massive stack-on-stack of floors that sat boldly upon a rocky bluff. On every of its levels, lights glowed through glass panels, as if the thing had no solid walls.

“Quite a palace,” Zypher remarked in the thick, balmy breeze.

“Aye,” came a reply over on the left.

Xcor dropped the binocs from his eyes. “Too much exposure to daylight. ’Tis a roasting waiting to happen.”

“Mayhap he kitted out the basement,” Zypher said. “With more of those marble tubs…”

Given the tone of his voice, the soldier was imagining females of different sorts in water with suds, and Xcor shot him a glare before resuming the watch.

Such a waste this was. Assail—son of one of the greatest Brothers there had ever been—could have been a fighter, a warrior, mayhap even a Brother, but his fallen Chosen mother had forced another path upon him.

Although one could argue if the bastard had had any cock at all, he would have forged his own destiny in pursuits other than those of marble tubing. As it stood, however, he was simply another useless drain upon the species, a dandy with naught worthwhile to do with his nights.

Although that could all change this evening.

Under these clouded skies, against the backdrop of flashes of lightning, this male was significant, at least for a short time. Granted, the circumstances of his relevancy might cost him his life, but if the history books served their purposes, he could well be remembered for playing a small role in the great turning point of the race.

Not that he knew any of this, of course.

Then again, one didn’t expect chum to be aware it was attracting sharks.

Scanning the rolling grounds once again, Xcor decided the lack of trees and shrubs was the result of the clearing process prior to construction. No doubt an aristocrat would want manicured gardens; the fact that it made the house more difficult to get up close to was not the kind of thing Assail would consider.

The good news was that although it was likely there was steel in the structure of the house—as part of support beams, floor pinnings, roof joists—at least one could get in and out through all that glass.

“Ah, yes, here is the proud homeowner now,” Xcor growled at the figure of a male striding out into the grand living room.

Not even drapes to hide his presence. It was as if he were a hamster in a cage.

The male deserved to die for being this stupid, and indeed, on Xcor’s back, his scythe began to hum a little dirge.

Xcor increased the binoculars’ magnification. Assail was taking something out of his breast pocket—a cigar. And naturally, the lighter was a gold one. He probably thought fire, like packaged meat, came only from stores.

It was going to be a pleasure to kill him.

Along with the others who would soon show up here.

Indeed, the glymera’s Council had effectively stonewalled Xcor and his Band of Bastards. No invitation to a meeting. No greeting by its leahdyre, Rehvenge. Not even an official response to the letter that had been sent in the spring.

At first, this had frustrated him to the point of violence. But then a little birdie had begun to chirp in his ear, and another path had been revealed.

The best weapon in a war was often not a dagger, a gun, or even a cannon. It was something that was invisible and deadly—yet not poisonous gas. It was something that was utterly weightless and yet had gravity beyond measure.

Information, solid, verified information, from a source inside your enemy’s camp, was atomic-bomb powerful.

His missive to the Council had in fact been received, and what was more, it was being taken seriously. The great Blind King, whilst saying nothing, had immediately commenced meeting with the heads of all the remaining bloodlines—in person, at their places of residence.

Bold move in a time of war—and it proved Xcor’s challenge had a basis in reality: A king did not risk his life like that unless he was out of touch with his subjects and being forced to reconnect.

In retrospect, it was even better than a meeting with the Council. There were a limited number of its members left, and all of them had known abodes. Wrath had already had audiences with the majority, and, thanks to that little birdie, Xcor was well aware of who was left.

Shifting his focus around, he assessed the roof. The porches. The chimney on the near side.

According to Xcor’s source, Assail had arrived back in the spring, assumed ownership of this sieve of a homestead, and… that was all the aristocrats knew. Well, other than the odd notables that the male had brought no one with him—no family, no staff, no shellan—and that he kept to himself. Both were unusual for a member of the glymera, but then mayhap he was waiting to see how things fared in this new environment afore bringing his blood to him and entertaining others of his ilk.…

There had been a younger brother, hadn’t there? Also coddled by that fallen Chosen mother of theirs. Perhaps a half sister of some ill repute?

Behind him, Xcor heard his soldiers stretch, their leather creaking, their weapons shifting. Up above, storm clouds continued to release intermittent flashes of light, with the base drum of thunder remaining as yet in the distance.

He should have assumed from the very beginning that it would come down to this: If he wanted Wrath off the throne, he was going to have to do it himself. Relying on the glymera for anything more than unfounded delusions of grandeur had been a mistake.

At least he had his in on the Council. In the aftermath, when things got messy, he was going to need the support. Fortunately, there were more people who agreed with him than did not: Wrath was nothing but a figurehead, and whereas in times of peace that was tolerable, in this era of war and strife it was insupportable.

The Old Ways could keep that male where he didn’t belong for just so long. In the meantime, Xcor would wait for the proper moment, and strike decisively.

It was time for Wrath’s reign to be relegated to a soon forgotten footnote.

“I hate waiting,” Zypher muttered.

“ ’Tis the only virtue that matters,” Xcor shot back.

In the foyer of the Brotherhood’s mansion, everyone was gathering to go out for the night, the males milling around at the foot of the grand staircase, their weapons gleaming on their chests and at their hips, their brows drawn over cold eyes, their bodies mincing about like those of stallions whose hooves could not be stilled.

From the shadows outside the butler’s pantry, No’One waited for Tohrment to come down and join them. He was usually among the first, but of late he had tarried longer and longer—

There he was, at the head of the second-floor landing, clad in black leather.

As he descended, he took the banister casually.

She was not fooled.

He had grown e’er weaker over the last few months, his body wasting away, until it was clear that only his will for vengeance animated him.

He was starved for blood. And yet he obviously refused to yield to that demand of the flesh.

So thus she nervously waited and watched at the beginning of every night and the end: Every sundown she hoped he would come down finally refreshed. Every near-to-dawn, she found herself praying he arrived back alive.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he—

“You look like shit,” one of his Brothers said.

Tohrment ignored the comment as he went over to stand next to the massive young male who had mated Xhexania. The pair were a team, from what she could tell, and she was grateful for it. The younger had to be a full-breed, in spite of his nomenclature, and she had heard many references to his prowess in the field. Further, that particular fighter was never alone: Behind him, as faithfully as a reflection, was a downright nasty-looking soldier, one with mismatched irises and a calculation to his stare that suggested he was as smart as he was strong.

She had to believe that both would intercede if Tohrment were in danger.

“Enjoying the view? I’m not.”

She hissed and spun around, her robe’s hem flaring out. Lassiter had come through the pantry without her knowing and was filling the open doorway, his blond-and-black hair and his gold piercings catching the light of the fixture above him.

His knowing eyes were always something to escape from, but at least at the moment, that white stare was not on her.

Crossing her arms over her chest and tucking her hands into the robe’s sleeves, she resumed her own regard of Tohrment. “In truth, I do not know how he is still fighting.”

“It’s time to stop pussyfooting around with him.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but took a guess. “There are Chosen here who make themselves available for feeding. Surely he could use one of them?”

“You’d fucking think.”

Standing in concert, their focus wavered for but a moment as Wrath, the Blind King, appeared at the head of the stairs and walked down to the assembled. He was dressed for war, too, and his beloved dog was not with him—he was led now by his queen, the two in such synchronization that they moved with the same posture, gait, poise.

Tohrment had had that once, she thought.

“I wish there was some way of helping him,” she murmured. “I would do anything to see him with aid as opposed to alone in his suffering.”

“Do you mean that,” came a dark response.

“Of course.”

Lassiter put his face in her vision. “Do you really mean that.”

She went to take a step back, but found herself blocked by the jamb. “Yes…”

The angel put his palm out for her to clasp. “Swear to it.”

No’One frowned. “I do not understand—”

“You maintain you would do anything—I want you to swear to that.” Now those white eyes burned. “We’ve stalled out since the spring, and we didn’t have endless time back then. You say you want to save him, and I want you to commit to that—no matter what it takes.”

Abruptly, as if the memory had been purposely put in her mind—perhaps by the angel, more likely by her conscience—she remembered those moments after her birthing of Xhexania, when her physical pain and her mental anguish had been one and the same, the balance finally equalized as the agony in her heart for all she had lost was made manifest in her very core.…

Unable to bear her burdens, she had taken Tohrment’s dagger from his chest holster and used it in a way that had made him scream.

His hoarse cry had been the last thing she’d heard.

Staring up at the angel, she wasn’t stupid, and she was no longer naive. “You are suggesting I feed him.”

“Yeah. I am. It’s time to take this to the next level.”

No’One had to steel herself before she looked back at Tohrment. But as she took in his frail body, she came to a resolve: He had buried her… so surely she could force herself to accept him at her vein in order to give him life.

Assuming he would agree to take what was offered.

Assuming she could make herself.

Indeed, even in the hypothetical, her body trembled at the thought, but her mind rejected the response of her flesh. This was not a male interested in anything from her. In fact, he would be the only male she could safely feed.

“A Chosen’s blood would be purer,” she heard herself say.

“And get us nowhere.”

No’One shook her head, refusing to read anything into that statement. Then she took the angel’s hand. “I shall serve his blood needs, if he comes to me.”

Lassiter bowed ever so slightly. “I’ll take care of that part. And I’m going to hold you to this.”

“You shall not have to. My vow is my vow.”

TWENTY-ONE

Standing in the foyer with his brothers, Tohr had a bad feeling about the way the night was going to go. Then again, he’d woken up from that dream of his Wellsie and the young, the one he had had from time to time, but only truly understood since Lassiter had provided the context. He knew now that the two were in the In Between, huddled under a gray blanket in the midst of a dark gray landscape that was cold and unyielding.

They were gradually moving off into the distance.

The first time he’d had the vision, he’d been able to pick out each individual hair on his shellan’s head… and the quarter-moon whites at the tips of her fingernails… and the way the blanket’s rough fibers caught the strange, ambient light…

As well as the contours of the tiny bundle she cradled against her heart.

Now, though, she was yards off, the gray ground between them something that he tried to cross, but was unable to cover. And just as dire, she had lost all color, her face and hair now tinted with the gray of the prison she was trapped in.

Naturally, he’d been insane when he woke up.

For fuck’s sake, he’d done everything he could to move on in the last few months: Put the dress away. Gone down for First and Last Meals. Tried cocksucking yoga, transcendental bullcrap, and even gotten on the Internet to research grief stages and other psychobabble bullshit.

He’d attempted to not think of Wellsie consciously, and if his subconscious burped up a memory, he quashed it. When his heart ached, he pictured those f-in’ white doves released from cages, and dams bursting, and shooting stars, and a bunch of other dumb-ass metaphoricals that belonged on motivational posters.

And still he’d had that dream in shades of gray.

And still Lassiter was here.

It wasn’t working—

“Tohr? You with us,” Wrath barked out.

“Yeah.”

“You sure about that.” After a moment, Wrath’s wraparounds swung back to the rest of the group. “So we do this. V, John Matthew, Qhuinn, and Tohr on me. Everyone else in the field, ready to come in as backup.”

There was a shout of agreement from the Brothers, and then they were all filing through the vestibule.

Tohr was the last through the door, and just as he got to the jambs, something made him stop and look over his shoulder.

No’One had stepped out from somewhere, and stood on the edge of the depiction of the apple tree in the floor, her hood and robe making her seem like a shadow that had suddenly gone 3-D.

Time slowed and then ground to a halt as he met her eyes, some strange pull keeping him where he stood.

In the intervening months since the spring, he had seen her at meals, had forced himself to speak with her, had pulled out chairs and helped to serve her as he did the other females in the house.

But he hadn’t been alone with her, and he’d never touched her.

He felt like he was touching her now, for some reason.

“No’One?” he said.

Her arms unfolded from out of her sleeves and her hands lifted to the hood that covered her face. With grace, she revealed herself to him.

Her eyes were luminous and a little scared, her features as perfect as they had been back in the spring at the Sanctuary. And down lower, her throat was a perfect, pale column of flesh… which she touched lightly with fingertips that trembled.

From out of nowhere, hunger struck him hard, the need reverberating through his body, lengthening his fangs, parting his lips—

“Tohr? What the fuck?”

V’s sharp voice broke the spell, and with a curse, he looked over his shoulder. “I’m coming—”

“Good. ’Cuz the king’s waiting for you, true.”

Tohr glanced back across the foyer, but No’One was gone. As if she had never been.

Rubbing his eyes, he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. Had he exhausted himself to the point of hallucination—

If he was seeing things, it wasn’t exhaustion, some part of him pointed out.

“Don’t say another word,” he muttered as he brushed past his brother. “Not one goddamn thing.”

As V started talking under his breath, it was obviously a litany of all of Tohr’s faults, real and imagined, but whatever. At least that shit was keeping the fucker’s mouth busy as they strode out toward Wrath, John Matthew, and Qhuinn.

“Ready,” Tohr announced.

None of them needed to about-fucking-time him verbally. Their expressions were loud enough.

Seconds later, the five of them rematerialized on the rolling lawn of a house so big you could keep an army in it. Tragically, only the owner was in residence, because that was all that was left of the bloodline.

They had been to so many houses like this over the last few months. Too many. And the stories were all the same. Families decimated. Hope gone. Those left behind limping, not living.

The Brotherhood did not take for granted that these visits were welcome, even though, naturally, no one turned down the king. And they did not take chances: With their guns in their hands, the formation they assumed as they approached the door was with Tohr in front of Wrath, V to the rear, John at the king’s dagger hand, and Qhuinn on the other side.

Two more meetings like this to go and they could take a breather—

What went down next proved that tits up could happen in an instant.

Abruptly, the world started spinning, the sprawling antique house twisting and turning sure as if it had eggbeaters for a foundation.

“Tohr!” someone barked out.

A hand grabbed him. Somebody else cursed.

“Has he been shot?”

“Motherfucker—”

With a curse, Tohr shoved everyone off of him and regained his balance. “For chrissakes, I’m fine—”

V crawled so far up into his grill, the bastard was practically inside his nose. “Go home.”

“Have you lost your mind—”

“You’re a liability here. I’m calling in for backup.”

Tohr was ready to argue, but Wrath just shook his head. “You need to feed, my brother. It’s time.”

“Layla’s prepared for it,” Qhuinn tacked on. “I’ve been keeping her going on this side.”

Tohr looked at the four of them and he knew he’d lost. Christ, V already had his phone to his ear.

He also knew on some level they were right. But, God, he didn’t want to face that ordeal again.

“Go home,” Wrath commanded.

V put his cell away. “Rhage’s ETA is—bingo.”

As Hollywood appeared, Tohr cursed a couple of times. But there was no fighting them… or his reality.

With all the enthusiasm of someone facing a limb amputation, he returned to the mansion… to go find the Chosen Layla.

Fuck.

Through his binoculars, Xcor watched the venerable Assail stride into a massive kitchen and pause at a window that faced the direction of the bastards.

The male was still sinfully handsome with dark, viciously black hair and tan skin. Features were so aristocratic, he actually looked intelligent—although that was the thing with the glymera. Often people with fine countenances and fit bodies were mistakenly assumed by others to have the brains to match.

As the vampire fell into some kind of activity, Xcor frowned and wondered if he wasn’t seeing things. Alas… no. It appeared that the male was indeed checking the mechanism of a gun as if he were used to doing so. And after he tucked the weapon under that precisely tailored black suit jacket, he picked up another and went through the same motions.

Strange.

Unless the king had warned him there could be trouble on the visit? But no, that would be daft. If you were the seat of power for the race, you would not want to appear under siege.

Especially if in fact you were.

“He’s departing,” Xcor announced as Assail appeared to head for the garage. “He is not meeting Wrath. At least not tonight—or certainly not here. Let us cross the river. Now.”

In a flash, they dematerialized, reassuming their forms in the stand of pines at the edge of the property.

He’d been wrong about the landscaping, Xcor realized. There were circular patches all over the lawn where the grass was filling in, and here, around the back of the house, there was a neatly stacked pile of not simply logs, but whole trees.

As well as an ax buried in a stump, and a bow saw… and corded wood newly cut for burning.

So the male had some doggen, at least. And apparently a respect for how important it was to not provide coverage for attackers. Unless the removals had been for the sake of the view?

Not much but forest on this side of the house.

Indeed, Assail did not appear to be the average aristocrat, Xcor thought grimly. The question was why.

The door to the garage bay closest to the house began to rise soundlessly, its ascent unleashing an ever-broadening pool of light. Inside, a powerful engine revved, and then some variety of low-slung, shiny black thing eased out in reverse.

As the vehicle stopped dead and the door began to descend, it was clear Assail was waiting patiently for the house to be secured before he left.

And then when he took off, it was not fast; and it was not with his headlights on.

“We follow him,” Xcor commanded, collapsing the binoculars and securing them at his belt.

By dematerializing at intervals, they were able to track the male down the river toward Caldwell. The pursuit presented no challenge at all: In spite of being behind the wheel of what appeared to be a sports car of some speed, Assail seemed to feel no urgency… which, under other circumstances, Xcor would have chalked up to the male being a typical aristocrat with nothing better to do than look good in a leather seat.

But mayhap not so in this case.…

The car stopped at all the red lights, avoided the highway, and penetrated the downtown area’s alleys and streets with the same lack of alacrity.

Assail went left, then right… left again. Another left. Still more turns, until he was in the oldest part of the city thicket, where the brick office buildings were dilapidated, and missions and food kitchens serving the homeless were more common than for-profit businesses.

A more circuitous route there could not have been taken.

Xcor and his band of bastards kept on him by flashing from rooftop to rooftop, a practice that became tricky as the conditions degraded.

Except then the car stopped in a tight alley between a tenement house that had been condemned and the crumbled shell of a walk-up. As Assail got out, he puffed on his cigar, the sweet smoke drifting up on the currents of air to Xcor’s nose.

For a moment, Xcor wondered if they had been lulled into a trap—and as he went for his gun, his soldiers did likewise. But then a large black sedan made a fat turn and rolled into the lane. As it halted afore him, Assail’s preferred positioning became clear. Unlike the new arrivals, the vampire had parked at the head of a four-way, so that he could go in any direction.

Wise if one wanted to get away.

Humans emerged from the other car. Four of them.

“You here alone?” the one in front asked.

“Aye. As you asked.”

The humans shared looks that suggested the male’s compliance was crazy. “Do you have the money?”

“Aye.”

“Where is it?”

“In my possession.” The male’s English was similar to Xcor’s—thickly accented—but there the comparison ended. That was a high-class drawl down there, not a rough brogue. “Have you my goods.”

“Yeah, we got it. Let’s see the cash.”

“After I inspect what you have brought me.”

The man doing the talking took out a gun and pointed it at the vampire’s chest. “That’s not the way we’re going to do this.”

Assail released a puff of blue smoke and rolled the cigar between the tips of his fingers.

“Did you hear what I said, asshole?” the human barked as the three behind him disappeared hands into their suit jackets.

“Aye.”

“This is going to be done the way we want, asshole.”

“That would be ‘Assail,’ kind sir.”

“Fuck you. Gimme the cash.”

“Hm. Indeed. So you have demanded.”

Abruptly the vampire’s eyes locked on that human’s, and after a moment, the autoloader in that meaty palm began to vibrate ever so slightly. Frowning, the guy focused on his hand, as if he were sending it a command.

“That is not how I do business, however,” Assail murmured.

That gun muzzle gradually began to move, shifting away from the vampire and moving in a broad circle farther and farther afield. With growing panic, the man gripped his own wrist, as if he were fighting another, but naught of his effort derailed the changing trajectory.

Whilst the weapon was gradually turned on its own operator, the other men began to shout and shuffle about. The vampire said nothing, did nothing, remaining utterly calm and in control as he froze those three in place, locking their bodies but not their faces. Oh, those expressions of panic. Rather delightful.

When the gun was up to the man’s temple, Assail smiled, flashing white teeth that gleamed in the darkness.

“Permit me to show you how I do business,” he said in a low voice.

And then the human pulled the trigger and shot himself in the head.

As the body dropped to the pavement and the sound of the shot echoed around, the remaining men’s eyes drew wide in horror even as their bodies remained immobilized.

“You,” Assail said to the one closest to the sedan. “Bring me what I bought.”

“I-I-I…” The man swallowed hard. “We don’t got nothing.”

With hauteur worthy of a king, Assail countered, “I’m sorry, what did you say.”

“We dint bring nothing.”

“And why not.”

“Because we was going to…” The man had to take another stab at swallowing. “We was going to…”

“You were going to take my money and leave me for dead?” When there was no reply, Assail nodded. “I can see the value in that. And no doubt you’ll understand what I must do now.”

While the vampire puffed on his cigar, the man who had been speaking began to reposition his own gun, the muzzle ending up upon his temple.

One by one, three more shots rang out.

And then the vampire sauntered over and extinguished his cigar in the dead mouth of the first to go down.

Xcor laughed softly as Assail returned to his vehicle.

“Do we follow him?” Zypher asked.

Wasn’t that the question. There were lessers to fight here in the downtown area, and there was no reason to care if Assail was making money off the addictions of humans. Still, there was a lot of night left to be utilized, and there might as yet be a meeting between the male and the king forthcoming.

“Aye,” Xcor replied. “But only myself and Throe. If there is a rendezvous with Wrath we will find you.”

“This is why we all need cell phones,” Throe said. “Faster, better coordination.”

Xcor ground his teeth. Since their arrival in the New World, he had allowed Throe to engage one such cellular, and no others: A fighter’s sense of smell and hearing, his instinct honed by training and practice, his knowledge of his enemy and himself, these did not come with a monthly bill, the need for recharging, or the threat of being laid aside and lost or stolen.

Ignoring the commentary, Xcor ordered, “The rest of you go forth and find the enemy.”

“Which one,” Zypher said with a hearty laugh. “There are a growing number from which to choose.”

Indeed. For Assail was not behaving like an aristocrat. He was acting like a male who might be trying to build some kind of empire of his own.

It was entirely possible this member of the glymera was Xcor’s kind of vampire. Which meant he might well have to be eliminated at some point—and not simply as collateral damage.

There was room for only one king in Caldwell.

TWENTY-TWO

As Tohr resumed form at the Brotherhood mansion, he was pissed off at the world. Rankly ugly. Rattlesnake mad.

Pushing his way into the vestibule, he prayed that Fritz just released the lock remotely and didn’t go the personal route. No one needed to see him like this—

His prayers were answered as the inner door gave way, and he marched into the foyer to an audience of nobody: All around the first floor the house was silent, the doggen taking the opportunity to attend to the upstairs bedrooms before beginning preparations for Last Meal.

Shit. He probably needed to text Phury about where Layla was—

On a sudden, gripping instinct, his head cranked around on the top of his spine, his eyes focusing on the dining room.

Some inner cue told him to get walking, the impulse carrying him through the arches, past the long, glossy table… and out the flap door into the kitchen.

No’One was at the counter cracking eggs into a ceramic bowl.

Alone.

She stopped in midstrike, her hood coming up and turning to face him.

For some reason, his heart started beating hard. “Did I imagine you?” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did I imagine you in the foyer before I left.”

No’One slowly lowered her hand, the egg saved from shattering. Temporarily. “No. You did not.”

“Take your hood off again.”

It was not a question, but a demand—the kind of thing Wellsie would never have stood for. No’One, on the other hand, solemnly obeyed him.

And there she was, revealed to his eyes, her cap of blond hair terminating in the start of that rope-thick braid, her pale cheeks and eyes luminous, her face.…

“I told Lassiter…” She cleared her throat. “Lassiter asked me if I would feed you.”

“And you said.”

“Yes.”

All of a sudden, he pictured her in that pool, floating on her back, utterly naked, with the water’s pervasive tongue licking at her warm flesh.

Everywhere.

Tohr threw out a palm and braced himself on a cupboard. Hard to know what was rocking him most: the sudden need to be at her throat, or his utter despair at the thought of it.

“I am still in love with my shellan,” he heard himself say.

And that remained the problem: All the resolving in the world, all the turning-the-new-leaf-and-letting-go shit, hadn’t changed his emotions in the slightest.

“I know,” No’One replied. “And I am glad.”

“I should use a Chosen.” He took a step closer to her.

“I know. And I agree. Their blood is purer.”

He took another step forward. “You are from a good bloodline.”

“Was,” she said starkly.

As the fragile expanse of her shoulders began to tremble ever so slightly—like she had sensed his hunger—the predator in him awoke. Abruptly, he found himself wanting to jump over the island she was standing at, just so he could…

Do what?

Well, that was obvious.

Even though his heart and his mind were nothing but an empty ice-skating rink, frozen over and flat as fuck, the rest of him was alive, his body throbbing with a purpose that threatened to mow down good intentions, proper decorum… and his grieving process.

As he took yet more steps to her, he had a horrifying thought that this was what Lassiter had meant by letting go: In this moment, he had left Wellsie behind. He was aware of nothing except the diminutive female in front of him who was fighting to stay in place as she was stalked by a Brother.

He stopped only when he was no more than a foot away from her. Looking down past her bent head, his eyes locked on the fragile pulse at her jugular vein.

She was breathing as hard as he was.

And as he inhaled, he caught a scent.

It was not fear.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was enormous.

As No’One stood in the lee of the great warrior who had come upon her, she felt the heat coming off his massive body sure as if she were in front of a raging fire. And yet… she was not burned. And she was not afraid. She was warmed in someplace so deep, so buried within her, that she did not immediately recognize it as part of her internal makeup.

All she knew for sure was that he was going to take her vein within moments and she was going to let him—not because the angel had requested it of her, and not because she had vowed to, and not to make up for something in the past.

She… wanted him to.

As a hiss boiled out of him, she knew Tohrment had opened his mouth to expose his fangs.

It was time. And she did not pull up her sleeve. She loosened the top of her robe, peeled it wide to her shoulders, and tilted her head to the side.

Giving him her throat.

Oh, how her heart beat.

“Not here,” he growled. “Come with me.”

Taking her hand, he drew her into the butler’s pantry and closed them in. The squat, cramped room was lined with shelves of colorful canned fruits and vegetables, the still, warm air smelling of freshly milled grains and the dry, cakey sweetness of flour.

As the overhead light came on and the door locked itself, she knew they had been willed so by him.

And then he just stared at her as his fangs elongated even further, the twin white tips peeking out from under his parted upper lip, his eyes glowing.

“What do I do?” she said hoarsely.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What do I… do for you?” The symphath had taken what he’d wanted and to hell with her. And her father had naturally never permitted any male to feed from her. Was there a certain way to—

Abruptly, Tohrment appeared to pull out of the vortex, something jarring him back to a different consciousness. And yet even so, his body remained fully engaged, his weight shifting from one boot to the other, his hands curling into fists and releasing, curling… and releasing.

“Have you never…”

“My father was saving me. And when I was abducted… I have never done this properly before.”

Tohrment put a hand up to his head as if he had an ache within it. “Listen, this is—”

“Tell me what to do.”

As he trained his eyes on her once again, she thought his name was indeed apt. Lo, how he was tormented.

“I need this,” he said, as if speaking to himself.

“Yes, you do. You are so gaunt that I ache for you.”

Except he was going to stop this, she thought as his stare grew dull. And she knew why.

“She is welcome in this space,” No’One said. “Bring your shellan unto your mind. Let her take my place.”

Anything to help him. For Tohrment’s great kindnesses toward her earlier self, and fate’s cruel machinations against him, she would do anything for him to be made right.

“I may hurt you,” he said harshly.

“No worse than I have already survived.”

“Why…”

“Stop talking. Stop trying to think. Do what you must to take care of yourself.”

There was a long, tense silence. And then the light went off, the little room going dim, with the only illumination that which bled through the milky glass panels of the door.

She gasped.

He breathed harder.

And then an arm linked around the back of her waist and jerked her forward. As she hit his chest wall, it was as if she had been thrown against rock, and she blindly put her hands out to grab onto something—

The flesh of his arms was smooth and hot, the skin thin over hard muscles.

Tugging. Tugging on her braid. Then wrenching… and her hair was unbound, her scalp spared the stretch and pull of the binding, the release drawing her head back.

A large hand speared in through her tresses, tangling them, pulling downward. And as her neck stretched further, her spine was forced to follow until she was held up entirely by the strength of him.

Disoriented and off balance, she momentarily lost her purpose, just as he had before darkness had been wrought.

Searching for his face, she found it. But there was no grounding to be had. She could not see the features, could not find him in the male body she was up against.

Instantly, his visage became nothing but anonymous planes and angles. And his body was not that of Tohrment, the Brother who had attempted to save her, but some stranger.

There was no turning back, however, no undoing the spin of the wheel she had unleashed.

His grip, his arms, his body tightened up even more until she was crushed against him. And as she stiffened, he brought his head downward, a chuffing growl emanating from that deep rib cage of his, a dark, rich scent nearly permeating her sense of fear.

There was another hiss, followed by a razor-thin scratch that started at her collarbone and rose e’er higher.

Panic o’ertook her.

His presence, his hold on her, the fact that she couldn’t see properly, everything about the experience shifted her back into the past, and she started to struggle.

Which was when he struck.

Violently.

No’One cried out and attempted to push away, but his fangs were already in deep, the pain sweet like a bee sting. And then the sucking, the powerful sucking that was accompanied by a wild trembling in his body.

Something hard protruded from his hips. Pressed into her belly.

Using all her strength, she tried again to get free, but her efforts were a countervailing breeze in the face of a hurricane gale.

And then… his pelvis began to move against her, gyrating, that arousal of his pushing at her robe, searching for a way inside as he took deeply from her, groans of satisfaction rising up in the air between them.

He did not even feel her fright, so consumed was he.

And her conscious mind could not regrasp the fact that she had wanted this from him.

Staring up toward the ceiling, she recalled other times she had fought to no avail, and prayed, as she had before, for this to pass soon.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, what had she done…

The body against Tohr’s yielded everything there was to give, blood, breath, and flesh. And goddamn them both, but he took, took hard and ravenously, drinking deep, and wanting more than just the vein.

He wanted the core of this female.

He wanted in her as he drank from her.

And this was true even as he was acutely aware that this was not his Wellsie. Her hair didn’t feel the same—No’One’s fell in smooth lengths, not thick curls. Her blood didn’t taste the same—the rich flavor against his tongue and the tang at the back of his throat were altogether different. And her body was thinner and more delicate, not robust and powerful.

But he still wanted her.

His godforsaken cock was roaring without excuse—ready to take and take and… own, as well. At least sexually.

Shit, this fireball of want and need was nothing like the pale anemic feeding he’d had with the Chosen Selena. This was what it should be, this abandonment, this shedding of the civilized skin to reveal the animal at the marrow.

And goddamn him, he went with it.

Repositioning No’One, he let his hold around her waist go downward until he was gripping her lower back, and then her hip… and then her ass.

Abruptly, he pushed her into the glass cupboards, the panes on the doors rattling. He didn’t mean to be rough, but it was impossible to fight the need. And worse, in the recesses of his mind, he didn’t want to.

Lifting his head, he let out a roar that stung even his own ears, and then he bit her again, his control snapping at the feast of his starved senses.

The second bite was higher and closer to her jaw, and his sucking became even more intense, her nourishment speeding to the fibers of his muscles, strengthening him, restoring him, making him physically whole once more.

The sucking… fuck him, the sucking…

When he finally lifted his head, he was drunk on her, his mind spinning for different reasons than from blood hunger. Next would be the sex, and he actually looked around for a bed.

Except… they were in the butler’s pantry? What the hell?

Christ, he couldn’t even remember how all this had happened.

He was sure, however, that he didn’t want her bleeding out, so he dropped his head to her throat. Elongating his tongue, he stroked up the column he had nailed twice, feeling velvet and tasting her and smelling her—

The scent that entered his nostrils was not a commercial perfume.

And it was not a female’s lush arousal, as he had sensed in the beginning.

She was terrified.

“No’One?” he said, as he felt her trembling for the first time.

With a hoarse cry, she began to sob, and in his shock, he went momentarily numb. Then, as sensation returned, he felt all too clearly her nails clawing into the backs of his upper arms, her delicate body trying to get free.

He let her go immediately—

No’One slammed into the corner cupboard and then went for the door, jerking at the knob, rattling it so forcibly the opaque glass was liable to break.

“Hold on, I’ll let you—”

The instant he sprang the lock she took off, flying through the kitchen and out the other side as if she were running for her dear life.

“Shit!” He tore after her. “No’One!”

He didn’t care who heard him as he called her name again, his voice echoing up through the dining room’s high ceiling as he blew past the long table and then shot into the foyer.

As she ripped across the depiction of the apple tree in the floor, he recalled the memory of her that night they had tried to bring her home to her father’s, her nightgown streaming behind her, turning her into a ghost as she ran across the moonlit meadow.

Now her robe streamed behind as she headed for the stairs.

Tohr’s panic was running so high he dematerialized in pursuit, reassuming form halfway up and yet still not in front of her. Continuing to chase her on foot, he followed her past Wrath’s study, and down the hall to the right.

The second she got to the bedroom she stayed in, she threw herself inside and slammed the door.

He got to the wooden panels just in time to hear the lock turn.

As her blood raced through his system, giving him the power he had been missing, and the appetite for food he hadn’t had, and the clearest head that had plugged into his spine for ages, he remembered everything he hadn’t during the time he’d been at her throat.

She had given herself willingly, generously, and he had taken too much, too fast, in a dark room where he could have been anyone but the one she had agreed to feed.

He’d scared her. Or worse.

Pivoting, he put his back to her door and let his knees loosen until his ass caught the floor. “Fuck me… fucking hell…”

Goddamn him.

Oh, wait, that had already happened.

TWENTY-THREE

Just before closing time at the Iron Mask, Xhex was in her office and shaking her head at Big Rob. On her desk between them were three more packets of that cocaine with the death symbol on it. “Are you kidding me with this shit?”

“Pulled it off a guy ten minutes ago.”

“Did you keep him?”

“Within the bounds of what’s legal. Told him I was processing paperwork. Didn’t exactly mention to him that he was free to go—fortunately, he’s so drunk he’s not worried about his civil rights.”

“Let me go talk to him.”

“He’s where you like them.”

She headed out and hung a left. The interrogation room was at the far end of the hall, and it didn’t have a lock on the door—last thing they needed was trouble with the CPD. Make that more trouble: Given what went down under this roof every night, the police were known to nose around from time to time.

Opening the door, she cursed under her breath. The guy sitting at the table was slumped over onto himself, his chin down on his chest, his arms hanging loose, his knees out to the sides. He was dressed like an old-fashioned dandy in steam-punk style, sporting a black slim-fit suit and a white shirt with a high lace collar—and naturally, something was off about the threads. The fabric, for one thing. The fact that none of it was handmade, for another. The buttons… But that was what happened when humans who liked to pretend dipped their toes in historical waters. They got shit wrong every time.

Shutting the door quietly, she walked over to him in silence, curled up a fist… and slammed it on the table to wake him up.

Oh, look, he had a little cane to complete his outfit. And a cape.

As the guy flipped backward and teetered on two chair legs, she caught the ebony walking stick on the fly and let gravity decide what to do with the human—

How. Cute. In his open mouth, two porcelain fang-like projections had been glued onto his canines. Guess that made him feel even more Frank Langella.

She sat down just as he landed flat on his back, and she studied the silver skull at the top of the cane while he dragged himself off the floor, righted his dumb-ass costume as well as the chair, and parked it once again. As he smoothed his jet-black hair, the roots showed mouse brown.

“Yes, we’re letting you go,” she said before he asked. “And as long as you tell me what I want to know, I won’t get our friends down at the CPD involved.”

“Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

At least he didn’t pretend to have an English accent. “Where’d you get the coke?” She put a hand up as he opened his yap. “Before you tell me it was your friend’s and you’re just keeping it for him, or that you borrowed the coat and it was in the pockets, the police aren’t going to believe that bullshit any more than I do—but I guarantee they’ll get to hear the lie.”

There was a long silence during which she stared at him. He’d even put in red contacts to make his irises appear to be glowing.

She wondered if he’d ever tried to dematerialize through a wall.

She was ready to help him give it a go.

“I made the buy on the corner of Trade and Eighth. About three hours ago. I don’t know the guy’s name, but he’s usually there every night between eleven and twelve.”

“Does he only sell the shit marked with that symbol?”

“Nah.” The guy seemed to relax, his Jersey accent growing stronger. “He’ll move just about anything. Back in the spring, I sometimes couldn’t get the coke. But, I don’t know, last month or so he’s had it every time. It’s what I like.”

Was the Dracula routine his rebellion against GTL? she wondered.

“What name does it go by?” she said.

“Dagger. It fits who I am.” As he motioned down his getup, his red-stoned pinkie ring caught the light. “I’m a vampire.”

“Reallllly. I thought they didn’t exist.”

“Oh, we’re very real.” He gave her the once-over, his eyes going Lothario. “I could introduce you to some people. Bring you into the coven.”

“Isn’t that for witches?”

“I have three wives, you know.”

“Sounds crowded at your house.”

“I’m looking for a fourth.”

“Nice offer, but I’m married.” As she said the words, her chest ached. “Happily, I might add.”

She wasn’t sure for whose benefit that was tacked on. God, John—

The knock on the door was soft. “Yeah,” she said over her shoulder.

“You got a visitor.”

The instant the reply hit her ears, her body flared to life, and abruptly she was ready to usher this trick-or-treat motherfucker out the door headfirst.

John was early tonight, which was fine with her.

“We’re done,” she announced, getting to her feet.

The human rose up, his nostrils flaring. “God, your perfume is… amazing.”

“Don’t bring that shit into my house again, or next time we’re not going to do any talking. Clear?”

Opening up the door, she got hit with her mate’s bonding scent: Those dark spices were barreling down the hall…

And there he was, at the other end, standing tall outside her office.

Her John.

As his head came around toward her, he dipped his chin and smiled, his eyes looking a little evil. Which meant he was more than ready for her.

“You’re beautiful,” the faker breathed as he stepped forward.

She was about to brush him off when John caught sight of the horny little fucker.

This did not go over well.

Her bonded male came prowling down the hall, his shitkickers loud enough to drown out the bass beat from the club proper.

Her buddy with the caps and the cape was still focused on her, but that didn’t last. As he got a load of the nearly three-hundred-pound, jacked-up force of nature riding up on him, he actually shrank into himself and took cover behind Xhex.

Manly. Yup. Real stud material.

John stopped at the door and blocked all escape, those beautiful blues of his downright vicious as he glared over her shoulder at the human.

God, she wanted to fuck him, she thought.

With a casual wave, she provided introductions. “This is my husband, John. John, this was just leaving. Do you want to escort it out, honey?”

Before the faker could respond, John bared his fangs and let out a hiss. It was the only sound he could make besides a whistle, but it was better than words—

“Oh, man,” Xhex muttered as she stepped aside sharply.

The wannabe had just pissed himself.

John was more than happy to take out the garbage. Dumb-ass human, looking at his female like that? The bastard was lucky John was so sexed up. Otherwise he’d have taken the time to break a leg or an arm just to make a point.

Clamping a hold on the nape of the guy’s neck, he frog-marched the leering son of a bitch over to the rear exit, kicked open the door, and dragged him into the back parking lot.

Some version of, “Oh, God, please don’t hurt me,” was coming out of that mouth, and with good goddamn reason. Only the thinnest veil of common sense was keeping John from murder.

As there was no way to command the guy to look at him, John spun the POS around, grabbed him by the shoulders, and lifted him up until his cute patent leather black shoes hung in the breeze.

Meeting eyes that had some kind of ridiculous fake red color over them, John willed the poser into a trance, and wiped clean the memories of those fangs that had been flashed. Then… well, it was tempting to implant a little ditty about how vampires really did exist and were coming after him.

Good dose of induced paranoia would put a quick end to this charade the fucker was living.

Then again, it wasn’t worth the effort. Especially not when he could be inside his female right now.

With a final shake, he let the guy go, sending him off at a dead run. Fucker was scrawny; exercise would do him good.

As John turned back to the club, he saw Xhex’s Ducati parked flush against the building under a security light, and damn… He imagined her straddling all that power, lying low on the engine, gunning the bike around a dead man’s curve.…

He stalked over to the door and found it open, with her standing in it.

“I thought you were going to tear his throat out,” she drawled.

She was totally aroused.

As John came up to her, he didn’t stop until her breasts were against his chest, and she didn’t budge in the slightest—which naturally juiced him even more. God, she was hot to begin with, but this self-imposed separation they were rocking was making him even more desperate to be with her.

“You want to come in my office,” she said on a growl. “Or do it out here?”

When he just nodded like the dumb handle he was, she laughed. “How about inside so we don’t scare the children.”

Yeah, for most humans, sex didn’t involve drawing blood.

As she led the way, he watched her hips sway and wondered if in fact it was anatomically possible for a person’s tongue to drag on the floor.

The instant they were locked in together, he was all over her, kissing her hard as his hands made fast work of shoving up her shirt. As her fingers speared into his hair, he bent down and sent up a prayer of thanks that she never bothered with a bra.

With her nipple in his sucking mouth and one hand between her legs from the back, he laid her out on top of the paperwork on her desk. Next move was to peel off her leathers, and then he was sprung and penetrating her.

Fast, furious fucking, the kind that rearranged furniture and probably called attention to itself, was always the opening gambit. Second time was slower. Third time was that sensuous crap that got shot with a blurry lens in movies.

It was your typical way of handling a banquet: gorge to take the edge off; concentrate on favorites; finish off with a delicate aperitif—

They came at the same time, he bending over her, she wrapping her long legs up around his hips, both of them holding on as tight as they could.

In the midst of the jerking releases, he happened to lift his head and look up. Across the way, there was a file cabinet, and an extra chair… and for some reason, he noticed for the first time that the wall was made of concrete blocks and painted black.

Same stuff that he’d stared at for the last couple months. And none of it had registered.

Now, though, the fact that it was not her home or his hit him hard.

She hadn’t invited him back to her place on the river since they’d had that first all-out session after their separation.

She hadn’t come to the mansion, either.

Closing his eyes, he tried to reconnect with what his body was still up to, but all he got were vague sensations of pulsing below his belt. Popping his lids, he wanted to look at her face, but she had arched back and all he could see was the point of her chin. And some time cards. For her bouncers.

Who could be right outside the door, listening to them.

Shit… this was seedy.

He was having an illicit affair… with his own mate.

In the beginning, it had been so exciting, like they were dating in a way they hadn’t done when they’d first gotten together. And he’d assumed it would always be that fun.

Except there had been shadows all along, hadn’t there.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he realized he would so rather do this in a bed. Their mated bed. And it wasn’t because he was old-fashioned; he missed her sleeping beside him.

“What is it, John?”

He cracked his lids. He should have known she’d have a bead on where he was at—symphath abilities aside, she knew him as no one else did. And now, as he met her gunmetal gray eyes, a stab of sadness nailed him in the chest.

He really didn’t want to talk about it, though. They had too little time together.

He kissed her deep and long, figuring that was the best kind of distraction for both of them—and it worked. As her tongue met his, he began moving inside of her again, the long strokes taking him out to the brink, then easing him in all the way. The rhythm was slow but inexorable, and he, too, got swept away to a place where his head quieted down.

The release was a gently cresting wave this time, and he rode it out with a kind of desperation.

When it had passed, as all orgasms did, he became acutely aware of the distant, muffled pounding of music, and the clipping of heels out in the hall, and the far-off ringing of a cell phone.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

As he disengaged their bodies, he noticed that they were both mostly dressed. When was the last time they’d been fully naked?

Jesus… it had been during that period of bliss after their mating. Which seemed like a distant memory. Maybe about another couple.

“Did everything go okay with Wrath tonight?” she asked as she pulled up her pants. “Is that what it is?”

His brain struggled to focus, but fortunately, his hands were working just fine, and not only to get his button fly done up. Yeah, the meeting went okay. Hard to judge, though. The glymera are all about appearances.

“Mmm.” She never had much to say about things involving the Brotherhood. Then again, given where they stood about her fighting, he was surprised she brought his work up at all.

How’s it going for you tonight? he signed.

She picked up something that she’d been lying on, a little baggie. “We have a new drug dealer in town.”

He caught what she tossed over, frowning at the symbol stamped on the cellophane. What the hell? This is… the Old Language.

“Yup, and we have no clue who’s behind it. But I promise you this, I’m going to find out.”

Let me know if I can help.

“I got this.”

I know.

The stretch of silence that rang out served to remind him of where they were—and were not.

“You’re right,” she said abruptly. “I haven’t had you to my house on purpose. It’s hard enough to have you leave me from here.”

I could stay with you. I could move in, and—

“Wrath would never allow it—rightfully so, I might add. You’re a very valuable commodity to him, and my cabin is hardly as secure as the mansion. Besides, what the hell would we do with Qhuinn? He deserves a life, too—and at least where you stay he has some autonomy.”

Alternate days, then.

She shrugged. “Until that becomes not enough? John, this is what we have—and it’s better than a lot of people get. You don’t think Tohr would kill to be able to—”

It’s not enough for me. I’m greedy, and you’re my shellan, not just a booty call.

“And I can’t go back to the mansion. I’m sorry. If I do, I’ll end up hating them—and you. I’d like to pretend I can self-actualize this shit away, and be all, ‘I’ll just do me,’ but I can’t.”

I’ll talk to Wrath—

“Wrath’s not the issue. They take their cues from you. All of them.”

When he didn’t reply, she came up to him, put her palms on his face, and stared into his eyes. “This is the way it has to be. Now go so I can close up. And come back to me first thing tomorrow night. I’m already counting down the minutes.”

She kissed him firmly.

And then turned away and left the office.

TWENTY-FOUR

No’One woke up to a great, horrifying scream, the kind of thing that accompanied bloody murder.

It took her a moment to realize she was making the sound, her mouth stretched wide, her body strung tight, her lungs burning as she exhaled.

Fortunately, she had left the lights on, and she frantically looked around at the bedroom’s toile-covered walls and drapery and bedspread. Then she focused on her robe… yes, she had her robe on, not a thin nightgown.

It had been a dream. A dream…

She was not in a root cellar in the earth.

She was not at the mercy of the symphath—

“I’m sorry.”

Gasping, she jerked back against the padded headboard. Tohrment was standing just inside the room, the door closed behind him.

“Are you okay?” he said.

She yanked her hood up into place, hiding beneath it. “I…” Memories of what had happened between them made it hard to think clearly. “I am… well enough.”

“I can’t believe that,” he said in a hoarse way. “God… I’m so sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did. And I won’t come near you ever again. I swear…”

The anguish in his voice bit into her as surely as if it were her own. “It’s all right—”

“The hell it is. I even gave you a nightmare—”

“What awoke me was not you. It was… from before.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “It’s strange, I have not dreamed of the… what happened to me… ever. I have thought of it often, but when I sleep, I have only darkness.”

“And just now?” he gritted out.

“I was back underground. In the root cellar. The smell down there—dearest Virgin Scribe, the smell.” Wrapping her arms around herself, she felt the draft sure as if she were once again behind that rough oak door. “Salt licks… I’d forgotten the salt licks.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There were salt licks down there for the animals—that is why my scars stuck with me. I’d always wondered if maybe he’d used some kind of symphath power or something to alter my skin. But no, there were salt licks, and salting meats.” She shook her head. “I’d forgotten about them until now. Forgotten so many precise details—”

As a growled curse came out of him, she glanced up. Tohrment’s expression suggested he wished he could kill that symphath all over again—but he covered it up, as if he didn’t want to upset her.

“I don’t think I ever told you I was sorry,” he said softly. “Back then, in the cottage with Darius. He and I were both so sorry that you had—”

“Please, let us speak no longer upon the subject. Thank you.”

In the awkward silence that followed, his stomach rumbled.

“You should eat,” she murmured.

“Not hungry.”

“Your tum—”

“Can go to hell.”

Staring up at his still figure, she was astounded by the difference in him: even after such a short time, the color was back in his face, his posture was straighter, his eyes much more alert.

The blood was such a powerful thing, she thought.

“I will feed you again.” As he regarded her as though she had lost her mind, she kicked up her chin and met his stare. “Absolutely, I will do it again.”

To see this improvement in him in such a short time, she would endure those moments of terror anew. She was e’er trapped by her past, but oh, the change in him: her blood had freed him from his fatigue—and that was going to keep him alive out in the field.

“How can you say that?” His voice was gruff to the point of cracking.

“It is simply the way I feel.”

“Obligation shouldn’t take you that far down into your personal hell.”

“That is for me to choose, not you.”

His brows drew in hard. “You were a lamb to the slaughter in that pantry.”

“If that were true, I would not be breathing right now, would I.”

“Did you like the dream you just had? Have fun with it?” As she recoiled, he stalked across to the shuttered windows and stared with fixation as if he could see through them to the garden. “You’re more than a maid or a blood whore, you know.”

With proper hauteur, she informed him, “To serve others well is a noble endeavor.”

Looking over his shoulder, his eyes found hers in spite of the hood. “But you’re not doing it to be noble. You’re under that robe hiding your beauty and your station to punish yourself. I don’t think it has anything to do with some kind of an altruistic streak.”

“You do not know me or my motivations—”

“I was aroused.” At that she blinked. “You had to have known that.”

Well, yes, she had. But—

“And if I am at your vein again, that’s going to happen. Again.”

“You were not thinking of me, though,” she pointed out.

“Would that make a difference.”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that,” he said dryly.

“You didn’t do anything about it, did you. And that one feeding is not going to be enough—you must know that. It has been too long for you. You have already come so far, but you are going to need more soon.”

As he cursed, she lifted her chin once more, unwilling to back down.

After a long while, he shook his head. “You are so… odd.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

From across the bedroom, Tohr stared down at No’One and had to respect the shit out of her—even though it was clear she was nuts: She was utterly unbowed, in spite of the fact that she had bite marks on her neck, had woken up screaming, and was facing off with a Brother.

Christ, when he’d heard that scream, he’d all but broken down the damn door. Visions of her with another knife of some kind, doing hell’s own amount of damage, had thrown him into action. But all there had been was her on the middle of that bed, oblivious to anything but whatever was playing in her head.

Salt licks. Fucking hell.

“Your leg,” he said gently. “How did it happen.”

“He put a steel cuff around my ankle and chained me to a beam. When he… came to me… the cuff bit into me.”

Tohr closed his eyes against the images. “Oh, God…”

He wasn’t sure what to say after that. He just stood there, powerless, saddened… wishing that so many things had been different in both of their lives.

“I think I know why we’re here,” she said abruptly.

“Because you screamed.”

“No, I mean…” She cleared her throat. “I’ve always wondered why the Scribe Virgin brought me to the Sanctuary. But Lassiter, the angel, is right. I am here to help you, as you helped me long ago.”

“I didn’t save you, remember. Not at the end.”

“You did, though.” He was shaking his head when she cut him off. “I used to watch you sleep—back in the Old Country. You were always to the right of the fire, and you slept on your side facing me. I spent hours memorizing the way the low glow from the peat played over your closed eyes and your cheeks and your jaw.”

Suddenly, the room seemed to retract in on them both, growing tighter, smaller… warmer. “Why?”

“Because you weren’t like the symphath at all. You were dark and he was pale. You were big and he was thin. You were kind to me… and he was not. You were the only thing that kept me from going completely mad.”

“I never knew.”

“I did not want you to know.”

After a moment, he said grimly, “You always planned on killing yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Why not do it before the birth?” Man, he couldn’t believe how candid they were getting.

“I did not want to curse the babe. I had heard the rumors about what happened if you took matters into your own hands, and I was prepared to accept the consequences for myself. But the unborn? It was coming into the world in such sadness to begin with, but at least it could make of its destiny what it could.”

And yet she had not been cursed… maybe because of her circumstances—God knew, she had suffered enough on her way to the exit.

On that note, he shook his head again. “About the feeding. I appreciate your offer, I really do. But somehow, I can’t imagine a repeat of that scene downstairs is going to do either of us any good.”

“Admit that you feel stronger.”

“You said you haven’t dreamed of that shit since it happened.”

“One dream is not—”

“It’s enough for me.”

That chin of hers went up again, and damned if that habit wasn’t… well, not appealing, no. No, it was not appealing.

Really.

“If I can live through the events,” she said, “I can get through the memories.”

In that moment, staring across the room at her show of will, he felt a tie to her, sure as if a rope had linked the pair of them chest-to-chest.

“Come to me again,” she announced. “When you are in need.”

“We’ll see about that,” he dismissed. “Now, are you… okay? Here in this room, I mean? You can lock the door—”

“I shall be all right, if you come to me again.”

“No’One—”

“It is the only way I have to make things right with you.”

“You don’t have to make anything right. Honest.”

Turning away, he went to the door, and before he stepped out, he glanced over his shoulder. She was staring at her entwined hands, that hooded head of hers bowed.

Leaving her with what little peace she had, he took his grumbling stomach to his room and disarmed. He was righteously starved, his appetite for food carving a bottomless pit out of his lower torso—and though he would have preferred to ignore the demand, he didn’t have a choice. Ordering up a tray from Fritz, he thought of No’One, and told the doggen to make sure she got some eats as well.

Then it was shower time. After he turned on the water, he undressed and left the clothes on the marble floor where they landed. He was in the process of stepping over the mess when he saw himself in the long mirror over the sinks.

Even to his uncaring eye, it was obvious his body had rebounded, the muscles tightening under his skin, his shoulders back where they should be instead of down around his diaphragm.

Too bad he didn’t feel better about the recovery.

Getting into the glass-enclosed space, he stood under the jets, braced his arms out, and let the water run off his flesh.

When he closed his eyes, he found himself back in the pantry, at No’One’s throat, working her vein. He should have taken her wrist, not her throat—matter of fact, why hadn’t he—

Abruptly, the memory went full-bore on him, the tastes and scents and feel of that female against him shutting his mind down and cranking up his senses.

God, she had been… a sunrise.

Opening his eyes, he stared down at the erection that had made itself known at the first image. His cock was in proportion to the rest of him—which meant it was long, thick, and heavy. And capable of going for hours.

As it strained in a demand for attention, he feared the arousal was like the hunger in his gut: going nowhere until he did something about it.

Yeah, whatever on that. He was not some posttrans with a perma-boner and a hairy palm. He could choose whether or not he jerked off, for fuck’s sake—and that would be a big NO.

Snagging the bar of soap, he sudsed up his legs, and wished he was V—no, not with the black candles and shit. But at least if he had that vampire’s mind, he could think of, like, the molecular makeup of plastic, or the chemical composition of fluoride toothpaste, or… how gasoline powered cars.

Or he supposed he could think of dudes—which, given that he wasn’t attracted to them, might well lead to a merciful deflation.

The problem was, he was just Tohrment, son of Hharm… so he was stuck trying to remember how to make Toll House cookies: He didn’t know shit from Shinola about science, he didn’t give a crap about sports, and he hadn’t read a newspaper or watched the TV news in years.

Plus those were the only goddamn anything he knew how to make… what did you put in them? Butter? Crisco? Spackle?

As nothing came to him, he began to worry that his Food Network channel was not only incompetent, but wasn’t going to do shit for his dumb handle.

He gave it another shot. And could only remember how to open the goddamn bag of chips.

Stalled, stiff at the hips, and despaired, he closed his eyes… and thought of his Wellsie, naked and in their bed. Of how she tasted and felt, of all the ways they’d been together, of all the days spent interlocked and panting.

Gripping himself, he pinned the pictures of his mate to the forefront of his mind, plastering them over anything that had to do with No’One. He didn’t want that other female in this space; he might have to take care of business, which he didn’t want to do, but he could damn well set boundaries.

He sure as hell couldn’t pick his fate, but his fantasies were totally up for grabs.

Stroking his shaft, he tried to remember everything about his red-haired beauty: the way her hair had looked across his chest, the gleam of her bare sex, how her breasts had peaked when she was on her back.

It was just part of a history book, though, and the illustrations had faded—as if his mind had lifted the ink from the pages.

His concentration lost, he popped open his lids and got a hi-how’re-ya of his hand wrapped around that stupid-ass arousal, trying to pump off something, anything.

It was like milking a Coke machine—getting him nowhere. Well, except for a vague sting where the skin got pinched at the head.

“Goddamn it.”

Dropping the whole bad idea, he got busy with the soap, running the bar over his chest and under his armpits.

“Sire?” Fritz called out from the other room. “Would you require aught else?”

He was not asking the doggen for porn. That was blech on so many levels. “Ah, no, thanks, my man.”

“Very good. Have a blessed sleep.”

Yeah. Right. “You, too.”

After the outside door was shut again, Tohr shampooed his head like he supposed all males did: Squeeze out a crapload, rub it into your hair like you were trying to get a stain out of a carpet, and then stand under the spray forever because you’d used too much of whatever Fritz had bought you.

Later, he would decide it would have been best to keep his eyes open.

As soon as he shut his lids to keep the suds out, the warm rush down his torso turned into hands, and the urge to orgasm came back even stronger than before, his cock throbbing, his balls getting tight—

Instantly, he was downstairs in the pantry again, his mouth locked on No’One’s smooth throat, his suction and swallowing filling his belly, his arms squeezing her hard against his body.…

Your shellan is welcome here.

He shook his head at the sound of her voice in his inner ear. But then he realized that was the answer.

Regripping himself, he told his brain that the images were of his Wellsie. That the feeling, the sensation, the scent, the taste… it was his Wellsie, not another female.

It was not a memory.

It was his mate back to him—

The release was so sudden, he actually recoiled, his eyes going wide, his body jerking not from the orgasm but the surprise that, yes, in fact, he was actually having one in RL, not in some dreamscape.

As he stroked himself and rode the crest, he watched himself come, his sex doing what it was supposed to, kicking out jets that hit the wet marble wall and the glass pane of the door.

The sight was less erotic than biological.

It was just a function, he realized. Like breathing and eating. Yeah, it felt good, but so did a deep breath: in this vacuum of emotion, in this lonely shower, it was really just a series of ejaculations that coughed through his prostate.

Feelings gave sex meaning, whether it was in a fantasy or with your mate… or if you were with someone you didn’t like all that much, for that matter.

Or didn’t want to want, an inner voice pointed out.

When his body was done, he feared it was just a round-one situation, because he was still every bit as erect as he had been when this had started. But at least he didn’t feel like he had cheated on his mate. In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all, and that was good.

Rinsing off, he got out, dried himself with a towel… and took the stretch of terry cloth with him into the bedroom.

He was pretty certain that after he ate, things were going to get messy when he lay down, and not from any kind of indigestion.

But it was… okay. As okay as he could ever get, he supposed.

The sex he’d had with his mate had been monumental, shattering, fireworks-making—transformative.

This shit was about as sexy as a head cold.

As long as he didn’t think of…

He stopped himself and cleared his throat, even though he wasn’t speaking out loud.

As long as he didn’t think of anyone else of the female persuasion, he was good.

TWENTY-FIVE

The following evening, Xcor stood in the recessed doorway of a brick building in the heart of downtown. Set back by nearly three feet, the space formed a coffin of sorts, providing him shadows to conceal himself with, as well as cover from stray bullets.

On his own, he was utterly and completely pissed off as he surveyed the area and kept an eye on the sleek black car he had followed.

Lifting his forearm, he checked his watch. Again. Where were his soldiers?

Splitting off from the group to follow Assail had brought him here, but before he had departed, he’d told the others to find him after they had finished their first round of fighting—a locating task that shouldn’t have been difficult. All they had to do was rooftop-to-rooftop surveillance in the part of the city where drug dealing was at its most prevalent.

Not hard a’tall.

And yet here he was, alone.

Assail was still inside the building opposite, likely consorting with more of the ilk that he had killed the night before. The place of business he’d entered was ostensibly an art gallery, but Xcor was old-fashioned, not naive. All manner of goods and services could be contracted out of any sort of “legitimate” establishment.

It was nearly an hour later when the other vampire finally reemerged, and the light over the back exit caught his densely black hair and his predatorlike features. That low-slung car he ambulated in was parked off to the side, and as he walked around it, a pinkie ring of some sort flashed.

Moving as he did, dressed in black as he was, he looked… exactly like a vampire, actually. Dark, sensuous, dangerous.

Pausing at the car’s door, he put his hand inside his jacket to get his keys—

And turned around to face Xcor with a gun. “Do you honestly think I don’t know you’re watching me?”

That pronunciation was so old-world and so very thick, the accent turning the words into practically a foreign language—or what would have been one if Xcor wasn’t so intimately familiar with the original dialect.

Where were his fucking soldiers?

As Xcor stepped out, he had an autoloader of his own, and it was not without satisfaction that he watched the other male recoil slightly as recognition dawned.

“Did you expect a Brother, mayhap?” Xcor drawled.

Assail did not lower his muzzle. “My business is my own. You have no right to shadow me.”

“My business is whatever I determine it to be.”

“Your ways will not work here.”

“And what ‘ways’ are those?”

“There are laws here.”

“So I have heard. And I am fairly confident you are breaking several in your endeavors.”

“I refer not to human ones.” As if those were entirely irrelevant—and at least on that they could agree. “The Old Law provides—”

“We’re in the New World, Assail. New rules.”

“According to whom?”

“Me.”

The male narrowed his eyes. “O’erstepping already?”

“Your conclusion is your own.”

“Then I shall let it stand. And I shall take my leave of you now—unless you have plans to shoot me. In which case, I shall take you with me.” He lifted up his other hand. In it was a small black handset. “Just so we’re clear, the bomb that is wired to the undercarriage of my car will go off if my thumb contracts—which is precisely the kind of autonomic jerk that will occur if you put a bullet in my chest or my back. Oh, and mayhap I should mention that the explosion has a radius that more than includes where you are, and the detonation is so efficient, you will not be able to dematerialize out of the zone fast enough.”

Xcor laughed with genuine respect. “You know what they say about suicides, don’t you. No Fade for them.”

“It’s not suicide if you shoot me first. Self-defense.”

“And you’re willing to test that out?”

“If you are.”

The male appeared utterly unconcerned with the choice, at peace with living or dying, uncaring of the violence and pain—and yet not unplugged, either.

He would have made an exceptional soldier, Xcor thought. If he hadn’t been castrated by his mommy.

“So your solution,” Xcor murmured, “is mutual self-destruction.”

“What is it going to be?”

If Xcor had had his backup in place, there would have been a better way to handle this. But no, the bastards were nowhere around. And it was a fundamental tenet of conflict that if you were facing a well-matched enemy, who was well-provisioned and well-couraged, then you did not engage—you retreated, remarshaled, and lived to fight under circumstances more favorable to your own victory.

Besides, Assail had to be kept alive long enough so that the king could come to see him.

None of this sat well, however. And Xcor’s mood, already dark to begin with, went utterly black.

He didn’t say anything further. He simply dematerialized to another alley about half a mile away, letting his departure speak for itself.

As he re-formed by a shut-up newsstand, he was furious with his soldiers, his ire from the confrontation with Assail transferred and magnified as he thought of his males.

Initiating a search of his own, he went from abandoned building to club to tattoo parlor to tenement until he found them at the skyscraper: As he took form, they were all there, loitering as if they had naught better to do.

Violence replaced the very veins in his body, threading throughout him—to the point where he began to feel the hum of insanity within the confines of his skull.

It was the blood hunger, of course. But the root cause did nothing to temper the emotions.

“Where the fuck were you?” he demanded, the wind ripping around his head.

“You told us to wait here—”

“I told you to come find me!”

Throe threw up his hands. “Goddamn it! We all need phones, not just—”

Xcor launched himself at the male, grabbing him by the coat and throwing him up against a steel door. “Watch. Your. Tone.”

“I am right in this—”

“We are not having this discussion again.”

Xcor shoved himself away and walked off from the male, his duster getting thrown to the side from the hot, gale force blowing o’er the city.

Throe, however, would not leave it alone. “We could have been where you wanted us to be. The Brotherhood has cell—”

He wheeled around. “Fuck the Brotherhood!”

“You’d have better luck doing that if we had methods of communication!”

“The Brotherhood are weak for their technological crutches!”

Throe shook his head, all aristocrat-who-knew-better. “No, they’re in the future. And we can’t compete with them if we’re in the past.”

Xcor curled his hands into fists. His father—rather, the Bloodletter—would have pushed the son of a bitch right off the side of the building for this insolence and insubordination. And Xcor did take a step forward toward the male.

Except no, he thought with cold logic. There was a more useful way to handle this.

“We go into the field. Now.”

As he leveled his stare at Throe, there was one and only one acceptable response—and the others knew this, judging from the way they got their weapons out and readied themselves to engage the enemy.

And ah, yes, Throe, ever the dandy who appreciated social order, even in a military situations, naturally followed suit.

But then again, there were other reasons for him to follow orders over and above an affinity for consensus: It was that debt that he believed he would be working off forever. It was his commitment to the other bastards, which had grown over time and was mutual—to a point.

And, of course, it was his dearest, departed sister, who was, in a way, still with him.

Well, she was more with Xcor in practicality.

Upon his nod, he and his soldiers traveled in sprays of loose molecules down into the system of alleys. As they went, Xcor recalled that night long ago when a fine gentlemale approached him in a dirty part of London for a deadly purpose.

The disposition of the request had been rather more involved than Throe had contemplated.

To get Xcor to kill the one who had defiled his sister had required much more than just the shillings in his pocket. It had required his whole life. And servicing the debt had turned him into something so much more than a member of the glymera who had happened to have a Brotherhood name: Throe had lived up to his blooded legacy, far surpassing any expectations.

Far surpassing every expectation: In truth, Xcor had struck the deal to use the male as an example of weakness to the others. Throe was supposed to have been a humiliated foil for the true soldiers, a downtrodden, whining pussy who was broken over time and then made to serve them.

Not where they had ended up.

Down at ground level, the alley they re-formed in was rank and sweaty from the summer’s heat, and as his soldiers fanned out behind him, they filled the confines from brick wall to brick wall.

They always hunted in a pack; unlike the Brotherhood, they stuck together.

So all of them saw what happened next.

Unsheathing one of his steel daggers, Xcor gripped the handle hard. Spun around to Throe.

And sliced the male in the gut.

Someone shouted. Several cursed. Throe curled around the wound—

Xcor caught the male’s shoulder, retracted the weapon, and stabbed again.

The scent of fresh vampire blood was unmistakable.

There needed to be two sources, not just one, however.

Resheathing his dagger, he pushed Throe backward so that the male fell flat on the ground. Then he took one of Throe’s blades from its holster and ran the sharp edge down the inside of his own forearm.

Wiping his wound all over Throe’s upper body, he then forced the bloodied dagger into the soldier’s hand. Then he crouched down, locking vicious eyes with the male.

“When the Brotherhood finds you, they will take you in and treat you—and you are going to find out where they live. You are going to tell them that I betrayed you and you want to fight with them. You will ingratiate yourself with them and find a way to infiltrate their domicile.” He jabbed a finger in the male’s face. “And because you’re so fucking committed to the exchange of information, you’re going to tell everything to me. You have twenty-four hours and then you and I shall reconvene—or the remains of your sweet sister are going to come to a disgraceful end.”

Throe’s eyes popped wide in his pale face.

“Yes, I have her.” Xcor leaned down even farther, until they were nose-to-nose. “I have had her with us all along. So I say unto you, do not forget where your allegiances lie.”

“You… bastard…”

“You got that right. You have until tomorrow. Top of the World, four a.m. Be there.”

The male’s eyes burned as they met his own, and the hatred in them was answer enough: Xcor had the ashes of the male’s dead, and they both knew that if he was capable of sending his second in command into the belly of the beast, tossing those powdered remains into a garbage bin or a dirty toilet or the fry basket in a McDonald’s was nothing special.

The threat of all that was, however, more than enough to cuff Throe.

And just as he had back in another era, so, too, would he now sacrifice himself for whom he had lost.

Xcor shot up and spun around.

His soldiers were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, a wall of menace that faced him squarely. But he was not worried about insurrection. They had each been raised, if one could call it that, by the Bloodletter—taught by that sadistic male the art of fighting, and of retribution. If they were surprised, it should have only been because Xcor had not done this sooner.

“Go back to camp for the rest of the night. I have a meeting to attend to—if I return to find any of you gone, I will hunt you down and not leave you injured. I will finish the job.”

They left without looking at Throe—or him, for that matter.

Wise choice.

His anger was sharper than the blades he had just used.

As Throe was left alone in the alley, he positioned his hand flat against his abdominals, exerting pressure to reduce the blood loss.

Although his body was crippled with pain, his vision and hearing were preternaturally acute as they trained on his environment: The buildings arching above him were tall and without lights. The windows were narrow and had thick, rippled glass. The air smelled of cooking meat, as if he were not far from a restaurant that grilled a great deal. And off in the distance, he heard the horns of cars and the rush of the brakes on a bus and a woman laughing shrilly.

It was still early in the night.

Anyone could find him. Friend. Foe. Lesser. Brother.

At least Xcor had left him with his dagger in his hand.

With a curse, he rolled over onto his side and tried to push himself upright—

Didn’t that solve the problem of everything registering so brightly and loudly. Upon a fresh onslaught of agony, the world receded, the bomb exploding in his gut of such magnitude that he wondered if he hadn’t ruptured something.

Easing back to where he’d been, he thought Xcor might well be incorrect. Mayhap this alley was a coffin for him, rather than a serving plate for the Brotherhood.

Indeed, whilst he lay in his suffering, he realized he should have known better. He had grown to be at ease around that male, in the same way one who handled tigers might become lax: He’d taken for granted certain patterns of behavior, finding in them a misguided safety and predictability.

In reality, the danger had not dissipated, but grown.

And as it had been from the very first moment with Xcor, he remained trapped by the circumstances that had brought them together.

His sister. His beautiful, pure sister.

I have had her with us all along.

Throe moaned, but not from his wounds. How had Xcor gotten the ashes?

He had assumed his family had performed a proper ceremony and taken care of her as was appropriate. And how could he have known otherwise? He had not been permitted to see his mother or his brother once the deal had been struck, and his father had passed ten years before.

The unfairness was legion: In death, one would hope for her to have the peace she deserved. After all, the Fade had been created for souls as light and lovely as hers had been. But without having had the ceremony—

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she could have been denied entrance.

This was a new curse upon him. And her.

Staring up at the sky, of which he could see nearly naught, he thought of the Brotherhood. If they did find him before he died, and if they did take him in as Xcor assumed, he would do as he was required to. Unlike the others in the Band of Bastards, he had his own fealty, and it was not to the king or Xcor or his fellow soldiers—although in truth, it had begun to swing in the direction of those males.

No, his allegiance was to another… and Xcor knew that. Which was why that despot had made the effort long ago to gather some further assurance against Throe extricating—

At first he assumed the stench upon the warm breeze was from a garbage bin, the result of the wind switching direction and catching the odor of some abandoned food waste. But no, there was a telltale sweetness in the horrid bouquet.

Lifting his head, he looked down his body and across yards and yards of pavement. At the end of the alley, three lessers stepped into view.

Their laughter was his death knell, and yet he found himself smiling, even as flashes of dull light suggested that knives had been taken out.

The idea that fate had thwarted Xcor’s plan seemed a perfectly acceptable note to go out on. Except his sister… how could he help her if he were dead?

As the slayers approached, he knew that what they were going to do to him would make the pain in his stomach seem like nothing more than a stubbed toe.

But he had to fight, and he would do so.

Until the last beat of his heart and the final exodus of his breath, he would fight with all that he was for the one thing he had left to live for.

TWENTY-SIX

Goddamn it, but Tohr noticed a difference in himself. Much as he hated to admit it, as he, John, and Qhuinn headed into their quarter of the downtown area, he was stronger, nimbler… clearheaded as a motherfucker. And his senses were back: No more wonky balance problems. His vision was spot-on. And his hearing was so good he could catch the scratching paws of rats as they scrambled for cover in the alleys.

You never realized how thick your fog was until it lifted.

Feeding was undeniably powerful, especially given his kind of work, and yup, he clearly needed a new profession. Accountant. Lint picker. Dog psychic. Anything where you sat on your ass all night long.

Then again, he couldn’t ahvenge his Wellsie doing any of those. And after everything that had happened last night, from what had gone down in the pantry, to what he’d done to himself after he’d finally gone to bed, he felt like he had things to make up to her for.

Christ, the fact that No’One had given him such strength made him think that Wellsie’s memory had been violated in some manner. Stained. Eroded.

When he’d fed from the Chosen Selena, it hadn’t bothered him as much—maybe because he’d still been in shell-shock mode… more likely because he hadn’t been aroused in the slightest, before, during or afterward.

Fucking hell, he was so ready for a fight tonight.

And fewer than three blocks later, he found what he was in search of: the scent of lessers.

As he and the boys fell into a silent jog, he didn’t get out any of his weapons. With the mood he was rocking, hand-to-hand was what he was after, and if he was lucky—

The scream that cut through the dull sounds of distant traffic was not made by a female. Low and ragged, it could only have come out of a masculine throat.

Screw the quiet-approach routine.

Breaking into a sprint, he shot around the corner of an alley and ran smack into a wall of scents that he had no trouble processing: vampire blood—two kinds, both male. Slayer blood—one kind, rank and nasty.

Sure enough, up ahead, there was a male vampire down on the asphalt, two slayers up on their feet, and one lesser lurching around, having obviously just been nailed in the face. Which explained the holler.

That was all the intel he needed to go on.

Bolting forward, he sent himself flying and locked onto one of the lessers, catching the bastard around the neck with his arm and Pop-Tarting him into the air with a yank. As gravity took care of biz and slammed the enemy down onto the pavement faceup, the temptation was to kick the crap out of him—but with somebody injured in the middle of the alley, this was an emergency situation. He outted one of his daggers, nailed the fucker in the chest, and reestablished his fighting stance before the flash faded.

Over on the left, John was taking care of the lesser with the leak in his cheek, stabbing him back to his unholy maker. And Qhuinn had picked up on number three’s option, swinging him around and throwing him headfirst at a wall.

With no more of the enemy to engage, at least for the moment, Tohr jogged over to the downed male.

“Throe,” he breathed as he got a load of the guy.

The soldier was on his back, clutching his gut with the hand that wasn’t on his dagger. Lot of blood. Lot of pain, given that tortured expression.

“John! Qhuinn!” Tohr called out. “Keep your eyes peeled for company of the Bastard variety.”

As he got a whistle and a “Roger that” in reply, he got down on his haunches, and felt for a pulse. The flickering he found was not a good sign.

Easing back, he met a pair of sky blue eyes. “You gonna tell me who did this to you? Or let me play Q and A all by my lonesome.”

Throe opened his mouth, coughed some blood, and closed his eyes.

“Okaaay, I’m going to guess your boss. How’m I doing?” Tohr lifted up the guy’s hand and got a gander at the gut wound. Make that wounds. “You know, you never belonged with that motherfucker.”

No response, but the guy wasn’t out cold—his respiration was too quick, the panting indicating the kind of pain that came only with consciousness. Whatever, though. Xcor was the only explanation. The Band of Bastards always fought in a single squadron, and they never would have left a soldier behind—unless Xcor had ordered them to.

Besides, two kinds of vampire blood? Had to have been a dagger-to-dagger conflict.

“What happened? The pair of you get into it over what to have for Last Meal? Dress code? Or was it something more serious. Homer versus Fred Flintstone?”

He made quick work disarming the soldier, removing two good, serviceable guns, plenty of ammo, multiple knives, a length of choking wire, and—

“Watch it,” he barked as Throe’s arm came up. Catching it easily, he forced it back down with hardly any effort. “Quick moves are going to make me finish the job Xcor started.”

“Shin blade…” came the croaked response.

Tohr popped up the pants, and, hello, more metal.

“At least he kept you well supplied,” Tohr muttered as he got out his cell phone and dialed the compound.

“I have a situation,” he said when V picked up.

After some quick back-and-forth with his brother, he and Vishous decided to bring the SOB to the training center. After all, the enemy of your enemy could be your friend… under the right circumstances. Besides, the mhis that surrounded the compound could scramble anything from GPS to Santa Claus. No way the Band of Bastards would find the guy, if this happened to be a setup.

Ten minutes later, Butch arrived with the Escalade.

Throe didn’t have much of an opinion about being lifted up, carried over, and laid down in the backseat: The fucker was finally out cold. The good news was that it meant he wasn’t an immediate threat—but it would be a bene to get him back alive.

Bargaining chip? Intel source? Footstool…

The repurposing options were endless.

“Just the kind of passenger I like,” Butch said as he got behind the wheel again. “No chance he’s going to try to backseat drive.”

Tohr nodded. “I’m coming with you—”

The first gunshot that went off came from John’s forty, and Tohr immediately went back into fight mode, throwing the Escalade’s door shut, at the same time he went for his own weapon.

Second shot was from the enemy, whoever it was.

Lunging for cover behind the bulletproof SUV, Tohr nonetheless pounded on the quarter panel to get the cop to take the fuck off. Throe was too valuable to lose over something as ho-hum as a squadron of lessers. Worse, it could be the Bastards.

As the brother hit the gas, Tohr was left with his ass in the breeze, but he took care of that quick, ducking into a roll, becoming a tight, moving target that would be harder to hit.

Bullets followed him, except the guy with the trigger finger didn’t know how to lead prey—the pinging off the pavement closed in on him, but not quick enough. And as he came up to a Dumpster, he tore behind the thing, prepared to return fire, as soon as he knew where his boys were.

Silence in the alley—

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Dripping, like something was leaking out of the iron belly of the massive trash bin, made him frown and take a quick look down.

It wasn’t the Dumpster.

Shit. He’d been hit.

Like a computer running a scan, he went into his body and identified the sources of the damage. Torso, left side, at the ribs. Upper arm, underside, four inches below his pit. And… that was about it.

He hadn’t even felt the hits, and he wasn’t drained by them, not by the pain or the blood loss. Goddamn feeding—it was like pouring jet fuel in your tank. And of course, it helped that the bullets hadn’t caught anything important—they were surface grazes only.

Putting his head out around the Dumpster, he couldn’t see anyone in the alley, but he could sense slayers all around, taking cover. At least he didn’t smell any fresh blood other than his own. So John and Qhuinn were okay, thank God.

The lull that followed got on his nerves.

Especially as it persisted.

Man, someone had to kick this fight into high gear again—Butch was heading back with a ticking time bomb in his cargo hold, and Tohr wanted to be there when the brother got to the compound.

More of the Jeopardy! theme.

From out of nowhere, that god-awful scene from the butler’s pantry hit him again, his hunger and No’One’s struggles and his body’s reaction ripping through him—

A great clawing anger bit him in the ass, ruining his concentration, pulling him out of the fight—and putting him exactly where he didn’t want to be.

As his brain scrambled and his chest burned, he wanted to scream.

Instead, he chose another way to force his mind somewhere else.

Putting both guns up in front of him, he jumped out from behind the Dumpster.

Talk about a lightning rod. Triggers were pulled. Lead went flying. And he was the target.

As his shoulder kicked back, he knew he was struck again, but he didn’t pay any attention. Zeroing in on the source, he discharged both semis at the dark corner, squeezing off round after round as he walked forward.

Someone was yelling but he couldn’t hear it—didn’t hear it.

He was on autopilot.

He was… invincible.

When the call came in to the medical staff, No’One was in the training center’s main exam room, delivering a stack of freshly folded scrubs that were straight from the dryer and still a little warm.

Over at the desk, Doc Jane leaned into her phone. “He’s what? Can you repeat that? Who? And you’re bringing him here?”

At that moment, the door to the outside corridor burst wide and No’One took an involuntary step back. The Brothers Vishous and Rhage filled the room as they barged in—and the fighters were grim, their eyes darkened, their brows down, their bodies tight.

There were daggers in their right hands.

“Wait, yes, they’re here. What’s your ETA? Okay, yup, we’ll be ready for him.” Jane hung up and looked over at the males. “Guess you guys are in charge of security.”

“Damn straight.” Vishous nodded at the operating table. “So I can’t assist you.”

“Because you’re going to have a knife to the throat of my patient.”

“You got it. Where’s Ehlena?”

Conversation bloomed as Doc Jane began gathering equipment and staff, and in the chaos that followed, No’One prayed nobody noticed her. Who was being brought in—

As if Vishous read her mind, he looked in her direction. “All nonessential personnel have to leave the training compound—”

The desk phone went off again with a shrill sound, and the healer Jane put it up to her ear once more. “Hello? Qhuinn? What is— What? He did what?” The female’s eyes shot to her mate, her cheeks going pale. “Tell me how bad? And he needs transport? Do you have— Thank God. Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

She hung up and spoke in a hollow voice. “Tohr is hit. Multiple times. Manny!” she called out. “We’ve got another incoming!”

Tohrment?

Vishous cursed. “If Throe put even one slug into him—”

“He walked into gunfire,” Jane cut in.

Everyone froze.

As No’One threw a hand out to the wall to steady herself, Rhage said softly, “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know much more than that. Qhuinn just said that he stepped out from under cover, put up two forties, and just… walked forward into a spray of gunfire.”

The other doctor, Manuel, came flying in from next door. “Who we got now?”

There was a lot more conversation at that point, deep voices mixing with the female’s higher tone. Ehlena, the nurse, arrived. Two more Brothers.

No’One sank farther back into the corner by the supply cabinet, staying out of the way as she stared at the floor and prayed. When a pair of huge black boots intruded upon her line of vision, she just shook her head, knowing what would be said to her.

“You need to go.”

Vishous’s voice was steady and sure. Almost kind, which was a new one.

Lifting her chin, she met icy, diamond eyes. “Verily, you will have to kill me and drag my body out of here if you wish me to leave.”

The Brother frowned. “Look, we’re bringing in a dangerous—”

A sudden, subtle growling appeared to surprise the male. Silly, she thought, considering he was making the—

No. He was not.

She was. That warning was rising up out of her own chest, breaching her own lips.

Cutting the sound off, she pronounced, “I shall stay. Which room are you treating him in?”

V blinked, as if he were dumbfounded and unfamiliar with the sensation. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder at his mate. “Ah, Jane—where are you working on Tohr?”

“Right here. Throe’s going into our second OR—fewer doors, so there’s less of an escape risk.”

The Brother turned away and walked off, but it was just to get a stool and bring it over to her. “This is in case you get tired of standing.”

Then he left her be.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, who walked into enemy fire unprotected? she wondered.

The answer, when it came to her, made her gut seize up: someone who wanted to be killed in the line of duty. That was who.

Mayhap it would be better if Layla fed him. Less complicated—no. Not less so. The Chosen was incredibly beautiful, without a deformity of any sort. Yes, he had stated that he wanted no one in a sexual manner, but a male’s resolve could be sorely tested by a female who looked like that. And any such response would kill him.

No’One was better for him.

Yes, that was right. She would handle his needs.

As she continued to justify things to herself, the fact that the idea of him at the fair Chosen’s throat made her curiously violent was nothing she wanted to examine too closely.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Throe came awake in a void. He had no sight, no hearing, and no feeling in his body, as if the surrounding darkness had claimed him in his entirety.

Ah, so this was Dhund, he thought. The opposite of the illuminated Fade. The shadowy place where those who had sinned upon the earth were locked for eternity.

This was the Omega’s hell, and indeed, it was hot.

His belly was on fire—

“No, you’re wrong. That lesser was shot from above, too. Someone else was at the scene.”

Throe’s senses came quickly upon him, ushering away the void sure as sunrise over the landscape—but he was careful not to change his breathing or move: That male was not one of his fellow soldiers.

And neither was the second who spoke: “What are you talking about?”

“When I went over to stab him back to the Omega, he was riddled with bullets, some of which could only have been discharged from a vantage point above him. I’m telling you, the top of his skull, his shoulders, that shit was a mess.”

“Any of our boys up there?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

A third voice said, “Nope. We were all at ground level.”

“Someone else took the fucker out. Tohr put some lead into him, sure, but that wasn’t all—”

“Shut it. Our guest’s come around.”

With the ruse over, Throe opened his eyes. Ah, yes. This was not Dhund—but damn close to it: The whole of the Black Dagger Brotherhood lined the walls of the room he was in, the males staring at him with aggression in their marrow. And that was not all. There were some others with them, soldiers, clearly… as well as that female, the one who had killed the Bloodletter.

As well as the great Blind King.

Throe focused on Wrath. The male had on dark spectacles, but even so, the consuming stare behind those lenses felt very obvious. Indeed, the most important vampire on the planet was as he had always been, a massive fighter, with the cunning of a master strategist, the expression of an executioner, and a body strong enough to follow through on both of those accounts.

Aptly named, he was.

And Xcor had chosen a very, very dangerous adversary.

The king stepped up to the bedside. “My surgeons saved your life.”

“I do not doubt it,” Throe rasped out. Dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat was sore.

“So the way I look at it, under normal circumstances, a male of worth would owe me. But given who you’re in bed with, the normal rules don’t apply.”

Throe swallowed a couple of times. “My first allegiance, my only… one… is to my family—”

“Some fucking family,” the Brother Vishous muttered.

“My blooded relations, that is. My… beloved sister—”

“I thought she was dead.”

Throe glared at the fighter. “She is.”

The king stepped in between the pair of them. “Yada, yada, yada—here’s the deal. You’ll be released when you’re well enough, free to go out and tell the world that me and my boys are as compassionate and fair as Mother fucking Teresa, in spite of who your boss is—”

“Was.”

“Whatever. Bottom line, you’re welcome to stay in one piece—”

“Unless you pop shit,” Vishous interjected.

The king glared at the Brother. “—as long as you act like a gentleman. We’ll even get you someone to feed from. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.”

“And if I wanted to battle alongside you?”

Vishous spit on the floor. “We don’t take traitors—”

Wrath’s eyes whipped around. “V. Shut your motherfucking face. Or you’re out in the hall.”

Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, was not the kind of male anyone addressed like that. Except, apparently, for Wrath. In this case, the Brother with the tattoos on his face and the perverted reputation and the hand of death did exactly what he was told. He shut the fuck up.

Which said volumes about Wrath. Did it not.

The king turned back. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing who cut you.”

“Xcor.”

Wrath’s nostrils flared. “And he left you for dead?”

“Aye.” On some level, he still couldn’t believe it. Which marked him as stupid. “Aye… he did.”

“Is that the reason your own blood is your allegiance now?”

“No. That has e’er been true.”

Wrath nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “You tell the truth.”

“Always.”

“Well, good thing you quit them now, son. The Band of Bastards is kicking at a hornets’ nest the likes of which they will not walk away from.”

“Verily… there is nothing I can say that you do not already know.”

Wrath laughed softly. “A diplomat.”

Vishous cut in with, “Try dead animal—”

Wrath’s hand shot up into the air, the black diamond of the king’s ring flashing. “Somebody get that mouth out of this room. Or I’ll do it.”

“I’m fucking leaving.”

After the Brother marched out, the king rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Enough with the talking. You look like shit—where’s Layla?”

Throe began to shake his head. “I have no need for blood—”

“Bullshit. And you are not dying on our watch just so Xcor can accuse us of killing you. I’m not giving him that kind of weapon.” As the king started for the door, Throe realized for the first time that there was a dog at the male’s side—wearing a halter that Wrath grasped. Was he truly blind? “Needless to say, this is going to be witnessed— Oh, hey, Chosen.”

Throe’s entire brain shut down as a vision entered the room. An absolute… vision. Tall, and fair of hair and eye, dressed in a white robe, it was indeed a Chosen.

Such a beauty was she, he thought. A sunrise that lived and breathed… a miracle.

And she was not alone, as was appropriate for a gem such as herself. By her side, Phury, son of Ahgony, was a wall of protection, his face screwed down so tight, it appeared as if mayhap she was his? He even had a black dagger in his hand—although it was discreetly held by his thigh, undoubtedly so the female did not see it and grow alarmed.

“I’ll leave you to this,” Wrath said. “But if I were you, I’d watch yourself. My boys here, they’re a little twitchy.”

After the great Blind King left with the blond dog, Throe was alone with the Brothers, the soldiers… and that female.

As she came forward into the room, her smile was a wellspring of peace and femininity in the midst of the vile trappings of war and death, and if he hadn’t been lying down, he’d have sunk to his knees in awe.

It had been so long since he had been ’round any female of worth. Verily, he had grown too used to the whores and the prostitutes, whom he treated like ladies out of habit, but not concern.

His eyes teared up.

She reminded him of who his sister should have been.

Phury stepped up in front of her, blocking the view as he leaned down and put his mouth right to Throe’s ear. As he squeezed Throe’s biceps until it screamed in pain, the Brother growled softly, “You get hard and I’ll castrate you as soon as she leaves.”

Well… if that wasn’t crystal clear. And a quick glance around the room suggested that Phury wasn’t the only one who would come after him. The other Brothers would fight for pieces of his dead carcass if he became aroused.

Straightening to his full height, Phury smiled at the female as if there was nothing of any concern going on. “This soldier is very grateful for the gift of your vein, Chosen. Aren’t you.”

The “asshole” went unsaid. And the grip that once again tightened on Throe’s upper arm was just as hidden and emphatic.

“I am e’er grateful, your grace,” he breathed.

At that, the Chosen smiled at Throe, stealing his breath. “If I may be in even a small way helpful to a male of worth such as yourself, I am blessed. There is no greater service to the race than fighting the enemy.”

“I can think of at least one more,” somebody said under their breath.

As Phury motioned her to come to the bedside, Throe could only stare up into her face, his heart struggling to decide whether to pound or stop altogether. And whilst he imagined what she could possibly taste like, he tried not to lick his lips—for surely that would fall under the prohibited-activities list. He also sternly reminded his sex to stay flaccid or lose its two stupid best mates.

“I am not worthy,” he said softly to her.

“Damn fucking straight,” someone growled.

The Chosen frowned over her shoulder. “Oh, but surely he is. Anyone who wields a dagger with honor against the lessers is worthy.” She looked down at him again. “Sire, may I serve you now?”

Oh… damn.

Her words went straight to his cock: Right up the shaft, which thickened instantly, to the tip, which promptly stung with need.

Throe closed his eyes and prayed for strength. And bad aim for the Brothers. Neither of which would likely be granted—

Her wrist was close to his lips—he could smell it.

Eyes flaring open, he saw her fragile vein within striking distance—and, merciful Virgin Scribe save him, all he could think about was reaching out to her, caressing her smooth cheek—

A black blade forced his arm back down. “No touching,” Phury said darkly.

Well… at least if that was all the Brother was worried about, obviously he had not caught on to the issue below the waist. And short of agreeing to have himself neutered, Throe would do anything to have this happen—so no touching was good.

No touching was fine with him.…

As Tohr lay in his bed, he came awake with the thought it was a little early to be sleeping. Shouldn’t he be out fighting? Why was he—

“Get Layla in here stat,” a male voice barked. “We can’t operate until his blood pressure is up—”

Say what? Tohr wondered. Whose blood pressure was bad…?

“She’ll be there ASAP,” came a far-off response.

Were they talking about him? Nah, they couldn’t be—

As he popped opened his eyes, the industrial chandelier hanging right over his face cleared things up fast. This wasn’t his bedroom; this was the clinic in the training center. And they were talking about him.

Everything came back in a flash. Him stepping out from behind that Dumpster. His body getting drilled as he walked forward, opening fire. Him shooting until he stood over the slumped, stinking form of that slayer.

After that, he’d wobbled back and forth, like a stick only partially drilled into the ground.

Then it had been lights out.

With a groan, he went to push himself up, but his palm slipped on the padding of the gurney. Guess he was leaking—

Manello’s handsome puss popped into his line of vision, replacing the bright-and-shiny of the light fixture. Wow—check out that expression. The bastard looked like someone had just gotten him tickets to Disneyland. Surprise!

“You shouldn’t be conscious.”

“That bad, huh.”

“Maybe a little worse. No offense, but what the fuck were you thinking?” The good surgeon pivoted and jogged to the door, shoving his head out into the corridor. “We need Layla in here! Now!”

At that, there was some conversation, but he couldn’t track any of it, and not because he was injured. In spite of all the owie-owie, his body had a huge opinion about who he was going to feed from—and as far as it was concerned, as lovely as the Chosen was, it was not going to be her.

And it was a shock to realize why.

He wanted No’One. Even though it wasn’t fair—

“I shall do it. I shall take care of him.”

At the sound of No’One’s voice, Tohr gritted his teeth, and felt a surge go through him. Turning his head, he looked past the rolling tables of operating instruments… and there she was in the far corner, her hood in place, her body still, her hands churning under the robe’s sleeves.

The instant he saw her, his fangs elongated, and his body filled out its own skin, the residual numbness receding and revealing all kinds of sensation: pain at the side of his neck, his ribs, and under his arm; tingling at the tips of his canines sure as if he had already struck; hunger in his gut—for her.

Starvation in his cock—for her.

Shit.

He quickly camo’d the arousal by yanking the surgical drape around and holding it to the front of his hips.

“Okay, you shouldn’t be able to sit up,” Manny muttered.

Was he? Oh, hey, check it… And as for the doctor’s second dose of surprise? Nice guy, but he was being a dumb-ass human when it came to the feeding thing. With this kind of hunger for that particular female? Tohr was frickin’ Superman, capable of bench-pressing a Hummer while he juggled Smart Cars with his free hand.

He was worried about No’One, though. Last time had been such an epic fail.

Except from across the room, she just nodded at him, as if she knew exactly what he was worried about, and was ready to follow through anyway.

For some reason, her courage made his eyes sting.

“Leave us,” he told the surgeon without looking at the man. “And don’t let anyone in until I call for you.”

Cursing. Muttering. All of which he ignored. And as he heard the door finally shut, he took firm control of his instincts, the knowledge that he was alone with her tempering all that drive to feed: He was not going to hurt or scare her again. Period.

No’One’s reedy voice cut through the silence. “You’re bleeding so badly.”

Oh, man, they must not have cleaned him up yet. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Then you should be dead.”

He laughed a little. Then laughed a little more—and blamed the ha-has on blood loss. ’Cuz none of this shit was funny.

As he rubbed his face, he hit a raw patch and had to lie back—which made him wonder whether he might be in trouble—and not the sexed-up variety. How many bullets were in him? How close had he come to dying?

No offense, but what the fuck were you thinking?

Shaking all that off, he extended his hand and beckoned her. As she closed in on him, her limp was pronounced, and, when she reached the table, she leaned her hip against the edge like maybe her leg was bothering her.

“Let me get you a chair,” he said, making a move to get up.

Her delicate hand eased him back. “I’ll do it.”

As he watched her limp across the way, it was obvious she was in pain. “How long have you been standing?”

“Awhile.”

“You should have left.”

She rolled the stool over and groaned as she took the weight off her feet. “Not until I knew you were home safe. They said… that you walked into the line of fire.”

God, he wished he could see her eyes. “It’s not the first time I’ve done something stupid.”

Like that somehow made things better? Idiot.

“I do not want you to die,” she whispered.

God. Damn. The heartfelt emotion in those words left him nonplussed.

As the silence ruled once again, he stared into the shadow created by the hood, thinking of that moment when he’d stepped out from behind that Dumpster. Then he went back farther into his memory.…

“You know what? I’ve been mad at you for years.” As she appeared to recoil, he tempered his tone. “I just couldn’t believe what you did to yourself. We’d come so far, the three of us, you, me, and Darius. We were a kind of family, and I think I’ve always felt like you betrayed us in a way. But now… after I’ve lost all I have… I understand the why. I truly do.”

Her head dipped down. “Oh, Tohrment.”

He reached out and covered her hand with his own. Except then he noticed his was bloody and stained, a horrific travesty against the purity of her skin.

When he went to pull away, she held on and kept them together.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I guess I understand why you did it. At that moment, you couldn’t see anyone but yourself. It wasn’t to hurt the other people around you—it was ending your own suffering because you simply couldn’t fucking stand it another minute.”

There was a long moment of quiet, and then she said quietly, “When you walked out into those bullets tonight, were you trying to…”

“That was just about the fighting.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah. Only doing my job.”

“Given the reactions of your Brothers, they appear to think that is not in the description of duties.”

Shifting his eyes upward, he caught the reflection of them in the stainless-steel contours of the operating chandelier, him laid out and leaking, her curled in and hooded. Their forms and figures were distorted, bent, twisted out of shape because of the uneven reflecting surface, but the image was accurate in more ways than one: Their destinies had been such as to make them both grotesque.

Strangely, their two hands clasped were the clearest of all, that image being caught on a straightaway.

“I hated what I did to you last night,” he blurted.

“I know. But that is no reason to kill yourself.”

True. He had more than enough cause for that from elsewhere.

Abruptly, No’One took her hood off, and he instantly zeroed in on her throat.

Shit, he wanted that vein, the one that ran up so close to the surface.

Chat time was over. The hunger was back, and it wasn’t just about biology. He wanted to be at her flesh again, drinking not simply to cure his wounds, but because he liked the taste of her, and the feel of her fine skin at his mouth, and the way his fangs punctured in deep and let him take part of her into him.

Okay, maybe he’d fibbed a little about that bullet shower. He absolutely had hated hurting her—but that wasn’t the only reason why he’d walked into all that lead. The truth was, she was calling something out of him, some kind of emotion, and those feelings were starting to turn gears inside of him that were rusted and cranky from lack of use.

It terrified him. She terrified him.

And yet, looking at her strained face right now, he was glad he’d come back from that alley alive. “I’m happy I’m still here.”

The breath she exhaled was relief made manifest. “Your presence eases many, and you are important in this world. You matter a great deal.”

He laughed awkwardly. “You overestimate me.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“Ditto,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” He punctuated that with a squeeze of her hand, and when she didn’t reply, he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you are here. It’s a miracle.”

Yeah, she was probably right. He had no idea how he’d gotten out of that one alive. He hadn’t been wearing a vest.

Maybe his luck was changing.

Little late in the game, unfortunately.

Staring up at her, he took in her lovely features, from her dove gray eyes to her pink lips… to the elegant column of her throat and the pulse that beat beneath her precious skin.

Abruptly, her gaze went to his mouth. “Yes,” she said. “I will feed you now.”

Heat and raw power resurged in his body, jerking his hips up and oversolving that blood pressure problem of the surgeon’s. But all the off-the-chain was still a no-go. The part of him that wanted things from her, things that she wasn’t going to be comfortable giving anybody… things that were all about what he had done in the shower and in his bed alone during the day… was not getting airtime here.

Besides, his mind and his heart weren’t interested in any of that shit, and this was another reason she was perfect for him. Layla might well take his body up on the arousal; No’One never would. And there were worse betrayals to his shellan than wanting the unattainable. At least with No’One, and thanks to his self-control, those impulses would forever be just a fantasy, a harmless, unrealized, masturbation fantasy that had no more substance in his real life than porn on the Internet—

God help you, a small voice pointed out, if she ever wants you back.

Too right. But as she appeared to hesitate, he was certain that was never going to happen.

In a guttural voice, he told her, “I’m in no hurry. And know this, the lights will stay on this time… and I will take from your wrist only as much as you care to give me.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

As No’One sat beside Tohrment, she heard herself say once again, “Yes…”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, something had changed between them. In the thick, charged air that separated their bodies, some kind of heat was sparking, the current of electricity warming her skin from the inside out.

This was totally different than when she had been in the dark of the pantry with him, struggling against the past’s perennial stranglehold.

Tohrment cursed softly. “Shit, I should have them clean me up first.”

As if he were naught but a countertop that had been spilled upon, or a bolt of cloth that required laundering.

She frowned. “I care not what you look like. You breathe and your heart beats—that is all that matters to me.”

“You have very low standards for males.”

“I have no standard for males. For you, however, if there is health and safety, I am at peace.”

“God damn,” he said softly. “I really don’t get it… but I believe you.”

“ ’Tis the truth.”

Staring at their entwined hands, she thought about what he had said… about the past, about the cobbled-together family the three of them had formed in the Old Country.

About how she had shattered that for them all, including her daughter.

Indeed, she had always viewed the resurrection she had been given as an opportunity for penance for taking her own life, but yes, she realized once again, now there was another purpose to serve.

She had hurt this male, but she had also been granted the opportunity to help him.

It was the Scribe Virgin’s fundamental tenet at work: all things coming full circle so that balance could be retained.

Assuming she could help him, that was.

With a sense of purpose, she looked down his body—or what she could see of it under the surgical sheeting. His chest was padded with muscle, a star-shaped scar marking one pectoral, and his abdomen was ribbed with strength. All along, there were a number of bruises that she didn’t want to guess the causes of, and small round holes that scared her.

But what was happening below his waist captured her eyes. He was holding the blue sheeting in place over his hips as if hiding something, his forearm and hand tightening up as she stared.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said in a guttural voice.

He was aroused, she thought.

“No’One, come on—meet my eyes. Don’t look down there.”

The temperature in the room shot up even higher, to the point where she considered taking off her robing. And abruptly, as if he could read her mind, his pelvis rolled in an arch that was… sensuous.

“Oh, fuck—No’One, you gotta not go there.”

A strange anticipation threaded through her veins, making her head buzz and her stomach feel vaguely sick. And yet she had no cognition of not feeding him; if anything, she wanted his mouth on her even more.

With that thought, she brought her wrist up and over his lips.

His hiss was quick, the bite was fast, the pain sweet as the prick of a hundred tiny needles. And then… he was sucking, his warm, wet mouth fitting a seal against her flesh and pulling at her rhythmically—

He moaned. Deep in his throat, he moaned in pleasure, and as he did, her heart jumped in her chest and then beat even faster. More of that heat, insidious and suffusing, bloomed on the underside of her skin, her mind growing woolly and her body getting languid.

As if Tohrment sensed the changed in her, he moaned again, his head craning, his chest rising, his eyes rolling back into his head. And then he began making mewing noises, the supplication fitting not at all with his tremendous size, the plaintive sounds rising repeatedly up from his throat, alternating with his swallows.

With the lights on, and her arm her own to retract, her panic flared only briefly, before being dismissed wholly. There was just too much of Tohrment in this for her to mistake him for anyone else, and the well-lit room they were in had nothing in common with that root cellar: All was bright and clean, and this male at her vein… was very much vampire and nothing even remotely symphath.

The more at ease she grew, the more aware she became.

His hips were moving all the while now.

Under the sheeting she would soon be washing, beneath the cup of what was now both of his palms, his pelvis was gyrating. And every time it did, his abdominals tightened and his torso arched… and those noises grew a little louder.

He was deeply aroused.

Even terribly injured, his body was ready for mating—desperate for it, if the way he moved was any indication.…

At first, she didn’t understand the tingling that came over her, numbing her up and hypersensitizing her at the same time. Mayhap it was the fact that she had given him two feedings in less than a day… But no. As Tohrment’s hands tightened anew at the front of his hips, as he gripped himself even harder through the sheeting, it was clear his sex had cried out for attention and he had been forced to give it some—

The sparkling returned even more keenly as she realized he was rubbing himself.

No’One’s own lips parted as breathing became difficult, and under her robing, the warmth cranked up even higher and focused in her lower gut.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she was… aroused. For the first time in her life.

As if he could read her mind, his eyes shot to hers. Confusion was in them. And an eerie darkness that seemed to be near to fear. But there was also more of that heat, so much more…

Whilst she met his glowing stare, one of his hands unlatched from down below and traveled up his chest. When he touched her forearm, it was not to keep her in place or restrain her, but to stroke her flesh softly, slowly.

Breathing became impossible.

And she did not care.

His fingers running lightly over her skin were intoxicating, drawing her closer to this flame that she could not see. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to fly far away from any worries or preoccupations, until she knew nothing but the sensations in her body.

Indeed, as she fed him, she was fed herself, a part of her innermost soul nourished for the first time.…

Eventually she heard licking and realized he was done.

She wanted to tell him to continue.

To beg him, was more like it.

Raising heavy lids, she could not focus her eyes, and that seemed only appropriate. The world was fuzzy and so was she… boneless and fuzzy, with honey in her veins and cotton batting in her brain.

Tohrment was anything but, however.

He seemed sharp as a blade, his muscles straining now not just in his hips but his whole body, from his biceps to his abdominals—even his feet beneath the sheeting stood up straight.

His other hand, the one that had been stroking her, returned to below his waist. “I think you’d better go.”

His voice was so deep, she frowned as she tried to decipher the words. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, but I’m about to.” He grit his white teeth as his hips moved up and back under the sheet. “I have to… Fuck.”

And that was when his meaning became clear.

“No’One, please… I’ve got to… I can’t keep it back much longer.…”

His massive body was so beautiful in this particular agony: Even though he was bloodied and wounded and bruised, there was something undeniably sexual about the way he ground his teeth and arched upon the table.

For a moment, her nightmare with the symphath threatened to come back, terror trying to gain traction at the edge of her consciousness. But then Tohrment moaned and bit down on his lower lip, those long white canines tearing into the soft pink flesh.

“I do not want to go,” she said roughly.

His face squeezed up tight, another curse breaching his lips. “You stay and you’re going to have a hell of a show.”

“So… show me.”

That got his attention, his eyes snapping back to hers, his body freezing. As he blinked, he did not otherwise move.

In a harsh tone, he blurted, “I’m going to make myself come. Do you know what that means? Orgasm?”

Thank the Virgin Scribe for the chair, No’One thought. Because between that graveled voice, and his heady scent, and the erotic way he was holding on to himself, even her good leg had no strength to support what little weight she had.

“No’One, do you understand?”

The part of her that had woken up was what answered: “Yes. I do. And I want to watch.”

He shook his head as if he intended to argue. Except then he said no more.

“Ease yourself, warrior,” she told him.

“Oh, Jesus…”

“Now.”

As she commanded him, a thrall appeared to come over him: Below his waist, under the sheeting, one of his knees came up toward his body, his thighs splitting wide as his grip secured that vital place that defined him as uniquely male.

What happened next defied description. He worked himself against the balled sheeting, rolling his hips, pushing down, his body gathering momentum—

Oh, the sounds: from the rasp of his breath to his moans to the squeak from under the table.

This was the male animal in the throes of passion.

And there was no going back.

For either of them.

Faster. Greater pressure with his hands, until his chest stood out, the anatomy appearing carved, rather than made of flesh. And then he cursed in an explosion of breath and jerked up against the grasp he had on his sex. His spasms had her clutching her own chest and breathing in a pant, as if what was happening to him was replicated within her own form. Indeed, what miracle was this? Tohrment appeared to be in pain, and yet showed no evidence of wanting what racked him to end—if anything, he drew it out, shifting his hips ever more.

Until it was done.

In the aftermath, the only sound in the room was their breathing, at first quite loud, then growing quieter and quieter, until they were still.

As her heightened senses receded, her mind came forth, and the same seemed to be true for him. Releasing his hands from below his waist, he revealed a wetness on the sheeting that had not been there before.

“Are you okay?” he said roughly.

She opened her mouth. Her voice lost, all she could do was nod.

“You sure about that?”

It was so hard to put into words what she was feeling. She was not threatened, to be sure. But she was also not… right.

She was spinning and antsy. Inside her head. Outside of it. “I am so… confused.”

“What about?”

The bullet wounds in his flesh had her shaking her head. This was not the time to talk. “Let me get the healers. You need to be attended to.”

“You’re more important than that. Are you all right?”

Given the stubborn line of his jaw, it was clear he wasn’t budging. And no doubt if she left to get the surgeon, he would follow her and leave a trail of blood he did not have to spare.

She shrugged. “I just never expected to…”

As she went no further, the realities of their situation returned to her. That arousal, that satisfaction that he’d found… it had been about his shellan, hadn’t it. She had told him that Wellesandra was welcome between them, and he’d made it amply clear that he wanted no one but that female: Whilst he had appeared to be focusing on her, in all likelihood he had merely projected the image of someone else.

It had had nothing to do with her.

Which really shouldn’t have bothered her. It was, after all, exactly what she had told him she wanted.

So why did she feel so curiously deflated?

“I am fine.” She met him in the eye. “I swear to it. Now, may I please get the healers? I will take no true full breath until they care for you.”

His eyes narrowed. But then he nodded. “Okay.”

She smiled stiffly and turned away.

Just as she got to the door, he said, “No’One.”

“Yes?”

“I want to return the favor to you.”

Well, didn’t that stop the female in her tracks.

Kind of made Tohr’s heart freeze, as well.

As No’One stood at the door with her back to him, he couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth—but it was the goddamned truth, and he was determined to follow through on it.

“I know you go to the Sanctuary to take care of your blood needs,” he said, “but that can’t be enough. Not tonight. I’ve taken so much from you in the last twenty-four hours.”

When she didn’t reply, he caught her scent and had to tamp down an answering growl in his throat. He wasn’t sure she knew it in her mind, but her body was clear: It wanted what he could provide to her.

Badly.

Except… God, what was he getting into? He was going to feed someone other than his Wellsie?

God help you if she ever wanted you back.…

No, no, noooooo, this wasn’t about sex. It was about him taking care of her after she had allowed him at her vein. It was just blood—which was unsettling enough, fuck him very much.

You sure about that, the small voice shot back.

Just as he was about to fuck-off himself again, Lassiter’s fakakta lecture came back to him: You are alive. She is not. And your hanging on to the past is putting you both in an In Between.

Tohr cleared his throat. “I mean it. I want to be there for you now. It’s simple biology—”

Oh, really? that voice demanded.

Fuck off—

“Excuse me?” she said, shooting a stare over her shoulder, her brows to the ceiling.

Great, so he wasn’t just talking to himself.

“Look,” he said, “come to me after they’re done patching me up. I’ll be in my room right afterward.”

“You may be more injured than you know.”

“Nah, I’ve been here before. Lots of times.”

She lifted the hood into place. “You need your strength to recover.”

“You’ve given me more than enough for the two of us. Come with me—I mean—” Shit. Fuck. “Come to me.”

There was a long pause. “I’ll get the healer.”

As No’One left, he let his head fall back—and as it slammed into the gurney’s hard pillow, the thud reverberated through his skull. The sting felt good. So he did it again.

Manello strode into the exam room. “You two finished in here?”

The guy’s tone was snark-free, something Tohr would have appreciated more if it didn’t just dawn on him that he’d come all over the sheet.

“Okay, let’s do this, big man.” The surgeon snapped on a pair of latex specials. “I took X-rays while you were out cold, and I’m happy to report you only have two slugs in you. Chest and shoulder. So I’m going to go in, perform a lead-ectomy, and then stitch up the other sets of entrance and exit wounds. Piece of cake.”

“I need to clean up first.”

“That’s my job, and trust me, I got enough distilled water to hose all that dried blood off and still wash a car afterward.”

“Yeah… um… I’m not talking about that kind of mess.”

Cue the screeching tires. As Manello’s expression went from relaxed to resolutely professional, it was obvious that the message had been received.

“Sounds good. How about I get you another sheet?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Fucking hell. He was blushing. Either that or he’d been shot in the face, too, and was only just now noticing.

As a clean sheet awkwardly changed hands, neither one looked at the other—and then Manello got studiously busy over at a stainless-steel rolling table, checking the needles and thread and scissors and sterile packs that had been laid out.

Amazing how sex could turn two fully grown adult males into teenagers.

Tohr tidied himself up and told his hard-on to can it. Unfortunately, his cock seemed to be speaking another language, because the thing stayed hard as a crowbar. Maybe it was deaf?

He was kind of done throwing fists at it.

Dumping the dirty cloth on the floor, he covered himself with the fresh one. “I’m, ah, ready.”

The good news was that at least he hadn’t been hit in the thigh, so Manello was going to stay above the waist.

“Good,” the doc said as he came back over. “Now, I think we can handle this all locally, and the fewer drugs the better. So I’d like to take a shot at not putting you out cold, okay?”

“I don’t care, Doc. You just do you.”

“I like your attitude. And we’re going to start with this one on your upper chest. This may sting as I numb you up—”

“Fuuuuck.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Nothing you can do.” Well, other than taking a spike and nailing him to the table.

As Manello settled into his work, Tohr closed his eyes and thought of No’One. “I don’t have to stay down here after this, do I?”

“If you were a human? Absolutely. But this shit’s already healing up. Goddamn, you guys are amazing.”

“So I can go right back to the mansion.”

“Well, yeah… eventually.” There was a resounding bonk!—as if the guy had dropped one of the lead slugs on the tray. “I think Mary wanted to check in with you first.”

“Why?”

“She just wants to, you know, check in.”

Tohr focused a glare on the guy. “Why.”

“Do you realize how lucky you are that you didn’t end up—”

“I don’t need to ‘talk’ to her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Look, I’m not going to get in the middle of this.”

“I’m fine—”

“You got yourself shot up tonight.”

“Hazard of the job—”

“Bullshit. You are not ‘fine,’ and you do need to ‘talk’ to someone. Asshole.” On the fine and the talk, the human gestured with his hands, doing air quotes in spite of the fact that his fingers were busy holding instruments.

Tohr shut his eyes in frustration. “Look, I’ll follow up with Mary when I can… but right after this, I’m busy.”

In reply, the surgeon covered all kinds of mental health territory, most of which was punctuated by f-bombs.

Not Tohr’s problem, though.

TWENTY-NINE

Over to the east, in the thick of Caldwell’s farm country, Zypher sat in silence upon his top bunk. He was far from alone in the Band of Bastards’ basement accommodations. The three cousins were with him, each as capable of conversation as he was, but likewise not inclined to indulge.

There was no real movement among them. No sounds except for the whispers of his whittling knife as he cleaved it into soft wood again and again.

No one was sleeping.

Whilst dawn settled over the land and claimed its illuminative dominion, their thoughts were similarly subsumed, the weight of the actions of their leader settling heavily upon them.

It was not at all unfathomable that Xcor had so brutally stabbed Throe for his insubordination. It was not unbelievable that he had then ordered the rest of them away such that their fellow soldier was left for dead for the enemy.

And yet he somehow could not understand it. And clearly, neither could the others.

Throe had always been the glue that bound, a male of worth with more honor than the rest of them had put together… as well as a way with logic that had landed him in the role of facilitator with Xcor: Throe was typically on the front lines with their cold, calculating leader, the only voice that could get through to the male—well, usually. He’d also been the translator between all of them and the rest of the world, the one with Internet access who had found this house and was trying to get them females of the race to feed from, the one who coordinated money and servants.

He was right about the technology, too.

Except Xcor had snapped, and now… if slayers hadn’t gotten Throe in that alley, the Brothers might well have killed him just on principle.

Then again, there was going to be a price on all of their heads soon. It was only a matter of time.…

Examining his carving, he thought it was a piece of crap, no more obviously a bird than it had been as a thick maple stick. Indeed, he had no artistry in his hands, his eyes, or his heart. This was just a way to pass the time whilst he was busy not sleeping.

Indeed, he wished there was a female around. Fucking was his best talent, and he’d been oft known to pass hours between the legs of a maid with great effect.

He could certainly use the distraction.

Tossing the hunk of wood to the foot of his bunk, he examined his blade. So pure and sharp, capable of so much more than poorly rendering a wretched swallow.

He hadn’t liked Throe at all at first. The male had come to the Band of Bastards on a rainy evening, and he’d looked as out of place as he was: a dear boy among death dealers, standing outside a hovel that no doubt he wouldn’t have stabled a horse in.

From his top hat to his perfectly buffed-up shoes, they had all despised every inch of him.

And then Xcor had had them draw straws to find out who would beat him down first. Zypher had won, and had smiled as he’d cracked his knuckles and gotten ready to hand the male’s masculinity to his royal self on a silver plate.

Throe had flailed at the first couple of punches that had come at him, providing no proper defense and absorbing the blows in his head and gut. But sooner than was at all expected, something had clicked within him—his stance had changed for no good reason, his fists coming up, his body filling out those fancy clothes in an altogether different way.

The turnabout had been… nothing short of extraordinary.

Zypher had kept fighting the male, throwing out combinations of punches that were abruptly parried… and, after a bit, returned, until he himself had had to step up his efforts.

That dandy had been learning, right then and there, even as his fine clothes had gotten shredded and torn, even as he had become soaked by the rain and his own blood.

During that very first fight, and at each succeeding one, he had demonstrated an uncanny ability to assimilate. Between the initial fist that had been thrown at him, to the moment when he had finally landed on his ass with exhaustion, he had evolved more as a fighter than soldiers who had spent years in the Bloodletter’s war camp.

They had all stood around Throe as he sat there in the mud, his chest heaving, his pretty face bruised, his top hat long lost.

Standing over the male, Zypher had spit the blood out of his mouth… and then he’d leaned down and offered his palm. The dandy had still had much to prove—but he’d been no lackey during that fight.

In fact, no lackey had he e’er proved to be.

’Twas strange to feel any allegiance to someone of the aristocracy. But Throe had earned the respect time and time again. And he had long been one of them now—although that may well have ended on several levels tonight.

Zypher turned his knife back and forth, the candlelight on its blade a beautiful thing, as lovely as when it fell upon the skin of a female’s inner thigh.

Xcor had used one of these for what it was intended—to cut, to maul, to kill—but his target? Considering all that Throe did for them, their leader, in his rage, had done more harm than good. Indeed, Xcor’s blood hunger was making him mercurial. And with a mind like his and plans such as he had, that was not a good combination—

The back of Zypher’s neck tickled, one of the spiders that lived with them eight-legging across his nape. Reaching around with a curse, he scrubbed at his flesh, destroying the thing.

He should probably try for some sleep. In truth, he had been waiting up for Xcor’s return, but dawn had long since arrived and the male had not come back. Mayhap he was dead, the Brotherhood having caught him out alone. Or perhaps one of those clandestine meetings he had with that member of the glymera had gone sour.

Zypher was surprised to find he didn’t care. He rather hoped, as a matter of fact, that Xcor never arrived home again.

It was a big change in his thinking. Back when the Band of Bastards had first come together in the Old Country, they had been a mercenary lot, each out only for themselves. The Bloodletter had been the only one capable of uniting them: that killing machine, who had had no humanity to temper any of his urges, had been the rawest male to ever walk in a soldier’s boots, and they had individually followed him as a symbol of freedom and strength in the war.

After all, there was no way the Black Dagger Brotherhood would ever take any of them.

Over time, however, bonds had grown. Regardless of how Xcor thought of things, the soldiers who fought under him had developed loyalties… and they extended even to the former aristocrat, Throe.

“ ’Re ye gonna talk with him?” Syphon asked softly from down below.

He and Syphon had shared bunks for aeons, with Zypher always on top. It was the same with the females and women as well, and they were a good pair. Syphon could keep up: in the bed, on the floor, against a wall… in the field as well.

“Aye. If he comes home.”

“Wouldnae kill m’ if he dint.” The brogue was thick in that deep voice, putting a different twist on the syllables. And it was the same for the male’s cousins. “He shouldnae done that.”

“Aye.”

“You dinnae haft t’ stand up to him y’self.”

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

The grunt that came in reply suggested that there was backup available at a moment’s notice and he might well need it. Xcor was as ugly a fighter as he was a lover—

“Damn spiders,” Zypher muttered as he slapped at the back of his neck again.

“We should ’ave done aught,” somebody said in the dimness.

It was Balthazar.

And a rumble of ayes rippled through the candlelight.

“We shan’t sit idly by again,” Zypher announced. “And shan’t do so the now.”

Assuming the fucker came back. Which, if he didn’t, would not be because he had second thoughts or regrets about what he’d done. Not Xcor. He was as decisive as his blades.

One thing was clear, however: If Throe was dead, Xcor was going to have a mutiny on his hands. Hell, that might be true regardless of whether that soldier lived. No one was going to put their heads on the chopping block in pursuit of the throne for someone who didn’t honor the bonds of—

Zypher smacked the nape of his neck so hard, someone remarked, “If you’d prefer some floggers, we have ’em.”

Wetness on his palm made him bring the thing forward—

Blood. Red blood. A lot of it.

Damn it, he must have been bitten by the fucker. Putting his other hand up, he investigated the area, probing with his fingertips—

A droplet hit the back of his wrist.

Looking up to the floor joists above him, his cheek caught the next one that fell through a small crack in the hardwood.

He was off his bunk with knives in both hands before there was another.

The others went on instant alert, not even proffering a question—just seeing him ready to fight called them up out of their beds and to attention.

“You’re bleedin’,” Syphon whispered.

“It’s not me. Someone’s upstairs.”

Zypher inhaled in an attempt to catch a scent, but all he could smell was the musty, clinging stench of the damp underground.

“Could the Brotherhood have delivered Xcor back to us?” somebody breathed.

In a matter of seconds, guns were checked and armor plates were strapped on chests.

“I go first,” Zypher announced.

There was no argument—then again, he was already at the base of the sturdy stairs, and beginning to ascend. The others followed him, and even though the lot of them easily weighed a total of seventy-two stone, they went up without making a sound, no creaks or groans of old wood tipping their hand. Or their feet, as it were.

At least until they got to the top. The final three planks were set badly on purpose so as to give away any infiltration. He skipped them by dematerializing directly to the steel-reinforced door that was locked into a steel frame set into four walls that had steel mesh nailed to the plaster.

No way anyone could get in or out the easy way.

With care, he gently threw the steel bolt and cranked the knob. Then he eased the way open a quarter of an inch.

The scent of fresh blood rushed into his nose and his sinuses, so thick he tasted sweet metal in the back of his throat. And he recognized the source.

It was Xcor. And there was nothing and no one else with him: no stench of lesser, no dark spice of a male vampire, no pathetic cologne of a human.

Zypher motioned for the others to stay back. He was going to need them to save his ass if his nose had misinformed him.

Opening the door on a quick, soundless shove, he stepped out into the artificial darkness created by the boards and drapes that covered all the windows—

Across the chipped tile of the kitchen and the dusty hardwood of the hall, in the far corner of the living room, in a circle of honey-colored candlelight… Xcor sat in a pool of blood.

The soldier was still dressed in his fighting clothes, his scythe and his guns set beside him on the floor, his legs outstretched, his bare and bloodied forearms resting on his thighs.

There was a steel dagger in his hand.

He was cutting himself. Over and over with the blade of his killing knife, he was cutting his ropy, strong arms such that they dripped from too many striped wounds to count. But that was not the shocker. There were tears on the male’s face. Running down his cheeks, falling off his jaw and chin, mixing with what seeped from his flesh.

Words, hoarse and low, drifted over. “… goddamn pussy… crying, worthless, pussy… stop it… stop it… you did what you had to do to him… goddamn pussy…”

It appeared as though someone else had developed a bond with Throe.

Indeed, their leader was abject in his misery and his regret.

Zypher slowly backed up through the door and shut it again.

“What?” Syphon demanded in the darkness.

“We need to leave him be.”

“Xcor’s alive then?”

“Aye. And he’s suffering at his own hand, for the right reason—spilling his blood for whom he offended so mortally.”

There was a grumble of approval, and then everyone turned around and descended.

It was a start. But there was a long way yet to go to regain their loyalty. And they needed to learn what had happened to Throe.

Sitting upon the hard floor, in a pool of his own blood, Xcor was stretched thin between his training at the hands of the Bloodletter and his… heart, he supposed.

Odd at this age to discover that he actually had one of those, and difficult to count its discovery as a blessing.

It seemed more a badge of failure. The Bloodletter had taught him well the requirements of a good soldier, and emotions other than rage, vengeance, and greed were not part of that lexicon: Loyalty was something you demanded of your subordinates, and if they did not provide it to you and you alone, you did away with them as malfunctioning weapons. Respect was given solely in response to your enemy’s strength, and simply because you did not want to be bested by an underestimation of the opposition. Love was associated only with the acquisition and successful defense of your power—

Digging the red-stained knife blade into his skin again, he hissed as the pain tingled through his arms and legs, making his head buzz and his heartbeat flicker.

As fresh blood welled, he prayed that it would carry out of his body the confusing tangle of regret that had claimed him shortly after he had left Throe upon that pavement.

How could this all have gone so awry…

The chaos, indeed, had started when he had not departed from that alley.

After he had sent his males away from Throe, he had intended to do the same… but had ended up lurking upon the rooftop of one of the buildings, staying hidden whilst he watched over his soldier. Ostensibly, he told himself that it had been because he wanted to ensure that the Brothers found his second in command, not the Lessening Society—because the information he needed was on the former enemy rather than the latter one.

Except as he had watched Throe writhing in pain on the asphalt, limbs cocking at odd angles as he sought relief in repositioning, the reality of a proud warrior rendered defenseless had seeped into him.

For what reason had he caused such agony?

As the winds had rushed against Xcor, clearing his head and cooling his anger, he’d realized his actions sat uncomfortably within him. Unbearably.

As the slayers had arrived, he had outted his gun, prepared to defend the very male he had disposed of. But Throe had made a formidable first strike… and then the Brothers had come and acted as predicted, dispatching the lessers with ease, picking up Throe and putting him in the back of a black vehicle.

In that moment, Xcor had resolved not to follow the SUV. And the reason he so chose was an anathema as measured against his prior actions.

Throe would get treated with great competence back at the Brotherhood’s lair.

Say what one would about how the fuckers preferred luxury, he knew they had access to superior medical care. They were the king’s private guard; Wrath would not provide them with anything less. If he followed them, with the idea of infiltrating their compound? They might well discover him and fight him along the way, instead of get Throe to the help he needed.

Indeed, Xcor stayed away for the wrong reason, the bad reason, an unacceptable reason—in spite of all his training, he found himself choosing Throe’s life over ambition: His anger had taken him in one direction, but his regret had led him in another. And the latter one was what won out.

The Bloodletter no doubt had turned in his grave.

Decision made, he had languished in the rubble of night and his intentions when gunfire had lit up the alley even before the vehicle Throe was in had had a chance to depart.

As he’d gathered his wits, there had been a brief lull… and then Tohrment, son of Hharm, had walked out into the center of the lane, eschewing cover, becoming a target to the newly arrived lessers even as he discharged his firearms at them.

It was impossible not to respect that.

Xcor had been directly above the slayer who had commenced to fire back upon the Brother—and yet even as the enemy’s bullets had been driven into the male, Tohrment continued to lead with both barrels, undeterred, unwavering.

One shot to the head and he would be done forever.

Motivated by something he had refused to name, Xcor had dropped to his belly, snaked over to the lip of the building, and extended his own gun, emptying his clip upon the lesser who was behind cover, putting to rest any possibility of the Brother’s death. It had seemed like an appropriate reward for that manner of courage.

Then he had dematerialized out of the area and walked the streets of Caldwell for hours, the Bloodletter’s teachings banging on his inner door, demanding to be let in so that they could extinguish the sense that what he had done to Throe had been wrong.

The regret had just intensified, however, festering under his skin, redefining his relationship with his soldier… as well as the male he had once called Father.

The conception that he might not be cut from the same cloth as the Bloodletter had rankled. Especially given that he had set himself and his bastards on a collision course with the Blind King—and execution of that plan was going to require the kind of strength that came only from the compassionless.

In fact, it was too late to back out of that course now, even if he wanted to—which he did not. He still intended to take down Wrath—for the simple reason that the throne was for the taking, no matter what the Old Laws or blind tradition dictated.

But when it came to his soldiers, and his second in command…

Refocusing upon his forearms, habit and a blind search for himself had him once again applying his blade unto his flesh, dragging the point up against its cutting side so that the damage was ragged, unclean, and properly painful.

It was getting increasingly difficult to find fresh skin.

Hissing through his clenched teeth, he prayed for the pain to reach his core. He needed it to burrow through his emotions in the way the Bloodletter’s remembered voice had never failed to, strengthening him, giving him a clear mind and a cold heart.

It was not working, however. The pain just redoubled in his heart, amplifying the betrayal he had wrought upon a good male with a good soul who had served so very well.

Slick with his own blood, swimming in his own torture, he reapplied the blade again and again, waiting for the old, familiar clarity to come.…

And when it did not, he found himself arriving at the realization that, if he ever got the chance, he would set Throe free, finally and forevermore.

THIRTY

As Tohr lay in his bed alone, he was aware of nothing except the heartbeat in his cock. Well, that and the smell of fresh-cut flowers from Fritz doing his midday vase routine out in the hall.

“Is this what you want from me, angel?” he asked aloud. “Come on, I know you’re here. Is this what you want?”

To emphasize the question, he put his hand under the covers and let it drift down his chest and his belly until it got to the front of his hips. As he gripped himself, he couldn’t suppress the racking arch that rocked his spine or the groan that rose in his throat.

“Where the fuck are you?” he growled, unsure in the dim glow who he was talking to. Lassiter. No’One. The merciful Fates—if there were any.

On some level, he couldn’t believe he was waiting for another female—and the fact that the tipping balance between urgency and guilt was quickly shifting to the former was a—

“If you say my name while you do that, I’m going to throw up a little in my mouth.”

Lassiter’s voice was rough and disembodied as it came from the far corner of the room where the chaise was.

“Is this what you meant.” God, was that really him? Tohr wondered. Hungry, impatient. Cranky because he was juiced up.

“It’s a better direction than you walking out into a bullet shower—” There was a shuffling sound. “Hey, no offense, but do you mind if you put both your palms where I can see ’em?”

“Can you make her come to me.”

“Free will is what it is. And palms, motherfucker? If you don’t mind.”

Tohr outted both his arms and felt compelled to declare, “I want to feed her, not fuck her. I wouldn’t put No’One through that.”

“I suggest you let her make up her own mind about the sex.” The guy coughed a little bit—but then, yet again, fucking was an awkward subject between guys if they were talking about females of worth. “She may have her own ideas.”

Tohr thought back to the way she had looked at him in the clinic when he’d worked himself out. She had not been afraid. She had appeared captivated.…

He wasn’t sure how to handle that—

His body arched on its own, as if to say, The fuck you don’t, buddy.

As another cough sounded out, Tohr laughed a little. “You have allergies to those flowers?”

“Yeah. That’s it. I’m going to leave you now, ’kay?” There was a pause. “I’m proud of you.”

Tohr frowned. “What for?”

When there was no answer, it was clear the angel had already taken off—

A soft knocking at the door shot Tohr upright, and he barely felt the pain of his wounds: He knew exactly who this was. “Come in.”

Come to me.

The door opened a crack, and No’One slipped inside, shutting them in with each other.

As he heard the click of the locking mechanism, his body shut his mind down completely: It was going to feed her… and, God help them both, fuck her if she let him.

For one brief moment of lucidity, he thought he should tell her to go, so they could be spared the aftermath when sex cooled down and heads cleared up… and two people learned that those Molotov cocktails that had seemed like such a fun, exciting idea to make and throw, had, in actuality, decimated their landscapes.

Except he just extended his hand to her.

After a moment, she reached up and removed her hood. As he rememorized her face and form, he saw that she was nothing like his Wellsie. She was smaller and more delicately built. Fair of coloring instead of vibrant. Proper instead of blunt.

He liked her, though. And it was easier, in a strange way, that she was so different. Less of a chance of ever replacing his beloved in his heart with this female: Even though his body was aroused, that was the least important marker of connection. Males with the kind of bloodline he had, when in good health and well fed, as he now was, could get hard over a sack of potatoes.

And No’One, in spite of her opinion of herself, was a hell of a lot more attractive than root vegetables.…

Christ, the romance was just awesome all up in here. Wasn’t it.

She approached slowly, her limp barely noticeable, and when she got to the edge of the mattress, she looked down at his bare chest, his arms, his stomach… and went even lower with her eyes.

“I’m aroused again,” he said in a guttural voice. And fuck him, but you’d think he brought that up to warn her off. The truth? He was hoping to get that look back, the one that had been on her face when he’d made himself come—

And, what do you know… there it was: heat and curiosity. No fear.

“Should I take your wrist from here?” she asked.

“Come on the bed,” he all but growled.

She stretched up one knee onto the high mattress, and then awkwardly tried to bring the other one with it. Her bad leg threw her off balance, however, and she pitched forward—

Tohr caught her easily, grabbing her shoulders and keeping her from falling on her face. “I’ve got you.”

And wasn’t there a double meaning in that one.

Deliberately, he pulled her over him so that she was poised above his pecs. Man, she didn’t weigh a thing. Then again, she never ate much.

He was not the only one who needed to feed properly.

Except then he just stopped, to give her time to adjust. He was a lot of male, and he was aroused as shit, and he had scared her more than enough already. As far as he was concerned, she could take all the time in the world to make sure she knew who was with her—

Abruptly, her scent changed, shifting into the heady spectrum of female awakening. In response, his hips rolled underneath the covers, and she craned a glance over her shoulder, watching his body react.

If he’d been a gentlemale, he would have hidden the response and made sure that this was just about repaying her the service she had given to him. But he was feeling so much more male than gentle.

On that note, he lowered her onto his chest, angling her so that her mouth hit his jugular.

Skin.

Warm male skin against her lips.

Warm, clean, vampire skin that was golden brown, not pasty white. That smelled of spice, and strength, and… something so erotic, her body had returned to that volcanic place.

As she breathed in, the scent of him—that male scent—produced an unprecedented reaction. Everything went instantly instinct, her fangs dropping from her upper jaw, her lips parting, her tongue coming out as if it intended to taste.

“Take it, No’One.… You know you want to. Take me.…”

Swallowing hard, she pushed herself up from him and met his burning eyes. There were too many emotions to decipher in them, and the same was true with his voice and his expression. This was not easy for him; then again, this was his marital room, where he had no doubt been with his mate a thousand times.

And yet he wanted her. It was obvious in the tension of his body, in that arousal that even beneath the covers she could see.

She knew the troubled crossroads he stood upon, torn between contradictions: She was the same. She wanted this, but if she fed from him now, things were going to progress, and she was not sure she was prepared for where it would take them both.

Except she was not going to turn away. And neither was he.

“Do you not wish me at your wrist,” she said in a voice that was nothing like her own.

“No.”

“Then where do you want me.” It wasn’t a question. And, dearest Virgin Scribe, she didn’t know who was talking to him like that—low, seductive, demanding.

“At my throat.” His words were even lower, and he moaned as her eyes went back to where he had seemed to deliberately put her.

This mighty warrior wanted to be used by her. As he lay back against the pillows, his huge body appeared to be in that strange thrall she had seen before, held captive by invisible binds that were nonetheless impossible for him to break out of.

His eyes stayed on hers as he tilted his head to the side, exposing his vein… on the side opposite of where she was. So that she would have to stretch across his chest once more. Yes, she thought, she wanted that, too… except before she made any kind of move, she gave her inner core a chance to panic. The last thing she wanted was to become overwrought and undone in the midst of this.

Nothing bubbled up from the depths. For once, the present was so alive and captivating that the past was not even an echo or a shadow—she was, in this moment, wiped clean.

And very clear about what she wanted.

No’One reached out her arm and stretched herself thin as she surmounted the impossible expanse of his torso. His size was nearly a joke, the juxtaposition of their bodies absurd—and yet she was not afraid. The hard pads of his pectorals and the broad beam of his shoulders were nothing to be threatened by.

They merely served to sharpen her hunger for his vein.

His body arched upward as she laid herself upon him, and oh, the heat. Boiling up through his skin and magnifying her body’s need, sure as a simmer was made into a rioting fervor.

It had been so long since she had struck any male. And back in her earliest past, it had been done only under the strict supervision of not just her father, but the other males of her bloodline: Indeed, throughout all of it, there had been a ceremonial feel, biology tempered by society and social expectation.

She had never been aroused. And if the fine, gentlemale she’d used had been, he had wisely shown no such reaction.

This was everything that the former experiences had not been.

This was raw, and wild… and very sexual.

“Take from me,” he commanded, his jaw locking, his chin lifting, his throat becoming even more exposed.

As she brought her head down, she shook from head to foot, and she struck with no grace whatsoever—

This time, the moan came from her.

His taste was like nothing she could recall, a screaming roar in her mouth, over her tongue, down her throat. His blood was so much purer and stronger than that which she had had, and oh, the power of him. It was as if the potency of his warrior’s body poured into hers, transforming her into something so much more than she had ever been before.

“Take more,” he urged in a rough voice. “Take everything.…”

She did as he commanded, readjusting the angle of her head so that her seal was even more perfect. And as she drank with renewed gusto, she found herself becoming acutely aware of the weight of her breasts as they rested on his chest. And of the ache in her gut that no matter how much she took in seemed only to get sharper. And of the languid nature of her legs… as if all they wanted to do was fall open.

For him.

The reversal of her tense rigidity was so complete, it felt irreversible, and what did that matter? So consumed was she that she cared for naught but more of what she was getting.

THIRTY-ONE

Tohr orgasmed shortly after No’One’s first strike. There was just no stopping the contraction of his balls or the pulsing shocks that traveled up his shaft or the explosion that blew out the head of his cock as he jerked underneath the sheets.

“Fuuuuuck… No’One…”

As if she knew what had just happened, and what he was asking permission for, she nodded against his throat. Then went so far as to take his wrist and push his hand under the sheet.

No asking twice on that one.

Spreading his legs, he stroked his rigid length in a rhythm that matched the pulls on his vein. And as he released again, his arousal kicking like mad, he dipped down, gathered his sac, and squeezed hard. Pleasure and pain became a fun-house mirror, the distorting reflection of one against the other amplifying everything from the feel of the fangs in his neck to his below-the-waist eruptions.

The sense of letting go, of putting aside the pain he struggled with night and day, was such a fucking relief. He was the lake temporarily melted and free from its ice cover, and he reveled in his openness to her, the way he let himself lie there beneath her slight body, captured and held by her dainty weight and her powerful bite.

It had been so long since he had felt anything good deep in the permafrost of his soul. And because he knew that all of his burdens would be waiting for him when this halcyon sunrise faded, he drew himself even more into the experience, deliberately clothing himself in all the sensations.

When No’One finally retracted her fangs, the drawing lick of her tongue as it sealed the puncture wounds made him come all over again: the wet, warm drag over his skin translated down his body to his erection, which kicked and bucked, sending out more of what already covered his lower belly and soaked the sheets.

He stared up into her eyes as he orgasmed, biting down on his lower lip, kicking his head back—so that she knew exactly what he was doing.

And that was when he knew… she wanted some for herself.

Her luscious scent told him so.

“Will you let me make you feel good?” he said hoarsely.

“I… I do not know what to do.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes…” she breathed.

Rolling onto his side, he gently pushed her against the mattress. “All you have to do is lie there—I’ll take care of everything.”

The ease with which she complied was a humbling surprise—and an immediate cue, as far as his libido was concerned, to get her naked, mount her, and come all over her.

Not going to happen. For so many reasons.

“I’ll go slowly,” he groaned, wondering which of them he was speaking to. And then he thought… fuck, yeah, he was going slowly. He wasn’t sure he could remember what to do to a female—

From out of nowhere, a shadow crossed through his mind, jumped out of his brain, and barged in between them, darkening the moment.

With a sad ache, he realized he couldn’t remember precisely when he and Wellsie had been together for that final time; if he’d known their future, he would have paid much greater attention to so much.

No doubt, it had been one of those comfortable, forgettable, but ultimately profound sessions in their mated bed, with both of them half-awake and happy to ride the currents—

“Tohrment?”

The sound of No’One’s voice scrambled him, threatening to completely derail what was happening in the present. Except then he thought of Lassiter… and he thought of his shellan in that gray underworld, trapped in that desolate field of dust.

If he stopped now, he was never going to come back to this moment, this potential, this situation again with No’One… with anyone else. He was going to get permanently stuck on the road out of his grief—and Wellsie would never be free.

Damn it, as with so many things in life, you had to push through the obstacles, and this was the big one. It also wasn’t going to last forever. He’d had well over a year of mourning and grief, and there were decades and centuries of it in front of him. For the next ten minutes, fifteen minutes, hour—however long this lasted—he needed to stay only in the here-and-now.

Only with No’One.

“Tohrment, we can st—”

“May I loosen your robe?” His voice sounded dead to his own ears. “Please… let me see you.”

When she nodded, he swallowed hard and brought a shaking hand to the tie of her robe. The thing loosened with little or no help from him, and then the folds were free of her sheath-covered body.

His sex kicked hard at the sight of her barely concealed from his eyes, his hands… his mouth.

And that reaction told him that unfortunately… or fortunately… he could do this. He was going to do this.

Sliding his hand around her waist, he paused. Wellsie had had such a lush body, all feminine curves and female strength that he had loved so much. No’One wasn’t like that.

“You have to eat more,” he said harshly.

As her brows came together and she appeared to retract from him, he wanted to punch himself in the head. No female needed to hear about shortcomings at a time like this.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, eyes probing the thin fabric that covered her breasts and her hips. “I just worry about you. That’s all.”

As she relaxed again, he took his time, stroking her through the simple linen coverlet she wore, slowly moving over onto her belly. That image of her suspended upon the crystal palm of the pool’s blue water, floating with her arms out, her head back and her breasts tight at the tips made him groan.

And gave him a specific direction.

Trailing his fingertips upward, he brushed the bottom of her breast—

The hiss she let out and the sudden arch told him that the contact was more than welcome. But there was no hurrying. He’d done that down in the pantry; not going to happen again.

With languid ease, he went higher until his forefinger surmounted her nipple. More hissing. More arching.

More exploring.

His body was roaring, his cock straining against the covers, against his self-control, against the tempo. But he was keeping things under wraps down below—and shit was going to stay that way. This was about her, not him, and the quickest way to flip that table would be to get his naked body anywhere near her.

It had to be her blood in him. Yeah, that was it. That was the cause of his crazy urge to mate.…

When No’One was thrashing her legs on top of the duvet, and she had gripped his forearm with her nails, that was when he cupped her whole breast, switching his thumb for his forefinger as he stroked her.

“Do you like,” he drawled as she gasped.

The reply she eventually gave him was nothing but a bunch of sounds; then again, all that erotic straining gave him his real answer.

She really liked the way she felt.

Encircling the small of her back with his arm, he gently lifted her up to his mouth. He had a moment’s hesitation before he latched on, just because he could not believe he was actually doing this to someone: It had never occurred to him that he would have any kind of sex life outside of memories, but here it was, up close and personal, so to speak, that electric connection sparking, his body naked and aroused, his mouth about to taste someone different.

“Tohrment…” she moaned. “I do not know what I am…”

“It’s okay. I got you… I got you.”

Dropping his head, he parted his lips and brushed at her nipple through the sheath, going back and forth, back and forth. In response, her hands dug into his hair, feeling good against his scalp, tightening, scratching.

Shit, she smelled fantastic, her scent lighter and more citrusy than Wellsie’s… yet still like rocket fuel in his veins.

A lick brought him the rasp of the cloth and the hint of paradise—so he lapped at her again. And again. And again.

Sucking her into his mouth, he pulled on her nipple, tugging upward as he fell into a rhythm. And while she held on even harder to him, he moved his hands all around her body, learning her hips and her outer thighs, her belly, that tiny rib cage.

The bed made a subtle creaking noise, the mattress giving under him as he moved closer to her… and brought their lower bodies together.

It was time to take this up a notch.

This was why females got that look in their eyes when they thought about their mates.

No’One finally understood why, when a hellren walked into a room, his shellan straightened a little and wore a secret smile. This was the cause of the shared glances between the two halves of the species. This was the urgency to get the mating ceremony done with, and the guests fed and danced, and the house shut up for the day.

This was why happily mated couples sometimes did not come down for First Meal. Or Last Meal. Or any meals in between.

This feast of the senses was the ultimate sustenance for the species.

And something she had never believed she would know.

The reason she was able to enjoy it? In spite of the frantic demand in both of their bodies, Tohr was so careful with her. Even though he was obviously aroused, and so was she, he did not rush: His self-control was a set of steel bars over their collective mating instincts, his tasting and tempo as unhurried and unthreatening as the graceful fall of a feather through still air.

It was rather driving her nuts, actually.

But she knew it was for the good. Frustrated as she was, she knew this was the right way, for there was no possibility of confusing who she was with or whether she wanted this—

The sensation of his wet mouth sealed upon her breast made her cry out and score his scalp. And that was before he began to suckle at her.

Around her nipple, he said, “Will you open your legs for me?”

Her thighs obeyed before her lips could form an acquiescence, and the laugh she got in response was a deep rumble of satisfaction in his chest. He also wasted no time. Relocking his mouth onto her breast, his palm slipped down to the top of her thigh and drifted over to the inside.

“Lift your hips for me,” he said before licking at her nipple some more.

She obeyed immediately, so lost in anticipation that she couldn’t comprehend why he’d asked. Except then there was a soft brush all around her legs.

The sheath. He was moving the sheath up—

His touch returned, brushing over the top of her thigh, going downward… before moving once again to the inside.…

Oh, the lack of barrier. As if it had not already been good enough.

In response, her pelvis arched and strained and got nowhere when it came to urging him to the heat he would ultimately claim. Verily, under his diverted ministrations, the blooming at her core shifted into something edgy, the welling sensation changing into a sharp-edged need, the pain of which was much like that of the strikes he’d taken at her vein.

The first touch of her sex was nothing but a passover that had her crying out for more. The second was a slower shift. The third was a—

She shot her hand down and covered his, pushing him against her heat.

His moan was unexpected, suggesting that the feel of her might have made him orgasm himself—yes, she could tell by the way his body spasmed that he had found another release, his hips jerking beneath the blankets in a way that made her think of penetration.

Repeated, vigorous penetration.

“Tohrment…” Her voice was ragged, her brain clogged, her body the only thing that was clear on anything.

It was a while before he could answer her with something other than heaving breath. “Are you okay?”

“Help me. I need…”

He brushed his lips against her breast and inched his hand away. “I’ll take care of it. Promise. Just a little longer.”

She didn’t know how much “longer” she could stand before her body blew apart.

Except then he taught her that there were even greater heights of frustration.

Eventually, the rubbing started just as it all had, slowly, lightly, a tease rather than a bona fide touch. But thanks be to the great Scribe Virgin, it didn’t stay that way. As he subtly increased the pressure at the top of her sex, she was reminded of the way he had pleasured himself in the clinic, his hands pushing down at his hips, his body creating friction until something snapped and the pleasure crested—

The orgasm was more powerful than anything she had ever felt: Not even the pain she had known at the hands of the symphath came close to the pleasure that bucked through her lower body, reverberated up her torso, and echoed out to the tips of her fingers and her toes.

She knew earth. She knew the Sanctuary.

But this… was heaven.

THIRTY-TWO

As No’One orgasmed, Tohr’s cock released again, the feel of her slick sex and her hips jerking and her voice crying out putting him waaaaay over the threshold: She was wet; she was open; she was ready for him.

She was luscious.

And as she rubbed herself against his hand, he wanted his mouth on her and his tongue up inside her so he could swallow what he had given her.

In fact, if she hadn’t been locked against him so tightly, he would have moved into position right away, heading down her body and finding her with his lips. But there was no going anywhere at the moment. Not until both their rides were over and their muscles had unlocked from their bones.

Except… she didn’t let go of him.

Even after her release had passed, her arms retained their shockingly strong hold on his neck.

When she started to shake, he felt every tremor.

At first he wondered if it was the passion returning, but it was quickly obvious that wasn’t the case.

No’One was crying softly.

As he tried to pull back, she just gripped him more tightly, tucking her head against his chest and burrowing in. Clearly, she wasn’t afraid of him, or hurt by him. But, God, still…

“Shh…” he whispered as he put his big palm on her back and began circling in gentle strokes. “It’s okay.…”

Actually, that one was a lie. He wasn’t sure if anything was okay. Especially as she started to sob in earnest.

Given there was nothing he could do but stay with her, he dropped his head close to hers and yanked the duvet off his legs to cover her up and keep her warm.

She cried forever.

He would have held her even longer than that.

It was odd… providing her with a grounding place grounded himself, giving him a purpose and focus that was just as strong as the sexual ones had been only moments before. And in retrospect, he should have known this was coming. What had just happened was probably the first and only sexual experience she’d ever consented to. Female of worth from a high-blooded family? No way she would have been permitted to even hold hands with a male.

That symphath’s violence had been all she’d ever known.

Goddamn him, he wanted to kill that bastard again.

“I don’t… know why… I cry,” she said eventually, the words dodging past her harsh exhales.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “For as long as it takes, I got you.”

But the emotions were passing, her breathing easing, the sniffling not quite as prevalent.

It was all over after one last shuddering inhale. Then she was still and so was he.

“Talk to me.” He continued stroking her back. “Tell me where you’re at.”

She opened her mouth as if she meant to answer, but then just shook her head.

“Well, I think you’re very brave.”

“Brave?” She laughed. “How well you do not know me.”

“Very brave. This couldn’t have been easy for you—and I’m honored that you let me… do what I did to you.”

Her face assumed a picture of confusion. “Why ever for?”

“It takes great trust, No’One—especially for someone with what happened to you in their background.”

With a frown, she seemed to retreat into herself.

“Hey,” he said, putting his forefinger under her chin. “Look at me.” When she did, he traced her face lightly. “I wish I had something philosophical or poignant or… anything… to help you put shit in perspective. I don’t, and I’m sorry for that. I know this, though. It takes true courage to break through the past, and you did that tonight.”

“I suppose we both have courage then.”

His eyes shifted away. “Yeah.”

There was a period of quiet, as if the past had sucked all of the energy out of both of them.

Abruptly, she asked, “Why is the aftermath so awkward? I feel so… apart from you.”

He nodded, thinking, Yeah, sex could be weird like that, even if there weren’t complications of the kind they were rocking: Even if you didn’t go all the way, the shattering closeness that was shared seemed to make the return to normal feel like distance in spite of the fact that you were lying side by side.

“I should go back to my room now,” she said.

He pictured her down the hall, and thought that it seemed too far away. “Don’t. Stay here.”

In the dim light, he could see she was frowning again. “Are you certain?”

He reached up and tucked away a blond escapee from her braid. “Yeah. I am.”

They stared at each other for the longest time, and somehow—maybe it was the vulnerable look in her eyes, maybe the line of her mouth; maybe he was reading her mind—he knew exactly what she was wondering.

“I knew it was you,” he said softly. “The entire time… I knew it was you.”

“And that was… okay, to use your expression?”

He thought back to his mate. “You’re nothing like Wellsie was.”

When he heard her clear her throat, he realized he’d spoken out loud. “No, what I mean is—”

“You don’t have to explain.” Her sad smile was so full of compassion. “You truly don’t.”

“No’One—”

She held up her hand. “There’s no need to explain—by the way, the flowers in here are gorgeous. I’ve never smelled such a bouquet.”

“They’re out in the hall, actually. Fritz changes them every two days. Listen, can I do something for you?”

“Have you not done enough,” she countered.

“I’d like to bring you some food.”

Her graceful brows peaked. “I wouldn’t wish for you to trouble yourself—”

“But you are hungry, right?”

“Well… yes…”

“So I’ll be back in a minute.”

He shifted off the mattress quick, and unconsciously braced himself for the world to tilt wildly. But there was no light-headedness, no need to reclaim his balance, no loopy shit. His body was raring to go as he walked around the foot of the bed—

No’One’s eyes fell upon him, and the expression on her face stopped him dead in his tracks.

That speculation was back in her eyes. Hunger, too.

He hadn’t considered whether there was ever going to be a repeat when it had been happening. But given the way she stared at him… the answer would appear to be a big “yes,” at least from her point of view.

“Do you like what you see,” he asked in a too-deep voice.

“Yes…”

Well, didn’t that get him hard: Below his waist, his cock shot right back to attention—and damned if her eyes didn’t lock on and watch the show.

“I have other things I want to do to you,” he growled. “That could be just the beginning. If you want.”

Her lips parted, her eyelids sinking low. “Do you want that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then I would say… yes, please.”

He nodded once at her, as if they had struck some kind of deal. Then he had to force himself away from the bed.

Going over to the closet, he pulled on a pair of jeans and went for the door.

“Anything in particular?” he asked before he left.

No’One slowly shook her head, her lids still low, her mouth still parted, her cheeks still flushed. Man… she had no idea how enticing she looked in that big, rumpled bed, her robe draping off the side of the mattress, her neat-as-a-pin hairdo feathered with blond wisps, her scent as strong and seductive as ever.

Maybe food could wait. Especially as he noticed that her bare legs were showing in the midst of the tangled duvet.

Yeah, he had plans for them. Over-the-shoulder kinds of plans—

Abruptly, she yanked the covers over her crippled one, hiding it from him.

Tohr marched right back over to her, and resolutely pulled the duvet back where it had been. Tracing the badly healed wounds with his fingertips, he met her squarely in the eye.

“You’re beautiful. Every inch of you. Don’t think for a moment there’s anything wrong with you. We clear?”

“But—”

“Nope. I’m not hearing that.” Bending down, he pressed his lips to her shin, her calf, her ankle, tracing the scars, caressing them. “Beautiful. All of you.”

“How can you say that,” she whispered, blinking back tears.

“Because it’s the truth.” Straightening, he gave her a final squeeze. “No hiding from me, okay. And after I feed you, I think I’m going to have to show you just how serious I am.”

That made her smile… and then laugh a little.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. Except… shit, she wasn’t his. What the hell had come out of his mouth?

Forcing himself back to the door, he stepped out into the corridor, shut her in and—

“What the fuck?” Lifting his lower leg, he inspected the bottom of his bare foot. There was silver paint on it.

Glancing at the runner, he found a trail of… silver paint heading down the hallway toward the second-story balcony.

With a curse, he wondered which of the doggen was working on what part of the house. Good thing stains made the poor bastards cheerful; otherwise Fritz was going to be pissed.

Following the line of drops to the head of the great staircase, he descended to the foyer along with them.

The mess went right out into the vestibule.

“Sire, good day. Do you require anything?”

Tohr turned to Fritz, who was coming through the dining room with some floor polish. “Hey, yeah. I need to get some food. But what’s up with the paint? You guys doing something obscene to the fountain out there?”

The butler shuffled over and frowned. “There is no one painting anywhere in the compound.”

“Well, someone’s pulling a Michelangelo.” Tohr sank down on his haunches and dragged a finger through one of the little pools…

Wait a minute—not paint.

And the shit smelled like flowers.

Fresh flowers?

In fact, it was the scent that had been in his room.

As his eyes shot to the door to the vestibule, he thought of the shower of bullets he had walked into. And worried that a miracle hadn’t been the reason he wasn’t dead, after all.

“Get Doc Jane, stat,” he barked to the doggen.

Ah, yeahhhh, Lassiter thought as he rolled over on hot stone and started to sun his bare ass. That’s what’s up.…

All things considered, it had been a good day to get shot at.

Well, night, rather.

Make that season.

Thank the Maker it was summer: Lying on the front steps of the mansion, the brilliant July megawatts beat down on him, the rays healing his bullet-ridden body. Without it? He might well have died again—which was not the way he wanted to meet up with his boss. Indeed, the sunlight was to him what blood was to the vampires; a necessity that he really enjoyed. And as he bathed in the stuff, the pain faded, his strength returned… and he thought of Tohr.

What a dumb-ass, pulling a move like that in the alley. What in the name of all that was holy had the fucker been thinking?

Whatever. There had been no way he was going to let that bastard walk into all that gunfire without protection. The pair of them had come too far to crap out just as progress was being made.

And now, thanks to his having turned himself into a pincushion, Tohr and No’One were having sex.

So all had not been lost. He was, however, seriously thinking of punching that Brother in the balls as payback. For one, that shit had stung like a motherfucker. For another, if this had been December? He might not have made it—

The sound of the heavy front door swinging open brought his head up and around. Doc Jane, that fantastic healer of theirs, burst out like she’d planned on having to run some distance.

She skidded to a halt so she didn’t trip over him. “There you are!”

Oh, look, she’d brought her fun box with her, the little red cross denoting emergency supplies.

“Helluva time to get a tan,” she murmured.

He rested his head back down, his cheek lying flat on all that warm rock. “Just takin’ my medicine like a good little patient.”

“Mind if I examine you?”

“Will your mate kill me if you see me naked?”

“You are naked.”

“You’re not looking at my business side.” When she just loomed over him without further comment, he muttered, “Fine. Whatever—but don’t stand in my sun. I need it more than I need you.”

She put the box down next to his ear and got on her knees. “Yeah, V told me a little about how you work.”

“I’ll bet. You know, he and I have had our go-arounds.” The SOB had even saved him once—which had been a miracle given how much they hated each other. “We’ve got history.”

“He mentioned that.” Her words were spoken with distraction, as if she were checking his holes out. “You might have some lead left in you—do you mind my rolling you over?”

“The lead doesn’t matter. My body will consume it—provided I get enough sunshine on my shoulders.”

“You’re bleeding badly still.”

“It’s going to be okay.”

And he was beginning to think that wasn’t a lie. After it had all happened, he’d kept himself invisi and had hidden in the passenger seat of the Mercedes that had taken Tohr back to the clinic. Minute he’d arrived at medical central, he’d stolen some bandages and gone mummy on his own ass so he didn’t bleed all over the place. There’d been no reason to hurry outdoors—there had been no sunlight available at that point—or at least not enough to make a difference. Besides, he’d thought he’d just walk it off.

Nope. It was shortly after he’d gone up to that bedroom with Tohr that he’d recognized he was in trouble. Breathing got harder. Pain got hotter. Vision started to fritz out. Fortunately, the sun had fully risen by then.

And he would have had to leave about the time No’One showed up anyway—

“Lassiter. I want to see the front of you.”

“That’s what all the girls say.”

“Do you expect me to roll you over? ’Cuz I will.”

“Your mate’s not going to like this.”

“As if that’s going to bother you?”

“True. It actually makes it worth the effort.”

With a groan, he shoved his palms into the shimmering silver pool of blood beneath him, and flopped over like the side of beef he was.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“I know, right? Hung like a horse.”

“If you’re really nice—and you live through this—I’ll promise not to tell V.”

“About my size.”

She laughed a little. “No, that you assumed I’d look at you in any fashion other than professionally. Can I bandage any of these?” She touched him lightly on the pec. “Even if I leave the bullets in, maybe it would slow the bleeding?”

“Not a good call. Sunshine and surface area are what it’s about. And I’m going to be fine. As long as we don’t cloud up.”

“Should we be getting you a tanning bed?”

Now he laughed—which made him cough. “No, no—has to be the real thing.”

“I don’t like the sound of that rattle.”

“What time is it?”

“One twenty-six.”

“Come out in another thirty minutes and see where we’re at.”

There was a period of quiet. “Okay. I will. Tohr will want an—” Her phone went off, and she answered it with, “I was just talking about you. Yup, I’m with him, and he’s… bad, but he says he’s taking care of himself. Of course I’ll stay with him—no, I’m good on supplies, and I’ll call in another twenty minutes. Fine, ten.” There was a long pause and then she took a deep breath. “It’s—ah—it’s a lot of gunshots. In his chest.” Another pause. “Hello? Hello, Tohr— Oh, good, I thought I’d lost you. Yeah—no, listen, you gotta trust me. If I thought he was in danger, I’d drag him kicking and screaming into the foyer. But to be honest, I’m watching him heal as we speak—I can see his internal bruising dissipating with my own eyes. Okay. Yup. Bye.”

Lassiter didn’t make any comment on all that; he just stayed where he was, eyes closed, body solar-paneling its way back to health.

“So you’re the reason Tohr got out of that alley alive,” the good doctor murmured after a while.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

THIRTY-THREE

“Sorry, my man, but you only get one feeding. That’s what I’ve been told.”

As Throe lay in the bed he’d been strapped to, he was not surprised at the human doctor’s response to his inquiry. Strength in a prisoner did not work in the Brotherhood’s favor. The problem was, he wasn’t recovering very well, and more blood would help.

Of course… if he were to feed, would it not be just a lovely coincidence that he’d get to see that Chosen once more before he left.

She was close by. He could sense her.…

“In fact, I believe plans are being made for your imminent departure. Night’s falling soon enough.”

Mayhap if he simply refused to move?

No, that would likely not slow the Brotherhood down. They would just handle him like any other variety of refuse.

The human surgeon left thereafter—how ever were they using a human, by the way?—and then he was alone again.

When the door reopened, he didn’t bother cracking his lids. It wasn’t the Chosen—

The click of metal on metal close to his ear got his attention. Popping his eyes wide, he stared into the barrel of a .357 Magnum.

Vishous’s gloved finger was attached to the trigger. “Wakie, wakie.”

“If you turn me out now,” he said weakly, “I’m not going to make it.”

In this, he told the truth. Having lived off the weak sustenance of human females for as long as he had, he was not in a position to heal himself of wounds this serious so quickly.

Vishous shrugged. “Then we’ll deliver you to Xcor in a pine box.”

“Best of luck with that, mate. I shall not tell you where to find him.” Although not because of Xcor. He didn’t want his fellow soldiers—or more properly, his former comrades—to be attacked unaware. “You can torture me if you wish. But nothing shall escape my lips.”

“I decide to torture you and a whole lot will come up, trust me.”

“So proceed—”

The surgeon got between them. “Okaaaay, let’s relax before I need to go get my needle and thread again. You”—he nodded to Throe—“shut the fuck up—this is not a boy who needs encouragement when it comes to bloodletting. And as for the release of him?” He focused on the Brother. “My patient has a point. Look at his vitals—he’s hanging by a thread. I thought the whole point of this was to make sure he lives? Bottom line, he’s going to need another shot at the vein thing. Either that or a week or two of recovery time.”

The Brother’s icy eyes shifted to the machines that beeped and flashed behind the bed.

As the fighter cursed under his breath, Throe smiled to himself.

The Brother left without a word.

“Thank you,” Throe said to the healer.

The man frowned. “It’s just my clinical opinion—believe me, I can’t wait to get you the fuck off my turf.”

“Fair enough.”

Once again left alone, he waited with anticipation. And the fact that no one came in for a while told him that the Brothers were arguing about his fate.

Likely a lively discussion.

When the door was finally thrown wide, his nostrils flared, and his head whipped to the side… there she was.

As lovely as a dream. As heavenly as the moon. As real as it got.

Flanked by the Brothers Phury and Vishous, the Chosen smiled at him sweetly—as if she were entirely unaware that those males were prepared to tear him apart if he so much as sneezed in her direction. “Sire, I am told you require more?”

I require all of you, he thought as he nodded to her.

Approaching the bed, she went to sit down next to him, but Phury bared his fangs over her head and Vishous subtly trained that gun on his crotch.

“Here,” Phury said, redirecting her to a chair with finesse. “You’ll be much more comfortable in this.”

Not at all true, as now she had to reach up to him. Yet the Brother’s voice was so charming and easy, it made the statement seem to have veracity.

Whilst she brought up her arm, Throe wanted to tell her she was beautiful, and that he’d missed her, and that he’d worship her if she gave him a chance. But he liked his tongue in his mouth—not sliced off and ground into the floor.

“Why ever do you look at me like that?” she said.

“You are so beautiful—”

Over her shoulder, Phury bared his fangs again, his face transforming into nothing short of total violence.

Throe did not care. He was getting another taste of ambrosia, and these two males wouldn’t do anything truly horrible in front of the fair Chosen.

Who was currently blushing up a storm—and didn’t that make her all the more resplendent.

As the Chosen stretched forward and put her wrist to his mouth, his arms jerked against the chains that bound him—and there was a moment of confusion for her as she heard the rattle. There was nothing to see above the blankets, however; everything was covered up beneath what kept him warm.

“ ’Tis just the bedsprings,” he murmured.

She smiled again and repositioned her wrist o’er his mouth.

Embracing her with his eyes, he struck as carefully as he could, not wanting to hurt her even in the smallest way—and as he drank, he stared at her face, committing it to memory so that he could hold it close in his heart.

Because this was likely the last time he would ever see her.

Indeed, so torn he was between thanking the Scribe Virgin for having this female come into his life even for a moment, and yet viewing these two chance meetings as a kind of curse.

She was going to stay with him, he feared. Haunting him as sure as any ghost…

Too soon it was over, and he was retracting his canines from her fragrant flesh. He licked once, twice, stroking at her with his tongue—

“Okay, that’s enough.” Phury gathered her up from the chair, smiling at her with true warmth. “You go find Qhuinn now—you’re going to need some strength.”

This was true, Throe thought with a stab of guilt. Indeed, she looked pale and seemed slightly woozy. Then again, she had fed him twice in as many hours.

He wished his name was Qhuinn.

Phury escorted her to the door and sent her off with kind words in the Old Language. And then he turned back… and made sure that the lock was in place.

The fist came flying at him from the side, and given his brief impression of black leather, it was clearly the Brother Vishous’s.

And the resulting crack was so loud it was as if a log had been snapped in half.

Then again, he’d always had a sturdy jaw.

As cathedral bells rang in Throe’s head and he spit out blood, Vishous said grimly, “That is for looking at her like you were fucking her in your mind.”

Across the room, the Brother Phury likewise curled up a fist and started smacking it into the open palm of his free hand. As he approached, he said in a nasty tone, “And this is to make sure you don’t follow up on that bright idea.”

Throe smiled at them both. The more they beat him… the more likely he would have to feed again.

They were right, too: He did want to be with her—although “making love” was a far better term.

And those moments with her were so worth whatever they gave him.…

Up at the mansion, Tohr sat on the bottom step of the grand stairwell, his elbows on his bent knees, his chin on a fist, his cell phone faceup next to him.

His ass was numb.

In fact, after having sat where he had for the last—how long? five hours?—he was probably going to have to get Doc Jane to surgically remove the carpet fibers from his caboose—

The security check-in station let out a beep, and he burst up, striding over to the panel, double-checking the screen, releasing the door lock.

Lassiter came in alone, likely because Doc Jane had returned to the Pit. And the angel was naked as a jaybird… and just frickin’ fine. No bullet holes, no scars, no contusions.

“You keep looking at me like that and you’d better buy me dinner afterward.”

Tohr glared at the angel. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Lassiter shook his finger. “You, of all people, do not need to ask me that. Not about last night.”

On that note—and utterly unconcerned about the nakey—Lassiter sauntered into the billiards room and headed for the bar. The good news was that at least when he was behind the thing pouring liquor, his longshoreman and those two buoys were not in full view.

“Scotch? Gin? Bourbon?” the angel asked. “I’m having an Orgasm.”

Tohr rubbed his face. “Can you never say that word around me when you’re buck-ass nekkid?”

That set off a round of, “Orgaaaaasmmm, orgaaaaasmmm, orgaaaasmmm,” to the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth. Fortunately, the fruity bullshit the fucker put into his glass cut the chorus off as he swallowed it on a oner.

“Ahhhhh…” The angel smiled. “Think I’ll have another. Care for one? Or did you have enough this afternoon.”

A quick mental picture of No’One’s breast in his hand made his cock hop all over that plan. “Lassiter, I know what you did.”

“Outside? Yeah, the sun and I get along. Best doctor there is—and no copay. Woo-hoo.”

More with the drinking. Which suggested that bravado might just be a little forced.

Tohr parked it on one of the stools. “Why the hell did you put yourself in front of me?”

The angel went about making himself number three. “I’ll tell you the same thing I did Doc Jane—I got no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Those were bullet wounds all over you.”

“Were they?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you prove it?” Lassiter did a little turn with his arms up. “Can you prove I was even hurt?”

“Why deny it?”

“This isn’t a denial if I have no fucking clue what you’re going on about.”

With another charmer of a smile, he bottomed up again. And then immediately started making number four.

Tohr shook his head. “If you’re going to get plastered, why can’t you do it like a real man.”

“I like the taste of fruit.”

“You are what you drink.”

The angel glanced up at the clock. “Shit. I missed Maury. But I DVR’d Ellen.”

Lassiter went over and stretched out on the leather couch—and Tohr counted himself lucky that the bastard at least had the decency to wrap a throw blanket around his naughty bits. As the television came on, and Ellen DeGeneres danced down a row of housewives, it was obvious that conversation was not on the angel’s to-do list.

“I just don’t get why you did it,” Tohr muttered.

It was so unlike the guy, always out for himself.

At that moment, No’One appeared in the arches of the room. She was in her robe with the hood in place, but Tohr saw her naked and undone, and his body juiced to life.

As he slid off the stool and went to the female, he could have sworn Lassiter murmured, “That’s why.”

Approaching the female, he said, “Hey, did you get the food?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I was worried when you didn’t come back. What happened?”

He glanced back at Lassiter. The angel appeared to have passed out, his breathing even, the remote resting on his chest in a lax hand, the drink beading up with condensation on the floor beside him.

But Tohr didn’t trust the out-cold appearance.

“Nothing,” he said roughly. “It’s… nothing. Let’s go upstairs and have a rest.”

As he turned her away with a subtle touch on her shoulders, she said, “You sure?”

“Yeah.” And they really were going to rest. He was suddenly exhausted.

He spared one last glance over the shoulder as he headed into the foyer. Lassiter was exactly where he’d been… except there was the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

Like everything had been worth it, as long as Tohr and No’One were together.

THIRTY-FOUR

As the night wore on, Throe walked the streets of Caldwell by himself, unarmed, dressed in hospital scrubs… and stronger than he’d been since he’d arrived in the New World.

His beating at the hands of those two Brothers had healed up almost immediately, and the Brotherhood had released him shortly after that second feeding.

He still had a number of hours before he was due to meet Xcor, and he passed the time with his own thoughts, walking in running shoes that had been a gift from the enemy.

During his stay with the Brotherhood, he had learned nothing about where their facilities were located. He had been unconscious when brought into their compound—and locked in a van with no windows when he’d left. After a drive of some time, no doubt due to a circuitous route, he’d been deposited by the river, and left to his own devices.

Naturally, the van had had no license plate, and no distinguishing features. And he’d had the sense that he was being watched—as if they were waiting to see if he tried to follow it as it departed from him.

He did not. He stayed where he was until it had driven off… and then he had started upon his walkabout.

Xcor’s brilliant maneuver had succeeded in gaining naught. Well, aside from likely saving Throe’s life. What little he had discovered about the Brotherhood was nothing that couldn’t have been guessed at: Their resources were extensive, judging by the amount and sophistication of the medical equipment he’d been treated with; the number of people he’d seen or heard walking in the hall was just as impressive; and security was taken very seriously. Indeed, theirs appeared to be an entire community, hidden from human and lesser eyes alike.

Everything had to be underground, he thought. Well guarded. Camouflaged to appear as if it were nothing in particular; for even during the raids, when so many of the race’s homes had been found and wiped out, there had been no rumor that the king’s household had been hit.

So Xcor’s plan had yielded little on Throe’s part but animosity.

And for a moment, he questioned whether he would show up to meet his former leader or not.

In the end, he knew such rebellion would remain unrealized. Xcor had something Throe wanted—the only thing, really. And as long as those ashes were retained by the male, there was naught to be done but grit one’s teeth, duck one’s head, and push onward. It was, after all, what he had been doing for centuries.

Except he would not make the same mistake twice. Only an idiot would not recall this visceral reminder of where things really stood between them.

The answer was to get the remains of his sister back. And as soon as he did? He would miss his fellow soldiers in the same manner he ached for his family, but he would take himself out of the Band of Bastards—forcibly if need be. Then perhaps he would put down some roots somewhere else in America—there would be no returning to the Old Country. He might be too tempted to try to revisit his bloodline, and that would not be fair to them.

Toward the end of the night, at around four a.m. judging by the moon’s position, he dematerialized to the rooftop of the skyscraper. He had no weapons on which to draw for protection—but he had no intention of fighting. As far as he had been taught, his sister could not enter unto the Fade without the proper ceremony so he had to live long enough to bury her.

As soon as he did, however…

Up high above the streets and other buildings of the city, in the curiously silent stratosphere where there were no horns or shouts or rumbles of delivery trucks coming in early, the wind was strong and bracingly chilly in spite of the humidity in the air and the warm temperature. Overhead, thunder rumbled and lightning skipped along the underside of storm clouds, promising a wet beginning to the day.

When he’d started his journey with Xcor, he had been a gentlemale better tutored in the fine art of leading a female upon the dance floor—as opposed to engaging in hand-to-hand combat. But he was no longer who he had been.

Accordingly, he stood out in the open without cowardice or apology, feet braced and arms at his sides. There was no weakness in the line of his chin, the contour of his chest, or the straight angle of his shoulders, and no fear in his heart at what might step out to greet him. All of that was because of Xcor: Throe had technically been born male, but it wasn’t until he had run afoul of that fighter that he had truly learned how to live up to his gender.

He would always owe that to the soldiers he had been with for so long—

From behind the mechanicals, a figure stepped out, the wind catching a long coat and blowing it free from a heavy, deadly body.

Instinct and training overrode intent as Throe fell into a fighting stance, prepared to face his—

As the male took a step forward, the light from the fixture above the rooftop door caught his face.

It was not Xcor.

Throe did not ease his stance. “Zypher?”

“Aye.” Abruptly, the soldier lurched forward, and then broke into a run to close the distance between them.

Before Throe knew it, he was encompassed in a rough embrace, held in arms as strong as his own, against a body as big as his own.

“You live,” the soldier breathed. “You are alive.…”

Awkwardly at first, and then with a strange desperation, Throe latched onto the other fighter. “Aye. Aye, I am.”

With an abrupt shove, he was pushed back and examined from head to foot. “What e’er did they do unto you?”

“Nothing.”

Those eyes narrowed. “Be in truth with me, brother. And afore you answer, one of your eyes is still black-and-blue.”

“They provided me with a healer, and a… Chosen.”

“A Chosen?!”

“Aye.”

“Mayhap I should try to get stabbed.”

Throe had to laugh. “She was… like nothing on this earth. Fair of hair and skin and countenance, ethereal, though she lived and breathed.”

“I thought they had been fabricated.”

“I do not know—mayhap I have romanticized it. But she was exactly as rumors describe them—lovelier than any female your eyes have beheld.”

“Do not torture me thus!” Zypher grinned briefly, and then regained his seriousness. “Are you well.”

Not a question—a demand.

“They treated me as a guest for the most part.” Indeed, except for the shackles and the beat-down—although given that they were protecting a precious gem’s virtue, he had to say he approved of what they had wrought upon him. “But aye, I am recovered fully, thanks to their healers.” He looked around. “Where is Xcor.”

Zypher shook his head. “He’s not coming.”

“So you are to kill me then.” Odd that the male would task another with what surely he would relish.

“Fuck, no.” Zypher unshouldered one side of a rucksack. “I am to give you this.”

From out of the pack, Zypher produced a large, square brass box with ornate markings and inscriptions.

Throe could only stare at the thing.

He had not seen it for centuries. In fact, he had not known it had been taken from his family until Xcor had threatened him with it.

Zypher cleared his throat. “He told me to tell you he releases you. Your debt to him is settled and he is returning your dead unto you.”

Throe’s hands shook badly—until they accepted the weight of his sister’s ashes. Then they were steadied.

As he stood there in the wind and drizzle, poleaxed and unmoving, Zypher paced about in a tight circle, his hands on his hips and his eyes on the gravel that covered the skyscraper’s roofing panels.

“He hasnae been the same since he left you,” the soldier said. “This morning, I found him cutting himself to the bone from the mourning.”

Throe’s eyes shot over to the male he knew so well. “Indeed?”

“Aye. He did so all day long. And this night, he has not even gone out to fight. He is back at the safe house, sitting by himself. He ordered everyone but me away, and then gave me this.”

Throe brought the box even closer to his body, holding it tightly. “Are you sure I am the cause for such upset,” he said dryly.

“Very much so. In truth, he is not like the Bloodletter in his heart. He wants to be—and he is capable of much against others that I personally am not. But to you, to us… we are his clan.” Zypher’s stare was filled with candor. “You should come back to us. To him. He shall not act thus again—those ashes are your proof. And we need you—not just because of all you do, but who you have become to us. It has been but twenty-four hours and we are broken without you.”

Throe glanced up at the sky, at the storm, at the violent, churning heavens above. Having once been damned by circumstance, he couldn’t believe he would even consider being damned by consent.

“We will all be incomplete without you. Even him.”

Throe had to smile a little. “Did you e’er think you would say such.”

“No.” The laugh that floated over upon the gusts was deep. “Not about an aristocrat. But you are more than that.”

“Thanks to you.”

“And Xcor.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to give him any credit.”

“Come back with me. See him. Rejoin your family. Much as it might pain you this night, you are as lost without us as we are without you.”

In response, Throe could only stare out over the city, its lights like that of the stars that were eclipsed up above.

“I cannot trust him,” he heard himself say.

“He has given you your freedom this night. Surely that means something.”

“We are all facing death sentences if we continue. I saw the Brotherhood—if they were formidable before in the Old Country, that is nothing compared to their resources now.”

“So they live well.”

“They live smart. I couldn’t find them even if I wished. And they have extensive facilities—they are a force to be reckoned with.” He glanced over. “Xcor will be disappointed with what I have learned—which is nothing.”

“He said no.”

Throe frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He stated he wishes to know none of it. You shall never get an apology from him directly, but he has given you the key to the binds that entangle you, and he will accept no information from you.”

A brief anger shafted through him. Then what had it all been for?

Except… mayhap Xcor hadn’t considered that he’d feel the way he did. And Zypher was right; the idea of not being with those males was… like a death. After all these years, they were all he had.

“If I come back, I could be a security risk. What if I’ve made a secret pact with the Brotherhood. What if they are here.” He motioned around. “Or perhaps waiting elsewhere to follow me?”

Zypher shrugged with complete disregard. “We’ve been trying to meet up with them for months. Such a confluence would be welcome.”

Throe blinked. And then started to laugh. “You people are crazy.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘we’?” Abruptly, Zypher shook his head. “You would never betray us. Even if you hated Xcor with your whole being, you would never compromise the rest of us.”

That was true, he thought. As for hating Xcor…

He stared down at the box in his arms.

There had been many times over the years when he had wondered at the turns and twists of his fate.

And it appeared tonight he was going to wonder anew at his destiny.

He had been unsure about the course against Wrath, but now that he had seen that Chosen female, he rather liked the idea of o’ertaking the throne and finding her and claiming her for himself.

Bloodthirsty? Yes, indeed—his earlier self would have never thought in such ways. But his newer self had gotten used to taking what he wanted, the cloak of civility having grown threadbare after years without his tending its delicate fibers.

If he could get to Wrath, he could find her again.…

Abruptly, he felt his mouth move and heard his own voice in the wind: “He is going to have to allow me to buy cell phones.”

Xcor stayed home all night long.

The problem was the damage to his forearms. He hated the fact that they had yet to heal, but he was smart enough to know that he could barely use them. Indeed, just gripping the spoon to feed himself soup was proving difficult.

A dagger against an enemy would be an impossibility. And then there was the infection risk.

It was the damn blood thing. Again. Mayhap if he had taken the time to feed from that whore back in the… fates, had it been in the spring?

Frowning, he performed an uneasy addition, one that yielded far too great a sum. No wonder he remained in difficult straits… and good thing he wasn’t completely blood crazed.

Or was he? Thinking back upon what he had wrought with Throe, it was difficult not to judge his actions by that condemning catchall.

With a curse, he hung his head, exhaustion and a strange kind of ennui settling upon his shoulders—

The back door at the kitchen opened, and given that it was too early for his soldiers to return, he knew that it was Zypher with the update on Throe’s departure.

“Was he all right?” Xcor asked without looking up. “Did he get off safely?”

“He is and he did.”

Xcor’s eyes shot up. Throe himself was in the archway, standing tall and proud, his eyes alert, his body strong.

“And he returneth safely,” the male finished in a grim tone.

Xcor immediately refocused on his soup and blinked hard. From a vast distance, he watched as the spoon in his hand shook out its contents.

“Did Zypher not tell you,” he muttered gruffly.

“That I was free? Aye. He did.”

“If you wish to fight, I shall set aside my meal.”

“I don’t know that you’re up to anything but feeding yourself the now.”

Damn sleeveless shirts, Xcor thought as he turned his arms inward so that less of the damage showed. “I could muster if need be. Where are your boots?”

“I don’t know. They took everything I had.”

“Were you treated well.”

“Well enough.” Throe came forward, the boards beneath his feet creaking. “Zypher said you wanted to know none of what I’ve seen.”

Xcor just shook his head.

“He also said that I would never get an apology out of you.” There was a long pause. “I want one. Now.”

Xcor put aside his soup and found himself searching the wounds he had given himself, recalling all that pain, all that blood—which had dried brown on the floorboards beneath him.

“And then what,” he said in a rough voice.

“You’ll have to find out.”

Fair enough, Xcor thought.

Without grace—not that he had any, anyway—he rose to his feet. At his full height, he was unsteady for too many reasons to count, and the off-balance feeling got even worse as he met the eyes of his… friend.

Looking Throe in the face, he stepped up and put out his palm. “I am sorry.”

Three simple words spoken loud and clear. And they didn’t go nearly far enough.

“I was wrong to treat you as I did. I am… not as much of the Bloodletter as I thought—as I have e’er wanted to be.”

“This is not a bad thing,” Throe said quietly.

“When it comes to the likes of you, I would agree.”

“And the others?”

“The others as well.” Xcor shook his head. “That would be as far as it goes, however.”

“So your ambitions have not changed.”

“No. My methods, though… they will ne’er be the same.”

In the silence that followed, he had no clue what he was going to get in return: a curse, a punch, a wretched row. The instability struck him as more than fair.

“Ask me to return to you as a free male,” Throe demanded.

“Please. Come back, and you have my word—though it be worth less than a pence—that you shall be accorded the respect you have long deserved.”

After a moment, his palm was engulfed. “All right then.”

Xcor released a shuddering breath, one born out of relief. “All right, indeed.”

Releasing the fighter’s hand, he bent down, picked up his mostly untouched bowl of food… and offered what little he had to Throe.

“You will allow me to transform communications,” the male said.

“Aye.”

And that was that.

Throe accepted the soup and went over to where Xcor had been sitting. Sinking down to the floor, he put the brass box on the far side of himself and began to eat.

Xcor joined him on the stain of the blood he had shed during the day, and in silence, they completed their reunion. But it was not over, at least not on Xcor’s part.

His regret stayed with him, the heaviness of the burden of his actions altering him forever, like an injury that had scarred over and healed wrong.

Or rather, in this case… healed right.