Lover Revealed

Chapter Twenty-three

Hours and hours and hours later, Butch's ass was so numb he couldn't tell where the floor ended and his butt began. All day long, he'd been sitting in this hallway outside of Marissa's bedroom door. Like the dog he was.

He couldn't say it had been wasted time. He'd done a lot of thinking.

And had made a phone call that had been the right thing to do, though a cringer to get through: He'd bitten the bullet and called his sister Joyce.

Nothing had changed at home. Evidently his family back in South Boston still had no interest in having anything to do with him. And that didn't really bother him because it was the status quo. But it did make him feel bad for Marissa. She and her brother had been tight, so getting turned out by him must have been a truly nasty surprise.

"Master?"

Butch looked up. "Hey, Fritz."

"I have what you asked for." The doggen bowed low and held out a black velvet bag. "I believe it matches your specifications, but if it does not, I can find another."

"I'm sure it's perfect." Butch took the heavy satchel, split it open at the mouth, and poured the contents into his hand. The solid gold cross was three inches long and two inches wide, thick as a finger. Suspended at the end of a long, gold chain, it was exactly what he'd wanted and he put it around his neck with satisfaction.

The substantial weight was just as he'd hoped it would be, a tangible protection.

"Master, how is it?"

Butch smiled up at the doggen's wrinkled face, while unbuttoning his shirt and dropping the necklace inside. He felt the cross slide down his skin until it lay right over his heart. "Like I said, perfect."

Fritz beamed, bowed, and took off, just as the grandfather clock started chiming down at the other end of the corridor. Once, twice… six times.

The bedroom door in front of him swung open.

Marissa appeared before him as an apparition. After so many hours of thinking about her, his eyes were momentarily snowed, seeing her not as real but as a figment of his desperation, her dress ether not cloth, her hair a glorious golden aura, her face a haunting well of beauty. As he stared up at her, his heart transformed her into an icon from his Catholic childhood, the Madonna of salvation and love… and him her unworthy servant.

He dragged himself off the floor, his spine cracking as it supported his weight. "Marissa."

Ah, shit, his emotions were all right there in his rusted-out voice, the pain, the sadness, the regret.

She held her hand up. "I meant what I said in that message last night. I loved being with you. Every moment. That wasn't why you had to leave and I wish I could have explained myself better at the time. Butch, we need to talk."

"Yeah, I know. But do you mind if we go down the hall for this?" Because he had no intention of having an audience, and no matter what she said, he figured she'd prefer not to be in a bedroom alone with him. She was tense as hell.

When she nodded, they headed to the sitting room at the end of the corridor, and on the way, he was stunned by how weak she was. She moved slowly, as if she couldn't feel her legs, and she was terribly pale, nearly transparent from a lack of energy.

Once inside the peach and yellow room, she went over to the windows, away from him.

Her words were thin as breath as she spoke. "Butch, I don't know how to say this…"

"I know what's doing."

"You do?"

"Yes." He started toward her, arms out. "Don't you know I would do anything—"

"Don't come any closer." She stepped back. "You've got to stay away from me."

He dropped his hands. "You need to feed, don't you?"

Her eyes widened. "How did you—"

"It's all right, baby." He smiled a little. "It's very all right. I talked with V."

"So you know what I've got to do? And you don't… mind?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine with it. More than fine."

"Oh, thank the Scribe Virgin." She lurched over to a sofa and sat down as if her knees had buckled. "I was so afraid you'd be offended. It'll be hard on me as well, but it's the only safe way. And I can't wait any longer. It has to be tonight."

When she patted the couch seat, he went over with relief and sat beside her, taking her hands in his. God, she was so cold.

"I'm really ready for this," he said, with thick anticipation. Man, he was suddenly dying to head back to her bedroom. "Let's go."

A curious expression crossed her face. "You want to watch?"

He stopped breathing. "Watch?"

"I, ah… I'm not sure that's a good idea."

As her words hit him, Butch became aware of a sinking feeling in his gut. Like someone had popped the stoppers on a number of his internal organs. "What are you talking about, watch?"

"When I'm with the male who lets me take his vein."

Abruptly, Marissa recoiled, giving him a good idea of what the expression on his face must be like.

Yeah, or maybe she was reacting to the fact that he'd started to growl.

"The other male," he said slowly, as he put it all together. "The one you told me you've been seeing. You've fed from him."

She nodded slowly. "Yes."

Butch jacked up to his feet. "Often?"

"Ah… four or five times."

"And he's an aristocrat, of course."

"Well, yes."

"And he'd make a socially acceptable mate for you, wouldn't he." Unlike a POS human. "Wouldn't he?"

"Butch, it isn't romantic. I swear."

Yeah, maybe on her side it wasn't. But it was damn hard to imagine any male not sexing her. The bastard would have to be impotent or some shit. "He's into you, isn't he. Answer the question, Marissa. Flyboy with the superhero plasma… he wants you, doesn't he? Doesn't he?"

God, where the hell was this wild jealousy coming from?

"But he knows I don't feel that way about him."

"Has he kissed you?"

When she didn't reply, Butch was very glad he didn't know the Joe's name and address. "You're not using him anymore. You have me."

"Butch, I can't feed from you. I'll take too—where are you going?"

He stalked across the room, shut the double doors, and locked them in together. As he came back at her, he tossed his black suit jacket on the floor and ripped open his shirt, the buttons popping off and flying everywhere. Falling to his knees in front of her, he tilted back his head and offered his throat, himself, to her.

"You will use me."

There was a long silence. Then her scent, that gorgeous clean fragrance, intensified until it flooded the room. Her body began to shake, her mouth opening.

As her fangs unsheathed, he got an instant erection.

"Oh… yeah," he said in a dark voice. "Take me. I need to feed you."

"No," she moaned, tears glowing in her cornflower blue eyes.

She made a move to get up, but he jumped at her, taking her by the shoulders, holding her down on the couch. He moved himself between her legs, bringing their bodies together, getting all up in her. While she trembled against him and pushed at him, he kept her close, nuzzling her, nipping her ear, sucking on her jaw. Before long, she stopped fighting to get away. And started gripping the two halves of his shirt to pull him in tighter.

"That's right, baby," he growled. "You grab on to me. Let me feel those fangs get into me deep. I want it."

He palmed the back of her head and brought her mouth to his throat. As an arc of pure sexual power exploded between them, they both began to pant, her breath and tears hot on his skin.

But then she seemed to come to her senses. She struggled hard and he did his best to keep her in place, even though they were both going to end up with bruises. And even though he was ultimately going to lose the fight against her. As he was just a human, she was stronger, even though he outweighed her by well over a hundred pounds.

But hopefully she would give in and use him before his energy flagged.

"Marissa, please, take me," he groaned, his voice hoarse from the struggle and now the begging.

"No…"

His heart broke as she sobbed, but he didn't let her go. He couldn't. "Take what's inside of me. I know I'm not good-enough, but take me anyway—"

"Don't make me do this—"

"I have to." God, he felt like crying with her.

"Butch…" Her body bucked and strained against his, their clothes flapping as they struggled. "I can't hold back… for much longer… let me go… before I hurt you."

"Never."

It happened so fast. His name shot out of her on a yell and then he felt a searing blaze of pain at the side of his throat.

Her fangs sinking into his jugular.

"Oh…fuck… yes …!" He loosened his grip and cradled her as she latched on to his neck. He barked her name at the first erotic draw, the first hard suck on his vein, the first swallow for her. As she repositioned for a better angle, pleasure swamped him, sparks flowing all through his body as if he were orgasming. This was so the way it had to be. He needed her to take from him in order to live—

Marissa broke the contact and dematerialized, right out of his arms.

Butch fell headfirst into the empty air where she'd been, face-planting into the sofa cushions. In a messy scramble, he shoved himself to his feet and spun around. "Marissa! Marissa!"

He threw himself at the doors and clawed at the lock, but couldn't get free.

Then he heard her broken, desperate voice on the other side. "I'll kill you… God help me, but I'll kill you… I want you too much."

He pounded on the door. "Let me out!"

"I'm sorry—" Her voice cracked, then grew strong. And he feared her resolve more than anything else. "I'm so sorry. I'll come to you afterward. After it is done."

"Marissa, don't do this—"

"I love you."

He beat the wood with his fists. "I don't care if I die! Don't go to him!"

When the lock finally gave way, he burst into the hall and ran flat out for the staircase.

But by the time he threw open the mansion's front door she was gone.

Across town, in the underground parking garage where the brokered fights took place, Van hopped into the chicken-wire cage and bounced on the balls of his feet. The drumbeat of him warming up echoed through the concrete levels, cutting off the silence.

Tonight there was no crowd, just three people. But he was juiced like it was standing room only.

Van was the one who'd suggested the locale to Mr. X, and he'd shown them how to break into the place. As he knew the schedule of fights, he'd been sure there wouldn't be anyone around this evening and a big part of him wanted to have his glory, his resurrection here in this ring, not in some anonymous basement somewhere.

He tried out some kicks, so very satisfied with his strength, then eyed his opponent. The other lesser was just as lit for the hand-to-hand as he was.

From the other side of the cage, Xavier barked, "You don't stop until it's over. And Mr. D, on the ground unmoving is not 'over, we clear?"

Van nodded, already used to being called by his last initial.

"Good." Xavier's palms clapped together and the fight was on.

Van and the other lesser circled each other, but Van had no intention of letting the slow-dance crap go on for long. He moved in first, throwing punches, forcing his opponent back against the cage. The guy took the bare-knuckled pounders like they were nothing more than spring rain on his cheeks and then tossed out a mean-ass right hook. The damn thing caught Van at an angle, splitting his lip open like an envelope.

It hurt, but the pain was good, a strengthener, something that focused him further. Van spun around and sent his foot out flying, a body bomb on the end of a steel chain. Sure as shit it took the lesser down, sprawling the guy flat. Van jumped on his opponent and cranked him into a submission hold, wrenching one arm back and around so the joints strained at the shoulder and elbow. Just a little tighter and he was going to pop this sucker right off—

The lesser pulled a smoothie, somehow nailing Van in the balls with his knee. Quick switch of positions and Van was on the bottom. Then another roll and they were up on their feet.

The fight went on and on, no time-outs, no breathers, the two of them battering the holy hell out of each other. It was flipping miraculous. Van felt like he could go for hours, no matter how beat up his body got. It was like he had an engine in him, a driving force, one that was not as dulled by exhaustion or pain as his old self had been.

When the break in the action finally came, the tipping factor was Van's special… whatever it was. Though the two of them were identically matched for strength, Van was the master at this, and he saw the opening for the win. He popped the other slayer in the gut, nailing a liver shot that would have left a human opponent shitting in his shorts. Then he picked his opponent up and slammed him down onto the ring floor. As he mounted the body and looked down, Van's blood welled from the cuts around his eyes and dropped onto the guy's face like tears… black tears.

The color momentarily freaked Van out, and the other lesser took advantage of the lapse in focus by spinning him over onto his back.

Yeah, not happening, not this time. Van balled his fist and rammed it into the guy's temple at exactly the right force and the right place, knocking the lesser stupid. With a quick surge, Van kicked his opponent over, straddled the slayer's chest and repeated the punch over and over again, battering the skull until the bone helmet went soft. And he just kept going, sticking to the task until the very structure of the man's face let go, the head becoming a loose bag, his opponent dead and then some.

"Finish him!" Xavier called from the sidelines.

Van looked up, panting hard. "I just did."

"No…finish him!"

"How?"

"You should know what to do!" Xavier's pale eyes shined with an eerie desperation. "You must!"

Van wasn't clear on exactly how much deader he could make the guy, but he grabbed the lesser by the ears and twisted until the neck snapped. Then he eased off the body. Though he had no heart that beat anymore, his lungs burned and his body was deliciously logy from exertion… except the logy didn't last.

He started to laugh. Already the strength was returning to him, just pouring in from somewhere else as if he'd eaten and slept and recovered for days.

Xavier's boots landed hard in the ring and the Fore-lesser strode over, furious. "I told you to finish him, goddamn it."

"Uh-huh. Right." Christ. Xavier just had to suck the triumph out of the moment. "You think he's walking away from this?"

Xavier shook with rage as he took out a knife. "I told you to finish him."

Van tensed up and leaped to his feet. But Xavier just bent over that messy, punching bag of a lesser and stabbed the thing in the chest. There was a flash of light and then… gone. Nothing but black smudges on the ring's tarmac.

Van backed up until he hit the fencing. "What the hell…"

From across the way, Xavier pointed the knife right at Van's chest. "I have expectations for you."

"Like… what?"

"You should be able to do that" — he jabbed toward the disintegration mark with the blade—"on your own."

"So give me a knife next time."

Xavier shook his head, a bizarre kind of panic flaring in his face. "Fuck!" He paced around, then muttered, "It's just going to take time. Let's go."

"What about the blood?" Man, that oily black stuff suddenly made him dizzy.

"Like I give a shit?" Xavier picked up the dead lesser's duffel bag and left.

As Van followed him out of the parking garage, he found it really fucking annoying that Mr. X was playing it like this. The fight had been a good one and Van had won. He wanted to enjoy the feeling.

In strained silence, the two of them headed for the minivan, which was parked blocks away, and as they went along, Van scrubbed his face with a towel and tried not to curse. When they got to the car, Xavier slid behind the wheel.

"Where are we going?" Van asked as he got in.

Xavier didn't answer, just started to drive, so Van stared out the windshield, wondering how he could get away from the guy. Not easily, he suspected.

As they passed by a new skyscraper that was going up, he eyed the men pulling the nightshift. Under electric lights, the union crews were all over the building like ants, and he envied them even though he'd hated doing what they did.

Man, if he were still one of them, he wouldn't be dealing with Mr. X's crap attitude.

On a whim, Van lifted his right hand and looked at his missing pinkie, remembering how he'd done it. So fucking stupid. He'd been at a construction site, cutting boards on a table saw, and decided to take the guards off the machine to make the process go faster. One lapse of focus later and his finger had ended up flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The blood loss had seemed tremendous, the stuff leaking all over him, covering the saw's flat back, soaking into the ground. Red, not black.

Van put his hand to his chest and felt nothing beating behind his breastbone.

Anxiety trembled down the back of his neck, like spiders slipping under his collar. He glanced at Xavier, the only resource he had. "Are we alive?"

"No."

"But that guy was killed, right? So we must be alive."

Xavier's eyes shot across the seat. "We're not alive. Trust me."

"What happened to him, then?"

Exhaustion flared in Xavier's pale, dead stare, the drooping of his lids making him look like he was a million years old.

"What happened to him, Mr. X?"

The Fore-lesser didn't answer, just kept on driving.