Lover Unleashed

FIFTY

Payne did not go back to the mansion; she had no interest in seeing anyone who lived there. Not the king, who had given her a freedom that it turned out she did not need. Not her twin, who had advocated on her behalf. And certainly not all the happy, fortunate, blessed couples who lived beneath that regal roof.

So instead of heading north, she re-formed herself on the shores of the waterway that ran beside the tall, glassy buildings of downtown. The breeze was gentler at ground level and carried upon it the chattering sound of the waves licking at the river’s rocky flanks. In the background, the hum from the vehicles surmounting the bridges’ gently curving backs and fading down on their far sides made her feel most keenly the depth and breadth of the landscape.

Surrounded by humans, she was totally alone.

This was what she had asked for, however. This was the freedom she had so dearly wanted and sought with greed.

In the Sanctuary, nothing had changed. But naught had gone wrong, either.

Still, though, she would e’er choose this raw hardship over her former numb insulation.

Oh, Manuel . . .

“Hey, baby.”

Payne looked over her shoulder. A human male was approaching her, having evidently stepped out from behind one of the supports of the bridge. He was weaving, and he smelled like layers upon layers of fermented sweat and dirt.

Without sparing him a greeting, Payne dematerialized farther down the riverbank. There was no reason to scrub him. He was unlikely to remember he’d ever seen her. And no doubt used to drugaddled hallucinations.

Staring at the curling surface of the river, she was not beckoned toward the dark depths. She was not going to hurt herself over this. This was no prison to get trapped in . . . and besides, she was finished with taking a cowardly route out. Bracing her feet upon the earth, she crossed her arms and just existed in the place she stood, time seeping through reality’s sieve unheeded as the stars pinwheeled overhead, changing position. . . .

At first, the scent entered her nose surreptitiously, weaving in and amidst the mix of fresh dirt and wet stone and urban pollution. So initially, she didn’t notice the odor as anything distinctive.

Her brain stem soon came alive in recognition, however.

With a tingle of instinct, her head turned of its own volition, cranking around on the top of her spine. Her shoulders followed . . . then her hips.

That rancid odor was the enemy.

A lesser.

As she fell into a light jog, she felt in her blood an aggression that was not solely tied to her heartache and frustration at what fate had wrought upon her. Closing in on the scent, she was animated by a deep heritage of violence and protection, her limbs and her dagger hand and her fangs prickling. Transformed by deadly purpose, she was neither male nor female, neither Chosen nor sister nor daughter. As she dodged and surmounted the alleys and streets, she was a soldier.

Into an alley she turned, and at the base of it, she found the pair of slayers whose scent had called her forth from the river. Standing together, clustered around what she identified as a phone, they were new recruits, with dark hair and twitchy bodies.

They did not look up as she stopped. Which gave her time to pick up a silver metal disk with FORD marked on it. ’Twas a fine weapon—one she could block with or use to throw.

A moment later, the wind blew up and frothed her robe, pulling it out from her body, and the movement must have caught their eyes, because they turned.

Knives came out. And so did a pair of smiles that made her blood boil.

Silly boys, she thought. Thinking that as a female, she would present no contest.

The saunters with which they approached her were nothing she saw fit to disrupt. In fact, she was going to enjoy the surprise that they would receive—and ultimately not survive.

“What you doing out here, girlie?” the bigger of the two asked. “All alone.”

I’m about to cut your throat open with what I have behind my back. After which I shall break both of your legs, not because I have to, but because I shall enjoy the sound. And then I will locate something steel with which to pierce your empty chest cavity and send you back to your maker. Or mayhap I’ll leave you to writhe on the ground.

Payne stayed silent. Instead of talking, she distributed her weight equally between her braced feet and sank down onto her thighs. Neither of the lessers seemed to notice the change in position; they were too busy coming up to her and showing off like peacocks. And neither did they split and flank her. Or have one engage her face-to-face so the other could come from behind.

They stayed right in front . . . where she could reach them.

Alas, this was going to be but a good warm-up. Although perhaps some others who knew something about proper fighting would show up to amuse her . . .

Xcor could feel the stirring change in his bastards.

As they walked in formation through the streets of downtown Caldwell, the energy behind him was a drumming beat of aggression. Sharp. Refreshed. Stronger than it had been for a decade.

Indeed, moving here had been the best decision he’d ever made. And not just because he and Throe had had some good sex and a drink the night before. His males were as daggers pulled quick from the forge, their killing instincts renewed and glinting in the artificial moonlight of the city. No wonder there had been no slayers in the Old Country. They were all here, the Lessening Society having focused all its efforts—

Xcor’s head shifted around and he slowed.

The scent on the air made his fangs elongate and his body thump with power.

His change of direction was nothing to announce. His bastards were right with him, tracking as he did the sickly sweet sting that was upon the wings of the night gusts.

As they rounded the corner and surfed down a straightaway, he prayed for many. A dozen. A hundred. Two hundred. He wanted to be covered with the blood of the enemy, bathing in the black oil that animated their flesh—

At the mouth of an alley, his feet didn’t so much stop as become cemented unto the ground.

Betwixt one blink and the next, the past rushed forward, surmounting the distance of interceding months and years and centuries to come to fruition in the present.

Centered in the alleyway, a female in a billowing white robe was fighting a pair of lessers. She held them off with kicks and punches, pivoting and jumping around so fast that she had to wait for them to come back at her.

With her superior fighting skills, she was but toying with them. And there was a very clear impression that they didn’t recognize all she was holding back.

Lethal. She was lethal and just waiting to strike.

And Xcor knew exactly who she was.

“She is—” Xcor’s throat cut off the rest of the words.

To have searched for aeons and be ever denied this target . . . only to find it upon a random evening in a random city across a vast ocean . . . was manifest destiny.

They were meant to meet again.

Here. This night.

“She is the killer of my father.” He withdrew his scythe from its harness. “She is the murderer of mine own blood—”

Someone caught his hand and froze his arm. “Not here.”

The fact that it was not the bleeding-heart Throe was the only thing that stopped him. It was Zypher.

“We take her and bring her home.” The warrior laughed darkly, the erotic tone in his voice deepening. “You have been relieved, but there are others among us who require what you had last night. After that? Then you can teach her the repercussions of vengeful acts.”

Zypher was the one among them mostly likely to think up a plan like that. And though the idea of slaughtering her outright held vast appeal, Xcor had waited too long not to savor her demise.

So many years.

Too many years—until he had given up hope of finding her, only his dreams keeping alive the memory of what had defined him and given him his position in life.

Yes, he thought. It would be fitting to have this done the Bloodletter’s way. No easy out for the female.

Xcor resettled his scythe, just as the murderess went to work properly on the slayers. Without warning, she leapt forward and took one of them at the waist, ducking under its flailing arms and driving it back against the building. It happened so fast that the second lesser was too surprised—and obviously untrained—to save its friend.

Although even if number two had been more of a match for her, it wouldn’t have stood a chance. In virtually the same moment as she attacked, the female spun out a hubcap from behind her and it hit the slayer right in the neck, slicing deep and distracting it immediately from the quest to get her. As black oil sprang forth and its knees wobbled, she dispatched the slayer she had pinned against the brick by punching it twice in the face and once in the Adam’s apple. Then she picked it up bodily and slammed it down upon her upraised knee.

The crack of the spine was loud.

And as it faded, she spun around to confront those who had been watching her work. Which was not a surprise. Someone as good as she was would have been immediately aware that others were upon her.

Tilting her head to one side, she was not alarmed—but then, why would she be? They were in the shadows and very clearly of her species: Until Xcor revealed himself, she would have no idea the danger she was in.

“Good evening, female,” he said in a low tone from the darkness.

“Who is there?” she called out.

Now is the time, he thought, stepping forward into a shaft of light—

“We are not alone,” Throe whispered abruptly.

Xcor stopped his advance, his eyes narrowing on the seven slayers that had stepped into view at the far end of the alley.

Indeed. They were very much not alone.

And later, Xcor would come to believe that the only reason he successfully took the female into his custody was the arrival of those fresh lessers. The advancing front of the enemy demanded her eyes—and her attention. But before she could dematerialize into another position, Xcor was upon her.

In spite of the way his heart was pounding, vengeance gave him the focus to scatter his molecules just as she turned to confront the squadron which approached. His steel cuff went upon her wrist in the blink of an eye, and as she wheeled around with bald fury in her face, he was reminded of the incineration she had cast upon his sire.

What saved him was a lesser’s gunshot.

The pop was of little note, but its consequence was of spectacular benefit: Just as she was lifting her free hand to lay upon him, her leg went loose and she tumbled toward the ground, the bullet clearly having hit something vital. And in her moment of weakness, Xcor dominated her—he had one chance to get her under his control. If he didn’t take it, he was not sure he would walk away from this.

Slapping the other cuff on her free wrist, he then grabbed her braid and wound it around her throat. Pulling the hair tight, he cut off her air supply just as his fighters surged forward with weapons drawn.

Oh, how she struggled. So valiant. So powerful.

She was but a female . . . except so much more than that. She was nearly as strong as he was, and that was not her only advantage. Even captured and on the verge of asphyxiation, her pale eyes remained locked on his own, until he felt as though she could reach into his mind and take over his very thoughts.

But he would not be daunted. Whilst the sounds of fighting broke out in the alley, he held the diamond stare of his sire’s killer as his huge arms cranked the noose tighter and tighter about her neck.

Struggling to breathe, she gasped and writhed, her lips moving.

Dipping down his ear, he wanted to hear what she had to—

“. . . why . . . ?”

Xcor recoiled, just as the fight went out of her and those stunning eyes rolled back into her head.

Dearest Scribe Virgin, she didn’t even know who he was.