The Beast

THIRTY-FIVE

As dawn threatened in the East, and the peachy light cast by that unrelenting fireball in the heavens gathered into a thin line at the horizon, Zypher stood by the burned-out shell of a car in one of Caldwell’s back alleys.

All around him, the Band of Bastards had gathered, their bodies tense and twitchy, their weapons holstered, but their hands at the ready.

Balthazar spoke up. “This was his last coordinate.”

Yes, Zypher thought, they all knew that. Indeed, they had started here at nightfall the evening before, after Xcor had not returned to their new headquarters—which now had to be abandoned. Clearly, their leader had been injured severely in a fight, whether it was here or at some other locale, and one could only assume that he and his phone had been taken into custody either by the Lessening Society or the Black Dagger Brotherhood.

Aye, there was a possibility that he had been wounded and had dragged himself unto some discreet cover for a period of time, only to expire either of natural causes or from sun exposure, his phone going up in smoke with him or being stolen from out of his dead hand—but considering the foes they were facing, it was unwise to rely on such a premise.

Better to assume capture. Torture. And possible information exchange.

“He would not want a memorial,” Zypher blurted.

“Aye,” somebody agreed. “And he must have entered the Fade in quite a lather.”

There was a grumble of laughter—but Zypher wondered if their leader, or any of them, would be granted access to that heavenly sanctuary. For their ill deeds, surely they would be turned away? Sent unto Dhund, the Omega’s evil playground of eternity?

Either way, as they stood around, he decided that the alley seemed a proper place for this gathering of mourning, the remnants of the old car a fitting grave marker, the lack of specifics an appropriate closing to Xcor’s life. After all, although Zypher had worked with the male against the lessers for centuries, he could not say that he had e’er truly known his fellow fighter.

Well . . . that was not entirely true. He had been well-versed in their leader’s cruelty and calculation, both in the war camp and then later, as they had been travelers with temporary housing, and later still, when they had settled in their castle fortification in the Old Country.

And there had been that one private moment, after Xcor had stabbed Throe—and punished himself for it.

“What do we do now?” Balthazar asked.

After a moment of silence, Zypher realized they were all looking at him.

He wished they had a body. The course would be clearer, then. At the moment, even with all circumstantial evidence pointing them in a certain direction, taking control of the group felt like insubordination.

But there was naught else to do.

Zypher scrubbed his face with his gloved hand. “We must assume our base has been compromised, or soon will be. We must also destroy all cellular devices. Then we will wait a given period of time—before we shall return unto the Old Country. There is a life worth living o’er there.”

The castle still stood and remained in their names.

But money. They needed money.

Shit.

“What if he attempts to reach us?” Balthazar asked. “If we do away with our phones, how will he find us?”

“If he has survived, he will locate us.”

Leaning to the side, Zypher glanced between two buildings. That glow of dawn was e’er increasing, and if they waited too much longer, they were going to follow a similar fate as this vehicle. As mayhap Xcor himself.

“Let us proceed back to—” He frowned. “No. We shall not go back there.”

He wouldn’t put it past the Brotherhood to wage an ambush inside the farmhouse even in broad daylight—and not because those males were reckless, but rather because they were that deadly. And if slayers were who had gotten Xcor? Then such an attack was even more a possibility.

Glancing around, he focused on a nearby door. The building it opened into was abandoned, going by the boarded-up windows and the CONDEMNED sign plastered on its brick.

Zypher walked over and slammed his shoulder into the portal. As the metal panel broke free, the lock splintered into pieces, littering the floor of the darkened interior beyond.

The air that greeted him was cold, wet, and smelled like various strains of mold and decay. But the oppressive blackness that surrounded him was good news.

They had no food. Only the weapons and ammunition on their backs. And this was an iffy shelter at best.

It was just like the good old days.

Save for one rather large and noticeable absence.

As his fellow bastards filed in and found places on over-turned crates and stretches of countertops littered with plastic containers, rats scuttled out of the way, squeaking their curses.

“Upon nightfall, we shall return unto the farmhouse, pack up, and determine our course.”

Zypher chose a section of floor by the door, wedging himself into a crevice between shelvings such that he was propped up with his autoloader in hand and ready to discharge.

In his long history as a soldier, there had been many days such as this, his body required to catch its sleep on the fly as he rested with one ear and one eye open. And before all that, as a student of the Bloodletter, he had feared for his life when the sun had risen and the trainees had been forced to retire unto the caved war camp until nightfall.

This was a vacation compared to what he and the others had endured.

Closing his lids, he found himself wondering how Xcor had died. And where that troubled soul of his had ended up.

Some questions were destined to remain unanswered . . . and it was strange for him to discover that he most certainly missed their leader—though he found that difficult to admit. Xcor had been as fearsome as the Bloodletter at times; yet his absence was like that of a limb or a crucial organ.

Habits died harder than mortals, however.

And this ennui, tied as it was to centuries of cruelty, was hardly a recommendation for the male’s soul.