Lover Reborn

by J. R. Ward

Chapter 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.