Lover Reborn tbdb-10

by J. R. Ward

  “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 lad
ies 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—