by J. R. Ward
Assail made a fist, the black leather of his glove creaking ever so subtly.
And then he dematerialized into the very room, re-forming directly behind the male’s chair.
On one level, he couldn’t believe that Elan didn’t fortify his abode with greater security—a fine steel mesh over the windows and within the walls, for example. Then again, the aristocrat clearly suffered from a lack of appropriate risk assessment—as well as an arrogance that would grant him a greater sense of safety than he actually possessed.
“…and then Wrath shared a story about his father. I must confess, in person, the king is quite…ferocious. Although not enough to change my course, naturally.”
No, Assail was going to take care of that.
Elan leaned forward and reached for the cigarette. The thing was screwed onto one of those old-fashioned holders, the kind that females tended to use, and as he brought the end to his lips to take a drag, the tip extended out past the edge of the chair.
Assail unsheathed a shiny steel blade that was as long as his forearm.
It had e’re been his preferred weapon for this sort of thing.
His heart rate was as steady as his hand, his breathing even and regular whilst he loomed behind the chair. With deliberation, he stepped to one side, positioning himself so that his reflection appeared in the window opposite the desk.
“I am not aware whether it was the entire Brotherhood. How many of them are left? Seven or eight? This is part of the problem. We do not know who they are anymore.” Elan tapped his cigarette, the small stack of ash falling into the belly of the ashtray. “Now, whilst I was at the meeting, I instructed a colleague of mine to be in touch with you—I beg your pardon? Of course I gave him your number, and I resent the tone in your— Yes, he was here at the meeting at my home. He is going to— No, I shan’t do it again. Shall you cease interrupting me? I think so, yes.”
Elan took a drag and released the smoke in a rush, his annoyance manifested in his breath. “May we move on? Thank you. As I was saying, my colleague shall be in touch with regard to a certain legal provision which may help us. He has explained it to me, but as it is rather technical, I assumed you would wish to question him yourself.”
There was a rather long pause. And when Elan spoke next, his tone was calmer, as if placating words had soothed the ruffled feathers of his ego. “Oh, and one last thing. I took care of our little problem with a certain ‘business-minded’ gentlemale—”
Assail deliberately curled up his fist.
As that leather once again let out its quiet sound of protest, Elan straightened in his seat, his crossed foot returning to the floor, his spine stretching upward such that his head appeared over the back of the chair. He looked left. Looked right.
“I must needs go—”
At that moment, Elan’s eyes went to the window across from him, and he saw the reflection of his killer in the glass.
As Xcor stood in an insulated room with a proper heating system, he had to admit he preferred Throe’s newest choice of living quarters over that warehouse dungeon they had been in previously. Mayhap he would thank the Shadow who had intruded, if their paths e’er crossed anew.
Then again, perhaps the sense of warmth in his body was his temper flaring, and not a function of good, operational ductwork: The aristocrat on the other end of his cellular phone was testing his last nerve.
He did not want to be contacted by anybody else on the Council. Managing one member of the glymera was quite enough.
Although he typically took a pacifying approach with Elan, his wrath licked out. “Do not give my number to anyone else.”
Elan and he went back and forth a bit, the aristocrat’s own ire rising.
Which was, of course, no good. One wanted a usable tool in one’s hands. Not something with a prickly grip.
“My apologies,” Xcor murmured after a bit. “It is just that I prefer to deal with decision makers only. That is why I contact you and you alone. I have no interest in the others. Only you.”
As if Elan were a female and theirs was a romantic liaison.
Xcor rolled his eyes as the aristocrat fell for it, and resumed his discourse. “…and one last thing. I took care of our little problem with a certain ‘business-minded’ gentlemale—”
Instantly, Xcor’s attention picked up. What in Fate’s name had the idiot done now?
In truth, this could be monstrously inconvenient. Say what one would about Assail’s failure to see the light around Wrath’s dethroning, that particular “gentlemale” was not cut from Elan’s fragile, rippable silk. And as much as Xcor detested dealing with the son of Larex, he had invested considerable time and resources in the relationship. ’Twould be a shame to lose the miscreant now, and have to establish yet another conduit within the Council.
“What did you say?” Xcor demanded.
Elan’s tone changed, wariness creeping in. “I must needs go—”
The scream that blared through the phone was so loud and high-pitched, Xcor ripped the cell away from his ear and held it outward.
At the sound, his fighters, who were lounging around the room in various positions, turned their heads in his direction, playing witness, as he did, to Elan’s murder.
The caterwauling went on for quite some time, but there was no begging for mercy—either because his assailant was working quickly, or because it was very clear, even to a dying male, that there would be none from the attacker.
“Messy,” Zypher remarked as yet another crescendo vibrated out of the phone. “Very messy.”
“Still has an airway,” another pointed out.
“Not for long,” another chimed in.
And they were right. No more than a moment later, something hit the floor hard and that was the end of the sounds.
“Assail,” Xcor said sharply. “Pick up the fucking phone. Assail.”
There was a rustling, as if the receiver Elan had been speaking into had been retrieved from wherever it had fallen to. And then there was the sound of raking breath on the line.
Which suggested Elan might well be in pieces.
“I know this is you, Assail,” Xcor said. “And I can only guess that Elan o’erstepped and the indiscretion got back to your ears. However, you have taken my partner from me, and that cannae go unahvenged.”
It was a surprise when the male answered, his voice deep and strong. “Back in the Old Country, provisions were made for affronts against one’s reputation. Surely you not only recall them, but you shall not deny me my right of retribution in the New World.”
Xcor bared his fangs, though not because he was frustrated with the one he was speaking to. Fucking Elan. If the dumb bastard had just stuck to being an informant, he’d still be alive—and Xcor could have had the satisfaction of killing him at the end of all of this.
Assail continued. “He stated unto representatives of the king that I was responsible for your rifle shot, the one that was discharged upon my property without my knowledge or permission—and,” he cut in before Xcor could speak, “you are well aware of exactly how little I had to do with that attack, are you not.”
Back in the Bloodletter’s time, this conversation would never have occurred. Assail would have been hunted down as an obstructionist and eliminated for both purpose and sport.
But Xcor had learned his lesson.
As his eyes went to Throe, standing so tall and elegant among the others, he thought, aye, he had learned that there was an appropriate place and time for certain…standards, he believed the word was.
“I meant what I said unto you, Xcor, son of the Bloodletter.” As Xcor flinched at the reference, he was glad this conversation was occurring over the phone. “I have no interest in either your agenda or the king’s. I am a businessman only—I am resigned from the Council, and I am unaligned with you. And Elan attempted to make a traitor out of me—something which, as you well know, comes with a price on one’s head. I took Elan’s life because he tried to take mine. It is enti
rely lawful.”
Xcor cursed to himself. The male had a rather good point. And whereas Assail’s rigid neutrality had at first seemed unbelievable, now Xcor was beginning to…well, trust was not a word he used with anyone other than his soldiers.
“Tell me something,” Xcor drawled.
“Yes?”
“Is his piggish head still attached to that weak little body of his?”
Assail chuckled. “No.”
“Do you know that is among my favorite ways of killing?”
“A warning for me, Xcor?”
Xcor glanced back at Throe, and thought again of the virtue of codes of behavior among even warring males.
“No,” he declared. “Just something we have in common. Fare thee well, Assail, for what is left of this night.”
“Yourself as well. And in the words of our mutual acquaintance, I must needs go. Afore I am forced to slaughter the doggen butler who is pounding, at this very instant, upon the door I have locked.”
Xcor threw his head back and laughed as he ended the call.
“You know,” he said to his fighters, “I rather like him.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
The following evening, as the shutters rose and an alarm clock Blay didn’t recognize started to chirp, he opened his eyes.
This was not his room. But he knew exactly where he was.
Next to him, against his back, Qhuinn stirred, the male’s body stretching against his own, naked skin brushing against naked skin—and didn’t that make his wake-up erection start to throb.
Qhuinn reached across Blay’s head, his heavy arm extending over, his hand slapping the clock into silence.
Lest there be any question as to whether he’d welcome a quickie before the whole shower-dress–First Meal thing, Blay arched, pushing his ass into the seat of Qhuinn’s pelvis. The groan that shot into his ear made him smile a little, but things got serious as Qhuinn’s dagger hand snaked downward and found Blay’s cock.
“Oh, fuck,” Blay breathed as he moved his leg up and out of the way.
“I’ve got to be inside of you.”
Funny, Blay was thinking the exact same thing.
As Qhuinn mounted him, Blay eased onto his stomach, crushing Qhuinn’s palm into that hard ridge of arousal.
It didn’t take long for the rhythm to get fast and furious, and as Blay’s balls tightened with yet another release, he marveled that his desperation for the guy only seemed to grow—you’d think the number of times the pair of them had come together—literally—during the day would have taken this burn down to a rolling boil.
Not the case.
Giving himself over to the pleasure, Blay gritted his teeth as his release shot out at the same time Qhuinn’s hips locked up tight and the male grunted.
There was no second round. Not that Blay didn’t want it and Qhuinn wasn’t able—the clock was the problem.
When Blay reopened his eyes, the digital readout told him that Qhuinn’s alarm provided for only fifteen minutes of get-ready—time for a male’s quick shower and arming, nothing extra. Kind of made him wish the fighter had been more of a mousse, double-shave, cologne, matching-outfit sort of guy.
With another of his trademark erotic groans, Qhuinn eased them onto their sides, keeping them joined. As the guy breathed deeply, Blay realized he could have stayed like this forever, just the two of them in a silent, dim room. In this moment of peace and quiet, there was no overhang of the past, or anything that needed to be said but wasn’t, or third parties, real or fabricated, between them.
“At the end of the night,” Qhuinn said in a gravelly voice, “will you come to me again.”
“Yes, I will.”
There was no other answer that occurred to him. In fact, he wondered how he was going to wait through the twelve hours of darkness and meals and work until he could slip away and come back here.
Qhuinn muttered something that sounded like, “Thank God.” Then he moaned as he disengaged, withdrawing himself. In the aftermath, Blay stayed where he was for a brief moment, but ultimately he had no choice save to get up, go out the door, and return to where he belonged.
Thank God no one saw him.
He made it back to his own room without anyone playing witness to the walk of shame, and yup, within fifteen minutes he was showered, leathered, and armed. Stepping out of his door, he—
Qhuinn came out of his at exactly the same moment.
Both of them froze.
Ordinarily, walking down together would have been marginally awkward, the kind of thing that they would have made small talk during.
But now…
Qhuinn dropped his eyes. “You go first.”
“Okay.” Blay turned to walk away. “Thanks.”
Blay cast his chest holster and his leather jacket over his shoulder and strode off. By the time he hit the stairwell, it felt like years had passed since they’d lain so close together. Had the day between them even fucking happened?
Jesus, he was starting to feel insane.
Entering the dining room below, he took a random empty chair and hung his stuff over the back as the others did—even though Fritz hated weapons around his food. Then he thanked the doggen who presented him with a fully loaded plate, and began to eat. He couldn’t have told you what had been served to him, or who was talking around the table. But he knew exactly when Qhuinn came through the jambs: His core started to hum, and it was impossible not to glance over his shoulder.
There was an immediate physical impact as he took in that huge body clad in black, and dripping in weapons—like a car battery had been hooked up to his nervous system.
As Qhuinn didn’t meet his eyes, he supposed that was a good thing. The others around the table knew them both too well, especially John, and things were complicated enough without the benevolent peanut gallery getting a chance to weigh in—not that anything would be said publicly. Privately, though? Pillow talk ran rampant through the household.
Something to envy.
Qhuinn started forward, then abruptly changed direction and walked allllll the way around to the other side of the table, to the only chair, other than the one next to Blay, that was empty.
For some reason, Blay thought of the conversation he’d had with his mother over the phone, the one where he had finally admitted to a member of his family who he really was.
Unease feathered across his nape. Qhuinn would never do something like come out, and not because his parents were dead, or because, when that pair had been alive, they had hated their son.
I see myself with a female long-term. I can’t explain it. It’s just the way it’s going to be.
Blay pushed his plate away.
“Blay? Hello?”
Shaking himself, he glanced at Rhage. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked you if you were ready to play Nanook of the North.”
Oh, that’s right. They were going back to that stretch of forest where they’d found the cabins and the lesser with the special power for going ghost—as well as that airplane which was, at the moment, gathering snow in the backyard.
He, John, and Rhage were on deck for the assignment. And Qhuinn.
“I…yeah, absolutely.”
The most beautiful member of the Brotherhood frowned, his Caribbean blue eyes narrowing. “You okay?”
“Yup. Just fine.”
“When was the last time you fed?”
Blay opened his mouth. Shut it. Tried to do the math.
“Uh-huh. I thought so.” Rhage leaned forward and spoke around Z’s chest. “Yo, Phury? Do you think one of your Chosen can come here and fill in for Layla at dawn? We’ve got some blood needs.”
Great. Just what he wanted to do at the end of the night.
About an hour later, Qhuinn took a sharp breath as he materialized in the cold. Flurries fluttered around his face, getting into his eyes and his nose. One by one, John, Rhage, and Blay assumed form with him.
As he faced off at the airplane hangar, the hollowed-
out shell brought back memories of that fakakta Cessna, and the Hail Mary trip, and the crash landing.
Happy, happy, joy, joy.
“Good to go?” he said to Rhage.
“Let’s do this.”
The plan was to proceed at quarter-mile clips until they came to the first few cabins they’d already been to. After that, they would locate the other buildings on the property, using the map they’d found previously as a guide. Just your typical search/recon protocol.
He had no clue what they would find, but that was the point. You didn’t know until you did the job.
As Qhuinn sent himself forward, he was acutely aware of where Blay was. Yet as he re-formed in front of the first cabin they came to, he didn’t look over when Blay appeared about five feet away. Not a good idea. Even though they were on assignment, all he had to do was close his eyes and his mind was flooded with images of naked bodies intertwined in the dim light of his bedroom.
Further visual confirm that the guy was hot as fuck was not a help.
He was ashamed to admit it, but right now, the only thing keeping him together was the fact that Blay had promised to come to him at dawn. The aftermath-awkwardness at First Meal had made him crave the communion even more, to the point where he was shaken by the idea that someday, in the near future, Saxton would be back and Blay would stop walking over from next door—and then what the fuck was he going to do.
What a goddamn mess.
At least Layla was doing well: still nauseated and smiling constantly.
Still pregnant, thanks to Blay’s intervention…
“East by northeast,” Rhage said as he consulted the map.
“Roger that,” Qhuinn replied.
And so they went on, going deeper into the territory, the forest fanning out all around them for hundreds and hundreds of yards…and then by a mile. And then by several miles.