by J. R. Ward
Good times, as they said here in the New World.
On the second floor, he refused to look into the bedrooms. The pink of the one in front burned his eyes, and the sea foam green of the other was another assault on the senses as well. And there was no relief to be had as he walked into the master bedroom. Flowered wallpaper, everywhere. Even on the bed, and across the windows, and all over that chair in the corner.
At least his combat boots crushed the thick carpet, leaving tread prints like bruises on his way to the bath.
For godsakes, he was not even sure what color to call the scheme in here.
Raspberry?
Shuddering, he wanted to keep the lights over the sink off, but with the rosebud curtains drawn, the illumination from the streetlamps below was drowned out completely, and he needed to see what he was doing—
Oh, dearest Fates.
He’d forgotten about the lace shades on the sconces.
Indeed, in any other environment, the twin red glows might have suggested something of a sexual nature. But not in this land of nicey-nicey. Here, they were a set of gumdrops glowing on the wall.
He nearly choked from the estrogen.
In a fit of self-preservation, he popped both of the offenders free of their lightbulbs and put them under the sink. The glare was offensive to his retinas, but it was the difference between cursing and hand-wringing: Always, he would choose the former.
Removing his scythe first, he placed her on the counter between the twin sinks. Next, he took off her halter, then stripped his coat, his daggers and his guns from his body. The undershirt he wore was stained from long nights of fighting, but it was cleaned regularly—and would be used again. Clothes, after all, were naught but the hides vampires had not been given at birth.
They were not for personal decoration—at least, not for him.
Turning to the mirror, he muttered at the sight of himself.
The slayer that he’d been fighting hand-to-hand had been viciously good with a knife, likely the result of its former life on the streets, and what a rush to combat with one of fine skills. He had won, of course, but it had been a bracing battle.
Unfortunately, however, he’d taken home a lovely souvenir of the conflict: The gash ran up the front of his biceps and around to the side, terminating at the top of his shoulder. Quite nasty. But he’d had worse.
And accordingly, he knew how to treat himself. Lined up upon the counter were the various and sundry items that he and his fighters required from time to time: a bottle of CVS rubbing alcohol, a BIC lighter, several sewing needles, a spool of black nylon fishing line.
Xcor grimaced as he took off his shirt and the short sleeve that had been sliced through raked over the wound and split it wide. Gritting his teeth, he went still, the pain sharpening to the point that his stomach clenched up like a fist.
Breathing deep, he waited until the sensations passed, and then went for the alcohol. Twisting off the white cap, he leaned over the sink, braced himself and—
The sound that came out from his locked teeth was part growl, part groan. And as his vision checkerboarded, he closed his eyes and leaned his hip into the lip of the sink.
Inhaling hard, his sinuses stung from the smell, but there was no putting the cap back on yet: his fine motor skills were no doubt shot.
Taking a walk to clear his head, he went back into the bedroom and gave his body a chance to recalibrate. As the pain stayed with him, like he had a dog attached to his arm that was trying to eat him alive, he cursed many times.
And ended up downstairs. Where the liquor was.
Never one for imbibing, he investigated the canvas bag of bottles that Zypher had brought with them from the warehouse. The soldier enjoyed a drink from time to time, and although Xcor did not approve, he had long ago learned that one had to make certain allowances when it came to aggressive, restless fighters.
And on a night like tonight, he found himself grateful.
Whiskey? Gin? Vodka?
What did it matter.
He picked one randomly, split the seal on the cap, and tilted his head back. Opening his throat, he poured whatever it was down, swallowing in spite of the fact that his esophagus burned like it was afire.
Xcor continued to drink as he went back upstairs. Further drinking as he paced around some more and waited for the effects to kick in.
Even more drinking.
He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he was back in the bright light of the bathroom, drawing a two-foot length of black line through the head of a thin needle. Facing the broad, rectangular mirror over the sinks, he was grateful that the lesser’s blade had found his left arm. It meant that, as a right-handed male, he could handle this on his own. Had it been the other side? He would have had to get help.
The booze helped greatly. He barely flinched as he pierced his own skin and made a neat knot with the help of his teeth.
Indeed, alcohol was a curious substance, he thought as he began to make a row of stitches. The numbness that had come upon him made him feel as though he had been submerged in warm water, his body loosening, the pain still making an appearance, but the volume on the agony turned way down.
Slow. Precise. Even.
When he got to the top of his shoulder, he made another knot; then he snipped the needle free, put everything back where he’d found it, and started the shower.
Stripping his leathers down his legs, he kicked off his combat boots and stepped beneath the spray.
This time, the groan was from relief: As the warm water blanketed his sore shoulders, stiff back, and tight thigh muscles, the sense of comfort was nearly as overwhelming as the agony had been.
And for once, he allowed himself to give in to it. Probably because he was drunk.
Easing against the tile wall, the water hit him right in the face, but in a gentle way, like rain, before it traveled down the front of his body, going over his chest and his hard belly, past his hips and his sex—
From out of nowhere, he saw his Chosen leaning over him, her eyes glowing green in the moonlight, the tree overhead seeming to shelter them both.
She was feeding him, her slender, pale wrist at his mouth, his throat swallowing rhythmically.
In the midst of his alcohol-induced haze, the sexual need came upon him, seeming to unfold in his pelvis like an open hand.
He became hard.
Opening his eyes—not that he’d been aware of shutting them—he stared down at himself. The brilliant light over the sinks had been dimmed by the opaque curtain that kept the water from getting loose in the bathroom, but there was more than enough illumination to go by.
He wished it had been completely dark…for it brought him no joy to see the arousal, that length standing out so stupid and proud from his body.
He could not fathom what it was thinking: If the likes of whores had to be paid extra to accommodate his impulses, he was hard-pressed to imagine that lovely Chosen doing aught but run screaming in the opposite direction—
Abruptly, that struck him as depressing, especially as the throbbing between his legs grew stronger. In truth, his body was such a sad instrument, so pathetic in this desire—remaining unaware that it was unwanted by all.
In particular, by the one it desired.
Turning around, he tilted his head back and pushed his hands through his hair. Time to stop thinking and get clean. The soap in the dish that was mounted on the tile did its duty with alacrity upon his skin and his hair—
And he was still erect when it was time to get out.
The cold air would take care of that.
Stepping onto the bath mat, that was also done in that god-awful deep pinky red, he toweled himself off.
Still erect.
Glancing at his fighting clothes, he found himself loath to put them upon his skin. Rough. Scratchy. Dirty.
Mayhap the feminine environment was contaminating him.
Xcor ended up in the big bed, naked, upon his back.
Still erect.
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table and he knew he didn’t have long before the house was inundated with fighters.
This was going to have to be quick.
Funneling his hand under the sheets and down his body, he gripped himself….
Xcor’s eyes shut hard and he moaned, his torso twisting from the heat and need that curled up from his lower body. As the pillow came up to greet the side of his face—logically, it was the other way around, he supposed—he began to pump up and down.
Delicious. Especially at the top, where his blunt head ached for attention and got it on every upstroke. Faster. Tighter.
All the while seeing his Chosen.
In truth, the image of her did more for him than what he attended to down below. And as the sensations grew ever stronger, he realized for the first time why his soldiers did this so often. So good. So very, very good…
Oh, his female was beautiful. To the point where, in spite of the power of what he was doing to himself, he was not distracted from her visage. Instead, she became achingly clear to him, from her pale hair to her red lips to her slender neck—all the way down that long, elegant body that was both hidden and revealed by the pristine white robing she had worn.
What would it be like to be wanted by such a creature? To be held within her sacred body as a male of worth…
At that very moment, the reality of her pregnancy re-landed on him like a physical weight. But at least it was too late. Even as his heart chilled and his chest began to ache with the knowledge that she had accepted another, his body continued on its joyride, the conclusion as unstoppable as a—
The orgasm that swept through him made him cry out—and thank the Fates for the pillow that caught his capitulation: At that very moment, down below, he heard the first of his soldiers walk through the house, the drumbeat of combat boots an unmistakable thunder he would recognize anywhere.
The aftermath of his release was wretched on too many levels to count. He had turned upon his injured shoulder; he had come all over his hand and abdomen as well as the sheets; and the vision of loveliness was gone from his head, his hard reality all that remained.
The pain inside of him was raw as a fresh wound.
But at least none would otherwise know of it.
He was, after all, first and foremost, a soldier.
SIXTY-SIX
“Yes, absolutely you can go see him. He’s groggy, but aware.”
As Doc Jane smiled up at Qhuinn, he jacked his leathers higher on his hips and tucked in his muscle shirt. He drew the line at smoothing his hair down, however, forcing his arms to stay at his sides even though his palms were itching to pull a drag-through.
“And he’s going to be okay?”
The doctor nodded as she began to untie the surgical mask that was hanging around the front of her neck. “We removed the vampire equivalent of the human spleen, and that took care of the internal bleeding. We also went through him with a fine-toothed comb. Near as we can figure, he was in some kind of stasis in that oil drum, the Omega’s blood somehow preserving him in his current state in spite of the injuries. If he’d been left out, I’m very certain he would have died.”
The curse that brought about a miracle, Qhuinn thought.
“And he’s not contaminated?”
Jane shrugged. “He bleeds red, and no one can sense any of the Omega in him—it was just a case of on or around him.”
“Okay. All right.” Qhuinn glanced at the door. “Good.”
Time to go in, he told himself. Come on….
His eyes went to Blay’s. During the course of the four-hour operation, the guy had gone back and forth down the hall, taking breaks out in the parking lot for cigs. He’d always returned, though.
God, he looked grim.
Had ever since V had come out and found them…yeah.
Christ, what timing had that been.
“I’ll go in now,” he said.
It wasn’t until after Blay nodded that he actually entered the OR.
Pushing his way through the door, the first thing he was greeted with was that antiseptic smell that he associated with postfight contusions. Next was the subtle beeping by the gurney in the center of the room, and the sound of Ehlena typing at the computer.
“I’ll give you some private time,” she said in a kind voice, as she got to her feet.
“Thanks,” he replied quietly.
As the door shut behind her, Qhuinn retucked his shirt even though it didn’t need the help. “Luchas?”
Waiting for his brother to respond, he glanced around. The debris of the operation, the bloody gauze pads, the used instruments, the plastic tubing, was all gone—nothing but the still body under those white sheets, and a stuffed red biohazard bag to show for the hours that had passed.
“Luchas?”
Qhuinn went over and stared down. Man, he didn’t typically have problems with his blood pressure, but when he got a gander at his brother’s drawn face, things went for a spin, a surge of dizziness making him realize exactly how tall he was—and how far he had to fall.
Luchas’s eyes fluttered open.
Gray. They had both been gray, and still were.
Qhuinn reached behind and rolled over a little stool. As he sat down, he didn’t know what to do with his arms, his hands…his voice.
He had never expected to see a member of his family again. And that had been back before the raids, when he’d been kicked out.
“How you doing?” What a dumb-ass question that was.
“He kept…me…”
Qhuinn leaned in close, but damn, that weak, hoarse voice didn’t carry far. “What?”
“He kept me…alive….”
“Who?”
“…because of you.”
“Who are you talking about?” Hard to imagine the Omega had a vendetta against—
“Lash…”
At the sound of the name, Qhuinn’s upper lip peeled off his fangs. That motherfucker cousin of theirs—who turned out not to be blood at all, but rather, the transplanted son of the Omega. As a kid, the SOB been an obnoxious show-off. As a pretrans in the training program, he’d made John Matthew’s life a living hell. As a posttrans?
His true father had welcomed him back into the fold, and utter destruction had been the result. Lash was the one who had led the raids. After centuries of the Lessening Society having to hunt and peck for vampire enclaves, that bastard had known exactly where to send the slayers—and because he had been adopted into an aristocratic family, he had decimated the upper classes.
But apparently Daddio and the golden boy had had a falling-out.
Shit, the idea Lash had tortured his brother? Just made him want to kill him all over again.
As Luchas groaned and took a deep breath, Qhuinn raised a hand to…pat him on the shoulder or something. But he didn’t follow through. “Listen, you don’t need to talk.”
Those bloodshot gray eyes locked on his. “He kept me alive…because of what I did…to you….”
Down on the gurney, tears welled and started to fall, his brother’s emotions spilling out on his cheeks, regret mingling with what was undoubtedly physical pain as well as the narcotics used to treat it.
Because Qhuinn was hard-pressed to think that the guy would be showing anything like this under normal circumstances. That hadn’t been the way they’d all been raised. Etiquette over emotion.
Always.
“The Honor Guard….” Luchas started to cry in earnest. “Qhuinn…I’m so sorry…sorry….”
We’re not supposed to kill him!
Qhuinn blinked and went back to that beating at the side of the road, those males in black robes surrounding him and whaling on him as he’d tried to protect his head and his balls. Then it was up to the door to the Fade, to meet his daughter.
So strange the way things came full circle. And how some tragedies actually led to good things.
Now, Qhuinn did touch his brother, resting his
dagger hand on that thin shoulder. “Shh…it’s cool. We’re good, it’s cool….”
He wasn’t sure whether that was true, but what else was he going to say while the guy cracked?
“He wanted…to turn me….” Luchas took a deep breath. “He brought me…back around. Woke up in the woods—his males beat me…did things to me…put me in that…blood. I waited for them to come back—never did.”
“You’re safe here.” That was all he could think of. “You don’t worry about a damn thing—no one’s getting anywhere near you.”
“Where…am I…”
“The Brotherhood’s training center.”
Those eyes widened. “In truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Indeed…” Luchas’s expression shifted, those once handsome features tightening even further. “What of Mahmen. Papa. Solange?”
Qhuinn just shook his head back and forth.
And in response, a sudden strength came into that frail voice. “Are you sure they are dead? Are you certain?”
As if he didn’t wish what he had suffered on any of them.
“Yeah, we’re sure.”
Luchas sighed and closed his eyes.
Shit. Qhuinn felt a little cheap about lying, but in spite of the fact that the machines by the bed suggested his brother was stable, if the guy tanked, he didn’t want to send Luchas to the grave thinking that after what had been done with him, no one could be sure how many others had been taken—or when.
In the quiet, Qhuinn looked down at his brother’s hand. That signet ring had been left on—maybe because the knuckle above it was so swollen, they would have had to cut it off.
The crest that had been carved into the gold face carried the sacred symbols that only the Founding Families could mark their lineage with. And yeah, wow, it was completely deranged—and grossly inappropriate—to covet the goddamn thing. After everything that had happened, you’d think he’d be disgusted.
Then again, maybe it was just a knee-jerk reaction, an echo from all those years of hoping against hope he’d get one of his own.