Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  Sola got up too fast, her chair squeaking. Instantly, she froze and looked to the ceiling. When there were no sounds from above, she reminded herself to keep it down.

  She paced over to the stove quietly. Came back again. Paid a visit to the back door onto the porch. Came back again. “Look, I don’t need your help. I appreciate it—”

  As she turned around to take the route to the stove again, he was right in front of her. Gasping, she jumped—she hadn’t even heard him move—

  His chair was in the same position it had been when he’d sat in it.

  Not like hers, pushed aside.

  “What…” She fell silent, her mind spinning. Surely, she was not about to ask him what he was—

  As he reached out and cupped her face, she knew she would have had trouble saying no to anything he suggested.

  “You will call me,” he commanded, “and I shall come to you.”

  The words were so low they nearly warped, his voice deep…so very deep.

  Pride formed a protest in her brain, but her mouth refused to speak it. “All right,” she said.

  Now he smiled, his lips curling upward. God, his canines were sharp, and longer than she remembered.

  “Marisol,” he purred. “A beautiful name.”

  As he started to lean in to her, subtle pressure on her jaw lifted her chin. Oh, no, hell, no, she should not be doing this. Not in this house. Not with a man like him…

  Screw it. With a sigh of surrender, she closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to accept his—

  “Sola! Sola, what you doing down there!”

  They both froze—and instantly, Sola regressed to the age of thirteen.

  “Nothing!” she called out.

  “Who is with you?”

  “No one—it’s the television!”

  Three…two…one…“That does not sound like no TV!”

  “Go,” she whispered as she pushed against his broad chest. “You have to leave now.”

  Assail’s lids dropped low. “I think I want to meet her.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I do—”

  “Sola! I’m coming down!”

  “Go,” she hissed. “Please.”

  Assail drew his thumb across her lower lip and leaned into her, speaking directly into her ear. “I have plans to pick this up where we’ve been interrupted. Just so that you know.”

  Turning away, he moved with frustrating leisure to the door. And even as her grandmother’s slippers closed in down the stairs, he took the time to glance across his shoulder while he opened the way out.

  His glowing eyes raked over her body. “This is not over between you and me.”

  And then he was gone, thank the good Lord.

  Her grandmother rounded the corner a split second after the exterior screen door clicked into place. “Well?” she said.

  Sola glanced over to the window by the table, reassuring herself that it was still dark as the inside of a hat out there. Yup. Good.

  “See?” she said, sweeping her arms around the otherwise empty kitchen. “No one’s here.”

  “The television is not on.”

  Why, oh, why couldn’t her grandmother have the grace to get soft in the head like so many other geriatrics?

  “I turned it off because it was disturbing you.”

  “Oh.” Suspicious eyes roamed about….

  Shit. There was melting snow on the linoleum from where they’d tracked it in.

  “Come on,” Sola said as she steered the woman into an about-face. “Enough upset for tonight. We go to bed now.”

  “I’m watching you, Sola.”

  “I know, vovó.”

  As they headed up the stairs together, part of her was wondering exactly who the hell had come looking for her here and why. And the other half? Well, that part was still in the kitchen, on the verge of kissing that man.

  Probably better that they had been interrupted.

  She had the unmistakable impression that her protector…was also a predator.

  * * *

  The phone call Xcor had been waiting for came at a most opportune time. He had just finished stalking and killing a lone slayer under the bridges downtown, and was cleaning his lady love, the black blood on the blade of the scythe coming off easily as he ran a chamois cloth up and down.

  He put his female away on his back first, and only then took out his phone. As he answered, he looked over at his fighters as they gathered together and talked of the night’s fighting in the cold wind.

  “Is this Xcor, son of the Bloodletter?”

  Xcor gritted his teeth, but didn’t bother to correct the inaccuracy. The Bloodletter’s name was of use to his reputation. “Yes. Who is this?”

  There was a long pause. “I do not know whether I should be speaking to you.”

  The tones were aristocratic, and informed him of the caller’s identity well enough. “You are the associate of Elan.”

  Another long pause—and, Fates, that tried his patience. But that was another thing he kept to himself.

  “Yes. I am. Have you heard the news?”

  “About.”

  When a third stretch of silence came along, he knew this was going to take a while. Whistling to his soldiers, he indicated they were all to proceed to their skyscraper, a number of blocks to the east.

  A moment later he was up on its roof, the gusts so much stronger at his preferred elevation. As such a gale precluded discourse, he took cover in the lee of some mechanicals.

  “News about what,” he prompted.

  “Elan is dead.”

  Xcor bared his teeth as he smiled. “Indeed.”

  “You do not sound surprised.”

  “I am not.” Xcor rolled his eyes. “Although naturally, I am bereft.”

  Which was somewhat true: It was rather like losing a handy gun. Or, more accurately, a screwdriver. But those things could be replaced.

  “Do you know who did it?” the caller demanded.

  “Well, I believe you do, am I right?”

  “It was the Brotherhood, of course.”

  Another misconception, but again, Xcor was prepared to let it stand. “Tell me, are you expecting me to ahvenge him?”

  “That is not my concern.” The stilted tones suggested the male was in fact worried about facing the same fate himself. “His family shall go after redress.”

  “As is their right.” When there was nothing further coming, Xcor knew what was awaited and required. “I can assure you of two things: my confidentiality, and my protection. I can guess that you were at the gathering at Elan’s house in the fall. My position vis-à-vis the king has not changed, and I am surmising that this call places you in a sympathetic orientation to mine own views. Am I correct.”

  “I am not one who seeks political or social power.”

  Bullshit. “Of course not.”

  “I am…worried about the future of the race—in this, Elan and I were aligned. I did not agree with the tactics he proposed, however. Assassination carries too many risks, and ultimately, it will not accomplish what is warranted.”

  Au contraire, Xcor thought. A bullet through the brain fixed many things—

  “The law is the way to bring down the king.”

  Xcor frowned. “I do not follow.”

  “With all due respect, the law is mightier than the sword. To paraphrase a human saying.”

  “Your oblique references are a waste of words to me. Be specific, if you do not mind.”

  “The Old Laws provide the power that Wrath wields. They spell out his unilateral dominion over all manner of our lives and our society, giving him free rein to act as he chooses, with a complete lack of accountability.”

  Which was why Xcor wanted the job, thank you very much. “Go on.”

  “There are no restrictions on what he may do, what courses he may take—in fact, he can also change the Old Laws if he so chooses, and alter the very fabric of our traditions and foundations.”

  “I am well aw
are of this.” He checked his watch. Assuming he didn’t get stuck on this damn phone for the next two hours, there was still plenty of time left to fight. “Mayhap you and I should get together in person tomorrow evening—”

  “There is but one caveat.”

  Xcor frowned. “Caveat?”

  “He must needs be capable of producing, and I quote, ‘a full-blooded heir.’”

  “And this is relevant how? He is mated already, and no doubt in the future—”

  “His shellan is a half-breed.”

  Now Xcor was the one who fell silent—and Elan’s solicitor took advantage of the quiet: “Let us be clear with each other. There is human blood in the species. From time to time, there have been matings outside the race. One could argue nobody is truly ‘full-blooded.’ There is, however, a vital difference between a civilian straying into the human mating pool, and the king producing an offspring whose very mother is a half-breed—said offspring to inherit the throne upon his death.”

  Throe leaned around the corner of the HVAC blower. “All is well?” he mouthed.

  Xcor cupped the phone. “Take the others down to the streets. I shall join you apace.”

  “As you wish,” Throe said with a brief bow.

  As his fighter ducked away, the aristocrat on the other end continued. “There is disquiet among many members of the ruling class, as you are well aware. And I believe if someone comes forth with this, it will be far more effective at displacing Wrath, son of Wrath, than any attempt on his life. Especially after he made such a show of strength at the Council meeting the other evening. Indeed, many were frightened into a kind of submission thereafter, their wills conscripted unto his physical bearing, which was rather fierce.”

  Xcor’s mind began to turn over the possibilities. “So tell me, gentlemale, in your mind, you would succeed him, no?”

  “No,” came the strident response. “I am a solicitor, and as such, I value logic above all else. In this climate of unrest and war, only a soldier could lead the race—and should. Elan was a fool for his ambitions, and you have been taking advantage of this. I know because I saw you at his house that night in the fall—you were positioning him where you wanted him, even as he thought it was the other way around. I want change, yes. And I am prepared to make it happen. But I have no illusions as to my utility, and no interest in Elan’s outcome becoming my own.”

  Xcor found himself turning in the direction of that mountaintop. “No king has been dethroned in this manner.”

  “No king has e’er been dethroned.”

  Good point.

  As he stared to the northeast, where that strange disturbance in the landscape was located, he thought of the king there with his queen…and Xcor’s pregnant Chosen.

  There was a time when he would have much preferred the bloodier path, the one that was marked with the satisfaction of ripping the throne away from Wrath’s dying hand. But this war of letters was…safer. For his female.

  The last thing he wanted to do was raid where she ate, where she slept…where her condition was treated.

  Closing his eyes, he shook his head at himself. Oh, how the mighty had fallen…and yet they would rise up nonetheless, he vowed.

  “How would you suggest proceeding?” he said roughly.

  “Quietly, at first. I must needs gather precedents for the manner in which ‘full-blooded’ has been construed in cases brought forth for decision. The advantage is that there has been a long-standing discrimination against humans, and it was even more pronounced in the past—when Wrath’s father was actually issuing proclamations and interpreting the law. That will be the key. The stronger the precedent, the more successful this will be all around.”

  How ironic. Wrath’s own sire’s reading of the wording was going to be what brought the son down.

  “The issue for us will be the king himself. He needs to remain breathing—and he needs to not recognize the weakness inherent in his reign and fix it before we can get things in order.”

  “You will e-mail my associate the relevant passages, and then you will meet with me.”

  “This will take a number of days.”

  “Understood. But I expect your call promptly.”

  As names were exchanged, and Xcor gave over Throe’s e-mail address, he began to feel a certain buoyancy. If this male was correct? Wrath’s kingship was going to be over without any more bloodshed. And then Xcor would be free to determine the future of the race: As far as he knew, Wrath had no direct family, so if he were removed, there was no one with a strong claim to the throne. Although that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be relations coming out of the woodwork.

  Interlopers he could deal with, however. And with the support of the Council? He was willing to bet he could become a populist leader—provided everyone got in line.

  Wrath wasn’t the only one who could change the laws.

  “Do not waste time with this,” Xcor said. “You have a week. No longer.”

  The answer that came back at him was gratifying: “I shall proceed with all haste.”

  And wasn’t that a lovely way to end a phone call.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  The tunnel that connected the mansion with the training center was cool, dim, and quiet.

  As Qhuinn walked through it, he was by himself and glad of it. Nothing worse than being surrounded by happy people when you felt like death.

  When he got to the door that led into the back of the office’s closet, he put in the code, waited for the lock to pop, and pushed his way inside. A quick trip past the stationery and pens, and through another door, and he was going around the desk. Next thing he knew, he was in the corridor in front of the weight room, but exercise wasn’t what he was looking for. After what the Brotherhood had done to him, he was stiff and achy—especially in the arms, thanks to having held himself upright on those pegs.

  Man, his hands were still numb, and as he flexed his fingers, he knew what arthritis felt like for the first time in his life.

  Moving along, he stopped again when he got to the clinic area. As he went to straighten his clothes, he realized he was still wearing only the robe.

  He wasn’t going back to change; that was for sure.

  Knocking on the recovery room’s door, he said, “Luchas? You up?”

  “Come in,” was the hoarse reply.

  He had to brace himself before he entered. And he was glad he did.

  Lying on the bed with his head propped up, Luchas still looked as if he were on the verge of extinction. The face that Qhuinn had remembered as intelligent and young was lined and grim. The body was painfully thin. And those hands…

  Jesus Christ, the hands.

  And he thought his ached a little bit?

  He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

  “Hello.”

  “So…yeah. How you been?”

  Fucking duh on that one. The guy was staring at weeks of bed rest, and then months of PT—and was going to be lucky if he could ever hold a pen again.

  Luchas winced as he tried to lift his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m surprised you came.”

  “Well, you’re my—” Qhuinn stopped himself. Actually, the guy was not, in fact, any relation of his. “I mean…yeah.”

  Luchas closed his eyes. “I have always, and will always, be your blood. No piece of paper can change that.”

  Qhuinn’s eyes went to that mangled right hand, and its signet ring. “I think Father would very much disagree with you.”

  “He’s dead. So his opinion is no longer relevant.”

  Qhuinn blinked.

  When he didn’t say anything, Luchas popped his lids open. “You seem surprised.”

  “No offense, but I never expected to hear that come out of your mouth.”

  The male indicated his broken body. “I have changed.”

  Qhuinn reached over and pulled a chair out for himself; as he sat down, he rubbed his face. He had come here because seeing your previously dead estranged brother was the only remotely acc
eptable reason for skipping a party thrown in your honor.

  And spending the night watching Blay and Saxton together? Not going to happen.

  Except now that he was here, he didn’t think he was up to any kind of conversation.

  “What happened with the house?” Luchas asked.

  “Ah…nothing. I mean, after…what happened went down, no one claimed it, and I had no rights to it. When it reverted to Wrath, he gave it back to me—but listen, it’s yours. I haven’t been inside of it since I got kicked out.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  Okaaaaaaaaaaay, another big surprise. Growing up, his brother had talked nonstop of everything he’d wanted to accomplish when he was older: the schooling, the social prominence, taking over where their father left off.

  Him saying no was like someone turning down a throne—unfathomable.

  “Have you ever been tortured?” Luchas murmured.

  His childhood came to mind. Then the Honor Guard. But he sure as shit wasn’t going to bust the guy’s balls. “I been knocked around some.”

  “I’ll bet. What happened afterward?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did you get used to normal again?”

  Qhuinn flexed his sore hands, looking at his own fingers that were all perfectly functional and intact in spite of the aches. His brother wasn’t going to be able to count to ten anymore: Healing was one thing, regeneration another entirely.

  “There is no normal anymore,” he heard himself say. “You kind of…just keep going, because that’s all you got. The hardest thing is being with other people—it’s like they’re on a different wavelength, but only you know it. They talk about their lives and what’s wrong with them, and you kind of, like, just let them go. It’s a whole different language, and you’ve got to remember that you can only respond in their mother tongue. It’s really hard to relate.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly right,” Luchas said slowly. “That’s right.”

  Qhuinn scrubbed his face again. “I never expected to have anything in common with you.”

  But they did. As Luchas looked over, those perfectly matched eyes met Qhuinn’s fucked-up ones, and the connection was there: They had both been through hell, and that lockstep was more powerful than the common DNA they shared.