by J. R. Ward
Tonight there was no crowd, just three people. But he was juiced like it was standing room only.
Van was the one who'd suggested the locale to Mr. X, and he'd shown them how to break into the place. As he knew the schedule of fights, he'd been sure there wouldn't be anyone around this evening and a big part of him wanted to have his glory, his resurrection here in this ring, not in some anonymous basement somewhere.
He tried out some kicks, so very satisfied with his strength, then eyed his opponent. The other lesser was just as lit for the hand-to-hand as he was.
From the other side of the cage, Xavier barked, "You don't stop until it's over. And Mr. D, on the ground unmoving is not 'over, we clear?"
Van nodded, already used to being called by his last initial.
"Good." Xavier's palms clapped together and the fight was on.
Van and the other lesser circled each other, but Van had no intention of letting the slow-dance crap go on for long. He moved in first, throwing punches, forcing his opponent back against the cage. The guy took the bare-knuckled pounders like they were nothing more than spring rain on his cheeks and then tossed out a mean-ass right hook. The damn thing caught Van at an angle, splitting his lip open like an envelope.
It hurt, but the pain was good, a strengthener, something that focused him further. Van spun around and sent his foot out flying, a body bomb on the end of a steel chain. Sure as shit it took the lesser down, sprawling the guy flat. Van jumped on his opponent and cranked him into a submission hold, wrenching one arm back and around so the joints strained at the shoulder and elbow. Just a little tighter and he was going to pop this sucker right off—
The lesser pulled a smoothie, somehow nailing Van in the balls with his knee. Quick switch of positions and Van was on the bottom. Then another roll and they were up on their feet.
The fight went on and on, no time-outs, no breathers, the two of them battering the holy hell out of each other. It was flipping miraculous. Van felt like he could go for hours, no matter how beat up his body got. It was like he had an engine in him, a driving force, one that was not as dulled by exhaustion or pain as his old self had been.
When the break in the action finally came, the tipping factor was Van's special… whatever it was. Though the two of them were identically matched for strength, Van was the master at this, and he saw the opening for the win. He popped the other slayer in the gut, nailing a liver shot that would have left a human opponent shitting in his shorts. Then he picked his opponent up and slammed him down onto the ring floor. As he mounted the body and looked down, Van's blood welled from the cuts around his eyes and dropped onto the guy's face like tears… black tears.
The color momentarily freaked Van out, and the other lesser took advantage of the lapse in focus by spinning him over onto his back.
Yeah, not happening, not this time. Van balled his fist and rammed it into the guy's temple at exactly the right force and the right place, knocking the lesser stupid. With a quick surge, Van kicked his opponent over, straddled the slayer's chest and repeated the punch over and over again, battering the skull until the bone helmet went soft. And he just kept going, sticking to the task until the very structure of the man's face let go, the head becoming a loose bag, his opponent dead and then some.
"Finish him!" Xavier called from the sidelines.
Van looked up, panting hard. "I just did."
"No…finish him!"
"How?"
"You should know what to do!" Xavier's pale eyes shined with an eerie desperation. "You must!"
Van wasn't clear on exactly how much deader he could make the guy, but he grabbed the lesser by the ears and twisted until the neck snapped. Then he eased off the body. Though he had no heart that beat anymore, his lungs burned and his body was deliciously logy from exertion… except the logy didn't last.
He started to laugh. Already the strength was returning to him, just pouring in from somewhere else as if he'd eaten and slept and recovered for days.
Xavier's boots landed hard in the ring and the Fore-lesser strode over, furious. "I told you to finish him, goddamn it."
"Uh-huh. Right." Christ. Xavier just had to suck the triumph out of the moment. "You think he's walking away from this?"
Xavier shook with rage as he took out a knife. "I told you to finish him."
Van tensed up and leaped to his feet. But Xavier just bent over that messy, punching bag of a lesser and stabbed the thing in the chest. There was a flash of light and then… gone. Nothing but black smudges on the ring's tarmac.
Van backed up until he hit the fencing. "What the hell…"
From across the way, Xavier pointed the knife right at Van's chest. "I have expectations for you."
"Like… what?"
"You should be able to do that" — he jabbed toward the disintegration mark with the blade—"on your own."
"So give me a knife next time."
Xavier shook his head, a bizarre kind of panic flaring in his face. "Fuck!" He paced around, then muttered, "It's just going to take time. Let's go."
"What about the blood?" Man, that oily black stuff suddenly made him dizzy.
"Like I give a shit?" Xavier picked up the dead lesser's duffel bag and left.
As Van followed him out of the parking garage, he found it really fucking annoying that Mr. X was playing it like this. The fight had been a good one and Van had won. He wanted to enjoy the feeling.
In strained silence, the two of them headed for the minivan, which was parked blocks away, and as they went along, Van scrubbed his face with a towel and tried not to curse. When they got to the car, Xavier slid behind the wheel.
"Where are we going?" Van asked as he got in.
Xavier didn't answer, just started to drive, so Van stared out the windshield, wondering how he could get away from the guy. Not easily, he suspected.
As they passed by a new skyscraper that was going up, he eyed the men pulling the nightshift. Under electric lights, the union crews were all over the building like ants, and he envied them even though he'd hated doing what they did.
Man, if he were still one of them, he wouldn't be dealing with Mr. X's crap attitude.
On a whim, Van lifted his right hand and looked at his missing pinkie, remembering how he'd done it. So fucking stupid. He'd been at a construction site, cutting boards on a table saw, and decided to take the guards off the machine to make the process go faster. One lapse of focus later and his finger had ended up flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The blood loss had seemed tremendous, the stuff leaking all over him, covering the saw's flat back, soaking into the ground. Red, not black.
Van put his hand to his chest and felt nothing beating behind his breastbone.
Anxiety trembled down the back of his neck, like spiders slipping under his collar. He glanced at Xavier, the only resource he had. "Are we alive?"
"No."
"But that guy was killed, right? So we must be alive."
Xavier's eyes shot across the seat. "We're not alive. Trust me."
"What happened to him, then?"
Exhaustion flared in Xavier's pale, dead stare, the drooping of his lids making him look like he was a million years old.
"What happened to him, Mr. X?"
The Fore-lesser didn't answer, just kept on driving.
Chapter Twenty-four
Marissa materialized on the terrace of Rehvenge's penthouse and nearly collapsed. As she lurched for the sliding door, he opened it wide.
"Marissa, good God." He shot his arm around her and pulled her inside.
Overcome with bloodlust, she gripped his biceps, the thirst in her so strong she was liable to bite him where he stood. To keep from ripping his throat open, she yanked out of his hold, but he caught her and spun her around.
"Come over here right now!" He all but threw her on the couch. "You're about to shock out on me."
As she hit the cushions in a heap, she knew he was right. Her body was wildly off balance, her head spi
nning, her hands and feet numb. Her stomach was an empty, grinding pit, her fangs throbbing, her throat dry as winter, hot as August.
But when he yanked his tie off and popped the buttons on his shirt, she mumbled, "Not at your throat. I can't bear that… not your—"
"You're too far gone for the wrist. You won't get enough and we're out of time."
As if on cue, her vision started to dim and she began to pass out. She heard him swear and then he pulled her on top of him, shoved her face in his neck and…
Biology took over. She bit him so hard she felt his big body jerk and she sucked at him with mindless instinct. With a great roar, his strength poured into her gut and spread out to her limbs and made her body come back to life.
As she swallowed with desperation, her tears flowed as thick as his blood.
Rehvenge held Marissa loosely, hating the starvation that rode her so hard. She was such a fragile, delicate thing. She should never be in this desperate state, and he ran his hands up and down her willowy back, trying to calm her. While she cried silently, he got pissed. Christ, what was wrong with that male she was so into? How could he force her to come to another?
Ten minutes later, she lifted her head. There was a little streak of blood on her lower lip and Rehv had to grab onto the sofa arm so he didn't lean up and lick it off.
With satiated grace but a face marked by tears, Marissa eased back against the leather cushions at the other end of the couch and cradled herself with her thin arms. She closed her eyes and he watched the color float back into her wet cheeks.
God, look at that hair of hers. So fine. So lush. So perfect. He wanted to be naked and unmedicated and hard as a stone, with those blond waves all over his body. And if he couldn't have all that, he wanted to kiss her. Right now.
Instead, he reached for his suit coat, grabbed his handkerchief, and leaned over to her. She jumped as he blotted her tears, and she took the linen square from him quickly.
He went back to his corner of the sofa. "Marissa, come stay with me. I want to take care of you."
In the silence that followed, he thought about where she was staying—and figured the male she wanted had to be at the Brotherhood's compound. "You're still in love with Wrath, aren't you."
Her eyes flipped open. "What?"
"You said you couldn't feed from the male you wanted. Wrath's mated now—"
"It's not him."
"Phury, then? As a celibate—"
"No, and I–I just can't talk about it, if you don't mind." She looked down at his handkerchief. "Rehvenge, I would really love some time alone. May I sit here for a little while? By myself?"
Even though he wasn't used to being dismissed, especially not from his own turf, he was so willing to cut her some slack. "Stay as long as you like, tahlly. Just close the slider when you leave. I'll remote the alarm after you go."
As he put his suit coat on, he left his tie loose and his shirt collar open because she'd chewed him raw and the bite marks were too tender to be covered. Not that he cared in the slightest.
"You are so kind to me," she said, staring at his loafers.
"Actually, I'm not."
"How can you say that? You never ask for anything in return—"
"Marissa, look at me. Look at me." Dear Virgin in the Fade, she was beautiful. Especially with his blood in her. "Don't kid yourself. I still want you as my shellan. I want you naked in my bed. I want you swelling up with my young in your body. I want… yeah, the whole thing with you. I don't do this to be nice, I do it to get under your skin. I do it because I hope I can someday, somehow get you where I want you to be."
As her eyes peeled wide, he kept the rest to himself. No reason to air the fact that the symphath in him wanted to crawl around in her head and own every emotion she ever felt. Or share the reality that sex with him would be… complicated.
Ah, the joys of his nature. And his anomaly.
"But I want you to trust in something, Marissa. I won't ever cross the line if you don't want me to."
Besides, Xhex was probably right. Half-breeds like him did better going solo. Even if symphaths weren't discriminated against and could mate and live like Normals, they should never be with someone who was defenseless against their dark side.
He pulled on his floor-length sable coat. "This male of yours… he better get with the program. Damn fucking waste of a female of worth like you." Rehv grabbed his cane and headed for the door. "If you need me, call me."
* * *
Butch walked into ZeroSum, went back to the Brotherhood's table, and took off his Aquascutum raincoat. He was going to be here for a while. Which wasn't a news flash, was it? Hell, he should just pitch a damn pup tent and move in.
As the waitress came up with a Scotch, he said, "Any chance you can just bring me a bottle?"
"Sorry, I can't."
"Okay, come here." He crooked his finger at her. When she leaned down, he put a hundred-dollar bill on her tray. "This is just for you. I want you to keep me nice and poured."
"Absolutely."
Alone at the table, Butch reached up to his neck, his fingertips running over the puncture wounds. As he felt where he'd been bitten, he tried not to imagine what Marissa was doing right now to someone else. To an aristocrat. To a well-bred bastard who was better than him, platinum to his nickel. Oh, God.
Like a mantra, he repeated what V had said. That it didn't have to be sexual. That it was a biological imperative. That there was no choice. That it… didn't have to be sexual. He was hoping if he heard the litany often enough in his head, his emotions would calm the hell down so he could accept the necessity of what she had to do. After all, Marissa wasn't being cruel. She'd been as distraught as he was—
In a vivid flash, he saw her naked body and couldn't help but picture another man's hands smoothing over her breasts. Another man's lips traveling across her skin. Another man taking her virginity as he nourished her, his hard body moving on top of her, inside of her.
And all the while she was drinking… drinking until she had her fill, until she was satiated, replete.
Taken care of. By someone else.
Butch hammered his double Lag.
Holy fuck. He was going to crack in half. He was going to fall apart, right here, right now, his raw insides spilling onto the floor, his vitals getting ground down under the feet of strangers along with fallen cocktail napkins and credit card receipts.
The waitress, bless her heart, came over with more Scotch.
As he picked up the second glass, he lectured himself:
O 'Neal, get your sack together and grow some pride. Have some faith in her, too. She would never sleep with another man. She just wouldn't.
But the sex was just part of it.
As he downed the Scotch, he realized there was another dimension to the nightmare. She was going to have to feed regularly, wasn't she. They were going to have to do this over and over again.
Fuck. He'd like to think he was a big enough man, a confident enough man, to handle all this, but he was possessive and selfish. And the next time she fed, they would be back where they were now, her in another man's arms, him drinking in a club alone on the verge of hanging himself. Only it would be worse. And the time after that, even more so. He loved her so much, so deeply, that he would destroy them both and it wouldn't take long.
Besides, what kind of future could they have? With the way he'd been pounding the Scotch lately, he probably only had another ten years left in his liver and her kind lived for centuries. He'd just be a footnote in her long life, a pothole on the road to her eventually finding a mate who was right for her, who could give her what she needed.
When the waitress brought him a third double, Butch held up his forefinger to keep her by his side. He downed the glass while she waited, gave it to her, and she went back to the bartender.
As she returned with number four, that scrawny blond Euro-trasher with his trio of thick-necked bodyguard types started waving for her attention from two tables ove
r.
Christ, seemed like every damn night the kid was in this place. Or maybe it was just a little of the idiot went a long way.
"Hey!" the kid called out. "We need service over here. Get the lead out."
"I'll be right over," the waitress said.
"Now," the ass snapped. "Not later."
"I won't be gone long," she murmured to Butch.
As she went over to the punk, Butch watched as she got majorly harassed. Goddamned bigmouthed show-offs, all of them. And they weren't going to improve as the night went on.
Then again, neither was Butch.
"You look a little aggressive there, Butch O'Neal."
He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the female with the man's hair and the man's body was still in front of him.
"We going to have trouble with you tonight, Butch O'Neal?"
He wished she'd stop saying his name. "Nah, I'm good."
Her eyes flashed with an erotic light. "Oh, I know that. But let's get real. You going to be a problem tonight?"
"No."
She stared at him long and hard. Then smiled a little. "Well… I'll be watching you. So keep that in mind."
Chapter Twenty-five
Joyce O'Neal Rafferty met her husband at the door with the baby on her hip and a glare on her face. As Mike stood on the cold side of the welcome mat, he was clearly tired after pulling double shifts on the T, but she couldn't have cared less. "I got a telephone call today from my brother. Butch. You told him about the baptism, didn't you."
Her husband kissed Sean, but didn't try it with her. "Come on, honey—"
"This is not your business!"
Mike shut the door. "Why do you all hate him so much?"
"I am not going there with you."
As she wheeled away, he said, "He didn't kill your sister, Jo. He was twelve. What could he have done?"
She shifted her son in her arms and didn't turn around. "This is not about Janie. Butch turned his back on the family years ago. His choice, got nothing to do with what happened."