by J. R. Ward
“Have you lost your mind—”
“You’re a liability here. I’m calling in for backup.”
Tohr was ready to argue, but Wrath just shook his head. “You need to feed, my brother. It’s time.”
“Layla’s prepared for it,” Qhuinn tacked on. “I’ve been keeping her going on this side.”
Tohr looked at the four of them and he knew he’d lost. Christ, V already had his phone to his ear.
He also knew on some level they were right. But, God, he didn’t want to face that ordeal again.
“Go home,” Wrath commanded.
V put his cell away. “Rhage’s ETA is—bingo.”
As Hollywood appeared, Tohr cursed a couple of times. But there was no fighting them… or his reality.
With all the enthusiasm of someone facing a limb amputation, he returned to the mansion… to go find the Chosen Layla.
Fuck.
Through his binoculars, Xcor watched the venerable Assail stride into a massive kitchen and pause at a window that faced the direction of the bastards.
The male was still sinfully handsome with dark, viciously black hair and tan skin. Features were so aristocratic, he actually looked intelligent—although that was the thing with the glymera. Often people with fine countenances and fit bodies were mistakenly assumed by others to have the brains to match.
As the vampire fell into some kind of activity, Xcor frowned and wondered if he wasn’t seeing things. Alas… no. It appeared that the male was indeed checking the mechanism of a gun as if he were used to doing so. And after he tucked the weapon under that precisely tailored black suit jacket, he picked up another and went through the same motions.
Strange.
Unless the king had warned him there could be trouble on the visit? But no, that would be daft. If you were the seat of power for the race, you would not want to appear under siege.
Especially if in fact you were.
“He’s departing,” Xcor announced as Assail appeared to head for the garage. “He is not meeting Wrath. At least not tonight—or certainly not here. Let us cross the river. Now.”
In a flash, they dematerialized, reassuming their forms in the stand of pines at the edge of the property.
He’d been wrong about the landscaping, Xcor realized. There were circular patches all over the lawn where the grass was filling in, and here, around the back of the house, there was a neatly stacked pile of not simply logs, but whole trees.
As well as an ax buried in a stump, and a bow saw… and corded wood newly cut for burning.
So the male had some doggen, at least. And apparently a respect for how important it was to not provide coverage for attackers. Unless the removals had been for the sake of the view?
Not much but forest on this side of the house.
Indeed, Assail did not appear to be the average aristocrat, Xcor thought grimly. The question was why.
The door to the garage bay closest to the house began to rise soundlessly, its ascent unleashing an ever-broadening pool of light. Inside, a powerful engine revved, and then some variety of low-slung, shiny black thing eased out in reverse.
As the vehicle stopped dead and the door began to descend, it was clear Assail was waiting patiently for the house to be secured before he left.
And then when he took off, it was not fast; and it was not with his headlights on.
“We follow him,” Xcor commanded, collapsing the binoculars and securing them at his belt.
By dematerializing at intervals, they were able to track the male down the river toward Caldwell. The pursuit presented no challenge at all: In spite of being behind the wheel of what appeared to be a sports car of some speed, Assail seemed to feel no urgency… which, under other circumstances, Xcor would have chalked up to the male being a typical aristocrat with nothing better to do than look good in a leather seat.
But mayhap not so in this case.…
The car stopped at all the red lights, avoided the highway, and penetrated the downtown area’s alleys and streets with the same lack of alacrity.
Assail went left, then right… left again. Another left. Still more turns, until he was in the oldest part of the city thicket, where the brick office buildings were dilapidated, and missions and food kitchens serving the homeless were more common than for-profit businesses.
A more circuitous route there could not have been taken.
Xcor and his band of bastards kept on him by flashing from rooftop to rooftop, a practice that became tricky as the conditions degraded.
Except then the car stopped in a tight alley between a tenement house that had been condemned and the crumbled shell of a walk-up. As Assail got out, he puffed on his cigar, the sweet smoke drifting up on the currents of air to Xcor’s nose.
For a moment, Xcor wondered if they had been lulled into a trap—and as he went for his gun, his soldiers did likewise. But then a large black sedan made a fat turn and rolled into the lane. As it halted afore him, Assail’s preferred positioning became clear. Unlike the new arrivals, the vampire had parked at the head of a four-way, so that he could go in any direction.
Wise if one wanted to get away.
Humans emerged from the other car. Four of them.
“You here alone?” the one in front asked.
“Aye. As you asked.”
The humans shared looks that suggested the male’s compliance was crazy. “Do you have the money?”
“Aye.”
“Where is it?”
“In my possession.” The male’s English was similar to Xcor’s—thickly accented—but there the comparison ended. That was a high-class drawl down there, not a rough brogue. “Have you my goods.”
“Yeah, we got it. Let’s see the cash.”
“After I inspect what you have brought me.”
The man doing the talking took out a gun and pointed it at the vampire’s chest. “That’s not the way we’re going to do this.”
Assail released a puff of blue smoke and rolled the cigar between the tips of his fingers.
“Did you hear what I said, asshole?” the human barked as the three behind him disappeared hands into their suit jackets.
“Aye.”
“This is going to be done the way we want, asshole.”
“That would be ‘Assail,’ kind sir.”
“Fuck you. Gimme the cash.”
“Hm. Indeed. So you have demanded.”
Abruptly the vampire’s eyes locked on that human’s, and after a moment, the autoloader in that meaty palm began to vibrate ever so slightly. Frowning, the guy focused on his hand, as if he were sending it a command.
“That is not how I do business, however,” Assail murmured.
That gun muzzle gradually began to move, shifting away from the vampire and moving in a broad circle farther and farther afield. With growing panic, the man gripped his own wrist, as if he were fighting another, but naught of his effort derailed the changing trajectory.
Whilst the weapon was gradually turned on its own operator, the other men began to shout and shuffle about. The vampire said nothing, did nothing, remaining utterly calm and in control as he froze those three in place, locking their bodies but not their faces. Oh, those expressions of panic. Rather delightful.
When the gun was up to the man’s temple, Assail smiled, flashing white teeth that gleamed in the darkness.
“Permit me to show you how I do business,” he said in a low voice.
And then the human pulled the trigger and shot himself in the head.
As the body dropped to the pavement and the sound of the shot echoed around, the remaining men’s eyes drew wide in horror even as their bodies remained immobilized.
“You,” Assail said to the one closest to the sedan. “Bring me what I bought.”
“I-I-I…” The man swallowed hard. “We don’t got nothing.”
With hauteur worthy of a king, Assail countered, “I’m sorry, what did you say.”
“We dint bring nothing.”
“And why not.”
“Because we was going to…” The man had to take another stab at swallowing. “We was going to…”
“You were going to take my money and leave me for dead?” When there was no reply, Assail nodded. “I can see the value in that. And no doubt you’ll understand what I must do now.”
While the vampire puffed on his cigar, the man who had been speaking began to reposition his own gun, the muzzle ending up upon his temple.
One by one, three more shots rang out.
And then the vampire sauntered over and extinguished his cigar in the dead mouth of the first to go down.
Xcor laughed softly as Assail returned to his vehicle.
“Do we follow him?” Zypher asked.
Wasn’t that the question. There were lessers to fight here in the downtown area, and there was no reason to care if Assail was making money off the addictions of humans. Still, there was a lot of night left to be utilized, and there might as yet be a meeting between the male and the king forthcoming.
“Aye,” Xcor replied. “But only myself and Throe. If there is a rendezvous with Wrath we will find you.”
“This is why we all need cell phones,” Throe said. “Faster, better coordination.”
Xcor ground his teeth. Since their arrival in the New World, he had allowed Throe to engage one such cellular, and no others: A fighter’s sense of smell and hearing, his instinct honed by training and practice, his knowledge of his enemy and himself, these did not come with a monthly bill, the need for recharging, or the threat of being laid aside and lost or stolen.
Ignoring the commentary, Xcor ordered, “The rest of you go forth and find the enemy.”
“Which one,” Zypher said with a hearty laugh. “There are a growing number from which to choose.”
Indeed. For Assail was not behaving like an aristocrat. He was acting like a male who might be trying to build some kind of empire of his own.
It was entirely possible this member of the glymera was Xcor’s kind of vampire. Which meant he might well have to be eliminated at some point—and not simply as collateral damage.
There was room for only one king in Caldwell.
TWENTY-TWO
As Tohr resumed form at the Brotherhood mansion, he was pissed off at the world. Rankly ugly. Rattlesnake mad.
Pushing his way into the vestibule, he prayed that Fritz just released the lock remotely and didn’t go the personal route. No one needed to see him like this—
His prayers were answered as the inner door gave way, and he marched into the foyer to an audience of nobody: All around the first floor the house was silent, the doggen taking the opportunity to attend to the upstairs bedrooms before beginning preparations for Last Meal.
Shit. He probably needed to text Phury about where Layla was—
On a sudden, gripping instinct, his head cranked around on the top of his spine, his eyes focusing on the dining room.
Some inner cue told him to get walking, the impulse carrying him through the arches, past the long, glossy table… and out the flap door into the kitchen.
No’One was at the counter cracking eggs into a ceramic bowl.
Alone.
She stopped in midstrike, her hood coming up and turning to face him.
For some reason, his heart started beating hard. “Did I imagine you?” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Did I imagine you in the foyer before I left.”
No’One slowly lowered her hand, the egg saved from shattering. Temporarily. “No. You did not.”
“Take your hood off again.”
It was not a question, but a demand—the kind of thing Wellsie would never have stood for. No’One, on the other hand, solemnly obeyed him.
And there she was, revealed to his eyes, her cap of blond hair terminating in the start of that rope-thick braid, her pale cheeks and eyes luminous, her face.…
“I told Lassiter…” She cleared her throat. “Lassiter asked me if I would feed you.”
“And you said.”
“Yes.”
All of a sudden, he pictured her in that pool, floating on her back, utterly naked, with the water’s pervasive tongue licking at her warm flesh.
Everywhere.
Tohr threw out a palm and braced himself on a cupboard. Hard to know what was rocking him most: the sudden need to be at her throat, or his utter despair at the thought of it.
“I am still in love with my shellan,” he heard himself say.
And that remained the problem: All the resolving in the world, all the turning-the-new-leaf-and-letting-go shit, hadn’t changed his emotions in the slightest.
“I know,” No’One replied. “And I am glad.”
“I should use a Chosen.” He took a step closer to her.
“I know. And I agree. Their blood is purer.”
He took another step forward. “You are from a good bloodline.”
“Was,” she said starkly.
As the fragile expanse of her shoulders began to tremble ever so slightly—like she had sensed his hunger—the predator in him awoke. Abruptly, he found himself wanting to jump over the island she was standing at, just so he could…
Do what?
Well, that was obvious.
Even though his heart and his mind were nothing but an empty ice-skating rink, frozen over and flat as fuck, the rest of him was alive, his body throbbing with a purpose that threatened to mow down good intentions, proper decorum… and his grieving process.
As he took yet more steps to her, he had a horrifying thought that this was what Lassiter had meant by letting go: In this moment, he had left Wellsie behind. He was aware of nothing except the diminutive female in front of him who was fighting to stay in place as she was stalked by a Brother.
He stopped only when he was no more than a foot away from her. Looking down past her bent head, his eyes locked on the fragile pulse at her jugular vein.
She was breathing as hard as he was.
And as he inhaled, he caught a scent.
It was not fear.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was enormous.
As No’One stood in the lee of the great warrior who had come upon her, she felt the heat coming off his massive body sure as if she were in front of a raging fire. And yet… she was not burned. And she was not afraid. She was warmed in someplace so deep, so buried within her, that she did not immediately recognize it as part of her internal makeup.
All she knew for sure was that he was going to take her vein within moments and she was going to let him—not because the angel had requested it of her, and not because she had vowed to, and not to make up for something in the past.
She… wanted him to.
As a hiss boiled out of him, she knew Tohrment had opened his mouth to expose his fangs.
It was time. And she did not pull up her sleeve. She loosened the top of her robe, peeled it wide to her shoulders, and tilted her head to the side.
Giving him her throat.
Oh, how her heart beat.
“Not here,” he growled. “Come with me.”
Taking her hand, he drew her into the butler’s pantry and closed them in. The squat, cramped room was lined with shelves of colorful canned fruits and vegetables, the still, warm air smelling of freshly milled grains and the dry, cakey sweetness of flour.
As the overhead light came on and the door locked itself, she knew they had been willed so by him.
And then he just stared at her as his fangs elongated even further, the twin white tips peeking out from under his parted upper lip, his eyes glowing.
“What do I do?” she said hoarsely.
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What do I… do for you?” The symphath had taken what he’d wanted and to hell with her. And her father had naturally never permitted any male to feed from her. Was there a certain way to—
Abruptly, Tohrment appeared to pull out of the vortex, something jarring him back to a differen
t consciousness. And yet even so, his body remained fully engaged, his weight shifting from one boot to the other, his hands curling into fists and releasing, curling… and releasing.
“Have you never…”
“My father was saving me. And when I was abducted… I have never done this properly before.”
Tohrment put a hand up to his head as if he had an ache within it. “Listen, this is—”
“Tell me what to do.”
As he trained his eyes on her once again, she thought his name was indeed apt. Lo, how he was tormented.
“I need this,” he said, as if speaking to himself.
“Yes, you do. You are so gaunt that I ache for you.”
Except he was going to stop this, she thought as his stare grew dull. And she knew why.
“She is welcome in this space,” No’One said. “Bring your shellan unto your mind. Let her take my place.”
Anything to help him. For Tohrment’s great kindnesses toward her earlier self, and fate’s cruel machinations against him, she would do anything for him to be made right.
“I may hurt you,” he said harshly.
“No worse than I have already survived.”
“Why…”
“Stop talking. Stop trying to think. Do what you must to take care of yourself.”
There was a long, tense silence. And then the light went off, the little room going dim, with the only illumination that which bled through the milky glass panels of the door.
She gasped.
He breathed harder.
And then an arm linked around the back of her waist and jerked her forward. As she hit his chest wall, it was as if she had been thrown against rock, and she blindly put her hands out to grab onto something—
The flesh of his arms was smooth and hot, the skin thin over hard muscles.
Tugging. Tugging on her braid. Then wrenching… and her hair was unbound, her scalp spared the stretch and pull of the binding, the release drawing her head back.
A large hand speared in through her tresses, tangling them, pulling downward. And as her neck stretched further, her spine was forced to follow until she was held up entirely by the strength of him.
Disoriented and off balance, she momentarily lost her purpose, just as he had before darkness had been wrought.