Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (68 page)

They’re looking for him—and if they find him? I’m afraid he’s going to kill the s’Hisbe’s

representative. Then we’ve really got a problem.”

“You think he’d take it that far?”

“Yes, I do.” iAm poured a refill. “He’s not going back there, and I need time to figure out how to

resolve the conflict before something disastrous happens.”

“You guys want to move into my house up north?”

iAm downed his second bourbon on a oner. “No.” He leveled his eyes. “I want us to move into

the Brotherhood compound.”

As Rehv cursed long and low, iAm poured himself a third. “It’s the safest place for us.”

Xcor was covered in
lesser
blood and sweat as he returned to his new lair. His fighters were still downtown, engaging with the enemy, but he had had to pare off and seek shelter.

Damn cut on his arm.

The house that Throe had found them was located in a modest neighborhood full of modest homes

with two-car garages and swing sets in their backyards. Among its advantages was that it was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, and there was an empty building lot on one side and a Caldwell Sewer

Department processing unit on the other.

They had it for three months, with an option to buy.

As he dematerialized through the heavily draped windows of the family room, he scoffed at the

padded sofa that formed an L, its tufted cushions like rolls of fat, its color akin to beef stew.

Although he appreciated working heat, the fact that the facility had come “furnished” was

annoying to him. He feared he was alone in this, however: Over the past few days, he’d oft caught one or another of his soldiers reclining on that godforsaken monster, their heads lying back, their legs stretched out in comfort.

What was next? Throw blankets?

Stalking up the narrow staircase, he missed the doom and gloom of the castle they still owned

back in the Old Country. Longed for the heft of the stone that had surrounded them, and the

impregnable nature of the layout, with its moat and high walls. Mourned, too, the fun they had had

spooking the villagers, giving physical presence to the stuff of myth.

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