Lover Reborn (19 page)

Leafing through, she felt his looming presence above her—and was not threatened. “Here—here she is.”

“Oh… God. What.”

“It just says… yes, the same as it was noted in your volume. She was lost from the earth… wait a moment.”

Going backward, then forward, she traced the histories of the other females and males who had died on that date: So-and-so passed unto to the Fade… unto the Fade… unto the Fade.…

When No’One looked up at him again, she felt a moment of true fear. “In fact, it does not say she is there. The Fade, that is.”

“What do you mean—”

“It just says that she is lost. It does not say that she is in the Fade.”

Deep in the cold, gritty heart of Caldwell, Xcor tracked a single
lesser
.

Traveling over a park’s dead, scratchy grass, he moved silently behind the undead, scythe in hand, body poised for striking. This was a stray, one who had broken from the pack that he and his band of bastards had attacked earlier.

The thing was obviously injured, its black blood leaving a trail that was, as it turned out, eminently obvious.

He and his soldiers had killed all its colleagues back in the alleys; then they had taken some souvenirs upon Xcor’s command, and he had split off to find this lonesome deserter. Throe and Zypher, meanwhile, had gone back to the tattoo shop to organize the females for feeding, and the cousins had returned to base camp to tend their battle wounds.

Mayhap, if the women were dispatched with suitable alacrity, they could find another squadron of the enemy before dawn—although
squadron
was the wrong word. Too professional. These current recruits were nothing like the ones in the Old Country back in the heyday of the war there; fresh from their inductions, these hadn’t even paled out, and they didn’t seem to be well organized or capable of working together during an engagement. Further, their weapons were largely of the street variety: box cutters, switchblades, bats—if they had guns, the pistols were mismatched and often ill shot.

It was a cobbled-together army the strength of which appeared to be mainly in numbers. And the Brotherhood could not beat them? Such a disgrace.

Refocusing on his prey, Xcor began to close the distance.

Time to finish this work. Get fed. Go back out.

The commons they had entered was down by the river, and rather too well lit for Xcor’s tastes. Too out-upon-the-open as well: Dotted with picnic tables and round fifty-five-gallon drums for trash disposal, it didn’t offer much in the way of shelter from prying eyes, but at least the night was cold enough to drive the humans with any credibility indoors. There would always be transients around, of course. Fortunately, they tended to stay in their own worlds, and if they didn’t, no one would pay them any mind.

Up ahead, the
lesser
was on a concrete pathway that, instead of leading him to safety, was just going to deliver him to his demise—and he was ready for his final act. He was beginning to list from side to side, one arm throwing out uselessly for balance that would remain elusive, the other locked on its midsection. At this rate, it was going to drop to the ground soon, and where was the fun in that—

A sob broke through the muted sounds of the night.

And then another.

It was crying. The goddamn thing was crying like a female.

Xcor’s wave of anger rose so fast, he nearly choked. Abruptly, he resheathed his scythe and took out his steel dagger.

Once a matter of business, now this was personal.

At his will, the sidewalk’s lights on their long-necked poles started to go out one by one both in front of and behind the slayer, the darkness closing in until finally, through even his weakness and pain, he noticed that his time had come.

“Oh, fuck… no…” The thing spun around in the illumination of the last lamp. “Christ, no…”

His face was stark white, as if he had stage makeup on, but it was not because he had been a slayer long enough to turn pale. Young, only eighteen or twenty, he had tattoos around his neck and down his arms, and if memory served, he’d been fairly competent with a knife—although it had been obvious during hand-to-hand that that was more instinct than training.

Clearly he’d been an aggressor in his previous incarnation; his initial show of force had proven that he was used to opponents who backed down after a first strike. The time for his strength and ego had passed, however, and these pathetic tears proved what he was at his core.

As the final light, the one that was over him, went out, he screamed.

Xcor attacked with brutal force, launching his great weight into the air and latching onto the thing as he shoved it backward to the grass.

Clapping a palm on its face, he buried the knife in the shoulder and pulled away, ripping through tendon and muscle, shearing across bone. Hot breath exploded up as the
lesser
screamed again—proving anew that even the undead had pain receptors.

Xcor leaned down and put his mouth to the male’s ear. “Cry for me. Cry away… cry hard until you can’t breathe.”

The bastard took the direction and ran with it, weeping openly with great hoarse grabs of air and quaking exhalations. Reigning above the show, Xcor absorbed the weakness through his pores, pulling it in, holding it tight in his own lungs.

The hatred he felt went beyond the war, beyond this night and this moment. Soul deep, and marrow blistering, his disgust made him want to draw and quarter the former human.

But there was a more fitting end to this.

Flipping the thing over onto its stomach, he shoved both of his knees in between its tight thighs, and spread its legs as if it were a female about to get fucked. Rearing up over its prone body, he pushed its face into the grass.

And then he went to work.

No more raising the knife high and stabbing downward. Now was the time for precision and careful follow-through with his dagger.

As the
lesser
struggled pitifully, Xcor cut through the collar of its sleeveless shirt, then put his blade between his teeth and ripped the cloth in two, exposing the thing’s shoulders and back. A tattoo of some kind of urban scene was done with respectable competence, the ink shown off to great effect by the skin’s smooth surface—at least where black, oily blood didn’t cloud the picture.

Weeping and harsh gasping caused the image to distort and resume its shape, distort and resume, as if it were a moving picture poorly screened.

“Such a pity to ruin this piece,” Xcor drawled. “It must have taken a long time to get done. Must have hurt as well.”

Xcor put the blade’s razor point to the nape of the thing’s neck. Piercing the skin, he went ever deeper, until he was stopped by bone.

More crying.

He put his mouth to the fucker’s ear again. “I’m just revealing what everyone can see.”

With a sure and steady stroke, he drew the knife downward, tracing the orderly stacks of vertebra whilst his prey squealed like a pig. And then he shifted his knees to the back of the slayer’s legs, planted a palm on the thick of its shoulder… and reached in to lock a grip on the top of the spine.

What transpired as he threw all his strength upon his goal was nothing that a human could live through. The
lesser
, however, remained animated, even though afterward, respiration was no longer possible for him, and he would not be able to stand ever again: his core infrastructure, that which had defined his posture and his mobility, his height and girth, was now hanging from Xcor’s hand.

The slayer was still crying, tears seeping from its eyes.

Xcor sat back, and breathed heavily from the exertion. It would be a fine thing to leave this weakling here in its current state, its destiny to be a spineless waste forever, and he took a moment to enjoy the suffering and imprint this vision of punishment in his mind.

Remembering back through the years, he recalled being in a similar position. Reduced to raw emotion, down on the ground, naked and degraded.

You are as worthless as your face. Get out.

The Bloodletter had been coldly dismissive, his subordinates efficient and pitiless: Xcor’s arms and legs had been gripped and he had been carried to the mouth of the war camp’s cave—whereupon he had been tossed out as if they were removing horse excrement.

Alone and in the cold white snow of winter, Xcor had lain where he had landed much as this slayer was, incapacitated, at the mercy of others. He had been faceup, however.

Indeed, that hadn’t been the first time he’d been cast out. Starting with the female who had birthed him; then going through to the last orphanage he had stayed in, he’d had a long history of being denied. The war
camp had been his final chance to find any community, and he had refused to be expelled from its confines.

He’d had to earn his way back in by bearing pain. And even the Bloodletter had been impressed at what he’d proven he could withstand.

Tears were for the young and females and castrated males. Too bad the lesson was wasted on this piece of—

“You’ve been busy.”

Xcor looked up. Throe had come out of nowhere, no doubt materializing to the scene.

“Are the women ready,” Xcor demanded gruffly.

“It’s time.”

Xcor endeavored to gather his strength. He had to take care of this mess—there was no leaving a twitching corpse behind for humans to find and extrapolate over until their heads exploded.

“There is a lavatory o’er there.” Throe pointed across the lawn. “Finish this and let us wash you.”

“As if I am a babe?” Xcor glared at his lieutenant. “I think not. You go back to the whores. I shall be there shortly.”

“You can’t bring your trophies.”

“And where would you suggest I leave them.” His tone suggested “up your ass” was an option, at least from his point of view. “Go.”

Throe disapproved, and disagreed, but nonetheless—and per protocol—he nodded and spirited away.

Left on his own, Xcor spared the desecrated carcass one last look. “Oh, get over yourself.”

The urge to further punish the weakness gave him the energy to stab the thing through the chest. The instant the steel tip penetrated, there was a pop, a flare… and then nothing but a stain on the grass where the
lesser
had lain.

Dragging himself to his feet, he took the spine of his prey and put it in his shoulder satchel with his other trophies.

It did not fit, one end protruding out the cinched top.

Throe had a point about the grisly bag of keepsakes. Damn it.

Dematerializing to the top of the bathroom shed, he left his trophies under the contours of the ventilation system and willed himself inside, where the sinks and the toilets were. He was quite sure the place smelled of fake air freshener, but nothing was able to penetrate the cloying, spoiled-meat stink of his prey.

Motion-activated lights came on as he moved around, creating a fluorescent
haze. The basins were stainless steel and rudimentary, but the water ran cold and clean, and, leaning down, he cupped his hands and splashed his face once. Twice. Again.

So dumb to waste time on this tidy-up, he thought. Those prostitutes would remember nothing. And it wasn’t as if washing would improve the comeliness of his features.

On the other hand, best not to scare them into flight: Dragging them back was such a bore.

As he lifted his head, he saw himself in the crude metal sheets that were supposed to be mirrors. Even though the reflection was dull, he noted his ugliness and thought of Throe just now. In spite of the fact that the soldier had been out fighting all night, his handsome visage had appeared fresh as a daisy, his well-bred looks overshadowing the reality that he had slayer blood on his clothes and had been scraped and bruised.

Xcor, however, could have taken rest for two weeks straight, eaten a large meal, and fed from a fucking Chosen, and he would still appear as repulsive.

He rinsed his face one more time. Then looked around for something to use as a wipe-off. All there appeared to be were machines bolted into the wall for drying one’s hands with hot air.

His leather duster was filthy. The loose black shirt underneath was the same.

He left the facility with cold water dripping from his chin, reappearing up top on the roof. His bag was not secure enough here, and he was going to have to leave his scythe and his coat somewhere very safe.

As exhaustion dogged him, he thought… such a bloody fucking nuisance, all this.

U
p high above the chaos of Caldwell, in the silent marble library of the Chosen, Tohr had a scream in his head that was so loud, it was a wonder that No’One didn’t cover her ears from the din.

He threw his hand out. “Give me that.”

Taking the volume from her, he forced his eyes to focus on the characters of the Old Language that had been so carefully constructed.

Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, blooded daughter of Relix, passed from the earth on this night, taking with her her unbirthed young, a son of some forty weeks.

Reading the short passage, he felt as if the whole event had happened a mere moment ago, his body submerging in that old, familiar river of grief.

He had to go over the symbols a couple of times before he could concentrate not only on what was there, but what wasn’t.

No mention of the Fade.

Sifting through other paragraphs, he sought the notations of other passings. There were a number.…

Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the
—he flipped the page—
earth unto the Fade
.

“Oh, God…”

As a screeching noise echoed around, he did not lift his eyes. But abruptly, No’One started pulling on his arm.

“Sit, please sit.” She yanked hard. “Please.”

He let himself go, and the stool that she had dragged over caught his weight.

“Is there any chance,” he said in a guttural voice, “that they simply forgot to put it in?”

There was no need for No’One, or anybody else, to answer that question. The sequestered Chosen had had a sacred job, something they did not fuck up. And that kind of “oopsie” would be a big one.