Lover Reborn (53 page)

Watching her hips sway as she ascended got him hard. Again.

Bracing one hand against the carved banister, he had to look down at the carpet and compose himself—

A nasty curse brought his head around.

Bad word, good timing…

Striding across the mosaic of an apple tree in bloom, he leaned into the billiards room. Lassiter was on the couch, focused on the wide-screen over the fireplace.

Even though Tohr was half-naked and half-wet, he strode over, getting in between the angel and the TV. “Listen, I—”

“What the fuck!” Lassiter started motioning like his hands were on fire and he was trying to flap them free of flames. “Get outta the way!”

“Did it work?” Tohr demanded.

More cursing, and then the angel jacked to the side in an attempt to get at the screen. “Just give me a minute—”

“Is she free?” he hissed. “Just tell me.”

“Aha!” Lassiter pointed at the boob tube. “You mother
fucker
! I knew you were the father!”

Tohr fought the urge to slap some sense into the son of a bitch. His Wellsie’s future was at stake, and this dumb-ass was worried about Maury’s paternity tests? “Are you kidding me.”

“No, I’m damn serious. Bastard has three kids by three sisters—what kind of man is that?”

Tohr smacked his own head in lieu of the angel’s. “Lassiter… come
on
, man—”

“Look, I’m still here, aren’t I,” the guy muttered as he muted the screaming and hopping up and down on Maury’s stage. “As long as I’m still here, there’s work to be done.”

Tohr let himself fall into a chair. Propping his head in his hand, he bit down on his molars. “I don’t fucking get it. Destiny wants blood, sweat, and tears—well, I’ve fed from her, we’ve—ah, sweated, for sure. Shit knows I’ve cried enough.”

“The tears don’t count,” the angel said.

“How is that possible?”

“It just is, my man.”

Great. Fantastic. “How much longer do I have to get my Wellsie free?”

“Your dreams are the answer to that. In the meantime, I suggest you go feed your female. I gather by your wet pants that you just gave her a helluva workout.”

The words,
She’s not mine
, rose up automatically into his throat, but he clamped down on them in the hopes that keeping them inside would help somehow.

The angel just shook his head back and forth, as if he were well aware of both the sentiment that had remained unspoken… and the future that was as yet unknown.

“Goddamn it,” Tohr muttered as he got to his feet and started for the kitchen. “Goddamn me.”

Some thirty miles away, at the Band of Bastards’ farmhouse, the sound of wheezing drifted up into the stale air of the cellar, rhythmic, ragged, wretched.

As Throe stared into the candlelight aimlessly, he didn’t feel good about where his leader was.

Xcor had been in one hell of a hand-to-hand contest toward the end of the engagement at Assail’s house. He had refused to say with whom, but it must have been a Brother. And naturally, he had had no medical attention since then—not that they had much to offer in that regard.

Cursing to himself, Throe crossed his arms over his chest and tried to remember the last time the male had fed. Dearest Virgin Scribe… had it
been back in the spring with those three prostitutes? No wonder he wasn’t healing up… and he wouldn’t until he was better nourished—

The wheezing shifted into a rough cough… then resumed at a slower, more painful rate.

Xcor was going to die.

That dire conclusion had been dawning with relentless vigor ever since that breathing pattern had changed hours ago. To survive, the male needed one of two things, preferably both: access to medical facilities, supplies, and personnel the likes of which the Brotherhood enjoyed; and the blood of a female vampire.

There was no way of getting him the former, and the latter had proven to be a challenge over the last few months. The vampire population in Caldwell was slowly increasing, but since the raids, females had been at an even higher premium. He had yet to find one who was willing to service them, even though he was able to pay handsomely.

Although… considering Xcor’s condition, mayhap even that might not be enough. What they needed was a miracle—

Unbidden, an image of that spectacular Chosen he’d fed from at the Brotherhood’s facility came to mind. Her blood would be a lifesaver for Xcor right now. Literally. Except obviously it was not obtainable on so many levels. How would he be able to reach out to her, for one thing. And even if he could connect with her, she would undoubtedly know he was the enemy…

Or would she? She’d called him a soldier of worth to his face—mayhap the Brotherhood had kept his identity from her to insulate her delicate sensibilities—

No more sound. Nothing.

“Xcor?” he called out as he sat up in a rush. “Xcor—”

At that point, there was another round of coughing and then the labored breathing resumed.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had no idea how the others slept through all this. Then again, they had been fighting for so long on nothing but human blood that sleep was their only chance for any kind of recharge. Throe’s adrenal gland had overridden that imperative as of two in the afternoon, however; whereupon he had begun his vigil over Xcor’s respiratory process.

As he reached for his cell phone to check the time, he struggled to focus on the numbers that were displayed, his mind frantic.

Ever since that incident between them in the summer, Xcor had been a different male. Still autocratic, demanding, and full of calculations that could shock and stun… but his stare was different when he looked upon
his soldiers. He was more connected to all of them, his eyes opened to some new level of relating, the likes of which he hadn’t appeared to have been aware previously.

Shame to lose the bastard now.

Rubbing his eyes, Throe finally got a read on the hour: five thirty-eight. The sun was probably just below the horizon, the dusk no doubt lingering in the sky to the east. It would be better to wait for the darkness to truly arrive, but he had no more time to waste—especially given that he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Shifting off his bunk, he rose to his full height, walked across the way and shook the mound of blankets Zypher was under.

“Go ’way,” the soldier mumbled. “Still have thirty minutes…”

“You need to get the others out of here,” Throe whispered.

“Do I.”

“And you must stay behind.”

“Must I.”

“I’m going to try to find a female to feed Xcor.”

That got the soldier’s attention: Zypher’s head lifted—down at the other end. “In truth?”

Throe shuffled to the foot of the bunk so they could meet eye-to-eye. “Make sure he stays here, and be prepared to drive him to my coordinates.”

“Throe, whatever are you about?”

Without reply, he turned away and began pulling leather upon his personage, his hands shaking from Xcor’s treacherous state… and the fact that if his prayer was answered, he would be in the company of that female once again.

Glancing down at his fighting clothes, he hesitated… dearest Virgin Scribe, he wished he had something with which to clothe himself other than leather. A lovely suit of worsted wool with a cravat. Proper shoes with laces. Underwear.

“Wherever are you going?” Zypher asked sharply.

“It matters not. What I find is the only important thing.”

“Tell me you are taking weapons.”

Throe paused anew. If for some reason this backfired, he might well need armaments. But he didn’t want to frighten her—assuming he could in fact reach her somehow and get her to come to him. Such a delicate female was she…

Some concealed things, he decided. A gun or two. Some knives. Nothing that she could see.

“Good,” Zypher murmured as he began checking his weapons.

Mere minutes later, Throe ascended from the basement, and burst out the kitchen’s exterior door—

Hissing and throwing up his forearms, he was forced to jump back into the dark house. With his eyes stinging and tearing up, he cursed and went for the sink, running cold water and splashing it upon his face.

It seemed forever until his phone’s display informed him that an exit was safer to attempt, and this time he opened the door with far less bravado.

Oh, the relief of the night.

Leaping out from his confines, he landed upon the good earth and filled his lungs with the cold, damp air of autumn. Closing his still throbbing eyes, he focused himself inward, and spirited himself away from the house, casting his component molecules north and east until he reformed in a field of meadow grass marked in the center with a large, flame-tipped maple tree.

Standing before the great trunk, underneath the red-and-gold leaf cover, he surveyed the landscape with his razor-sharp senses. This bucolic spot was far, far away from the battleground of downtown, and not even close to any compound of the Brothers or outpost of the Lessening Society—at least that he was aware of.

To be sure of his read on the site, though, he waited, as motionless as the big tree behind him, but not nearly as serene—he was prepared to engage with anything and anyone.

Nobody and nothing came upon him, however.

Some thirty minutes later, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged upon the ground, linking his hands together, and settling in.

He was well aware of the peril of this path he was embarking upon. But in some battles, you had to make your own weapons, even if you ran the risk of them blowing up in your face: There was grave danger in this, but if there was one thing you could count on with the Brotherhood, it was an old-fashioned protection of their females.

He’d had the jaw shots to prove it.

So he was banking upon the fact that, if he did reach the Chosen, she wouldn’t know his true identity.

He was also forcing himself to push aside any guilt at the position he was putting her in.

Before he closed his eyes, he looked around again. There were deer at the far edge of the meadow by the forest of trees, their delicate hooves
brushing through fallen leaves, their heads bobbing as they meandered along. An owl sounded off to the right, the hooting carried upon the light, cold breeze to his perked ears. Far in front of him, on a road that he could not see, a pair of headlights drifted along, likely a farm truck.

No
lessers
.

No Brothers.

No one but him.

Lowering his lids, he pictured the Chosen and recaptured those moments when her blood was going into him, reviving him, calling him back from the brink his life had trembled upon. He saw her with great clarity and focused on the taste and the scent of her, the very essence of who she was.

And then he prayed, prayed as he never had before, even when he had lived a civilized life. He prayed so hard his brows tightened and his heart pounded and he couldn’t breathe. He prayed with a desperation that left a part of him wondering whether this was to save Xcor… or simply so he could see her once again.

He prayed until he lost his train of words and all he had was a feeling in his chest, a howling need that he could only hope was a strong enough signal for her to respond to, if she indeed got it.

Throe kept it up for as long as he could, until he was numb and cold and so exhausted his head hung no longer out of reverence, but out of tiredness.

He kept at it until the persistent silence around him intruded upon his quest… and told him that he had to accept failure.

When he finally reopened his eyes, he found that moonlight had sneaked under the canopy he sat beneath, the sun’s opposite having arrived for its evening shift of watching o’er the earth—

His shout echoed loud as he jumped to his feet.

’Twas not the moon that was the cause of the light.

His Chosen was standing afore him, her robing of such a bright white, it appeared to throw off its own illumination.

Her hands extended forth as if to calm him. “I am sorry to startle you.”

“No! No, no, it’s fine—I… You are
here
.”

“Did you not summon me?” She appeared confused. “I was not sure what called me forth. I… simply had this urge to come here. And there you were.”

“I didn’t know if it would work.”

“Well, it did.” At this, she smiled at him.

Oh, sweet Virgin Scribe in the great heavens above, she was beautiful, her hair all coiled up high upon her head, her form so willowy and elegant, her scent… ambrosia.

She frowned and looked down at herself. “Am I not properly covered?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You stare.”

“Oh, indeed, I am… Please forgive me. My manners have been forgotten—because you are too lovely for mine eyes to comprehend.”

That made her recoil ever so slightly. As if she were unused to compliments—or mayhap he had offended her.

“I’m sorry,” he said—before wanting to curse himself. His vocabulary was going to have to expand past apologies. Fast. And it would help if he didn’t behave like a schoolboy in her presence. “I mean no disrespect.”

Now she smiled again, a stunning display of happiness. “I believe you in that, soldier. I suppose I’m simply surprised.”

That he found her attractive? Good Lord…

Reclaiming his past as a genteel member of the
glymera
, Throe bowed low. “You honor me by your presence, Chosen.”

“What brings you out here?”

“I wanted… well, I did not desire to risk any harm to you as I prevailed upon you for a favor of great weight.”

“A favor? Truly?”

Throe paused. She was so guileless, so delighted at being called upon, that his guilt renewed tenfold. But she was the only savior Xcor had, and this was war.…

As he struggled with his conscience, it occurred to him that there was a way to make it up to her, though, a vow he could take in return for the gift, if she chose to give it.

“I would ask…” He cleared his throat. “I have a comrade who is gravely injured. He is going to die if we do not—”

“I must go to him. Now. Show me wherever he is and I shall be of aid to him.”

Throe closed his eyes and could not draw any breath. Indeed, he even felt tears threaten. In a hoarse voice, he said, “You are an angel. You are not of this earth in your compassion and kindness.”