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.
SIXTEEN
Up 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.
Lassiter’s voice knocked on his inside door: That’s why I’ve come—I’m here to help you, help her.
“I have to go back to the mansion,” he mumbled.
Next move was to get to his feet, but that didn’t go well. Between a sudden weakness in his body and that fucking foot, he slammed into one of the stacks, the contour of his shoulder pushing a wave into the books whose spines were so carefully arranged. Annnnnnnd then it was a case of the floor tipping in the opposite direction, pitching him into free air.
Something small and soft got in the way of his falling.…
It was a body. A diminutive female body with hips and breasts that suddenly, shockingly imprinted on him even through the freak-out.
Instantly, the vision of No’One in that pool, her naked form glistening and wet, exploded like a land mine in his brain, the detonation so great that it blasted its way through everything that had been driving him.
It happened so fast: the contact, the memory… and the arousal.
Underneath the fly of his leathers, his cock punched out to its full length. Without apology.
“Let me help you back into the chair,” he heard her say from a vast distance.
“Don’t touch me.” He pushed her off. Stumbled away. “Don’t get anywhere near me. I’m… losing it.…”
Floundering his way down the stacks, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t… stand himself.…
As soon as he was free from the library, he raced away from the Sanctuary, returning his faithless body to his bedroom at the mansion.