Easing back to where he’d been, he thought Xcor might well be incorrect. Mayhap this alley was a coffin for him, rather than a serving plate for the Brotherhood.
Indeed, whilst he lay in his suffering, he realized he should have known better. He had grown to be at ease around that male, in the same way one who handled tigers might become lax: He’d taken for granted certain patterns of behavior, finding in them a misguided safety and predictability.
In reality, the danger had not dissipated, but grown.
And as it had been from the very first moment with Xcor, he remained trapped by the circumstances that had brought them together.
His sister. His beautiful, pure sister.
I have had her with us all along.
Throe moaned, but not from his wounds. How had Xcor gotten the ashes?
He had assumed his family had performed a proper ceremony and taken care of her as was appropriate. And how could he have known otherwise? He had not been permitted to see his mother or his brother once the deal had been struck, and his father had passed ten years before.
The unfairness was legion: In death, one would hope for her to have the peace she deserved. After all, the Fade had been created for souls as light and lovely as hers had been. But without having had the ceremony—
Dearest Virgin Scribe, she could have been denied entrance.
This was a new curse upon him. And her.
Staring up at the sky, of which he could see nearly naught, he thought of the Brotherhood. If they did find him before he died, and if they did take him in as Xcor assumed, he would do as he was required to. Unlike the others in the Band of Bastards, he had his own fealty, and it was not to the king or Xcor or his fellow soldiers—although in truth, it had begun to swing in the direction of those males.
No, his allegiance was to another… and Xcor knew that. Which was why that despot had made the effort long ago to gather some further assurance against Throe extricating—
At first he assumed the stench upon the warm breeze was from a garbage bin, the result of the wind switching direction and catching the odor of some abandoned food waste. But no, there was a telltale sweetness in the horrid bouquet.
Lifting his head, he looked down his body and across yards and yards of pavement. At the end of the alley, three lessers stepped into view.
Their laughter was his death knell, and yet he found himself smiling, even as flashes of dull light suggested that knives had been taken out.
The idea that fate had thwarted Xcor’s plan seemed a perfectly acceptable note to go out on. Except his sister… how could he help her if he were dead?
As the slayers approached, he knew that what they were going to do to him would make the pain in his stomach seem like nothing more than a stubbed toe.
But he had to fight, and he would do so.
Until the last beat of his heart and the final exodus of his breath, he would fight with all that he was for the one thing he had left to live for.
TWENTY-SIX
Goddamn it, but Tohr noticed a difference in himself. Much as he hated to admit it, as he, John, and Qhuinn headed into their quarter of the downtown area, he was stronger, nimbler… clearheaded as a motherfucker. And his senses were back: No more wonky balance problems. His vision was spot-on. And his hearing was so good he could catch the scratching paws of rats as they scrambled for cover in the alleys.
You never realized how thick your fog was until it lifted.
Feeding was undeniably powerful, especially given his kind of work, and yup, he clearly needed a new profession. Accountant. Lint picker. Dog psychic. Anything where you sat on your ass all night long.
Then again, he couldn’t ahvenge his Wellsie doing any of those. And after everything that had happened last night, from what had gone down in the pantry, to what he’d done to himself after he’d finally gone to bed, he felt like he had things to make up to her for.
Christ, the fact that No’One had given him such strength made him think that Wellsie’s memory had been violated in some manner. Stained. Eroded.
When he’d fed from the Chosen Selena, it hadn’t bothered him as much—maybe because he’d still been in shell-shock mode… more likely because he hadn’t been aroused in the slightest, before, during or afterward.
Fucking hell, he was so ready for a fight tonight.
And fewer than three blocks later, he found what he was in search of: the scent of lessers.
As he and the boys fell into a silent jog, he didn’t get out any of his weapons. With the mood he was rocking, hand-to-hand was what he was after, and if he was lucky—
The scream that cut through the dull sounds of distant traffic was not made by a female. Low and ragged, it could only have come out of a masculine throat.
Screw the quiet-approach routine.
Breaking into a sprint, he shot around the corner of an alley and ran smack into a wall of scents that he had no trouble processing: vampire blood—two kinds, both male. Slayer blood—one kind, rank and nasty.
Sure enough, up ahead, there was a male vampire down on the asphalt, two slayers up on their feet, and one lesser lurching around, having obviously just been nailed in the face. Which explained the holler.
That was all the intel he needed to go on.
Bolting forward, he sent himself flying and locked onto one of the lessers, catching the bastard around the neck with his arm and Pop-Tarting him into the air with a yank. As gravity took care of biz and slammed the enemy down onto the pavement faceup, the temptation was to kick the crap out of him—but with somebody injured in the middle of the alley, this was an emergency situation. He outted one of his daggers, nailed the fucker in the chest, and reestablished his fighting stance before the flash faded.
Over on the left, John was taking care of the lesser with the leak in his cheek, stabbing him back to his unholy maker. And Qhuinn had picked up on number three’s option, swinging him around and throwing him headfirst at a wall.
With no more of the enemy to engage, at least for the moment, Tohr jogged over to the downed male.
“Throe,” he breathed as he got a load of the guy.
The soldier was on his back, clutching his gut with the hand that wasn’t on his dagger. Lot of blood. Lot of pain, given that tortured expression.
“John! Qhuinn!” Tohr called out. “Keep your eyes peeled for company of the Bastard variety.”
As he got a whistle and a “Roger that” in reply, he got down on his haunches, and felt for a pulse. The flickering he found was not a good sign.
Easing back, he met a pair of sky blue eyes. “You gonna tell me who did this to you? Or let me play Q and A all by my lonesome.”
Throe opened his mouth, coughed some blood, and closed his eyes.
“Okaaay, I’m going to guess your boss. How’m I doing?” Tohr lifted up the guy’s hand and got a gander at the gut wound. Make that wounds. “You know, you never belonged with that motherfucker.”
No response, but the guy wasn’t out cold—his respiration was too quick, the panting indicating the kind of pain that came only with consciousness. Whatever, though. Xcor was the only explanation. The Band of Bastards always fought in a single squadron, and they never would have left a soldier behind—unless Xcor had ordered them to.
Besides, two kinds of vampire blood? Had to have been a dagger-to-dagger conflict.
“What happened? The pair of you get into it over what to have for Last Meal? Dress code? Or was it something more serious. Homer versus Fred Flintstone?”