J.R. Ward: Lover Reborn

Then came images from the second act: Lassiter bringing a shriveled shell of Tohr back from wherever he had been… Tohr and John finally losing it together over the murder… Tohr gradually working his strength up… John’s own shellan appearing in the red gown that Wellsie had mated Tohr in…

Man, destiny sucked ass. It just had to barge in and piss all over everyone’s rose garden.

And now it was taking a shit in the other flower beds.

Except then Tohr abruptly disappeared into thin air. One moment he was all fly-be-free; the next, he was gone.

Thank God, John thought.

“Thank you, baby Jesus,” Qhuinn breathed.

A moment later, on the far side of a pylon, a dark arrow sliced into the river.

Without a glance or a word between them, he and Qhuinn tore off in that direction, getting to the rocky shore just as Tohr surfaced, grabbed the slayer, and started to swim in. As John got into position to help drag the lesser onto dry land, his eyes locked on Tohr’s grim, pale face.

The male looked dead, even though he was technically alive.

I got him , John signed as he leaned in, nabbed the closest arm, and heaved the soaking-wet slayer out of the river. The thing landed in a heap and did an excellent impression of a fish, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, little clicking sounds coming from its wide-open gullet.

But whatever, Tohr was the issue, and John looked the Brother over as he emerged from the water: Leather pants were sticking like glue to thighs that were thin, muscle shirt was second-skinned to a flat chest, cropped black hair with that white stripe was standing straight up even though it was wet.

Dark blue eyes were locked on the lesser .

Or studiously ignoring John’s stare.

Probably both.

Tohr reached down and grabbed the lesser by the throat. Baring fangs that were viciously long, he growled, “Told you.”

Then he outted his black dagger and started stabbing.

John and Qhuinn had to step back. It was either that or get a paint job.

“He could just hit the damn chest,” Qhuinn muttered, “and get this over with.”

Except killing the slayer wasn’t the point. Desecration was.

That sharp black blade penetrated every square inch of flesh—except for the sternum, which was the lights-out switch. With each slashing blow, Tohr exhaled hard; with every jerk free, the Brother inhaled deep, the rhythm of respiration driving the gruesome scene.

“Now I know how they make shredded lettuce.”

John rubbed his face, and hoped that was the end of the commentary.

Tohr didn’t slow down. He just stopped. And in the aftermath, he listed to the side, propping himself up by throwing a hand out to the oil-soaked dirt. The slayer was… well, shredded, yeah, but he wasn’t finished.

There’d be no helping out, though. In spite of Tohr’s obvious exhaustion, John and Qhuinn knew better than to mess with the end game. They’d seen this before. The final strike had to be Tohr’s.

After a couple of moments of recovery, the Brother lurched back into position, double-handing the dagger and lifting the blade over his head.

A hoarse cry tore out of his throat as he buried the point in the chest of what was left of his prey. As bright light flashed, the tragic expression on Tohr’s face was illuminated, a comic book rendering of his twisted, horrific features, caught for a moment… and an eternity.

He always stared down into the illumination, even though the impermanent sun was too bright to look into.

After it was done, the Brother slumped sure as if his spinal column had turned to putty, his energy disappearing. Clearly, he needed to feed, but that subject, like so many others, was a no-go.

“What time is it,” he got out between breaths.

Qhuinn snagged a peek at his Suunto. “Two a.m.”

Tohr looked up from the stained ground he’d been staring at, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on the part of downtown they’d just come from.

“How about we go back to the compound.” Qhuinn took out his cell phone. “Butch isn’t far away—”

“No.” Tohr shoved himself back and sat on his ass. “Don’t call anyone. I’m fine—just need to catch my breath.”

Bull. Shit. The guy was not any closer to fine than John was at the moment. Although, granted, only one of them was dripping wet in a fifty-degree gust.

John shoved his hands into the Brother’s field of vision. We’re going home now —

Wafting over on the breeze, like an alarm breaking through a silent house, the scent of baby powder tickled into each of their noses.

The stench did what all that breathing on the ground couldn’t: It got Tohr onto his feet. Gone was the logy disorientation—hell, if you’d pointed out to him that he was still wet as a fish, he probably would have been surprised.

“There’re more,” he snarled.

As he took off, John cursed at the maniac.

“Come on,” Qhuinn said. “Let’s get our run on. This is going to be a long night.”

“Take some time off… relax… enjoy yourself.…”

As Xhex muttered to a peanut gallery of antique furniture, she walked out of the bedroom and into the bath suite. And back again. And… back once more into marble-landia.

In the bath she and John now shared, she stopped by the pond-deep Jacuzzi. Next to the brass faucets, there was a silver tray with all kinds of lotions and potions and girlie what-the-fuck. And that wasn’t the half of it. By the sinks? Another tray, this one full of perfume by Chanel: Cristalle, Coco, No. 5, Coco Mademoiselle. Then there was the fine wicker basket of hairbrushes, some with short naps, others with pointy bristles or spiky metal crap. In the cupboards? A lineup of OPI nail polish bottles in enough variations on cocksucking pink to give even Barbie a nosebleed. As well as fifteen different brands of mousse. Gel. Hair spray.

Really?

And don’t get her started on the Bobbi Brown makeup.

Who the hell did they think had moved in here? One of those Kardashian nut jobs?

And on that note… Christ, she couldn’t believe she now knew Kim, Kourtney, Khloe, Kris; the brother, Rob; stepfather, Bruce; little sisters Kendall and Kylie; as well as the various husband(s), boyfriend(s), and that kid Mason—

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror, she thought, Well, wasn’t this interesting. She’d managed to blow her brains out with E! Entertainment Television.

Certainly less messy than a sawed-off, and the results were the same.

“That shit needs to come with a warning label on it.”

As she stared at her reflection, she recognized the buzzed-off black hair, and the pale skin, and the tight, hard body. The clipped nails. The absolute lack of makeup. She even had her own clothes on, the black muscle shirt and leather pants a uniform she’d put on every night for years.

Well, except for a couple of evenings ago. Then she’d worn something else entirely.

Maybe that gown was the reason for all the fembot stuff that had shown up after the mating ceremony: Fritz and the doggen may have assumed she’d turned over a new leaf. Either that or it was all just part of the standard, newly mated shellan welcome wagon.

Turning away, she put her hands up to the base of her throat, to the big, square diamond John had bought her. Set in sturdy platinum, it was the only piece of jewelry she could ever imagine wearing: tough, solid, able to withstand a good fight and stay on her body.

In this new world of Paul Mitchell, and Bed Head, and Coco’s stinky stuff, at least John still got her. As for the rest of them? Can you say “education”? Not the first time she’d played teacher to a bunch of males who thought that just because you had breasts, you belonged in a gilded cage. Anyone tried to turn her into a glymera chickadee? She’d just saw through the gold bars, set a bomb on the base of the stand, and hang the steaming remains from a chandelier in the foyer.