J.R. Ward: Lover Reborn

The female froze, then narrowed her eyes. “I know what you did. The night of my birth.”

No’One took a step back. “How…”

Xhexania pointed to her own chest. “ Symphath , remember.” The fighter came forward, her gait like a prowl. “That means I get into people—so I can feel the fear you have right now. And the regrets. And the pain. Just standing in front of me, you’re right back where you were when it all happened—and yeah, I know you buried a dagger in your stomach rather than face a future with me. So like I said, how about you and I just avoid each other, and save both of us the hassle?”

No’One lifted her chin. “Indeed, you are a half-breed.”

Dark brows popped. “Excuse me?”

“You sense but a portion of what I feel for you. Or perhaps you do not wish to acknowledge, for your own reasons, that I might wish to care for you.”

In spite of the fact that the female was strung with weapons, she abruptly seemed vulnerable.

“In your gruff self-protection, do not cut off avenues for us,” No’One whispered. “We do not need to force closeness if it is not there. But let us not stop it from blooming if there is a chance. Perhaps… perhaps you shall just tell me this night if there is some small way I can help you. We shall start there… and see what transpires.”

Xhexania broke off and walked around, her tight, hard body more like a male’s, her dress more like a male’s, her energy masculine. She stopped when she was in front of the closet and, after a moment, pulled out the skirting of the red gown Tohrment had given her for the night of her mating.

“Have you cleaned the satin?” No’One asked. “And I am not suggesting you have sullied it. Fine fabric must be cared for, however, in order to be preserved.”

“I’d have no idea where to start on that one.”

“Allow me, then?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Please. Allow me.”

Xhexania looked over. In a low voice, she said, “Why in God’s name would you want to do that?”

The truth was as simple as four words, as complex as an entire language. “You are my daughter.”

Back in downtown Caldwell, Tohr shed the cold and the aches and the exhaustion that gumshoed him and went in pursuit once again: The scent of fresh lesser blood was like cocaine in his system, buzzing him up and giving him the strength to carry on.

Behind him, he heard the other two closing in, and knew damn well they weren’t seeking enemy—but good fucking luck trying to get him back to the mansion. Dawn was the only thing that could do that.

Besides, the more wiped out he was, the better shot he had at actually sleeping for an hour or two.

As he rounded the corner of an alley, his shitkickers skidded to a halt. In front of him, seven lessers were circling a pair of fighters, but the centerpieces were not Z and Phury, or V and Butch, or Blaylock and Rhage.

That was a scythe in the left one’s hands. A big-ass, sharply honed scythe.

“Son of a bitch,” Tohr muttered.

The male with the curving blade had his feet planted on the pavement like he was a god, his weapon poised, his ugly face smiling in anticipation as if he were about to sit down to a good meal. Next to him, a vampire Tohr hadn’t see for aeons was nothing like the guy he’d once met in the Old Country.

Looked as though Throe, son of Throe, had fallen in with a bad crowd.

John and Qhuinn pulled up on either side of him, and the latter glanced over. “Tell me that isn’t our new neighbor.”

“Xcor.”

“Was he born with that puss or did someone make it for him?”

“Who knows.”

“Well, if that was supposed to be a nose job, he needs a new plastic surgeon.”

Tohr looked over at John. “Call them off.”

Excuse me? the kid signed.

“I know you texted the brothers back at the house. Tell them it was a mistake. Right now.” When John started to argue, he cut off the conversation. “You want there to be an all-out war here? You call the Brotherhood in, he calls his bastards in, and suddenly we’re balls to the wall without any strategy. We’ll handle this by ourselves—I’m fucking serious, John. I’ve dealt with these boys before. You haven’t.”

As John’s hard stare met his own, Tohr had the sense, as always, that they had been in these situations together far, far longer than just the past few months.

“You gotta trust me, son.”

John’s response was to mouth a curse, get his phone out and start hitting the buttons.

And at that moment, Xcor tweaked that there were visitors. In spite of the number of lessers ahead of him, he started laughing. “It’s the bloody Black Daggers—and just in time to save us. You want us on our knees?”

The slayers spun around—big mistake. Xcor didn’t waste a moment, striking with a circling sweep, hitting two of them in the lower back. That was his free shot. As the pair fell to the ground, the others split into two camps, half heading for Xcor and Throe, half gunning for Tohr and his boys.

Tohr let out a roar and met the onslaught with his bare hands, leaping forward and locking onto the first slayer that got in range. He went for the head, grabbing on hard, before putting up his knee and cracking the fucker’s face open. Then he wheeled the thing around and threw the loose body skullfirst into the side of a Dumpster.

As the ringing faded, Tohr faced off at the next in line. He’d have preferred to have gone more with the fist action, but he wasn’t going to dick around: At the far end of the alley, seven more newbies were dropping like snakes from a tree, dripping down the front of a chain-link fence.

He ripped out both daggers, set his boots in the pavement, and assessed an offensive strategy for the fresh arrivals. Man… say what you would about Xcor’s ethics, social skills, and GQ eligibility; the motherfucker could fight. He was swinging that scythe around like it weighed less than a pound, and he had a knack for judging distance— lesser parts were flying all over the place, hands, a head, an arm. The bastard was incredibly effective, and Throe wasn’t incompetent, either.

Against all odds, and the choice of any of them, Tohr and his crew fell into a rhythm with the bastards: Xcor drove the first round into the waiting blades at the head of the alley, while his lieutenant held the second wave in place so no one got blocked in. After Tohr, John, and Qhuinn picked the tide off, one by one the other slayers were sent to the slaughter—freshly wounded.

Whereas there had been showboating in the beginning, now this was work. Xcor wasn’t doing any flashy moves with his wide blade; Throe wasn’t jumping around; John and Qhuinn were in the zone.

And Tohr was knee-deep in revenge.

These were nothing but new recruits—so it wasn’t like the slayers were offering much in the way of skills. The sheer numbers, however, were such that the tide could turn—

A third squadron popped over the fence.

As they landed one after the other on the payment, Tohr regretted his order to John. That had been vengeance talking. Fuck the shit with avoiding a BDB vs. Band of Bastards showdown; he’d wanted to save the kills for himself. The result? He’d put John’s and Qhuinn’s lives in danger. Xcor and Throe—they could die tonight, tomorrow, a year from now, whatever. And as for himself—well, you could jump off a bridge in a thousand different ways.

But his boys…? They were worth saving. John was someone’s hellren now. And Qhuinn had a lot of living ahead of him.

It wasn’t fair for his death wish to put them in early graves.

Xcor, son of an unknown sire, had his lover in his hands. His scythe was the only female he had ever cared for, and tonight, as he faced off against what started as seven of the enemy, and then grew to fourteen, and then swelled to twenty-one, she repaid his loyalty with a performance unparalleled.