J.R. Ward: Lover Reborn

As they moved together, she was an extension of not just his arms, but his body, his eyes, his brain. He was not a soldier with a weapon; united, they were a beast with mighty jaws. And as they worked, he knew this was what he had missed. This was why he had come across the ocean unto the New World: to find a new life in a new land where there was still plenty of the old, worthy enemy.

Upon his arrival, however, his ambitions had identified an even loftier goal. And it meant the other vampires in this alley were in his way.

At the opposite end of the alley, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was something worth seeing. As much as Xcor hated to admit it, the Brother was an incredible fighter, those whirling black daggers catching the ambient light, those arms and legs shifting positions fast as a heartbeat, that balance and execution—sheer perfection.

If he had been one of Xcor’s males, the Brother might well have had to be killed so that Xcor could retain his prime position: It was a basic tenent of leadership that one eliminated those who presented a potential challenge to one’s position… although it wasn’t as if his band were incompetents—after all, one had to eliminate the weak as well.

The Bloodletter had taught him that and so much more.

At least some things had proven not to be lies.

There would never be a place for the likes of Tohrment in his band of bastards, however: that Brother and his ilk would not slum themselves for a shared meal, much less any professional association.

Though one cohesed briefly, this night. As the fight progressed, he and Throe fell into a cooperation with the Brothers, funneling lessers in small groups into blade range, whereupon they were dispatched to the Omega by the other three.

Two Brothers, or Brotherhood candidates, were with Tohr, and both were larger than him—in fact, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was not as broad as he had once been. Mayhap from recovery of a recent injury? Whatever the cause, Tohr had chosen his backups wisely. The one on the right was a tremendous male, the size of whom proved that the Scribe Virgin’s breeding program had had a point. The other was more the girth and vertical of Xcor and his males—which was to say he was not small. Both worked seamlessly and without hesitation, showing no fear.

When it was finally done, Xcor was breathing hard, his forearms and biceps numb from exertion. All who had fangs were standing. All who had black blood in the vein were gone, sent back to their evil maker.

The five of them stayed in their positions, weapons still in hand as they panted, eyes peeled for any signs of aggression from the other side.

Xcor glanced at Throe and nodded ever so slightly. If others from the Brotherhood had been called in, this was not the kind of showdown they would come out of alive. If these three engaged? He and his soldier had a chance, but there would be injuries.

He did not come to Caldwell to die. He came here to be king.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Tohrment, son of Hharm,” he announced.

“Leaving so soon?” the Brother countered.

“Did you think I would bow before you?”

“No, that would require class.”

Xcor smiled coldly, flashing his fangs as they elongated. His temper was held in check by his self-control—and the fact that he was already begining to work on the glymera . “Unlike the Brotherhood, we lowly soldiers actually work during the night. So instead of kissing the ring of antiquated custom, we’re going to seek and eliminate more of the enemy.”

“I know why you’re here, Xcor.”

“Do you. Mind reader?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Indeed. Or mayhap it shall be the other way around.”

Tohrment shook his head slowly. “Consider this a friendly warning. Go back where you came from before what you set in motion rolls you right into an early grave.”

“I like where I am. The air is bracing on this side of the ocean. How’s your shellan , by the way.”

The cold draft that surged forward was what he wanted: He’d heard through the convoluted grapevine that the female Wellesandra had been killed in the war some time ago, and he wasn’t above using any weapon he had to throw off the enemy.

And the shot was a good one. Immediately, the bookends on either side of the Brother stepped in and grabbed on. But there would be no fighting or arguing. Not this eve.

Xcor and Throe dematerialized, scattering themselves into the chilly spring night. He was not worried that they would be followed. That pair was going to make sure Tohr was okay, which meant they were going to dissuade him from a half-cocked, angry whim that might possibly lead to an ambush.

They had no way of knowing he couldn’t access the rest of his troops.

He and Throe regained their forms on top of the tallest skyscraper in the city. He and his soldiers had always had a rallying point such that the band could be reunited from time to time during the night, and this towering rooftop was not only easily visible from all quadrants of the battlefield; it seemed apt.

Xcor liked the view from on high.

“We need cell phones,” Throe said over the din of the wind.

“Do we.”

“They have them.”

“The enemy, you mean?”

“Aye. Both of them.” When Xcor said nothing further, his right-hand male muttered, “They have ways of communicating—”

“That we do not require. If you allow yourself to rely on externals, they become weapons over you. We have done just fine without such technology for centuries.”

“And this is a new era in a new place. Things are different here.”

Xcor glanced over his shoulder, trading the view of the city for the sight of his second in command. Throe, son of Throe, was a fine example of breeding, all perfect features, and comely body that, thanks to Xcor’s lessons, was now not merely decorative, but useful: For truth, he had grown hard over the years, finally earning the right to declare his sex as that of male.

Xcor smiled coldly. “If the Brothers’ tactics and methods are so successful, why did the race get raided?”

“Things happen.”

“And sometimes they are the result of mistakes—fatal ones.” Xcor resumed his perusal of the city. “You might consider how easily such errors can be made.”

“All I’m saying—”

“This is the problem with the glymera —always looking for the easy way out. I thought I beat that tendency out of you years ago. Do you require a refresher?”

As Throe shut the fuck up, Xcor smiled more broadly.

Focusing on the expanse of Caldwell, he knew that dark though the night was, his future was bright indeed.

And paved with the bodies of the Brotherhood.

“Where the hell are they finding all these recruits?” Qhuinn asked as he walked around the fight scene, his boots slapping through the black blood.

John barely heard the guy, even though his ears were working just fine. With the departure of those bastards, he was sticking by Tohr’s side. The Brother seemed to have recovered from that uncalled-for kick in the nuts Xcor had just nailed him with, but it was still waaaaay break time.

Tohr wiped his black blades off on his thighs. Took a deep breath. Seemed to pull out of an inner suck hole. “Ah… the only thing that makes sense is Manhattan. You need a big population. With a lot of bad seeds on the periphery.”

“Who the hell is this Fore-lesser ?”

“A little shit, last I heard.”

“Right up the Omega’s alley.”

“Smart, though.”

Just as John was going to broach the whole Cinderella-turning-into-a-pumpkin thing, his head shot around.

“More,” Tohr said on a growl.