Lover Reborn

higher premium. He had yet to find one who was willing to service them, even though he was able to pay handsomely.

Although… considering Xcor’s condition, mayhap even that might not be enough. What they needed was a miracle—

Unbidden, an image of that spectacular Chosen he’d fed from at the Brotherhood’s facility came to mind. Her blood would be a lifesaver for Xcor right now. Literally. Except obviously it was not obtainable on so many levels. How would he be able to reach out to her, for one thing. And even if he could connect with her, she would undoubtedly know he was the enemy…

Or would she? She’d called him a soldier of worth to his face—mayhap the Brotherhood had kept his identity from her to insulate her delicate sensibilities—

No more sound. Nothing.

“Xcor?” he called out as he sat up in a rush. “Xcor—”

At that point, there was another round of coughing and then the labored breathing resumed.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had no idea how the others slept through all this. Then again, they had been fighting for so long on nothing but human blood that sleep was their only chance for any kind of recharge. Throe’s adrenal gland had overridden that imperative as of two in the afternoon, however; whereupon he had begun his vigil over Xcor’s respiratory process.

As he reached for his cell phone to check the time, he struggled to focus on the numbers that were displayed, his mind frantic.

Ever since that incident between them in the summer, Xcor had been a different male. Still autocratic, demanding, and full of calculations that could shock and stun… but his stare was different when he looked upon his soldiers. He was more connected to all of them, his eyes opened to some new level of relating, the likes of which he hadn’t appeared to have been aware previously.

Shame to lose the bastard now.

Rubbing his eyes, Throe finally got a read on the hour: five thirty-eight. The sun was probably just below the horizon, the dusk no doubt lingering in the sky to the east. It would be better to wait for the darkness to truly arrive, but he had no more time to waste—especially given that he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Shifting off his bunk, he rose to his full height, walked across the way and shook the mound of blankets Zypher was under.

“Go ’way,” the soldier mumbled. “Still have thirty minutes…”

“You need to get the others out of here,” Throe whispered.

“Do I.”

“And you must stay behind.”

“Must I.”

“I’m going to try to find a female to feed Xcor.”

That got the soldier’s attention: Zypher’s head lifted—down at the other end. “In truth?”

Throe shuffled to the foot of the bunk so they could meet eye-to-eye. “Make sure he stays here, and be prepared to drive him to my coordinates.”

“Throe, whatever are you about?”

Without reply, he turned away and began pulling leather upon his personage, his hands shaking from Xcor’s treacherous state… and the fact that if his prayer was answered, he would be in the company of that female once again.

Glancing down at his fighting clothes, he hesitated… dearest Virgin Scribe, he wished he had something with which to clothe himself other than leather. A lovely suit of worsted wool with a cravat. Proper shoes with laces. Underwear.

“Wherever are you going?” Zypher asked sharply.

“It matters not. What I find is the only important thing.”

“Tell me you are taking weapons.”

Throe paused anew. If for some reason this backfired, he might well need armaments. But he didn’t want to frighten her—assuming he could in fact reach her somehow and get her to come to him. Such a delicate female was she…

Some concealed things, he decided. A gun or two. Some knives. Nothing that she could see.

“Good,” Zypher murmured as he began checking his weapons.

Mere minutes later, Throe ascended from the basement, and burst out the kitchen’s exterior door—

Hissing and throwing up his forearms, he was forced to jump back into the dark house. With his eyes stinging and tearing up, he cursed and went for the sink, running cold water and splashing it upon his face.

It seemed forever until his phone’s display informed him that an exit was safer to attempt, and this time he opened the door with far less bravado.

Oh, the relief of the night.

Leaping out from his confines, he landed upon the good earth and filled his lungs with the cold, damp air of autumn. Closing his still throbbing eyes, he focused himself inward, and spirited himself away from the house, casting his component molecules north and east until he reformed in a field of meadow grass marked in the center with a large, flame-tipped maple tree.

Standing before the great trunk, underneath the red-and-gold leaf cover, he surveyed the landscape with his razor-sharp senses. This bucolic spot was far, far away from the battleground of downtown, and not even close to any compound of the Brothers or outpost of the Lessening Society—at least that he was aware of.

To be sure of his read on the site, though, he waited, as motionless as the big tree behind him, but not nearly as serene—he was prepared to engage with anything and anyone.

Nobody and nothing came upon him, however.

Some thirty minutes later, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged upon the ground, linking his hands together, and settling in.

He was well aware of the peril of this path he was embarking upon. But in some battles, you had to make your own weapons, even if you ran the risk of them blowing up in your face: There was grave danger in this, but if there was one thing you could count on with the Brotherhood, it was an old-fashioned protection of their females.

He’d had the jaw shots to prove it.

So he was banking upon the fact that, if he did reach the Chosen, she wouldn’t know his true identity.

He was also forcing himself to push aside any guilt at the position he was putting her in.

Before he closed his eyes, he looked around again. There were deer at the far edge of the meadow by the forest of trees, their delicate hooves brushing through fallen leaves, their heads bobbing as they meandered along. An owl sounded off to the right, the hooting carried upon the light, cold breeze to his perked ears. Far in front of him, on a road that he could not see, a pair of headlights drifted along, likely a farm truck.

No lessers.

No Brothers.

No one but him.

Lowering his lids, he pictured the Chosen and recaptured those moments when her blood was going into him, reviving him, calling him back from the brink his life had trembled upon. He saw her with great clarity and focused on the taste and the scent of her, the very essence of who she was.

And then he prayed, prayed as he never had before, even when he had lived a civilized life. He prayed so hard his brows tightened and his heart pounded and he couldn’t breathe. He prayed with a desperation that left a part of him wondering whether this was to save Xcor… or simply so he could see her once again.

He prayed until he lost his train of words and all he had was a feeling in his chest, a howling need that he could only hope was a strong enough signal for her to respond to, if she indeed got it.

Throe kept it up for as long as he could, until he was numb and cold and so exhausted his head hung no longer out of reverence, but out of tiredness.

He kept at it until the persistent silence around him intruded upon his quest… and told him that he had to accept failure.

When he finally reopened his eyes, he found that moonlight had sneaked under the canopy he sat beneath, the sun’s opposite having arrived for its evening shift of watching o’er the earth—