Lover Reborn

Refocusing on his prey, Xcor began to close the distance.

Time to finish this work. Get fed. Go back out.

The commons they had entered was down by the river, and rather too well lit for Xcor’s tastes. Too out- upon-the-open as well: Dotted with picnic tables and round fifty-five-gallon drums for trash disposal, it didn’t offer much in the way of shelter from prying eyes, but at least the night was cold enough to drive the humans with any credibility indoors. There would always be transients around, of course. Fortunately, they tended to stay in their own worlds, and if they didn’t, no one would pay them any mind.

Up ahead, the lesser was on a concrete pathway that, instead of leading him to safety, was just going to deliver him to his demise—and he was ready for his final act. He was beginning to list from side to side, one arm throwing out uselessly for balance that would remain elusive, the other locked on its midsection. At this rate, it was going to drop to the ground soon, and where was the fun in that—

A sob broke through the muted sounds of the night.

And then another.

It was crying. The goddamn thing was crying like a female.

Xcor’s wave of anger rose so fast, he nearly choked. Abruptly, he resheathed his scythe and took out his steel dagger.

Once a matter of business, now this was personal.

At his will, the sidewalk’s lights on their long-necked poles started to go out one by one both in front of and behind the slayer, the darkness closing in until finally, through even his weakness and pain, he noticed that his time had come.

“Oh, fuck… no…” The thing spun around in the illumination of the last lamp. “Christ, no…”

His face was stark white, as if he had stage makeup on, but it was not because he had been a slayer long enough to turn pale. Young, only eighteen or twenty, he had tattoos around his neck and down his arms, and if memory served, he’d been fairly competent with a knife—although it had been obvious during hand-to-hand that that was more instinct than training.

Clearly he’d been an aggressor in his previous incarnation; his initial show of force had proven that he was used to opponents who backed down after a first strike. The time for his strength and ego had passed, however, and these pathetic tears proved what he was at his core.

As the final light, the one that was over him, went out, he screamed.

Xcor attacked with brutal force, launching his great weight into the air and latching onto the thing as he shoved it backward to the grass.

Clapping a palm on its face, he buried the knife in the shoulder and pulled away, ripping through tendon and muscle, shearing across bone. Hot breath exploded up as the lesser screamed again— proving anew that even the undead had pain receptors.

Xcor leaned down and put his mouth to the male’s ear. “Cry for me. Cry away… cry hard until you can’t breathe.”

The bastard took the direction and ran with it, weeping openly with great hoarse grabs of air and quaking exhalations. Reigning above the show, Xcor absorbed the weakness through his pores, pulling it in, holding it tight in his own lungs.

The hatred he felt went beyond the war, beyond this night and this moment. Soul deep, and marrow blistering, his disgust made him want to draw and quarter the former human.

But there was a more fitting end to this.

Flipping the thing over onto its stomach, he shoved both of his knees in between its tight thighs, and spread its legs as if it were a female about to get fucked. Rearing up over its prone body, he pushed its face into the grass.

And then he went to work.

No more raising the knife high and stabbing downward. Now was the time for precision and careful follow- through with his dagger.

As the lesser struggled pitifully, Xcor cut through the collar of its sleeveless shirt, then put his blade between his teeth and ripped the cloth in two, exposing the thing’s shoulders and back. A tattoo of some kind of urban scene was done with respectable competence, the ink shown off to great effect by the skin’s smooth surface—at least where black, oily blood didn’t cloud the picture.

Weeping and harsh gasping caused the image to distort and resume its shape, distort and resume, as if it were a moving picture poorly screened.

“Such a pity to ruin this piece,” Xcor drawled. “It must have taken a long time to get done. Must have hurt as well.”

Xcor put the blade’s razor point to the nape of the thing’s neck. Piercing the skin, he went ever deeper, until he was stopped by bone.

More crying.

He put his mouth to the fucker’s ear again. “I’m just revealing what everyone can see.”

With a sure and steady stroke, he drew the knife downward, tracing the orderly stacks of vertebra whilst his prey squealed like a pig. And then he shifted his knees to the back of the slayer’s legs, planted a palm on the thick of its shoulder… and reached in to lock a grip on the top of the spine.

What transpired as he threw all his strength upon his goal was nothing that a human could live through. The lesser, however, remained animated, even though afterward, respiration was no longer possible for him, and he would not be able to stand ever again: his core infrastructure, that which had defined his posture and his mobility, his height and girth, was now hanging from Xcor’s hand.

The slayer was still crying, tears seeping from its eyes.

Xcor sat back, and breathed heavily from the exertion. It would be a fine thing to leave this weakling here in its current state, its destiny to be a spineless waste forever, and he took a moment to enjoy the suffering and imprint this vision of punishment in his mind.

Remembering back through the years, he recalled being in a similar position. Reduced to raw emotion, down on the ground, naked and degraded.

You are as worthless as your face. Get out.

The Bloodletter had been coldly dismissive, his subordinates efficient and pitiless: Xcor’s arms and legs had been gripped and he had been carried to the mouth of the war camp’s cave—whereupon he had been tossed out as if they were removing horse excrement.

Alone and in the cold white snow of winter, Xcor had lain where he had landed much as this slayer was, incapacitated, at the mercy of others. He had been faceup, however.

Indeed, that hadn’t been the first time he’d been cast out. Starting with the female who had birthed him; then going through to the last orphanage he had stayed in, he’d had a long history of being denied. The war camp had been his final chance to find any community, and he had refused to be expelled from its confines.

He’d had to earn his way back in by bearing pain. And even the Bloodletter had been impressed at what he’d proven he could withstand.

Tears were for the young and females and castrated males. Too bad the lesson was wasted on this piece of—

“You’ve been busy.”

Xcor looked up. Throe had come out of nowhere, no doubt materializing to the scene.

“Are the women ready,” Xcor demanded gruffly.

“It’s time.”

Xcor endeavored to gather his strength. He had to take care of this mess—there was no leaving a twitching corpse behind for humans to find and extrapolate over until their heads exploded.

“There is a lavatory o’er there.” Throe pointed across the lawn. “Finish this and let us wash you.”

“As if I am a babe?” Xcor glared at his lieutenant. “I think not. You go back to the whores. I shall be there shortly.”

“You can’t bring your trophies.”

“And where would you suggest I leave them.” His tone suggested “up your ass” was an option, at least from his point of view. “Go.”

Throe disapproved, and disagreed, but nonetheless—and per protocol—he nodded and spirited away.