Lover Reborn

Abruptly, he stopped and looked at his chest.

His daggers were strapped on. His guns under his arms. His ammo belt locked on his hips.

What the hell was he doing? This shit got wet and it was useless—

That wasn’t Wellsie.

Holy shit, that was not his shellan.…

With a shout, Tohr jacked upright, ripping free of the dream. Slapping his hands on his thighs, he expected to find wet leather. But no, none of it had been real.

His arousal was back, however. And a thought he refused to give credence to surfaced and stank in the back of his mind.

As he stared down at his sex and cursed, the strong length of it made him think of the countless times he’d used it for pleasure and fun… and procreation.

Now he just wanted it to go limp and stay that way.

Settling back against the pillows, sorrow settled on him like a physical weight as he recognized the truth that the angel had spoken. He had not, in fact, let his Wellsie go on any level.

He… was the problem.

Summer

TWENTY

From the vantage point behind binoculars, the mansion on the far side of the Hudson River looked enormous, a massive stack-on-stack of floors that sat boldly upon a rocky bluff. On every of its levels, lights glowed through glass panels, as if the thing had no solid walls.

“Quite a palace,” Zypher remarked in the thick, balmy breeze.

“Aye,” came a reply over on the left.

Xcor dropped the binocs from his eyes. “Too much exposure to daylight. ’Tis a roasting waiting to happen.”

“Mayhap he kitted out the basement,” Zypher said. “With more of those marble tubs…”

Given the tone of his voice, the soldier was imagining females of different sorts in water with suds, and Xcor shot him a glare before resuming the watch.

Such a waste this was. Assail—son of one of the greatest Brothers there had ever been—could have been a fighter, a warrior, mayhap even a Brother, but his fallen Chosen mother had forced another path upon him.

Although one could argue if the bastard had had any cock at all, he would have forged his own destiny in pursuits other than those of marble tubing. As it stood, however, he was simply another useless drain upon the species, a dandy with naught worthwhile to do with his nights.

Although that could all change this evening.

Under these clouded skies, against the backdrop of flashes of lightning, this male was significant, at least for a short time. Granted, the circumstances of his relevancy might cost him his life, but if the history books served their purposes, he could well be remembered for playing a small role in the great turning point of the race.

Not that he knew any of this, of course.

Then again, one didn’t expect chum to be aware it was attracting sharks.

Scanning the rolling grounds once again, Xcor decided the lack of trees and shrubs was the result of the clearing process prior to construction. No doubt an aristocrat would want manicured gardens; the fact that it made the house more difficult to get up close to was not the kind of thing Assail would consider.

The good news was that although it was likely there was steel in the structure of the house—as part of support beams, floor pinnings, roof joists—at least one could get in and out through all that glass.

“Ah, yes, here is the proud homeowner now,” Xcor growled at the figure of a male striding out into the grand living room.

Not even drapes to hide his presence. It was as if he were a hamster in a cage.

The male deserved to die for being this stupid, and indeed, on Xcor’s back, his scythe began to hum a little dirge.

Xcor increased the binoculars’ magnification. Assail was taking something out of his breast pocket—a cigar. And naturally, the lighter was a gold one. He probably thought fire, like packaged meat, came only from stores.

It was going to be a pleasure to kill him.

Along with the others who would soon show up here.

Indeed, the glymera’s Council had effectively stonewalled Xcor and his Band of Bastards. No invitation to a meeting. No greeting by its leahdyre, Rehvenge. Not even an official response to the letter that had been sent in the spring.

At first, this had frustrated him to the point of violence. But then a little birdie had begun to chirp in his ear, and another path had been revealed.

The best weapon in a war was often not a dagger, a gun, or even a cannon. It was something that was invisible and deadly—yet not poisonous gas. It was something that was utterly weightless and yet had gravity beyond measure.

Information, solid, verified information, from a source inside your enemy’s camp, was atomic-bomb powerful.

His missive to the Council had in fact been received, and what was more, it was being taken seriously. The great Blind King, whilst saying nothing, had immediately commenced meeting with the heads of all the remaining bloodlines—in person, at their places of residence.

Bold move in a time of war—and it proved Xcor’s challenge had a basis in reality: A king did not risk his life like that unless he was out of touch with his subjects and being forced to reconnect.

In retrospect, it was even better than a meeting with the Council. There were a limited number of its members left, and all of them had known abodes. Wrath had already had audiences with the majority, and, thanks to that little birdie, Xcor was well aware of who was left.

Shifting his focus around, he assessed the roof. The porches. The chimney on the near side.

According to Xcor’s source, Assail had arrived back in the spring, assumed ownership of this sieve of a homestead, and… that was all the aristocrats knew. Well, other than the odd notables that the male had brought no one with him—no family, no staff, no shellan—and that he kept to himself. Both were unusual for a member of the glymera, but then mayhap he was waiting to see how things fared in this new environment afore bringing his blood to him and entertaining others of his ilk.…

There had been a younger brother, hadn’t there? Also coddled by that fallen Chosen mother of theirs. Perhaps a half sister of some ill repute?

Behind him, Xcor heard his soldiers stretch, their leather creaking, their weapons shifting. Up above, storm clouds continued to release intermittent flashes of light, with the base drum of thunder remaining as yet in the distance.

He should have assumed from the very beginning that it would come down to this: If he wanted Wrath off the throne, he was going to have to do it himself. Relying on the glymera for anything more than unfounded delusions of grandeur had been a mistake.

At least he had his in on the Council. In the aftermath, when things got messy, he was going to need the support. Fortunately, there were more people who agreed with him than did not: Wrath was nothing but a figurehead, and whereas in times of peace that was tolerable, in this era of war and strife it was insupportable.

The Old Ways could keep that male where he didn’t belong for just so long. In the meantime, Xcor would wait for the proper moment, and strike decisively.