Lover Reborn

When he’d fed from the Chosen Selena, it hadn’t bothered him as much—maybe because he’d still been in shell-shock mode… more likely because he hadn’t been aroused in the slightest, before, during or afterward.

Fucking hell, he was so ready for a fight tonight.

And fewer than three blocks later, he found what he was in search of: the scent of lessers.

As he and the boys fell into a silent jog, he didn’t get out any of his weapons. With the mood he was rocking, hand-to-hand was what he was after, and if he was lucky—

The scream that cut through the dull sounds of distant traffic was not made by a female. Low and ragged, it could only have come out of a masculine throat.

Screw the quiet-approach routine.

Breaking into a sprint, he shot around the corner of an alley and ran smack into a wall of scents that he had no trouble processing: vampire blood—two kinds, both male. Slayer blood—one kind, rank and nasty.

Sure enough, up ahead, there was a male vampire down on the asphalt, two slayers up on their feet, and one lesser lurching around, having obviously just been nailed in the face. Which explained the holler.

That was all the intel he needed to go on.

Bolting forward, he sent himself flying and locked onto one of the lessers, catching the bastard around the neck with his arm and Pop-Tarting him into the air with a yank. As gravity took care of biz and slammed the enemy down onto the pavement faceup, the temptation was to kick the crap out of him—but with somebody injured in the middle of the alley, this was an emergency situation. He outted one of his daggers, nailed the fucker in the chest, and reestablished his fighting stance before the flash faded.

Over on the left, John was taking care of the lesser with the leak in his cheek, stabbing him back to his unholy maker. And Qhuinn had picked up on number three’s option, swinging him around and throwing him headfirst at a wall.

With no more of the enemy to engage, at least for the moment, Tohr jogged over to the downed male.

“Throe,” he breathed as he got a load of the guy.

The soldier was on his back, clutching his gut with the hand that wasn’t on his dagger. Lot of blood. Lot of pain, given that tortured expression.

“John! Qhuinn!” Tohr called out. “Keep your eyes peeled for company of the Bastard variety.”

As he got a whistle and a “Roger that” in reply, he got down on his haunches, and felt for a pulse. The flickering he found was not a good sign.

Easing back, he met a pair of sky blue eyes. “You gonna tell me who did this to you? Or let me play Q and A all by my lonesome.”

Throe opened his mouth, coughed some blood, and closed his eyes.

“Okaaay, I’m going to guess your boss. How’m I doing?” Tohr lifted up the guy’s hand and got a gander at the gut wound. Make that wounds. “You know, you never belonged with that motherfucker.”

No response, but the guy wasn’t out cold—his respiration was too quick, the panting indicating the kind of pain that came only with consciousness. Whatever, though. Xcor was the only explanation. The Band of Bastards always fought in a single squadron, and they never would have left a soldier behind—unless Xcor had ordered them to.

Besides, two kinds of vampire blood? Had to have been a dagger-to-dagger conflict.

“What happened? The pair of you get into it over what to have for Last Meal? Dress code? Or was it something more serious. Homer versus Fred Flintstone?”

He made quick work disarming the soldier, removing two good, serviceable guns, plenty of ammo, multiple knives, a length of choking wire, and—

“Watch it,” he barked as Throe’s arm came up. Catching it easily, he forced it back down with hardly any effort. “Quick moves are going to make me finish the job Xcor started.”

“Shin blade…” came the croaked response.

Tohr popped up the pants, and, hello, more metal.

“At least he kept you well supplied,” Tohr muttered as he got out his cell phone and dialed the compound.

“I have a situation,” he said when V picked up.

After some quick back-and-forth with his brother, he and Vishous decided to bring the SOB to the training center. After all, the enemy of your enemy could be your friend… under the right circumstances. Besides, the mhis that surrounded the compound could scramble anything from GPS to Santa Claus. No way the Band of Bastards would find the guy, if this happened to be a setup.

Ten minutes later, Butch arrived with the Escalade.

Throe didn’t have much of an opinion about being lifted up, carried over, and laid down in the backseat: The fucker was finally out cold. The good news was that it meant he wasn’t an immediate threat—but it would be a bene to get him back alive.

Bargaining chip? Intel source? Footstool…

The repurposing options were endless.

“Just the kind of passenger I like,” Butch said as he got behind the wheel again. “No chance he’s going to try to backseat drive.”

Tohr nodded. “I’m coming with you—”

The first gunshot that went off came from John’s forty, and Tohr immediately went back into fight mode, throwing the Escalade’s door shut, at the same time he went for his own weapon.

Second shot was from the enemy, whoever it was.

Lunging for cover behind the bulletproof SUV, Tohr nonetheless pounded on the quarter panel to get the cop to take the fuck off. Throe was too valuable to lose over something as ho-hum as a squadron of lessers. Worse, it could be the Bastards.

As the brother hit the gas, Tohr was left with his ass in the breeze, but he took care of that quick, ducking into a roll, becoming a tight, moving target that would be harder to hit.

Bullets followed him, except the guy with the trigger finger didn’t know how to lead prey—the pinging off the pavement closed in on him, but not quick enough. And as he came up to a Dumpster, he tore behind the thing, prepared to return fire, as soon as he knew where his boys were.

Silence in the alley—

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Dripping, like something was leaking out of the iron belly of the massive trash bin, made him frown and take a quick look down.

It wasn’t the Dumpster.

Shit. He’d been hit.

Like a computer running a scan, he went into his body and identified the sources of the damage. Torso, left side, at the ribs. Upper arm, underside, four inches below his pit. And… that was about it.

He hadn’t even felt the hits, and he wasn’t drained by them, not by the pain or the blood loss. Goddamn feeding—it was like pouring jet fuel in your tank. And of course, it helped that the bullets hadn’t caught anything important—they were surface grazes only.

Putting his head out around the Dumpster, he couldn’t see anyone in the alley, but he could sense slayers all around, taking cover. At least he didn’t smell any fresh blood other than his own. So John and Qhuinn were okay, thank God.

The lull that followed got on his nerves.

Especially as it persisted.

Man, someone had to kick this fight into high gear again—Butch was heading back with a ticking time bomb in his cargo hold, and Tohr wanted to be there when the brother got to the compound.

More of the Jeopardy! theme.

From out of nowhere, that god-awful scene from the butler’s pantry hit him again, his hunger and No’One’s struggles and his body’s reaction ripping through him—

A great clawing anger bit him in the ass, ruining his concentration, pulling him out of the fight—and putting