Lover Reborn

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.

FOUR

“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.

Yeah, but that wasn’t the problem.

John’s shellan was out in the alleys.

Instantly, everything went from his mind; his toilet bowl flushed. What the hell was she doing out? She wasn’t on rotation. She should be home—

As the stench of fresh, breathing lesser entered his nose, a deep inner conviction clawed into his chest: She shouldn’t be out here at all.

“I need to get my coat,” Tohr said. “Stay here and I’ll go with you.”

Fat. Chance.

The instant Tohr dematerialized back to the bridge, John took off, his shitkickers pounding the asphalt as Qhuinn shouted something that ended with, “You cocksucker!”

Whatever, unlike Tohr’s wild, crazy, maniac diversions, this was important.

John cut through the alley, shot down a side street, jumped across two lines of parked cars, bolted into a detour.…

And there she was, his mate, his lover, his life, squaring off against a quartet of lessers in front of an abandoned rooming house—flanked by a big, loudmouthed blond traitor.

Rhage should never have recruited her. John had said reinforcements—he sure as shit hadn’t meant his Xhex. And second of all, he’d told them to stay home, at Tohr’s request. What the fuck were they—

“Hey!” Rhage called out cheerfully. Like he was inviting them to a party. “Just thought we’d take the air tonight in beeeeautiful downtown Caldwell.”

Right. This was one moment when being mute sucked. You fucking ass—

Xhex turned her head around to look at him—and that was when it happened. One of the lessers was tucking a knife, and the sonofabitch had both a good arm and great aim: The blade flew through the air, hilt over point.

Until it came to a sudden stop… in Xhex’s chest.

For the second time in one evening, John screamed without making a sound.

As his body surged forward, Xhex whipped around to the slayer, an expression of rage tightening her features. Without losing a beat, she grabbed onto the handle and tore the weapon out of her own flesh—but how long would her strength last? That was a direct hit—

Jesus Christ! She was going to try to take care of the bastard. Even injured, she was going to go after him tooth and nail… and get herself killed in the process.

The one thought that shot through John’s mind was that he didn’t want to be like Tohr. He didn’t want to walk that stretch of hell on earth.

He didn’t want to lose his Xhex tonight, tomorrow night, any night. Ever.

Opening his mouth, he roared all of the air out of his lungs. He wasn’t conscious of dematerializing, but he was on that lesser so fast that going ghost and re-forming was the only explanation. Locking onto the thing’s throat with his palm, he pushed the piece of shit backward off its feet and let his own weight follow. When they hit the ground, he head-butted its face, smashing the nose, and likely breaking a cheekbone or an eye socket.

No stopping there.

As black blood splashed up all over him, he bared his fangs and tore into the enemy with his teeth while he held the thing down. The destructive instinct was so finely tuned and focused, he would have kept going until he was chewing on pavement—but then his rational side sent up a hi-how’re-ya.

He needed to assess Xhex’s injuries.

Taking out a dagger, he raised his arm high and locked eyes with the slayer. Or what was left of the lesser’s pair of peepers.

John buried that blade so deep and hard that after the flash and bang faded, he needed a two-handed grip and a full-body pull to free the weapon out of the asphalt. Scrambling around, he prayed to see Xhex—

She was more than up on her feet. She was engaging another one of the quartet—even though there was a growing red stain on the front of her chest, and her right arm was hanging loose.

John nearly lost his mind.