Lover Revealed

'This is where I come in.'

Rehv glared at the guy. 'Fuck that, this is my kill—'

'No, it isn't.' Butch went down to his knees beside the lesser and…

Rehv clamped his mouth shut and stared with fascination as Butch leaned over and started to suck something out of the slayer. Except there wasn't time to enjoy the Twilight Zone episode. Another lesser came gunning for Butch, and Rehv had to leap back as Rhage took the thing down in a tackle.

Rehv heard more footsteps and faced off at yet another lesser. Good. This one he would handle, he thought with a hard grin.

Man, symphaths loved to fight, they really did. And he was no exception to his nature.

Mr. X pounded down the alley where the brawl was happening. Though he couldn't see or hear anything, he sensed the buffering around the scene, so he knew this was the right place.

Van cursed from behind him. 'What the hell is this? I can feel the fight—'

'We're about to penetrate the mhis. Get ready.'

The two kept running and hit what felt like a wall of cold water. As they burst through the barrier, the fight was revealed: Two Brothers. Six slayers. A couple of cowering civilians. A very large male in a full-length fur coat… and Butch O'Neal.

The former cop was just lifting himself up from the ground, looking sick as a dog and positively glowing with the master's footprint. As Mr. X met O'Neal's eyes, the Fore-lesser skidded to a halt, overcome by a sense of accord.

And irony of ironies, at that very instant when the connection was made, at that precise moment when there was an exchange of recognition, the Omega called from the other side.

Coincidence? Who cared. Mr. X pushed off the demand, ignoring the itching in his skin. 'Van,' he said softly, 'it's time for you to show your stuff. Go get O'Neal.'

'About fucking time.' Van bolted for the newly born vampire, and the two of them squared off, circling each other in the manner of fighters. At least until Van stopped moving, becoming nothing more than a breathing statue.

Because Mr. X had willed it so.

Man, he had to smile as he caught the panicked expression on Van's face. Yeah, losing control of all your large-muscle groups certainly did freak a guy out, didn't it.

And O'Neal was surprised as well. He closed in with care, wary but obviously ready to take advantage of the freeze-frame Mr. X was imposing on his subordinate. The takedown happened fast. In a quick move, O'Neal put an armlock around Van's neck, flipped him over, and pinned him down to the ground.

Mr. X didn't give a shit about sacrificing an asset like Van. He needed to know what happened when— holy shit!

O'Neal… O'Neal had opened his mouth and was inhaling and… Van Dean was just sucked into nothingness, absorbed, swallowed, owned. Unto dust.

Relief flooded into Mr. X. Yes… yes, the prophecy was fulfilled. The prophecy had been realized in the skin of an Irishman who had been turned. Thank you, God.

Mr. X took a halting, desperate step forward. Now… now would be the peace he sought, his loophole realized, his freedom ensured. O'Neal was the one.

Except Mr. X was suddenly intercepted by a Brother who had a goatee and tattoos on his face. The big bastard came out of nowhere like a boulder, hitting X so hard his legs buckled. They started to fight, but X was terrified he'd be stabbed instead of consumed by O'Neal. So when another slayer jumped into the fray and grabbed the Brother, Mr. X disengaged and disappeared into the periphery.

The Omega's call was a screaming demand now, that god-awful tickling a roar across Mr. X's flesh, but he wasn't answering. He was going to get himself killed tonight. But only in the right way.

Butch lifted his head from his latest victim's ash pile and began to retch in horrid, full-torso heaves. His body felt as it had back when he'd just woken up in the clinic however long ago. Contaminated. Stained. Dirty beyond bleaching.

God… what if he'd taken in too much? What if he'd reached the point of no return?

As he vomited, he felt, though did not see, V come over. Forcing his head up, Butch groaned, 'Help me…'

'I'm going to, trahyner. Give me your hand.' As Butch held his palm up in despair, Vishous whipped off his glove and grabbed on good and hard. V's energy, that beautiful, white light, poured down Butch's arm and ripped through him in a blast, cleansing, renewing.

United by their clasped hands, they became again the two halves, the light and the dark. The Destroyer and the Savior. A whole.

Butch took all V had to give. And when it was over, he didn't want to let go, afraid if the connection was broken the evil would somehow come back.

'You okay?' V said softly.

'I am now.' God, his voice was hoarse as hell from the inhaling. Maybe also from the gratitude.

V gave a yank and Butch shot upright to his feet. As he let himself fall back against the alley's brick wall, he discovered the fighting was over.

'Nice work for a civilian,' Rhage said.

Butch glanced to the left, thinking the brother was talking to him, but then he saw Rehvenge. The male was slowly bending over and picking up a sheath from the ground. With an elegant move, he took the red-bladed sword in his hand and slid it home to the pummel. Ah… that cane was also a weapon.

'Thanks,' Rehv replied. Then his amethyst eyes shifted over to Butch.

As the two of them stared at each other, Butch realized they hadn't really met up since the night Marissa had fed.

'Hey, man,' Butch said, putting his palm out.

Rehvenge walked over, leaning heavily on his cane. As the two of them shook, everyone took a deep breath.

'So, cop,' Rehv said, 'mind if I ask what you were doing to those slayers?'

A whimpering sound cut off any reply, causing them all to look at the Dumpster across the way.

'You can come out, boys,' Rhage said. 'Place is clear.'

The hotshot blond pre-trans and his rented meat shuffled into the light. Both of them looked like they'd been put through a dishwasher: they were damp with sweat in spite of the cold, their hair and clothes all messed up.

Rehvenge's hard face registered surprise. 'Lash, why aren't you in training now? Your father's going to have a shit fit that you were down here instead of—'

'He's taking a hiatus from classes,' Rhage muttered dryly.

'To deal drugs,' Butch added. 'Check his pockets.'

Rhage went in for some frisk action, and Lash was too shocked out to protest. The result was a wad of cash as big as the kid's head and a handful of little cellophane packets.

Rehv's eyes glowed with angry purple light. 'Give that shit to me, Hollywood—the powder, not the green.' When Rhage handed the stuff over, Rehv cracked one of the packets, licked his pinkie, and stuck it inside. After he put his finger on his tongue, he grimaced and spat. Then he jabbed his cane at the kid. 'You're not welcome here anymore.'

That little news flash seemed to shake Lash out of his stupor. 'Why not? It's a free country.'

'First of all, this is my house, that's why. Second, not that I need any other reason, the shit in those bags is contaminated and I'm willing to bet you're responsible for the rash of ODs we've had lately. So like I said, you're not welcome here anymore. I won't have punks like you spoiling my stream of commerce.' Rehv stuffed the baggies in his coat pocket and glanced at Rhage. 'What are you going to do with him?'

'Drive him home.'