He was still going to lose, however. There were too many who were too expert: Even as he put them down on the ground, they never stayed for long, and it was an easy equation that his stamina would be bested by their number.
The solution to the disparity came as unexpectedly as that log.
At first, he knew not what flashed and thus caught his eye. But then he saw that there was some kind of a huge blade on the far side of the fire...a weapon larger than he had e'er seen, leaning against a massive stone.
Just as one of the males went to jump upon him, Xcor took a running start and sent his body flying directly over the flames, the somersaulting tuck sparing him the heat, his landing as coordinated as the take-off had been.
Propelling himself toward that massive curved blade, he grabbed for the handle attached to it, and--
It was a scythe. A common field-tilling device, its blade affixed to a wooden superstructure by leather bindings tied tight as bone around marrow. There was little time for an orientation to its attributes. But it turned out he needed none.
Tucking the thing into place and grasping the steering peg, he...
Went after each and every one of them.
At first, they laughed and taunted him. But after he cut the first one nearly in half, the tactics changed. Guns were taken out, bullets discharged with great noise and little accuracy, the lead balls flying by him. And then there was a coordination struck among the warriors that brought them into a formation of attack.
It didn't matter. One by one, he killed them, ridding them of arms, or legs, of gut, of groin, blood flying in the dark night, coating him as clothes did.
Until there was a final warrior--which indeed turned out to be the bearded one he had hit in the head with the log. And as soon as the male determined his brethren were deceased or close to dying, he took off through the woods, running as fast as he could go.
Xcor's moccasins made no noise as he tracked the bleeding fighter at quite a pace, he and the injured male crashing through the brush and trees, crisscrossing back and forth as the warrior attempted to get to the horses. Xcor was likewise wounded and leaking, but for some reason, he couldn't feel his deficits. He was both numb and energized.
And then it was over.
The male came up to a rock face that he could not climb, nor could he get around because of a steep cliff.
Xcor knew he had to finish the job.
And it pained him.
"You take what you want," the panting fighter said as he spit to the side. "Just take what you want. I have armaments. Those horses back there are worth much. Leave me and I shall leave you."
Xcor wished that could be the way things ended for the pair of them. He was aware, however, that if he let the fighter live, he would be a marked male. This was a witness who had to be eradicated, lest this fighter find reinforcements and come after the one who had slain his comrades.
"Just take--"
"Forgive me for what I must do."
With that, Xcor sank back on his heels, leapt forth and swung the weapon in a circle, slicing through the arm that the male raised in defense and catching the neck cleanly.
For the rest of his nights, Xcor would remember the sight of the head turning stump over crown through thin air, the spooling blood from the open veins at the throat red like wine.
As the wind kicked up, the body went down like the inanimate object it now was, and abruptly, the scythe became too heavy for Xcor to hold. The farm implement that he had turned into a weapon landed at his feet, its blade dripping.
Xcor tried to get breath into his burning lungs, and as he looked up to the heavens above, his courage and purpose failed him and hot tears escaped the corners of his eyes.
Oh, how the scent of the blood he had spilled mixed with the earthy smell of grass and moss and lichen--
He didn't know what hit him. One moment, he was contemplating the sorrow of what he had wrought. The next, he was flat on his back...
...pinned in place by the most terrifying vampire he had ever seen.
Huge, so huge were the shoulders, that Xcor could not see the sky any longer. And the face was unspeakably evil, the features twisted into a sly smile that promised suffering first, then death. And the eyes...soulless, filled with a cold intelligence and a heated hatred.
This was the leader wolf of the pack, Xcor thought. Just like the one who had come to his open cottage door all those many nights ago.
"Well, well, well," came a voice that was deep as thunder, sharp as a thousand daggers. "And to think they call me the Bloodletter..."
--
With a gasp, Xcor jerked upright on his hips. For a split second, he knew not where he was and looked about in a panic.
Gone were the cave walls, the shelves of jars, the gurney, and his guard of Brothers. In their place...an enormous TV screen that was currently black as a hole in the galaxy.
Shaking his head, it all came back to him...Vishous's abrupt change of mind, Layla returning unto them in the forest, the Chosen's glorious gift of her vein. Then that horrible ride out of the pines to the slippery road that had taken them into this suburban neighborhood to this suburban house.
Layla was upstairs. He could hear her footsteps o'erhead. And he had the impression of Vishous being gone.
Shifting his legs from the leather cushions, he regarded the dirt trail he'd left down the stairs and across the pale gray rug to where he had all but collapsed. There were pine needles and mud on the sofa as well...and also all over Layla's white robing that hung over there on the back of a chair.
The cloth that had adorned her was ruined, stained with blood and debris.
Bit of a theme of his in her life, wasn't it.
Gritting his teeth, he stood up and peered down a shallow hall. There were two open doors, and as he lurched over to them, he assessed the pair of bedroom suites. He chose the one that did not carry Layla's scent, and used the light that streamed in from the corridor's fixture to progress past a king-size bed and into a bathroom that--
Oh...heated floor. Heated marble floor.
After so much suffering, first from the head injury and strokes he had had, and then those frigid twenty-four hours in the forest, Xcor faltered as he felt a pleasing warmth emanate up from the bare soles of his feet.
Closing his eyes, he swayed in the darkness, every instinct he had screaming for him to lie down on the marble and rest. Except then he thought of the mess he had tracked into this house, all that mud and filth.
Snapping back to attention, he flipped on the light switch by the bathroom's door--and promptly cursed and shielded his face with his forearm. As his retinas adjusted, he would have preferred not to look at himself in the mirror over the sinks, but that was inevitable as he lowered his arm.
"Dearest Fade," he whispered.
The male staring back at him was nearly unrecognizable. The gaunt, pale, bearded face, the hollowed-out ribs and gut, the loose skin that hung under his jaw, his pecs, his arms. His hair was jagged, having grown out in strange patches, and there seemed to be dirt and blood in every one of his pores, all over his body.
Fates, when one was generally clean, a brisk hand towel applied o'er a sink with plenty of soap could do as a freshen-up. In his current condition? He required a commercial car wash. Mayhap an industrial hose.
The idea of Layla seeing him thus made him cringe and he readily turned away from his reflection, cranking on the shower in its glass partition. The hot water came up quickly, but before he stepped under it, he opened a couple of cabinets and drawers. The toothbrush and toothpaste he found were very much appreciated, as were the soap, shampoo, and conditioner.
He also took a fresh razor and shaving cream into the stall with him.
The simple act of brushing his teeth nearly made him cry. It had been so long since his mouth had tasted fresh. And then the shave...ridding himself of the scratchy growth across his cheek, jaws, and chin made him grateful to the company which had made the razor. And then the sh
ampoo. He did that twice, and let the conditioner sit as he scrubbed all of his skin with soap.
There was no reaching his back fully, but he did the best he could.
When he finally stepped out, there was a wool blanket's worth of condensation on the mirror. A benefit, verily, given how he loathed his reflection. Drying off, he wondered where he could find some clothes--and indeed, he found them in the closet in that bedroom: Black nylon pants long enough for his legs, with a pull string that ensured they fit his now-withered waist and hips. A black T-shirt that was wide enough for the bones of his shoulders, but that bagged all over the rest of him. A sweatshirt that had something written across the front.
He didn't find any shoes, but this was more than he could have hoped for.
As he stepped from the bedroom, he expected to have to go upstairs.
The trip was unnecessary. The Chosen Layla was sitting in the padded armchair beside the sofa, a tray with steaming soup, a plate of crackers, and a tumbler of iced tea on the low table in front of the TV.
Her eyes went to his, but didn't stay there. They traveled down him as if she were surprised he had had the strength to shower and get dressed.
"I brought you food," she said softly. "You must be so hungry."
"Aye."
And yet he found himself unable to move. For indeed, he had planned on saying good-bye to her up in the kitchen.
He could not stay here with her. Much as he wanted to.
"Come sit down." She indicated where he had been lying before. And of course, she had tidied up that mess, the dirt that he had left wiped off by some manner of sponge or paper towel. "You have to eat something."
"I must go."
Layla bowed her head, and as she did, the highlights in her blond hair caught the illumination of the fixture overhead. "I know. But...before you do."
In his mind, he heard her voice say, Make love to me.
"Please eat this," she whispered.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vishous was in a nasty fucking mood when he got back to the Brotherhood mansion, and the very biggest part of him just wanted to go to the Pit and crack open a bottle of Grey Goose. Or six. Maybe twelve.
But as he re-formed in the courtyard, and stood in the cold wind by the fountain that had been drained and tarped for winter, he knew that as much as he wanted to escape the situation he'd voluntarily put himself in, he couldn't bail on the mess he'd created.
Striding forward, he hit the stone steps up to the great entrance of the mansion, and checked out the gargoyles perched so high above on the roofline. What he wouldn't give to be one of those inanimate bastards, nothing to do or worry about but sitting up there and occasionally having a pigeon shit on your head.
Actually, that probably sucked.
Whatever.
Yanking the door open, he stepped into the vestibule and shoved his mug into the security camera. When Fritz opened up and did that cheery greeting thing the butler always did, it was all Vishous could do not to snap at the poor doggen.
Up the grand staircase. Three at a time.
And then he was in front of the closed double doors to Wrath's study. On the far side of them, he could hear voices, quite a good goddamn volley of talk as it turned out, but sorry, not sorry, what he had to report was paramount to just about anything other than Armageddon.
He knocked loudly and didn't wait for an answer.
Wrath's head snapped up from behind the ancient desk his father had used, and even though those blind eyes weren't visible thanks to the wraparounds, V could feel the glare.
"You need a copy of Emily Post shoved down your throat?" the King snapped. "You don't come in here without an invitation, asshole."
Saxton, the royal lawyer and expert on the Old Ways, glanced up from his vantage point at Wrath's elbow. A lot of paperwork was in front of the pair of them. Along with a couple of ancient texts. Sax didn't say anything, but given the way the guy's typically perfect coif was messed up, it was a good extrapolation that they were trying to hammer out custody issues for Qhuinn and Layla.
And yup, the Queen was over on one of the spindly French settees by the fire, her arms crossed on her chest and a frown deep as a ravine in the middle of her forehead.
"I need a minute with you," V said to Wrath in a low voice.
"Then you can come the fuck back when I tell you to."
"This is not going to hold."
Wrath sat back in the massive carved throne that had been his father's and his father's father's before that. "You want to give me a subject matter?"
"I can't. I'm sorry."
There was a period of silence in the elegant pale blue room, and then Wrath cleared his throat and looked in the direction of his shellan. "Leelan? Will you please excuse us for a moment?"
She got to her feet. "I don't think there's anything further to say. You're going to split the custody equally and Layla gets those kids at sunset tonight. I'm so happy when you and I are in agreement. It really cuts down on the tension."
With that, she walked out of the study with her head held high and her shoulders back--while, over at the desk, the King put his head in his hands like his skull was pounding.
"It's not that I disagree with her," he muttered as the doors were shut with a slam. "I'm just not looking for any more fucking guns to go off in my fucking house."
That last word was said with a whole lot of volume.
But then the King dropped his arms and looked across at V. "Can my lawyer stay?"
"No, he cannot."
"Great. Something else to look forward to."
Saxton started packing up his papers and books, but the King stopped him. "Nope. You're coming right back. Wait outside."
"Of course, my Lord."
Saxton bowed even though the King couldn't see him, but that was the way of the guy, always classy, always proper. And as he went by V, even though the interruption's timing sucked, he bowed again.
Good male. Probably still in love with Blay, but what could you do.
On that note, V thought back to his conversation with Layla at the safe house and then all those happy little memories of his own that had swamped him in the forest. Man, he was really fucking tired of romance and true love and all that bullshit.
"So?" Wrath demanded.
V waited until the double doors were closed again.
"I know where Xcor is."
--
Layla sat in the padded armchair across from Xcor as he ate all of the soup, all of the Carr's water crackers, and then all of the frozen pepperoni pizza she'd slipped into the oven before she'd brought the first load of food down here to the basement.
He didn't speak, and with no talk going on, she found herself staring at him with an absorption so complete, she felt like apologizing for it.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he had lost so much weight, and yet even though he was starving, he used his silverware with a polite precision--even cutting the pizza with a knife and fork. He also wiped his lips regularly with his napkin, chewed with his mouth closed, and wasn't sloppy about any of it even though he was consuming the calories at quite a clip.
When he was finally finished, she said, "There is some mint chocolate chip ice cream? A half gallon of it? Upstairs...you know, in the refrigerator."
What, like they'd keep it on a bookshelf?
He simply shook his head, folded his napkin, and sat back on the sofa. There was a sizable bulge in his stomach, and he exhaled as if he needed to make room for everything in his torso--and air was a commodity less desirable than the pizza.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
As their eyes met, she was very aware that the two of them were alone...and for a moment, she entertained a fantasy that this was their house, and her young were asleep upstairs, and they were about to enjoy some time by themselves.
"I need to go." With that, he stood up and took the tray along with him. "I...have to leave."
Layla rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself
. "All right."
She expected to follow him up the stairs. And then what? Well, perhaps they would share a lingering embrace and then a good-bye that would nearly kill her--
Xcor put the tray back down.
When he came around the table to her and put out his arms, she went to him in a rush. Going up against his body, she held onto him as hard as she could. She hated the feel of his bones, the pads of his muscle having wasted away, but as she turned her head and put her ear to the center of his chest, his heart rate was strong, even. Powerful.
His hands, so big, so gentle, stroked up and down her back.
"It's safer for you," he said into her hair.
She pulled away and looked up at him. "Kiss me. Once before you go."
Xcor closed his eyes as if he were in pain. But then he took her face in his palms and dropped his mouth to hers--almost.
Lingering just a hairsbreadth from her lips, he whispered in the Old Language, "My heart is ever yours. Where'er I go, it is with you, through the darkness and into the light, from all my waking hours to those in which I sleep. Always...with you."
The kiss, when it came, was like the fall of snow, silent and soft, but it was warm, so very warm. And as she leaned into him, his arms went around her waist and his hips came up against hers. He was instantly aroused--she could feel his hard erection against her belly--and she had wanted him for so long she teared up.
Dreams. So many dreams she had had, situations she had conjured up in her mind where he had finally come to her, and undressed her, and taken her under himself, his sex going deep into hers. There had been countless fantasies, each more impossible than the last, of them making love out on the grounds of the compound, in bathrooms, in the back of a car, under the tree in their meadow.
Her sex life was non-existent in the real world. In her imagination, however, it had flourished.
But none of that was to be.
Xcor broke the contact, even though she could tell he was fighting his instinct to mark her. Indeed, a scent was emanating from him, the dark spices rich in her nose, turning her on as much as the feel of his arousal, his body, his hands, his mouth.
"I cannot have you," he said in a husky voice. "I've done enough damage to you as it stands."
"This could be our only chance," she heard herself beg. "I know...I know you will not come back to me."
He seemed impossibly sad as he shook his head. "It is not to be for us."