The Shadows

Rubbing his eyes, he pictured the female draped in all those pale blue robes and the urge to get under all that masking took on an obsessional edge. Hell, if it hadn’t been for a molecular exhaustion, he probably would have spent the entire day staring at the ceiling over his bed thinking about what he was going to do to her. As it was, he’d crashed with a hard-on and woken up with one, too.

He’d done nothing about either erection.

If he jerked off, it somehow felt too real.

And for the same reason, he’d told his brother nothing about the trip into the s’Hisbe or the female he’d met or the “date” he’d made.

Compared to what Trez was facing, all that was such small potatoes. And there was also a dreamscape to it all, which he was surprised to discover he wanted to keep in place.

Maybe because it made things less intimidating?

But come on, he didn’t think he was going to go. How could he leave . . . ?

No, he wasn’t going. For the first time in his life, he didn’t think he could trust himself not to go straight-up animal on some poor female. And hell, she was probably having second thoughts, too. Meeting an unknown male in the middle of nowhere? She’d be insane to do something like that.

Especially because she had to know what was on his mind.

No, he told himself. Neither of them was going to show up at that cabin at midnight. And that was better for everybody.

Really.

It was.

FORTY-FIVE

“It’s dead! Fates, it is gone—will you stop!”

No, Xcor thought. He would not.

As he continued stabbing the lesser, black blood speckled his face, his chest, his forearm. Black blood pooled on the cold asphalt of the alley. Black blood got into his eyes.

And still he kept with the assault, his shoulder driving the blade into the torso everywhere but the hollow chest as Zypher yelled at him, pulled at him, cursed at him.

That was all for naught. Unhinged, he was a beast without a leash, his mind floating above the exertion, driving him ever onward to kill, kill, kill—

The yank that finally pulled him free of his prey was that of a tow truck, the force enough to separate him from the mangled, oozing carcass.

He did not take the unconsented-to relocation well. Swinging around, he slashed his dagger through the air, narrowly missing Zypher’s throat. And as the soldier leaped out of range, Zypher unholstered his own weapon, prepared to fight.

Caught in between a lunge and a relenting, Xcor panted, great clouds coming out of his mouth. He had left the deserted farmhouse without any of them, bursting out and heading to the theater of conflict half-naked and fully crazed.

And it had been for his soldiers’ own good.

“What is wrong with you!” Zypher demanded. “What ails you!”

Xcor bared his teeth. “Leave me alone.”

“So you can get yourself killed?”

“Leave me!”

The echo of his shout rebounded up and out of the alley, the words bouncing back and forth between the brick walls of the buildings before careening into darkness like bats released from a cave.

Zypher’s face was pure fury. “They have guns, remember? Or is last night too dim a memory for you!”

“They have always had guns!”

“Not like those!”

Xcor looked down at the slayer. Even mostly dismembered, it was still moving, arms grasping at thin air in slow motion, legs sawing in a stew of innards and black oil.

Snarling at the thing, he let out a shout and then stabbed it into oblivion. The light was so bright he was blinded by the flash, his retinas revolting at the glare. But the readjustment came quickly, each blink clearing his vision further.

He just needed more. He needed to find more—and he needed something else, too.

“Get me a whore,” he barked.

Zypher recoiled. “What?”

“You heard me. Find me one. Bring her to the cottage.”

“Human or vampire?”

“It matters not. Just make sure she’s paid enough to be willing.”

He expected questions. There were none.

Zypher merely inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Xcor wheeled away, prepared to hunt and fight and kill. And before jogging off, he glared over his shoulder. “Blonde. I want a blonde. And she must have long hair.”

“I know who to call.”

With a nod, Xcor ran down the alley, his combats thundering over the rough pavement. Sniffing the breeze, his brain filtered through the smells of diesel fumes and cheap restaurants, and humans that were homeless and unbathed, and rotting fish in the river.

His rage at himself sharpened every sense he had—

“Hey, man, you looking for a taste?”

Pulling his body up short, he turned around, but knew from the scent coming at him on the gusts that it was no human who stood in the shadows.

The enemy he was looking for had found him, the lesser as yet unaware of who it was speaking to.

“Aye,” he said. “I would like a taste.”

“Foreign motherfucker,” the slayer said. “What do you want?”

“Whate’er do you have?”

“I got the good stuff. Pure Columbian white powder H, not that Mexican black tar—”