Too many years—until he had given up hope of finding her, only his dreams keeping alive the memory of what had defined him and given him his position in life.
Yes, he thought. It would be fitting to have this done the Bloodletter’s way. No easy out for the female.
Xcor resettled his scythe, just as the murderess went to work properly on the slayers. Without warning, she leapt forward and took one of them at the waist, ducking under its flailing arms and driving it back against the building. It happened so fast that the second lesser was too surprised—and obviously untrained—to save its friend.
Although even if number two had been more of a match for her, it wouldn’t have stood a chance. In virtually the same moment as she attacked, the female spun out a hubcap from behind her and it hit the slayer right in the neck, slicing deep and distracting it immediately from the quest to get her. As black oil sprang forth and its knees wobbled, she dispatched the slayer she had pinned against the brick by punching it twice in the face and once in the Adam’s apple. Then she picked it up bodily and slammed it down upon her upraised knee.
The crack of the spine was loud.
And as it faded, she spun around to confront those who had been watching her work. Which was not a surprise. Someone as good as she was would have been immediately aware that others were upon her.
Tilting her head to one side, she was not alarmed—but then, why would she be? They were in the shadows and very clearly of her species: Until Xcor revealed himself, she would have no idea the danger she was in.
“Good evening, female,” he said in a low tone from the darkness.
“Who is there?” she called out.
Now is the time, he thought, stepping forward into a shaft of light—
“We are not alone,” Throe whispered abruptly.
Xcor stopped his advance, his eyes narrowing on the seven slayers that had stepped into view at the far end of the alley.
Indeed. They were very much not alone.
And later, Xcor would come to believe that the only reason he successfully took the female into his custody was the arrival of those fresh lessers. The advancing front of the enemy demande
d her eyes—and her attention. But before she could dematerialize into another position, Xcor was upon her.
In spite of the way his heart was pounding, vengeance gave him the focus to scatter his molecules just as she turned to confront the squadron which approached. His steel cuff went upon her wrist in the blink of an eye, and as she wheeled around with bald fury in her face, he was reminded of the incineration she had cast upon his sire.
What saved him was a lesser’s gunshot.
The pop was of little note, but its consequence was of spectacular benefit: Just as she was lifting her free hand to lay upon him, her leg went loose and she tumbled toward the ground, the bullet clearly having hit something vital. And in her moment of weakness, Xcor dominated her—he had one chance to get her under his control. If he didn’t take it, he was not sure he would walk away from this.
Slapping the other cuff on her free wrist, he then grabbed her braid and wound it around her throat. Pulling the hair tight, he cut off her air supply just as his fighters surged forward with weapons drawn.
Oh, how she struggled. So valiant. So powerful.
She was but a female . . . except so much more than that. She was nearly as strong as he was, and that was not her only advantage. Even captured and on the verge of asphyxiation, her pale eyes remained locked on his own, until he felt as though she could reach into his mind and take over his very thoughts.
But he would not be daunted. Whilst the sounds of fighting broke out in the alley, he held the diamond stare of his sire’s killer as his huge arms cranked the noose tighter and tighter about her neck.
Struggling to breathe, she gasped and writhed, her lips moving.
Dipping down his ear, he wanted to hear what she had to—
“. . . why . . . ?”
Xcor recoiled, just as the fight went out of her and those stunning eyes rolled back into her head.
Dearest Scribe Virgin, she didn’t even know who he was.
FIFTY-ONE
As man caves went, V had always thought that the billiards room at the Brotherhood’s mansion had it all. Giant-screen TV with surround sound. Couches with enough padding to qualify as beds. Fireplace for heat and that attractive smolderingember shit. Bar with every conceivable drink, soda, cocktail, tea, coffee, beer, whatever in it.
And a billiards table. Duh.