And yet he somehow could not understand it. And clearly, neither could the others.
Throe had always been the glue that bound, a male of worth with more honor than the rest of them had put together. . . as well as a way with logic that had landed him in the role of facilitator with Xcor: Throe was typically on the front lines with their cold, calculating leader, the only voice that could get through to the male - well, usually. He'd also been the translator between all of them and the rest of the world, the one with Internet access who had found this house and was trying to get them females of the race to feed from, the one who coordinated money and servants.
He was right about the technology, too.
Except Xcor had snapped, and now. . . if slayers hadn't gotten Throe in that alley, the Brothers might well have killed him just on principle.
Then again, there was going to be a price on all of their heads soon. It was only a matter of time. . . .
Examining his carving, he thought it was a piece of crap, no more obviously a bird than it had been as a thick maple stick. Indeed, he had no artistry in his hands, his eyes, or his heart. This was just a way to pass the time whilst he was busy not sleeping.
Indeed, he wished there was a female around. Fucking was his best talent, and he'd been oft known to pass hours between the legs of a maid with great effect.
He could certainly use the distraction.
Tossing the hunk of wood to the foot of his bunk, he examined his blade. So pure and sharp, capable of so much more than poorly rendering a wretched swallow.
He hadn't liked Throe at all at first. The male had come to the Band of Bastards on a rainy evening, and he'd looked as out of place as he was: a dear boy among death dealers, standing outside a hovel that no doubt he wouldn't have stabled a horse in.
From his top hat to his perfectly buffed-up shoes, they had all despised every inch of him.
And then Xcor had had them draw straws to find out who would beat him down first. Zypher had won, and had smiled as he'd cracked his knuckles and gotten ready to hand the male's masculinity to his royal self on a silver plate.
Throe had flailed at the first couple of punches that had come at him, providing no proper defense and absorbing the blows in his head and gut. But sooner than was at all expected, something had clicked within him - his stance had changed for no good reason, his fists coming up, his body filling out those fancy clothes in an altogether different way.
The turnabout had been. . . nothing short of extraordinary.
Zypher had kept fighting the male, throwing out combinations of punches that were abruptly parried. . . and, after a bit, returned, until he himself had had to step up his efforts.
That dandy had been learning, right then and there, even as his fine clothes had gotten shredded and torn, even as he had become soaked by the rain and his own blood.
During that very first fight, and at each succeeding one, he had demonstrated an uncanny ability to assimilate. Between the initial fist that had been thrown at him, to the moment when he had finally landed on his ass with exhaustion, he had evolved more as a fighter than soldiers who had spent years in the Bloodletter's war camp.
They had all stood around Throe as he sat there in the mud, his chest heaving, his pretty face bruised, his top hat long lost.
Standing over the male, Zypher had spit the blood out of his mouth. . . and then he'd leaned down and offered his palm. The dandy had still had much to prove - but he'd been no lackey during that fight.
In fact, no lackey had he e'er proved to be.
'Twas strange to feel any allegiance to someone of the aristocracy. But Throe had earned the respect time and time again. And he had long been one of them now - although that may well have ended on several levels tonight.
Zypher turned his knife back and forth, the candlelight on its blade a beautiful thing, as lovely as when it fell upon the skin of a female's inner thigh.
Xcor had used one of these for what it was intended - to cut, to maul, to kill - but his target? Considering all that Throe did for them, their leader, in his rage, had done more harm than good. Indeed, Xcor's blood hunger was making him mercurial. And with a mind like his and plans such as he had, that was not a good combination -
The back of Zypher's neck tickled, one of the spiders that lived with them eight-legging across his nape. Reaching around with a curse, he scrubbed at his flesh, destroying the thing.
He should probably try for some sleep. In truth, he had been waiting up for Xcor's return, but dawn had long since arrived and the male had not come back. Mayhap he was dead, the Brotherhood having caught him out alone. Or perhaps one of those clandestine meetings he had with that member of the glymera had gone sour.
Zypher was surprised to find he didn't care. He rather hoped, as a matter of fact, that Xcor never arrived home again.
It was a big change in his thinking. Back when the Band of Bastards had first come together in the Old Country, they had been a mercenary lot, each out only for themselves. The Bloodletter had been the only one capable of uniting them: that killing machine, who had had no humanity to temper any of his urges, had been the rawest male to ever walk in a soldier's boots, and they had individually followed him as a symbol of freedom and strength in the war.
After all, there was no way the Black Dagger Brotherhood would ever take any of them.
Over time, however, bonds had grown. Regardless of how Xcor thought of things, the soldiers who fought under him had developed loyalties. . . and they extended even to the former aristocrat, Throe.
" 'Re ye gonna talk with him?" Syphon asked softly from down below.