At least until they got to the top. The final three planks were set badly on purpose so as to give away any infiltration. He skipped them by dematerializing directly to the steel-reinforced door that was locked into a steel frame set into four walls that had steel mesh nailed to the plaster.
No way anyone could get in or out the easy way.
With care, he gently threw the steel bolt and cranked the knob. Then he eased the way open a quarter of an inch.
The scent of fresh blood rushed into his nose and his sinuses, so thick he tasted sweet metal in the back of his throat. And he recognized the source.
It was Xcor. And there was nothing and no one else with him: no stench of lesser, no dark spice of a male vampire, no pathetic cologne of a human.
Zypher motioned for the others to stay back. He was going to need them to save his ass if his nose had misinformed him.
Opening the door on a quick, soundless shove, he stepped out into the artificial darkness created by the boards and drapes that covered all the windows -
Across the chipped tile of the kitchen and the dusty hardwood of the hall, in the far corner of the living room, in a circle of honey-colored candlelight. . . Xcor sat in a pool of blood.
The soldier was still dressed in his fighting clothes, his scythe and his guns set beside him on the floor, his legs outstretched, his bare and bloodied forearms resting on his thighs.
There was a steel dagger in his hand.
He was cutting himself. Over and over with the blade of his killing knife, he was cutting his ropy, strong arms such that they dripped from too many striped wounds to count. But that was not the shocker. There were tears on the male's face. Running down his cheeks, falling off his jaw and chin, mixing with what seeped from his flesh.
Words, hoarse and low, drifted over. ". . . goddamn pussy. . . crying, worthless, pussy. . . stop it. . . stop it. . . you did what you had to do to him. . . goddamn pussy. . . "
It appeared as though someone else had developed a bond with Throe.
Indeed, their leader was abject in his misery and his regret.
Zypher slowly backed up through the door and shut it again.
"What?" Syphon demanded in the darkness.
"We need to leave him be. "
"Xcor's alive then?"
"Aye. And he's suffering at his own hand, for the right reason - spilling his blood for whom he offended so mortally. "
There was a grumble of approval, and then everyone turned around and descended.
It was a start. But there was a long way yet to go to regain their loyalty. And they needed to learn what had happened to Throe.
Sitting upon the hard floor, in a pool of his own blood, Xcor was stretched thin between his training at the hands of the Bloodletter and his. . . heart, he supposed.
Odd at this age to discover that he actually had one of those, and difficult to count its discovery as a blessing.
It seemed more a badge of failure. The Bloodletter had taught him well the requirements of a good soldier, and emotions other than rage, vengeance, and greed were not part of that lexicon: Loyalty was something you demanded of your subordinates, and if they did not provide it to you and you alone, you did away with them as malfunctioning weapons. Respect was given solely in response to your enemy's strength, and simply because you did not want to be bested by an underestimation of the opposition. Love was associated only with the acquisition and successful defense of your power -
Digging the red-stained knife blade into his skin again, he hissed as the pain tingled through his arms and legs, making his head buzz and his heartbeat flicker.
As fresh blood welled, he prayed that it would carry out of his body the confusing tangle of regret that had claimed him shortly after he had left Throe upon that pavement.
How could this all have gone so awry. . .
The chaos, indeed, had started when he had not departed from that alley.
After he had sent his males away from Throe, he had intended to do the same. . . but had ended up lurking upon the rooftop of one of the buildings, staying hidden whilst he watched over his soldier. Ostensibly, he told himself that it had been because he wanted to ensure that the Brothers found his second in command, not the Lessening Society - because the information he needed was on the former enemy rather than the latter one.
Except as he had watched Throe writhing in pain on the asphalt, limbs cocking at odd angles as he sought relief in repositioning, the reality of a proud warrior rendered defenseless had seeped into him.