“Well, in all honesty, I thought he would be here tonight.”
“Really.” Tohr glanced at the empty chairs and shrugged. “You want to tell me what you heard?”
“The male made reference to a visitation by the king. Similar to when Wrath came and saw me at my home over the summer.” This was reported with self-importance, as if that was the highlight of Wrath’s year, right there. “He said that the Band of Bastards shot at the king whilst on his property.”
Again with the no reactions.
“But obviously, your king survived.” The pause suggested Elan was expecting details to be filled in. “He’s doing rather well, as a matter of fact.”
There was a long silence, as if both sides of the conversation were expecting the other to put the quiet to good use.
Tohr cocked his brows. “With all due respect, you haven’t told us much of anything, and gossip has been going on since the beginning of time.”
“But here’s the odd thing. He also talked to me about it before it occurred. I didn’t believe him, however. Who would arrange for an assassination attempt? It seemed…simply the boasting of a male otherwise dissatisfied with the way things were being handled. Except then, a week later, he said that the Band of Bastards had followed through, that Wrath had been shot. I didn’t know what to do. I had no way of getting in touch with the king personally, and no way to verify that the individual was speaking the truth. I let it all go—until this meeting was called. I wondered if maybe it was…well. It clearly wasn’t, but then I wondered why he wasn’t here.”
Tohr stared down at the smaller male. “It would help if you gave us a proper noun.”
Now, Elan frowned. “You mean you don’t know who is on the Council?”
As Rehv rolled his eyes, Tohr shrugged. “We have better things to do than worry about Rehvenge’s membership.”
“In the Old World, the Brotherhood knew who we are.”
“There’s an ocean between us and the motherlands.”
“More’s the pity.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Qhuinn took a step forward, with the intention of stepping in, in the event the Brother locked hands on the SOB’s skinny neck: Someone should probably catch the head before it bounced all over their hosts’ rugs. And the deadweight of the body.
Seemed only hospitable.
“So who are you talking about,” Tohr pressed.
Elan looked around at the still, deadly males who were focused on him. “Assail. His name is Assail.”
Deep in downtown Caldwell, where the darkened streets formed a rats’ maze, and the sober humans were few and very far between, Xcor swung his scythe in a fat circle about five and a half feet up from the slushy, black-stained ground.
The lesser was caught in the neck, and the head, now freed from its spinal tether, flew chin over temple, chin over temple, through the cold, gusty wind. Black blood spiraled out from the severed arteries as the rudderless lower half of the body collapsed forward into a pratfall.
And that was that.
Rather disappointing, really.
Spinning around, he held his beloved over his shoulder so that she curled behind him protectively, watching his back as he braced himself for whatever was coming next. The alley he had entered to chase that now incapacitated slayer was open at the far end, and behind him, the three cousins were stationed shoulder-to-shoulder should more arrive from that direction—
Something was coming.
Something was…on a fast approach, the din of an engine growing louder and louder and—
The SUV skidded into the alley, its tires finding little or no purchase on the icy roadway. As a result of the lack of traction, the vehicle slammed into the wall, its high-beams blinding Xcor.
Whoever was behind the wheel didn’t hit the brakes.
The engine roared.
Xcor faced off at the vehicle and closed his eyes. No reason to keep his lids peeled, as his vision had ceased to function. No real concern who was driving, whether it was slayer, vampire or human.
They were coming at him, and he was going to stop that. Even though it was probably easier to get out of the way.
He had never particularly cared for easy, however.
“Xcor!” someone yelled.
Grabbing a deep breath of that icy air, he let out a battle cry as he tracked the approach, his senses reaching out and positioning the SUV in space as it traveled forward. His scythe disappeared in a moment, and his guns, eager to participate, came out in both palms.
He waited another twenty feet.
And then he started pumping off rounds.
With his silencers on, the bullets made only impact sounds as they blew out the front windshield, pinged off the grille, took out a tire….
At which point those blinding headlights swung away, the back end of the vehicle hinging around, the overall trajectory unchanged thanks to that tremendous acceleration—even as everything went haywire.
Just before the side panel took him out, Xcor leaped off the ground, his boots springing up, the roof just barely going under their treads as three thousand pounds plus of out-of-control streaked beneath his airborne body.
As Xcor’s combats landed back on the ground, the end of the car’s forward momentum came at the expense of a Dumpster, the trash receptacle stopping the vehicle better than any set of brakes could.
Xcor wasted no time in closing in, both guns up, triggers ready. Although he had discharged a number of rounds, he knew he had at least four left in each gun. And his soldiers had once again fallen in behind him.
Coming up to look inside, he didn’t care what he found: one of his own kind, a man or a woman, a lesser, it mattered not to him.
The smell of spoiled meat and treacle informed him which of his many enemies he confronted, and indeed, as he leaned in through the blown-out front windshield, two new recruits, who still retained their dark hair color and ruddy skin tones, were lolling in the front seat.
Even with their seat belts engaged, they were in rough shape. Aside from being riddled with bullets, their visages carried the wear and tear of their having banged around in the sedan’s cabin, slammed into the dashboard, and been pelted with shattered glass: Black blood greased up their busted noses and lacerated cheeks and chins, the shit dripping onto their chests as water from faucets in the bath.
No airbagas. Mayhap a malfunction.
“I dinnae think ye were gonna make it,” Balthazar muttered.
“Aye,” someone else agreed.
Xcor threw off the concern as he holstered his guns, grabbed hold of the driver’s side door, and yanked the thing clean off its mountings. As the squeal of metal torn asunder echoed in the alley, he tossed the panel aside, unsheathed his steel dagger, and leaned in.
As with all lessers, these denizens of the Omega still moved and blinked in spite of their catastrophic injuries—and would continue to do so in perpetuity if left in this state, even as their forms decayed over time.
There was one and only one way to kill them.
Xcor drew his right forearm across over his left shoulder and buried the blade of his dagger square in the chest of the one who had been behind the wheel. Turning his head aside and shutting his eyes so he wasn’t blinded again, he waited for the pop and flash to fade before leaning over the seat and doing the same to the passenger.
Then he turned to go over and dispatch the beheaded, squirming corpse…that had tire tracks across its chest, thanks to the car’s path through the alley.
Stalking through black-stained slush, he lifted his dagger hand again over his shoulder and buried the blade into the sternum with such power, the point of the weapon went into the asphalt.
When he rose to his feet once again, his breath left his nose in locomotive puffs. “Search the vehicle, and then we must needs depart.”