Back in downtown Caldwell, Tohr shed the cold and the aches and the exhaustion that gumshoed him and went in pursuit once again: The scent of fresh lesser blood was like cocaine in his system, buzzing him up and giving him the strength to carry on.
Behind him, he heard the other two closing in, and knew damn well they weren't seeking enemy - but good fucking luck trying to get him back to the mansion. Dawn was the only thing that could do that.
Besides, the more wiped out he was, the better shot he had at actually sleeping for an hour or two.
As he rounded the corner of an alley, his shitkickers skidded to a halt. In front of him, seven lessers were circling a pair of fighters, but the centerpieces were not Z and Phury, or V and Butch, or Blaylock and Rhage.
That was a scythe in the left one's hands. A big-ass, sharply honed scythe.
"Son of a bitch," Tohr muttered.
The male with the curving blade had his feet planted on the pavement like he was a god, his weapon poised, his ugly face smiling in anticipation as if he were about to sit down to a good meal. Next to him, a vampire Tohr hadn't see for aeons was nothing like the guy he'd once met in the Old Country.
Looked as though Throe, son of Throe, had fallen in with a bad crowd.
John and Qhuinn pulled up on either side of him, and the latter glanced over. "Tell me that isn't our new neighbor."
"Xcor."
"Was he born with that puss or did someone make it for him?"
"Who knows."
"Well, if that was supposed to be a nose job, he needs a new plastic surgeon."
Tohr looked over at John. "Call them off."
Excuse me? the kid signed.
"I know you texted the brothers back at the house. Tell them it was a mistake. Right now." When John started to argue, he cut off the conversation. "You want there to be an all-out war here? You call the Brotherhood in, he calls his bastards in, and suddenly we're balls to the wall without any strategy. We'll handle this by ourselves - I'm fucking serious, John. I've dealt with these boys before. You haven't."
As John's hard stare met his own, Tohr had the sense, as always, that they had been in these situations together far, far longer than just the past few months.
"You gotta trust me, son."
John's response was to mouth a curse, get his phone out and start hitting the buttons.
And at that moment, Xcor tweaked that there were visitors. In spite of the number of lessers ahead of him, he started laughing. "It's the bloody Black Daggers - and just in time to save us. You want us on our knees?"
The slayers spun around - big mistake. Xcor didn't waste a moment, striking with a circling sweep, hitting two of them in the lower back. That was his free shot. As the pair fell to the ground, the others split into two camps, half heading for Xcor and Throe, half gunning for Tohr and his boys.
Tohr let out a roar and met the onslaught with his bare hands, leaping forward and locking onto the first slayer that got in range. He went for the head, grabbing on hard, before putting up his knee and cracking the fucker's face open. Then he wheeled the thing around and threw the loose body skullfirst into the side of a Dumpster.
As the ringing faded, Tohr faced off at the next in line. He'd have preferred to have gone more with the fist action, but he wasn't going to dick around: At the far end of the alley, seven more newbies were dropping like snakes from a tree, dripping down the front of a chain-link fence.
He ripped out both daggers, set his boots in the pavement, and assessed an offensive strategy for the fresh arrivals. Man... say what you would about Xcor's ethics, social skills, and GQ eligibility; the motherfucker could fight. He was swinging that scythe around like it weighed less than a pound, and he had a knack for judging distance - lesser parts were flying all over the place, hands, a head, an arm. The bastard was incredibly effective, and Throe wasn't incompetent, either.
Against all odds, and the choice of any of them, Tohr and his crew fell into a rhythm with the bastards: Xcor drove the first round into the waiting blades at the head of the alley, while his lieutenant held the second wave in place so no one got blocked in. After Tohr, John, and Qhuinn picked the tide off, one by one the other slayers were sent to the slaughter - freshly wounded.
Whereas there had been showboating in the beginning, now this was work. Xcor wasn't doing any flashy moves with his wide blade; Throe wasn't jumping around; John and Qhuinn were in the zone.
And Tohr was knee-deep in revenge.
These were nothing but new recruits - so it wasn't like the slayers were offering much in the way of skills. The sheer numbers, however, were such that the tide could turn -
A third squadron popped over the fence.
As they landed one after the other on the payment, Tohr regretted his order to John. That had been vengeance talking. Fuck the shit with avoiding a BDB vs. Band of Bastards showdown; he'd wanted to save the kills for himself. The result? He'd put John's and Qhuinn's lives in danger. Xcor and Throe - they could die tonight, tomorrow, a year from now, whatever. And as for himself - well, you could jump off a bridge in a thousand different ways.
But his boys...? They were worth saving. John was someone's hellren now. And Qhuinn had a lot of living ahead of him.
It wasn't fair for his death wish to put them in early graves.
Xcor, son of an unknown sire, had his lover in his hands. His scythe was the only female he had ever cared for, and tonight, as he faced off against what started as seven of the enemy, and then grew to fourteen, and then swelled to twenty-one, she repaid his loyalty with a performance unparalleled.
As they moved together, she was an extension of not just his arms, but his body, his eyes, his brain. He was not a soldier with a weapon; united, they were a beast with mighty jaws. And as they worked, he knew this was what he had missed. This was why he had come across the ocean unto the New World: to find a new life in a new land where there was still plenty of the old, worthy enemy.
Upon his arrival, however, his ambitions had identified an even loftier goal. And it meant the other vampires in this alley were in his way.
At the opposite end of the alley, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was something worth seeing. As much as Xcor hated to admit it, the Brother was an incredible fighter, those whirling black daggers catching the ambient light, those arms and legs shifting positions fast as a heartbeat, that balance and execution - sheer perfection.
If he had been one of Xcor's males, the Brother might well have had to be killed so that Xcor could retain his prime position: It was a basic tenent of leadership that one eliminated those who presented a potential challenge to one's position... although it wasn't as if his band were incompetents - after all, one had to eliminate the weak as well.
The Bloodletter had taught him that and so much more.
At least some things had proven not to be lies.
There would never be a place for the likes of Tohrment in his band of bastards, however: that Brother and his ilk would not slum themselves for a shared meal, much less any professional association.
Though one cohesed briefly, this night. As the fight progressed, he and Throe fell into a cooperation with the Brothers, funneling lessers in small groups into blade range, whereupon they were dispatched to the Omega by the other three.
Two Brothers, or Brotherhood candidates, were with Tohr, and both were larger than him - in fact, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was not as broad as he had once been. Mayhap from recovery of a recent injury? Whatever the cause, Tohr had chosen his backups wisely. The one on the right was a tremendous male, the size of whom proved that the Scribe Virgin's breeding program had had a point. The other was more the girth and vertical of Xcor and his males - which was to say he was not small. Both worked seamlessly and without hesitation, showing no fear.
When it was finally done, Xcor was breathing hard, his forearms and biceps numb from exertion. All who had fangs were standing. All who had black blood in the vein were gone, sent back to their evil maker.
The five of them stayed in their positions, weapons still in hand as they panted, eyes peeled for any signs of aggression from the other side.
Xcor glanced at Throe and nodded ever so slightly. If others from the Brotherhood had been called in, this was not the kind of showdown they would come out of alive. If these three engaged? He and his soldier had a chance, but there would be injuries.
He did not come to Caldwell to die. He came here to be king.
"I look forward to seeing you again, Tohrment, son of Hharm," he announced.
"Leaving so soon?" the Brother countered.
"Did you think I would bow before you?"
"No, that would require class."
Xcor smiled coldly, flashing his fangs as they elongated. His temper was held in check by his self-control - and the fact that he was already begining to work on the glymera. "Unlike the Brotherhood, we lowly soldiers actually work during the night. So instead of kissing the ring of antiquated custom, we're going to seek and eliminate more of the enemy."
"I know why you're here, Xcor."
"Do you. Mind reader?"
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"Indeed. Or mayhap it shall be the other way around."
Tohrment shook his head slowly. "Consider this a friendly warning. Go back where you came from before what you set in motion rolls you right into an early grave."
"I like where I am. The air is bracing on this side of the ocean. How's your shellan, by the way."
The cold draft that surged forward was what he wanted: He'd heard through the convoluted grapevine that the female Wellesandra had been killed in the war some time ago, and he wasn't above using any weapon he had to throw off the enemy.
And the shot was a good one. Immediately, the bookends on either side of the Brother stepped in and grabbed on. But there would be no fighting or arguing. Not this eve.
Xcor and Throe dematerialized, scattering themselves into the chilly spring night. He was not worried that they would be followed. That pair was going to make sure Tohr was okay, which meant they were going to dissuade him from a half-cocked, angry whim that might possibly lead to an ambush.
They had no way of knowing he couldn't access the rest of his troops.
He and Throe regained their forms on top of the tallest skyscraper in the city. He and his soldiers had always had a rallying point such that the band could be reunited from time to time during the night, and this towering rooftop was not only easily visible from all quadrants of the battlefield; it seemed apt.
Xcor liked the view from on high.
"We need cell phones," Throe said over the din of the wind.
"Do we."
"They have them."
"The enemy, you mean?"
"Aye. Both of them." When Xcor said nothing further, his right-hand male muttered, "They have ways of communicating - "
"That we do not require. If you allow yourself to rely on externals, they become weapons over you. We have done just fine without such technology for centuries."
"And this is a new era in a new place. Things are different here."
Xcor glanced over his shoulder, trading the view of the city for the sight of his second in command. Throe, son of Throe, was a fine example of breeding, all perfect features, and comely body that, thanks to Xcor's lessons, was now not merely decorative, but useful: For truth, he had grown hard over the years, finally earning the right to declare his sex as that of male.
Xcor smiled coldly. "If the Brothers' tactics and methods are so successful, why did the race get raided?"
"Things happen."
"And sometimes they are the result of mistakes - fatal ones." Xcor resumed his perusal of the city. "You might consider how easily such errors can be made."
"All I'm saying - "
"This is the problem with the glymera - always looking for the easy way out. I thought I beat that tendency out of you years ago. Do you require a refresher?"
As Throe shut the fuck up, Xcor smiled more broadly.
Focusing on the expanse of Caldwell, he knew that dark though the night was, his future was bright indeed.
And paved with the bodies of the Brotherhood.