Thus she had left. And then he had been captured.
And now they had this little eye of the hurricane, this tiny peaceful stretch that was going to end as soon as he found what he was seeking.
The farmhouse was boarded up on the first floor, all of the glass covered with plywood that had been tacked into place with nails his bastards had cheerfully struck. The front door was unlocked, however, and as he pushed it wide, the creak was so loud it drowned out even the storm’s relentless growl.
They had deliberately left the hinges un-oiled, the cheapest alarm system there was.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The rooms had nothing in them except bare floorboards and cobwebs, but then his fighters had never cared for the trappings of civilization. Once one had survived the Bloodletter’s war camp, one did not require even a roof over one’s head. The lack of a dagger at your throat was sufficient.
Taking out one of the flares from inside his jacket, he removed its cap and struck it, the hissing red light illuminating a fat circle around him.
Xcor went through the downstairs rooms, his footfalls echoing in the empty, cold house. As he progressed, he held the flare out, inspecting all manner of walls and jambs and stretches of the floor.
It took him three trips, three circuits of parlor to study to dining room to 1940s kitchen and bath, before he saw it.
And he had to smile a little as he crouched down in the far corner of the parlor.
What had eventually caught his eye was a scrape across the floorboards, something easily missed—indeed, he had almost ignored it himself. But upon close examination, it clearly pointed in the direction of this eastern juncture of walls and a buildup of dust, sticks, and leaves.
So unassuming this collection of litter—as if someone had taken a broom and sought to tidy things up, only to lose interest prior to a dustpan being found.
Angling the flare down to the floor, he brushed aside the debris and regarded the message that had been left for him.
“Good male,” he murmured as he stared at the markings that had been carved in the wood.
To the unknown eye, it was naught but a random series of whittles and stabs. To him … it was a map of Caldwell that was built on both a previously agreed-upon compass orientation that was not based on true north, and an assortment of symbols that would not be recognized by anyone but the Band of Bastards.
Xcor had never learned to read. It was not a skill that served him in the Old Country nor in the war, and he was hard-pressed to think himself diminished because of its lacking. But he was stellar with directions, and he also had a photographic memory, something that had developed as a result of him needing to make sure he could recall as many details as he could whenever he was shown or described something.
He didn’t bother to search for weapons. He had never planted any and they would have taken all they had with them.
Departing through the creaking door, he extinguished the flare by shoving it headfirst into the snow and then he closed his eyes, dematerialized …
… and re-formed in a wind tunnel.
The gusts were so brutal he had to turn away from them, and even with his back to the source, it was too much for him to withstand. But that was what you got when you were nearly a hundred floors up from street level in downtown Caldwell, at the top of the Caldwell Insurance Company building.
Proceeding with alacrity, he took shelter behind some HVAC blowers that were the size of ambulances, and from there, he was able to gather his orientation, which had to be from the east in order for him to interpret the directions appropriately.
Except there was a problem that quickly became evident. With so much snow falling, he couldn’t see the grid pattern of streets well enough to find the location: Although there were some illuminated landmarks that gave him an idea of the city’s layout, he was not going to be able to pinpoint anything from up here.
His only chance was to get down on ground level and work it out from there. The good news? His fighters would stay in on a night like tonight.
Like humans, even the slayers would not venture out into this mess. And his bastards had never cared much for the cold.
If they were still in Caldwell, he would find them this evening.
THIRTY-NINE
“What is in that book?”
The female voice that came over Throe’s shoulder was that of a petulant child, even though it emerged from the luscious lips of a thirty-six-year-old vampire who had natural DD breasts, a stomach so flat he could have used it as a dinner plate, and a set of legs that were long enough to wrap twice around his waist.
Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed an interruption from the likes of her.
“Throe! I will not be ignored.”
Not tonight.
As he straightened from the ancient tome he’d brought home from that psychic’s, his back cracked, and he was annoyed to find that his neck was so stiff he couldn’t look over his shoulder. Instead, he had to turn his entire torso to make eye contact.
“I am studying,” he heard himself say.
Odd, he thought. It didn’t feel as though he’d had a conscious thought to speak those particular words.
They were correct, however. He had indeed been studying what was written upon the parchment all day long and into the—was it night already? He felt as though he had just sat down.
“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “But what time is it?”
“Nine o’clock! You promised me we would go out.”
Yes, he recalled that. He had done so to get her off his back and into her hellren’s bed at dawn in order that he should have privacy with the book.
Or The Book, as he had begun to think of it.
And she clearly had taken him at his word, her outfit one that was both revealing and expensive. Roberto Cavalli, given the animal print. And she had on enough gold Bulgari jewelry to make the eighties file a police report.
“Well?” she demanded. “When are you getting ready?”
Throe looked down at himself, an odd disassociation taking root as he noted that he had on pants, a shirt, and shoes. “I am dressed.”
“In the same clothes you were wearing last night!”
“Indeed.”
Throe shook his head a little and looked around. The guest room he recognized, and that was a bit of a relief. Yes, this was where he had been staying since that fire that had destroyed his previous mistress’s hellren’s mansion. A month he had spent in this navy blue and mahogany suite, with its grand canopied bed, its paintings of hunting scenes, and its highboy and writing desk.
He had moved in here and promptly assumed a sexual relationship with this under-fucked female, much in the way he had done with his previous mistress: This one was, likewise, mated unto an older male who was incapable of servicing her in bed—and thus Throe, as a “gentlemale of fine bloodline,” had been welcomed unto the household, held in esteem and sheltered without any end date.
Clearly, they knew not the gossip of where he had ended up with the Band of Bastards. Or they were aware of it and had low standards. In any event, it was unwritten that provided he took care of the shellan, he could expect his room, board, and wardrobe needs to be met nicely, and in this case—which had not been true in the previous one—he rather suspected that her mate knew and approved.
Perhaps the older male was aware that she would stray, and was afraid she would leave him entirely.
In the glymera, that would be an embarrassment one would not like to endure right before one’s grave.
“Are you unwell?” she asked with a frown.
He turned back around slowly. He was seated at the writing desk, the one in between the two long windows with their regal drapes and their bubbly old glass. The mansion was large and rambling, filled with antiques and furnishings far, far too old and distinguished for the likes of its current chatelaine. And one could rather suspect that she would have preferred to be down at the Commodore, in a penthouse overlooking the river that was filled with white leather couches and Mapplethorpe reproductions.
She rather liked sex. And she was good at it—
“Throe. Seriously, like, what is the problem here?”
What had she asked him previously? Oh … right. And he had pivoted in this direction to regard himself in the mirrored upper doors of the desk.
Though the old glass’s mercury backing was pitted and scratched, there was enough of a reflection to verify that, yes, he did look the same as he had before he’d gone unto that psychic’s lair. Still with the thick, blond hair, and the classically handsome jaw, and the heavily lashed eyes that he used with quite a lot of success on the females.