Clearly he'd been an aggressor in his previous incarnation; his initial show of force had proven that he was used to opponents who backed down after a first strike. The time for his strength and ego had passed, however, and these pathetic tears proved what he was at his core.
As the final light, the one that was over him, went out, he screamed.
Xcor attacked with brutal force, launching his great weight into the air and latching onto the thing as he shoved it backward to the grass.
Clapping a palm on its face, he buried the knife in the shoulder and pulled away, ripping through tendon and muscle, shearing across bone. Hot breath exploded up as the lesser screamed again - proving anew that even the undead had pain receptors.
Xcor leaned down and put his mouth to the male's ear. "Cry for me. Cry away... cry hard until you can't breathe."
The bastard took the direction and ran with it, weeping openly with great hoarse grabs of air and quaking exhalations. Reigning above the show, Xcor absorbed the weakness through his pores, pulling it in, holding it tight in his own lungs.
The hatred he felt went beyond the war, beyond this night and this moment. Soul deep, and marrow blistering, his disgust made him want to draw and quarter the former human.
But there was a more fitting end to this.
Flipping the thing over onto its stomach, he shoved both of his knees in between its tight thighs, and spread its legs as if it were a female about to get f**ked. Rearing up over its prone body, he pushed its face into the grass.
And then he went to work.
No more raising the knife high and stabbing downward. Now was the time for precision and careful follow-through with his dagger.
As the lesser struggled pitifully, Xcor cut through the collar of its sleeveless shirt, then put his blade between his teeth and ripped the cloth in two, exposing the thing's shoulders and back. A tattoo of some kind of urban scene was done with respectable competence, the ink shown off to great effect by the skin's smooth surface - at least where black, oily blood didn't cloud the picture.
Weeping and harsh gasping caused the image to distort and resume its shape, distort and resume, as if it were a moving picture poorly screened.
"Such a pity to ruin this piece," Xcor drawled. "It must have taken a long time to get done. Must have hurt as well."
Xcor put the blade's razor point to the nape of the thing's neck. Piercing the skin, he went ever deeper, until he was stopped by bone.
More crying.
He put his mouth to the f**ker's ear again. "I'm just revealing what everyone can see."
With a sure and steady stroke, he drew the knife downward, tracing the orderly stacks of vertebra whilst his prey squealed like a pig. And then he shifted his knees to the back of the slayer's legs, planted a palm on the thick of its shoulder... and reached in to lock a grip on the top of the spine.
What transpired as he threw all his strength upon his goal was nothing that a human could live through. The lesser, however, remained animated, even though afterward, respiration was no longer possible for him, and he would not be able to stand ever again: his core infrastructure, that which had defined his posture and his mobility, his height and girth, was now hanging from Xcor's hand.
The slayer was still crying, tears seeping from its eyes.
Xcor sat back, and breathed heavily from the exertion. It would be a fine thing to leave this weakling here in its current state, its destiny to be a spineless waste forever, and he took a moment to enjoy the suffering and imprint this vision of punishment in his mind.
Remembering back through the years, he recalled being in a similar position. Reduced to raw emotion, down on the ground, naked and degraded.
You are as worthless as your face. Get out.
The Bloodletter had been coldly dismissive, his subordinates efficient and pitiless: Xcor's arms and legs had been gripped and he had been carried to the mouth of the war camp's cave - whereupon he had been tossed out as if they were removing horse excrement.
Alone and in the cold white snow of winter, Xcor had lain where he had landed much as this slayer was, incapacitated, at the mercy of others. He had been faceup, however.
Indeed, that hadn't been the first time he'd been cast out. Starting with the female who had birthed him; then going through to the last orphanage he had stayed in, he'd had a long history of being denied. The war camp had been his final chance to find any community, and he had refused to be expelled from its confines.
He'd had to earn his way back in by bearing pain. And even the Bloodletter had been impressed at what he'd proven he could withstand.
Tears were for the young and females and castrated males. Too bad the lesson was wasted on this piece of -
"You've been busy."
Xcor looked up. Throe had come out of nowhere, no doubt materializing to the scene.
"Are the women ready," Xcor demanded gruffly.
"It's time."
Xcor endeavored to gather his strength. He had to take care of this mess - there was no leaving a twitching corpse behind for humans to find and extrapolate over until their heads exploded.
"There is a lavatory o'er there." Throe pointed across the lawn. "Finish this and let us wash you."
"As if I am a babe?" Xcor glared at his lieutenant. "I think not. You go back to the whores. I shall be there shortly."
"You can't bring your trophies."
"And where would you suggest I leave them." His tone suggested "up your ass" was an option, at least from his point of view. "Go."
Throe disapproved, and disagreed, but nonetheless - and per protocol - he nodded and spirited away.
Left on his own, Xcor spared the desecrated carcass one last look. "Oh, get over yourself."
The urge to further punish the weakness gave him the energy to stab the thing through the chest. The instant the steel tip penetrated, there was a pop, a flare... and then nothing but a stain on the grass where the lesser had lain.
Dragging himself to his feet, he took the spine of his prey and put it in his shoulder satchel with his other trophies.
It did not fit, one end protruding out the cinched top.
Throe had a point about the grisly bag of keepsakes. Damn it.
Dematerializing to the top of the bathroom shed, he left his trophies under the contours of the ventilation system and willed himself inside, where the sinks and the toilets were. He was quite sure the place smelled of fake air freshener, but nothing was able to penetrate the cloying, spoiled-meat stink of his prey.
Motion-activated lights came on as he moved around, creating a fluorescent haze. The basins were stainless steel and rudimentary, but the water ran cold and clean, and, leaning down, he cupped his hands and splashed his face once. Twice. Again.
So dumb to waste time on this tidy-up, he thought. Those prostitutes would remember nothing. And it wasn't as if washing would improve the comeliness of his features.
On the other hand, best not to scare them into flight: Dragging them back was such a bore.
As he lifted his head, he saw himself in the crude metal sheets that were supposed to be mirrors. Even though the reflection was dull, he noted his ugliness and thought of Throe just now. In spite of the fact that the soldier had been out fighting all night, his handsome visage had appeared fresh as a daisy, his well-bred looks overshadowing the reality that he had slayer blood on his clothes and had been scraped and bruised.
Xcor, however, could have taken rest for two weeks straight, eaten a large meal, and fed from a f**king Chosen, and he would still appear as repulsive.
He rinsed his face one more time. Then looked around for something to use as a wipe-off. All there appeared to be were machines bolted into the wall for drying one's hands with hot air.
His leather duster was filthy. The loose black shirt underneath was the same.
He left the facility with cold water dripping from his chin, reappearing up top on the roof. His bag was not secure enough here, and he was going to have to leave his scythe and his coat somewhere very safe.
As exhaustion dogged him, he thought... such a bloody f**king nuisance, all this.
Chapter Sixteen
Up high above the chaos of Caldwell, in the silent marble library of the Chosen, Tohr had a scream in his head that was so loud, it was a wonder that No'One didn't cover her ears from the din.
He threw his hand out. "Give me that."
Taking the volume from her, he forced his eyes to focus on the characters of the Old Language that had been so carefully constructed.
Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, blooded daughter of Relix, passed from the earth on this night, taking with her her unbirthed young, a son of some forty weeks.
Reading the short passage, he felt as if the whole event had happened a mere moment ago, his body submerging in that old, familiar river of grief.
He had to go over the symbols a couple of times before he could concentrate not only on what was there, but what wasn't.
No mention of the Fade.
Sifting through other paragraphs, he sought the notations of other passings. There were a number....
Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the - he flipped the page - earth unto the Fade.
"Oh, God..."
As a screeching noise echoed around, he did not lift his eyes. But abruptly, No'One started pulling on his arm.
"Sit, please sit." She yanked hard. "Please."
He let himself go, and the stool that she had dragged over caught his weight.
"Is there any chance," he said in a guttural voice, "that they simply forgot to put it in?"
There was no need for No'One, or anybody else, to answer that question. The sequestered Chosen had had a sacred job, something they did not f**k up. And that kind of "oopsie" would be a big one.
Lassiter's voice knocked on his inside door: That's why I've come - I'm here to help you, help her.
"I have to go back to the mansion," he mumbled.
Next move was to get to his feet, but that didn't go well. Between a sudden weakness in his body and that f**king foot, he slammed into one of the stacks, the contour of his shoulder pushing a wave into the books whose spines were so carefully arranged. Annnnnnnd then it was a case of the floor tipping in the opposite direction, pitching him into free air.
Something small and soft got in the way of his falling....
It was a body. A diminutive female body with hips and br**sts that suddenly, shockingly imprinted on him even through the freak-out.
Instantly, the vision of No'One in that pool, her naked form glistening and wet, exploded like a land mine in his brain, the detonation so great that it blasted its way through everything that had been driving him.
It happened so fast: the contact, the memory... and the arousal.
Underneath the fly of his leathers, his c**k punched out to its full length. Without apology.
"Let me help you back into the chair," he heard her say from a vast distance.
"Don't touch me." He pushed her off. Stumbled away. "Don't get anywhere near me. I'm... losing it...."
Floundering his way down the stacks, he couldn't breathe, couldn't... stand himself....
As soon as he was free from the library, he raced away from the Sanctuary, returning his faithless body to his bedroom at the mansion.
He was still erect when he got there.
Duh.
Staring down at his button fly, he tried to find another explanation. Maybe he'd thrown a clot? A c**k clot... or maybe... shit...
There was no way he could be attracted to another female.
He was a bonded male, goddamn it.
"Lassiter," he looked around. "Lassiter!"
Where the f**k was that angel?
"Lassiter!" he bellowed.
When there was no reply, no burst-through-the-door, he was stuck alone... with his hard-on.
Rage curled his right hand into a fist.
With a vicious swing, he punched himself where it counted, nailing himself in the cojones -
"Fuck!"
It was like getting hit with a wrecking ball, and his skyscraper went down, the pain buckling him so fast he ate carpet.
As he retched and tried to push himself up on his knees, all the while wondering if he hadn't done some serious internal damage, a dry voice filtered in through the ow-ow-ows.
"Shit, that musta hurt." The angel's face entered his line of watery vision. "On the plus side, you could probably sing Alvin's part on a Christmas CD."
"What..." Hard to talk. But then it was hard to breathe. And every time he coughed, he wondered if his balls were coming up his throat. "Tell me... the In Between..."
"You want to wait until you're not hypoxic?"
Tohr snapped out a hand and gripped the angel's biceps. "Tell me, motherfucker."
It was a universal truth among males that anytime you saw a guy get it in the nuts, you experienced a shot of phantom pain in your own croquet set.
As Lassiter crouched beside the Brother's pretzel of a body, he was feeling a little nauseous himself, and he took a moment to cup what hung between his legs - just to reassure the boys downstairs that however much of an iconoclast he was, some things were sacred.
"Tell me!"
Impressive that the guy could still summon the energy to yell. And, yeah, there was no maybe-later-after-you-recover option with a son of a bitch who could punch himself like that.
No reason to pad shit, either. Natch.
"The In Between is not really the jurisdiction of the Scribe Virgin or the Omega. It's the Maker's territory - and before you ask, that would be the creator of all things. Your Scribe Virgin, the Omega, all of it. There's a couple ways of ending up there, but mostly it's because you won't let go or because someone won't let go of you."
When Tohr was silent, Lassiter recognized the signs of brain-fry and took pity on the poor son of a bitch.
Placing a hand on the Brother's shoulder, he said gently, "Breathe with me. Come on, we'll do it together. Let's just breathe shit out for a minute...."
They stayed there for the longest time, Tohr bowed around the front of his hips, Lassiter feeling like a plank.
In his long life, he had seen suffering in all its forms. Disease. Dismemberment. Disenchantment on epic scales.
Staring at his outstretched hand, he realized he had become detached from it all. Hardened by overexposure and personal experience. Separated from any compassion.