Lover Reborn

Chapter Fifty-One

  The reality that the female in the white robe had not been a dream came gradually upon Xcor, rather like fog clearing over a vista to reveal contours and conceptions previously obscured from the buffering.

  He was back in the van, lying on the seat that had carried him forth from their lair, his head pillowed on the meaty inner bend of his elbow, his knees bent and stacked one atop the other. Zypher was not behind the wheel this time. Throe was driving.

  The male had been silent since they had left the meadow. Uncharacteristically so.

  As Xcor stared straight ahead, he traced the subtle pattern in the fake leather cover of the seat Throe was in. It was a hard job, given that the only light he had was from the instrument panel up front.

  "She was real, then," he said after a while.

  "Aye," came the quiet response.

  Xcor closed his eyes and wondered how it was possible a female like that actually existed. "She was a Chosen. "

  "Aye. "

  "How did you manage that. "

  There was a long pause. "She fed me when the Brotherhood had me in their custody. They told her I was a soldier, not identifying me as their enemy to spare her worry. "

  "You should not have used her," he growled. "She is an innocent in all this. "

  "What other option did I have? You were dying. "

  He pushed that fact out of his mind, focusing instead upon the revelation that that which was legend in fact lived and breathed. And serviced the Brotherhood. And Throe.

  For some reason, the thought of his soldier taking the vein of that female made Xcor want to reach around the headrest and snap the male's neck. Except jealousy, however unfounded it was, was just one of his problems.

  "You have compromised us. "

  "They will never use her as a locator," Throe said grimly. "A Chosen female? Entering the war in any fashion? The Brothers are too old-fashioned, and she is far too valuable. They will never take her out into the field. "

  Thinking things through further, he decided Throe was likely correct - that female was priceless in too many ways to count. Besides, he and his Band of Bastards set out at the crack of night every evening - they were far from sitting ducks. And if they encountered the Brothers? They would reengage. He was no pussy to run from his enemy - better to plan an attack, but that was not always possible.

  "What is her name?" he demanded.

  More silence.

  As he waited for the reply, the reticence told him that he was right to be jealous, at least in one respect: Clearly his second in command felt the same way he did.

  "Her name. "

  "I do not know. "

  "How long have you been seeing her?"

  "I have not. I reached out to her solely on your behalf. I prayed for her to come and she did. "

  Xcor inhaled long and slow, feeling his ribs expand without pain for the first time since he'd gone up against that fighter with the mismatched eyes. It was her blood in him. Indeed, what a miracle she was: That sense of drowning in his own body had alleviated, the thumping in his head dulling, his heartbeat settling to a steady rate.

  And yet the power coursing through him, drawing him back from the brink, did not bode well for him and his soldiers. If this was what the Brotherhood enjoyed on a regular basis? Then they were stronger not just by virtue of bloodline, but sustenance.

  At least it did not make them unbeatable. Syphon's shot had proven that even the purebred king had his vulnerable points.

  But they were even more dangerous than he'd thought.

  And as for the female. . .

  "Are you going to call upon her again?" he asked his soldier.

  "No. Never. "

  No hesitation in that - which suggested it was either a lie or a vow. For both their sakes, he rather hoped it was the latter -

  Oh, but what was he going on about. He'd fed from her only once, and she was not his - and never would be, for too many reasons to count. Indeed, thinking back to the way even the human whore in the spring had recoiled from him, he knew someone as pure and perfect as the Chosen wouldn't have anything to do with his likes. Throe, on the other hand, might have a chance - except, of course, he was not a Brother.

  He was, however, enamored of her.

  No doubt she was used to that.

  Xcor closed his eyes and concentrated on his body, feeling it reknit, realign, rekindle.

  He found himself wishing the same rejuvenation could occur on his face, his past, his soul. Naturally, he kept that impotent prayer to himself. For one, it was an impossibility. For another, such was a passing whimsy imparted by the vision of a beautiful female - who had no doubt been repulsed by him. In truth, there was no redemption for him or his future: He had struck a mighty blow against the Brotherhood and they would be coming after him and the Band of Bastards with all the force they could muster.

  They would also be taking other actions: If Wrath was dead without issue, they would be scrambling to fill the throne with the closest male blood relation they could find. Unless the king was hanging at the edge of death by his fingertips? Or mayhap he had pulled through thanks to all that medical technology they had cultivated at their compound. . . ?

  Ordinarily, thoughts such as these would have consumed him, the lack of answers twisting up hard in his gut and causing him to pace endlessly if he wasn't fighting.

  Now, though, in the logy aftermath of the feeding, the ruminations were naught but distant screams of urgency that did not carry far and failed to energize him.

  The female under the colored maple tree was what he dwelled upon.

  As he retraced her features from memory, he told himself he was permitted this one night of distraction. He was in no condition to fight, even with her gift, and his soldiers were out carrying forth the mission against the lessers, so there was still some progress being made.

  One night. And then upon the sunset of the morrow, he was going to cast her aside as one did with both fantasies and nightmares, thus returning to the real world to battle once again.

  One night only.

  That was all he would grant this futureless diversion of fancy. . .

  Assuming, a small voice pointed out, that Throe kept his word and never again sought her out.