Chapter Seventy-Five
As dawn approached at the end of the darkened night, and the moon sunk low in the sky, Xcor left downtown Caldwell. After that ridiculous meeting with the glymera, he and his bastards had reconvened at the top of their skyscraper, but he hadn't been able to stomach any strategizing or talk of the aristocrats.
Upon ordering his soldiers to return to their newest home base, he escaped into the cold night air alone, knowing precisely where he had to go.
To the meadow, the moon-washed meadow with the big tree.
As he re-formed in the landscape, he saw it not covered in snow, but vibrant with fall's colors, the oak's branches not bare, but lush with red and gold leaves.
Marching through the snow, he mounted the rolling earth, stopping when he came to the spot where he had seen the Chosen for the first time. . . and taken her blood.
He remembered every bit of her, her face, her scent, her hair. The way she moved and the sound of her voice. The delicate structure of her body and the frightening fragility of her smooth skin.
He yearned for her, his cold heart crying out in prayer for something that he knew fate could never provide.
Closing his eyes, he planted his hands on his hips and lowered his head.
The Brotherhood had found them at that farmhouse.
The rifle case that Syphon used to keep the tools of his assassin's trade was gone.
Whoever had taken it had come and gone during the previous night. Which meant at sunset, they had packed up their few things and scattered for a new location.
He knew the Chosen had been the cause of it. He could think of no other way their lair could have been located. And another thing was clear: The Brotherhood were going to use the rifle to prove with surety that the bullet driven into Wrath months ago had been from a weapon of theirs.
How thorough of them.
Indeed, Wrath was such a good little king. So careful not to behave rashly and without cause - and yet he was obviously capable of using any weapon at his disposal.
Not that Xcor would find blame with the Chosen - not at all. He did, however, have to find out if she was safe. He simply had to be reassured that though his enemies had wielded her, they had not mistreated her.
Oh, how his wicked heart churned at the idea that she might have been hurt in any way. . . .
As he considered his options, a cold wind blew in from the north, trying to cut him to the core. It was too late, though. He was already sliced in the heart.
That female had slashed him in a way no war wound ever could, and from the likes of her, he was never going to heal up.
Good thing he didn't ever allow his emotions to show, for it was best that no one knew his Achilles' heel had finally, after all these years, come to find him.
And now. . . he would have to find her.
If only to put his conscience, such as he had one, at ease, he was going to have to see her again.