The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(12)

Easily cured, however, and then he would have what he wanted.

“…meal of our choice?”

As Ichan and Tyhm looked at him, he realized that he’d just been asked out to eat.

Xcor let the strip of skin fall to the snow at his feet. No doubt the dandy inside had groundspeople who would pick it up, although given how unsettled the dear boy was, mayhap he would venture out for a walk amongst his f*cking topiaries and see it himself.

Threats were best made on multiple levels.

“The field awaits me the now,” Xcor said as he carved out a section of flesh and bared his fangs, bringing his knife up to his mouth along with the piece.

The crack as he bit down had its desired effect.

“Yes, well, of course, indeed, for truth,” Ichan said, his words like a ballerina spinning off her pointed shoes and careening into the orchestra pit.

How cute.

And then there was a pause, as if the adieu was to be repaid. When Xcor merely cocked a brow, the two dematerialized sure as if there were emergencies afoot at their respective manses.

So irrelevant these pawns were—he had used some up already and no doubt one or both of the pair that had just departed would find their graves in service to him.

Inside the great house, the Council member they had come to see was still hanging his head—but not for long. Someone entered the room, and whoever it was, the aristocrat didn’t want them to know of his upset. He pulled himself together, smiling and holding out his arms. As a young female went unto him, Xcor figured her to be the daughter.

She was beautiful, it was true—the drawing had been accurate.

But she was not a patch on another.

Unbidden, memories flooded his mind, images of fair skin and hair, and eyes that were capable of stopping him in his tracks sure as a bullet, tangled his thoughts until he was the one tripping over his boots even as he remained standing.

No, however pretty and young that daughter was, she was but a far-off echo of loveliness compared to his unattainable Chosen.

“You must stop this,” he said into the cold night breeze. “Stop this the now.”

A fine command, indeed—and yet it was several minutes before he could calm himself enough to focus and dematerialize from the front lawn.

A blink later and Xcor was finally in his element: The alley before him was an urban armpit, the snow filthy from the tire grab left over after countless dump and delivery trucks had passed o’er this stretch behind half a dozen cheap restaurants. In spite of frigid December gusts, the stench of spoiled meat and denaturing green matter was enough to make the inside of the nose tingle.

Breathing in, he searched for the sickly sweetness of the enemy.

He had been born deformed and cast away unto the world by the female who had brought him forth from her womb. Reared in the Bloodletter’s war camp, he had been honed as a blade in that sadist’s fire pit of aggression and pain, any weakness pounded out of him until he was as deadly as a dagger.

This theater of combat was where he belonged.

And he was not alone for long.

Wrenching his head around, he braced his weight into his thighs. A group of human men came into view, clearing the corner, walking in a pack. When they saw him, they stopped and drew in on themselves.

Xcor rolled his eyes and resumed his promenade in the opposite direction—

“Whadaf*ckyadoin’,” came the shout-out.

Turning back, he eyed the five of them. They were wearing some sort of coordinated theme of tough human: leather jackets, black skull caps, bandannas tied to the bottoms of their faces.

They had clearly intended to come upon someone or someones else.

Not the kind of foe he bothered with. For one thing, humans were so inferior physically, it was like biting into that apple. Secondly, they were liable to involve others of their species, either on purpose through that dreaded 911 thing or inadvertently, by causing a noise that alerted passersby.

“Whadaf*ckyadoin’!”

If he stayed silent, mayhap this would escalate into a coordinated song-and-dance number? How frightening.

“Go about your night,” he said in a low voice.

“Go about your—whatreyasomekindaforiegnf*ck?”

Or something to that effect. Their accents were difficult to decipher—moreover, he was disinterested in making much effort on that front—

From out of nowhere, a car careened around that corner, its tires losing traction as its driver pounded on the brakes.

Gunshots rang out, echoing through the night, scattering the assembled, including himself.

Wrong place, wrong time, Xcor thought as he caught a slug in the shoulder, the pain blazing through his head—and making it impossible for him to dematerialize.

He wanted nothing of this silly fight amongst the rats without tails. But it appeared as if he were going to have to engage.

He was not dying as the result of a human’s bullet.





THREE


I-87, A.K.A. THE NORTHWAY


Oh, that new-car smell.

A combination of too-fresh carpeting, still-viscous hinge oil, and glue that was only surface dry.

Sola Morte loved a fresh start in the automotive department, which was why she always leased her Audi A4s. Every three years she got a new one—sometimes more often if there was a program that let her jump ship a month or two early.

So, yeah, this was familiar territory … except for the fact that she was getting a whiff of heaven from the trunk of whatever sedan she had been shut into.