“You think he’d take it that far?”
“Yes, I do.” iAm poured a refill. “He’s not going back there, and I need time to figure out how to resolve the conflict before something disastrous happens.”
“You guys want to move into my house up north?”
iAm downed his second bourbon on a oner. “No.” He leveled his eyes. “I want us to move into the Brotherhood compound.”
As Rehv cursed long and low, iAm poured himself a third. “It’s the safest place for us.”
Xcor was covered in lesser blood and sweat as he returned to his new lair. His fighters were still downtown, engaging with the enemy, but he had had to pare off and seek shelter.
Damn cut on his arm.
The house that Throe had found them was located in a modest neighborhood full of modest homes with two-car garages and swing sets in their backyards. Among its advantages was that it was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, and there was an empty building lot on one side and a Caldwell Sewer Department processing unit on the other.
They had it for three months, with an option to buy.
As he dematerialized through the heavily draped windows of the family room, he scoffed at the padded sofa that formed an L, its tufted cushions like rolls of fat, its color akin to beef stew.
Although he appreciated working heat, the fact that the facility had come “furnished” was annoying to him. He feared he was alone in this, however: Over the past few days, he’d oft caught one or another of his soldiers reclining on that godforsaken monster, their heads lying back, their legs stretched out in comfort.
What was next? Throw blankets?
Stalking up the narrow staircase, he missed the doom and gloom of the castle they still owned back in the Old Country. Longed for the heft of the stone that had surrounded them, and the impregnable nature of the layout, with its moat and high walls. Mourned, too, the fun they had had spooking the villagers, giving physical presence to the stuff of myth.
Good times, as they said here in the New World.
On the second floor, he refused to look into the bedrooms. The pink of the one in front burned his eyes, and the sea foam green of the other was another assault on the senses as well. And there was no relief to be had as he walked into the master bedroom. Flowered wallpaper, everywhere. Even on the bed, and across the windows, and all over that chair in the corner.
At least his combat boots crushed the thick carpet, leaving tread prints like bruises on his way to the bath.
For godsakes, he was not even sure what color to call the scheme in here.
Raspberry?
Shuddering, he wanted to keep the lights over the sink off, but with the rosebud curtains drawn, the illumination from the streetlamps below was drowned out completely, and he needed to see what he was doing—
Oh, dearest Fates.
He’d forgotten about the lace shades on the sconces.
Indeed, in any other environment, the twin red glows might have suggested something of a sexual nature. But not in this land of nicey-nicey. Here, they were a set of gumdrops glowing on the wall.
He nearly choked from the estrogen.
In a fit of self-preservation, he popped both of the offenders free of their lightbulbs and put them under the sink. The glare was offensive to his retinas, but it was the difference between cursing and hand-wringing: Always, he would choose the former.
Removing his scythe first, he placed her on the counter between the twin sinks. Next, he took off her halter, then stripped his coat, his daggers and his guns from his body. The undershirt he wore was stained from long nights of fighting, but it was cleaned regularly—and would be used again. Clothes, after all, were naught but the hides vampires had not been given at birth.
They were not for personal decoration—at least, not for him.
Turning to the mirror, he muttered at the sight of himself.
The slayer that he’d been fighting hand-to-hand had been viciously good with a knife, likely the result of its former life on the streets, and what a rush to combat with one of fine skills. He had won, of course, but it had been a bracing battle.
Unfortunately, however, he’d taken home a lovely souvenir of the conflict: The gash ran up the front of his biceps and around to the side, terminating at the top of his shoulder. Quite nasty. But he’d had worse.
And accordingly, he knew how to treat himself. Lined up upon the counter were the various and sundry items that he and his fighters required from time to time: a bottle of CVS rubbing alcohol, a BIC lighter, several sewing needles, a spool of black nylon fishing line.
Xcor grimaced as he took off his shirt and the short sleeve that had been sliced through raked over the wound and split it wide. Gritting his teeth, he went still, the pain sharpening to the point that his stomach clenched up like a fist.
Breathing deep, he waited until the sensations passed, and then went for the alcohol. Twisting off the white cap, he leaned over the sink, braced himself and—
The sound that came out from his locked teeth was part growl, part groan. And as his vision checkerboarded, he closed his eyes and leaned his hip into the lip of the sink.
Inhaling hard, his sinuses stung from the smell, but there was no putting the cap back on yet: his fine motor skills were no doubt shot.
Taking a walk to clear his head, he went back into the bedroom and gave his body a chance to recalibrate. As the pain stayed with him, like he had a dog attached to his arm that was trying to eat him alive, he cursed many times.
And ended up downstairs. Where the liquor was.
Never one for imbibing, he investigated the canvas bag of bottles that Zypher had brought with them from the warehouse. The soldier enjoyed a drink from time to time, and although Xcor did not approve, he had long ago learned that one had to make certain allowances when it came to aggressive, restless fighters.
And on a night like tonight, he found himself grateful.
Whiskey? Gin? Vodka?
What did it matter.
He picked one randomly, split the seal on the cap, and tilted his head back. Opening his throat, he poured whatever it was down, swallowing in spite of the fact that his esophagus burned like it was afire.
Xcor continued to drink as he went back upstairs. Further drinking as he paced around some more and waited for the effects to kick in.
Even more drinking.
He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he was back in the bright light of the bathroom, drawing a two-foot length of black line through the head of a thin needle. Facing the broad, rectangular mirror over the sinks, he was grateful that the lesser’s blade had found his left arm. It meant that, as a right-handed male, he could handle this on his own. Had it been the other side? He would have had to get help.
The booze helped greatly. He barely flinched as he pierced his own skin and made a neat knot with the help of his teeth.
Indeed, alcohol was a curious substance, he thought as he began to make a row of stitches. The numbness that had come upon him made him feel as though he had been submerged in warm water, his body loosening, the pain still making an appearance, but the volume on the agony turned way down.
Slow. Precise. Even.
When he got to the top of his shoulder, he made another knot; then he snipped the needle free, put everything back where he’d found it, and started the shower.
Stripping his leathers down his legs, he kicked off his combat boots and stepped beneath the spray.
This time, the groan was from relief: As the warm water blanketed his sore shoulders, stiff back, and tight thigh muscles, the sense of comfort was nearly as overwhelming as the agony had been.