The King

FIFTY-EIGHT

Downtown, in the urban heart of Caldwell, Xcor picked up a burst of speed in an alley, his combat boots crushing through the dirty, salted slush, frigid air rushing at his face, distant sirens and shouts offering a kind of narration to this battle.

Up ahead, the slayer he was going for was just as fast as he. The bastard was not as well armed, however—especially after he’d emptied his clip and then had, in the fit of a fifteen-year-old, thrown the autoloader at Xcor.

Great move. Right up there with crying for your mommy.

And then the chase had been on.

Xcor was content to allow the lesser to run his lack of a heart out. Provided that all the sprinting didn’t lead to the kind of complication that had gotten in his way the other night.

He had no interest in fielding another human.

After another quarter mile or so, the slayer came to the titular end of the alley—whereupon he was forced to pull a music video, throwing his body at a twenty-foot-high chain-link fence and commencing to scale it with admirable aplomb.

Then again, the Omega had given him a kind of super-power following his induction.

Not that it was going to save him.

Xcor took three leaping steps and pitched his body into the air, his weight sailing upward and landing him upon the lesser’s back just before the slayer hit the apex of the fencing. Locking on and yanking hard, he peeled the undead free of the fencing, twisting in midair such that they landed with Xcor on top.

His scythe screamed to be let out to play. But instead of releasing her, he unclipped her little cousin from his hip.

The machete had a steel handle and a rubber grip, and it felt like an extension of his arm as he lifted it over his shoulder.

Now, he could end this quickly by aiming for the middle of the chest. But where was the fun in that? Slapping a hold on the face, he wrenched the head to the side and sheared off the ear—

The resulting scream was a kind of music, echoing in his ears.

“Other side,” he grunted, forcing the head around. “One needs to match.”

The machete’s blade whistled through the air a second time, Xcor’s accuracy such that nothing save the fleshy appendage was touched. And the pain was enough to incapacitate his prey—well, that and the fact that surely the slayer knew that what was to come was going to be so much worse.

Fear had a way of leading to paralysis.

And the undead was right to be terrified.

In a fast series of hacks, Xcor worked his way down the body, striking the blade deep into each shoulder to cut the tendons and incapacitate the torso—and then following through with the backs of the knees.

Sitting back, he watched the writhing and breathed in the stench—as well as the suffering: Being the cause of pain fed his inner beast, a meal consumed by the evil side of him—that just left him hungry for more.

Time to get a bit more invasive. And he decided to cut off the left foot—slowly. With half strength, he hacked once, twice … three times before the blade cut cleanly through. The right foot was just as leisurely a pursuit.

In the midst of his work, his mind retreated to thoughts that were sure to make him even more depraved.

He kept thinking about Wrath’s end run. Tyhm, the lawyer, had made a subsequent assessment of the mating-dissolution document and deemed it legal—but Xcor knew the thing had been predated.

Do not tell him that the King hadn’t signed on that line as soon as that no-confidence parchment had landed upon his desk.

Moving up to below the knee, he resettled into his work, and the rhythm of chops reminded him of the Old Country, when he’d cut wood to take the edge off his frustration.

The question he wanted answered was, how far did that piece of paper go? Had the King in truth turned aside his mate?

It is a love match.

As he heard his Chosen’s voice in his head, a surge of power overtook him—and good timing as he confronted the lesser’s thighs. No more holding back, now: He threw his muscles into his work, whacking through skin and bone, black blood hitting his face, his fangs bared.

The slayer was clawing through the snow to the pavement, fingernails ripping into the asphalt below as the screaming dried up in his throat, shock o’ertaking his breathing and heart rate, rendering him all but inanimate.

But he would not die like this.

Indeed, there was only one way to kill him.

Xcor reduced the lesser to pieces, leaving only the head attached to a block of the torso, pools of that black blood forming under the four compass points of where the limbs had been attached.

When there was nothing else to cut off, Xcor sat back on his haunches and took a breather. It was not so fun now that the slayer was compromised. The suffering was still there, but it was not so obvious.

Yet he didn’t want this work of his to end. Like the addict holding on to a fix that was no longer sufficient for his needs, he nevertheless couldn’t finish things.

As his phone went off, he was determined to ignore it. He didn’t want to hear Ichan’s bitching—that aristocrat had been leaving message after message trying to recoup his almost-there to the throne. And then there was Tyhm, also calling.

Their little cabal had failed, however—and Xcor’s mind had yet to devise the next approach.

Lifting the machete high into the air, he then buried the honed steel blade right into the empty chest—and immediately had to rear back to shield his eyes and face from the brilliant flash of light and burst of heat.

As he was knocked over from the impact, his phone began to ring again.

“Goddamn it.” Jabbing his hand into his duster’s inner pocket, he took out the annoying device. “What.”

There was a pause. And then the sweetest voice he’d e’er heard entered his ear.

“I’m waiting for you.”

Xcor swayed even though he was all but prostrate upon the ground. Closing his eyes, he exhaled. “I am on my way.”

“You did not come earlier when you had said.”

Untrue. As soon as he could break off from the Bastards, he had spirited to the maple—and found his Layla’s footprints in the snow. She must have returned to their meeting place the now, though.

“There were things I could not get out of.” That fucking meeting. The unrest afterward. “But that is no longer true. Be assured.”

He wanted to stay on the phone with her, except he terminated the connection. Jumping to his feet, he glanced down, and recognized that part of his anger had been from missing the chance to see her—

Abruptly, he cursed. The limbs he had cut into pieces had not been incinerated.

He was not going to clean up after himself tonight, however. Whatever humans found the remains could enjoy something to get worked up over.

Ghosting off to the north, he scattered himself upon the wind … and re-formed at the base of their meadow. Immediately he saw her, standing under that giant tree, her pale robing gleaming in the moonlight.

In a rush, he tried to dematerialize to her, too impatient to surmount the distance by foot. But his mind was too muddled for him to concentrate sufficiently.

Left to cross the distance physically, he began to walk, but soon he was jogging … and then flat-out running.

She was the only goal that mattered in that moment, and as he arrived before her, he was out of breath. Out of his mind.

In love.

Layla brought a hand up to her nose.

As Xcor arrived before her, the smell that swirled around him was vile, so sickly sweet that she choked. And he noted her reaction immediately, hiding his bloodied hands behind his back, stepping away so that she was not downwind of him.

“Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I was in the field.”

As there was nothing that carried the scent of the blood of their kind, she sighed in relief. “Our enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is right and proper.”

As his eyes flared, she shook her head. “I have no issue with your defense of our race.”

“That is refreshing.”

She tried to imagine him fighting—and found it was not difficult in the slightest. With his thick neck and his gigantic shoulders, he was indeed bred for violence. And yet even with the stench of slayers upon his person, she had no fear.

“I waited in the snow for you,” she whispered.

“I worried that you had.”

“It is done then. The Council knows about Wrath, that is.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So that is why you followed through to see me here? To gloat?”

“No, not at all. I’m simply hoping…”

When she didn’t finish, he crossed his arms, his chest appearing larger than ever. “Put it into words.”

“You know exactly that of which I speak.”

“I desire to hear the words.”

“Leave Wrath alone.”

Xcor broke away from her, walking back and forth. “Answer me something.”

“Anything.”

“That is not a safe reply for you, Chosen.” He glanced over, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “In fact, this meeting is not safe for you.”

“You will not hurt me.”

“Such faith you put in a monster.”

“You’re not a monster. If you were, you would have killed me that night in the car.”

“My question is this,” he evaded. “Did Wrath honestly forsake that female of his? And you can attempt to lie to me, but I will know the truth.”

Mayhap not, Layla thought. For she had practiced her response to just that inquiry. For hours.

Meeting his eyes steadily, she said without any change of affect: “Yes, he did. The proclamation was predated, but it is true. He has given up his only love to keep that which you endeavor to steal from him.”

Hours in front of the mirror. She had sat in her bathroom, on the little padded bench, in the full glare of as many lights as she could turn on, repeating those words over and over again. Until they were rote—until their meaning was lost and they became only syllables. Until she could speak the lie with no hesitation or stumble.

And she knew that giving the partial truth provided her more credibility.

“Such a sacrifice,” he murmured.

He, too, gave nothing away.

There was a long, long silence—filled by the pounding of her heart.

“Leave this unholy quest behind,” she said. “Please.”

“And what of your previous offer. Does that still stand.”

She swallowed hard. On so many levels, she couldn’t imagine having sex with him. He was an enemy sure as the Lessening Society was—and there was, in fact, a side to him that was monstrous. Moreover, she had never imagined bartering her body for something.

And she was not naive. Yes, she had felt an attraction to him when he had come to her and found her in that car. But this was a deal of business-like proportions.

Layla kicked her chin up. “Yes. It does.”

“And if I agreed to your terms, would I have to wait for the birth of the young? Or could I take you immediately.”

At that, the scenting upon the air changed, a dark spice flaring up and overtaking the stench that had made her ill.

Her hands went to her womb, a sudden terror seizing her. What if she endangered the young growing within her? Except the other Chosen had continued relations with the previous Primale, hadn’t they. To no ill effect.

“You may have me whenever you wish,” she said thinly.

“What if I wanted it here, and now. In the cold. Standing up, fully clothed.”

Her heart thundered, her chest growing tight as she recognized his arousal—and feared it. Still, she held her ground, staying in touch with the fact that she had something he wanted, and with that reality, there was a chance Wrath and Beth and any young they might have could be safe.

“I would do as you asked,” she heard herself say.

“All this for your King.”

“Yes. For him.”

Xcor smiled, but it was without warmth or humor. “I shall consider your terms. See me here on the morrow, midnight—and I shall give you mine answer.”

“I thought that was why you called me here tonight?”

“I have changed my mind.”

She expected him to dematerialize. Instead, he gave her his back and walked down the way he had come up, his heavy strides creating distance between them.

Closing her eyes, she—

“What did you say to him?” a male voice demanded from behind her.