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 pu**y 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.
Chapter Fifty-Two
"One more?"
As Tohr returned his attentions to the silver tray of food, No'One wanted to decline the offer. Indeed, lying back against the pillows of his bed, she was stuffed.
And yet as he shifted toward her with another ripe strawberry held by its fluffy green crown, she found the fruit was too much to resist. Parting her lips, she waited, as she had learned to wait, for him to bring the food to her.
Several of the bright red berries had failed to meet his rigorous requirements, having been set aside on the edge of the tray. The same had been true for some of the slices of freshly cooked turkey, as well as parts of the green salad. The rice had all passed muster, however, as had the delicious sourdough bread rolls.
"Here," he murmured. "This is a good one."
No'One watched him watch her as she accepted what he provided. He was singularly focused on her consumption - in a way that was both touching and a source of fascination. She had heard of males doing this. Had even caught sight of her parents in such a ritual, her mother seated to the left of her father at the dining table, him inspecting each plate and bowl and glass and cup afore it was sent in her direction by him personally, rather than by the staff - provided the food was of high enough quality. She had assumed the practice was a quaint holdover from some earlier time. Not so. This private space here with Tohrment was the basis of exchanges such as that. In fact, she could imagine aeons ago, in the wild, a male returning with something freshly killed and doing likewise.
It made her feel... protected. Valued. Special.
"One more?" he said again.
"You shall make me fat."
"Females should have meat on their bones." He smiled in a distracted way as he picked up a plump berry and frowned at it.
As his words resonated, she did not take them to mean he thought her wanting in any fashion. How could she, when he had done nothing but pick through perfectly good food and weed out what he did not think was worthy enough for her?
"A last one, then," she said softly, "and then I must decline all other offerings. I am full to bursting."
He tossed the berry aside with the other rejects and snagged another, and whilst he all but growled at the poor thing, his stomach let out an empty howl.
"You must needs eat as well," she pointed out.
The grunt she got back was either grudging approval of the second berry or agreement - likely the former.
As she bit down and chewed, he rested his arms in his lap and stared at her mouth as if he were prepared to help her swallow if he had to.
In the quiet moment, she thought, oh, how he had changed since the summer. He was so much bigger - impossibly so, his once large body now absolutely mammoth. And yet he had not swollen up unattractively, his muscles expanding to this outer limit without any coating of fat upon them, his form pleasing to the eye in its proportion. His face had remained lean, but it was no longer drawn, and his skin had lost the gray pallor she had not recognized until color bloomed anew in his cheeks.
The white streak remained in his hair, however, evidence of all he had been through.
How often did he think of his Wellesandra? Was he as yet dwelling upon her?
Of course he was.
As her chest ached, she found it difficult to draw breath. She had always had sympathy for him, her pain receptors firing up when he was in extremis sure as if his loss was her own.
Now, though, she had a different kind of agony behind her sternum.
Mayhap it was because they were closer still now. Yes, that was it. She was commiserating with him at an even deeper level.
"Done?" he said, his face tilting to the side, the lamplight hitting it with gentle kindness.
No, she was wrong, she thought as she dragged another breath in.
This was not commiseration.
This was something altogether different from caring about another's suffering.
"Autumn?" he said. "You okay?"
Staring up at him, she felt a sudden chill tickle the skin of her forearms and skitter across her bare shoulders. Under the warmth of the covers, her body shimmied in its own flesh, going cold and then flushing with heat.
Which was what happened, she supposed, when your world was turned upside down.
Dearest Virgin Scribe... she was in love with him.
She had fallen in love with this male.
When had it happened?
"Autumn." His voice grew more forceful. "What's going on?"
The "when" couldn't be pinned down, she decided. The shift had occurred millimeter by millimeter, the engine of change driven by exchanges between them both big and small... until, similar to the way the lovely night fell and laid claim to the landscape of the earth, what began as imperceptible culminated in the undeniable.
He bolted up to his feet. "I'll get Doc Jane - "
"No," she said, holding out her hand. "I am fine. Just tired, and satiated from the food."
For a moment, he gave her his strawberry look, that discerning eye of his narrowing and locking on.
Clearly she passed muster, however, as he sank back down.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she motioned to the second tray, the one that still had the silver covers over its dishes. "You should eat now. In fact, perhaps we should get you some fresh food."
He shrugged. "This is fine."
He popped the berries that hadn't been good enough for her into his mouth as he revealed his dinner, and then ate everything that had been left behind on her tray as well as all that was on his own.
His attention diverted was a good thing.
When he was finished with his meal, and the remains of her own, he took the trays and the stands and put them outside in the hall.
"I'll be right back."
With that, he disappeared into the bathroom, and soon the sound of running water drifted out to her.
Curling onto her side, she stared at the closed drapes.
The lights went out and then his quiet padding came across the carpet. There was a pause before he got upon the bed - and for a moment, she worried that he had read her mind. But then she felt a cooling breeze against her and realized he'd lifted the covers. For the first time.
"Okay if I join you?"
Abruptly, she blinked back tears. "Please."
The mattress dipped down and then his naked body came over against her own. As he gathered her in his arms, she went willingly and with surprise into him.
That odd, ambient chill went through her again, bringing with it a sense of foreboding. But then she was warm, even hot... from his flesh against her own.
He must never know, she thought as she closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.
He must never, ever know what beat within her heart for him.
It would ruin everything.
Chapter Fifty-Three
As Lassiter sat at the base of the grand staircase, he stared upward at the painted ceiling some three floors above him. Within the depiction of warriors astride stallions, he searched the painted clouds and found the image he was looking for, but did not want to see.
Wellsie was ever farther back in the landscape, her form even more compact as she huddled into herself in that field of gray boulders.
In truth, he was losing hope. Soon she would be so far off into the distance that they wouldn't be able to see her at all. And that was when it was over: she was done, he was done... Tohr was done.
He'd thought No'One was the answer. And, you know, back in the early fall, he had gotten psyched that all was resolved. The night after Tohr had finally bedded that female good and proper, she had arrived at the dining table without her hood or that awful robe on: She had been in a dress, a cornflower blue dress that was too big for her and lovely nonetheless, and her hair had been loose around her shoulders, a cascade of blond.
The pair of them had had an accord that came only after two people banged the crap out of each other for hours.
He'd repacked his clothes at that point. Hung around his room. Paced for hours, waiting to be summoned by the Maker.
When the sun had set again, he'd chalked it up to administrative delay. When the sun had risen once more, he'd started to get worried.
Then, he'd become resigned.
Now, he was in panic mode....
Sitting on his ass, staring up at the figment of a dead female, he found himself wondering the same thing Tohr had so very often.
What more did the Creator want out of this?
"What are you looking for?"
As a deep voice interrupted him, he glanced across at the male in question. Tohrment had obviously come out from the hidden door underneath the staircase: He was dressed in black running shorts and a muscle shirt, and had sweat slicking his skin and dark hair.
Aside from the postworkout drips, the guy looked great. But that was what happened to 'em when they were well fed, well f**ked, and unharmed.
The Brother lost some of that hale-and-hearty as their eyes met, however. Which suggested that he had the same worry just below his surface, lingering always, a chronic concern.
Tohr came over and sat down, toweling off his face. "Talk to me."
"You getting any more dreams about her?" No reason to proper-name the "her." Between the two of them, there was only one female who mattered.
"Last was a week ago."
"How'd she look." As if he didn't already know. He was frickin' staring at her right now.
"Farther away." Tohr took the towel from around his neck and stretched it taut between his fists. "You sure that maybe she isn't just fading into the Fade."
"She look happy to you."
"No."
"That's your answer."
"I'm doing everything I can."
Lassiter glanced over and nodded. "I know you are. I totally know you are."
"So you're worried, too."
No reason to answer that one.
In silence, the pair of them sat hip-to-hip, arms dangling off their knees, the metaphorical brick wall they were standing in front of blocking any horizon.
"Can I be honest with you?" the Brother said.