Stiffly rising to a stand, he wanted to call for his stallion, but his mouth was too dry to whistle. His father ... long his nemesis and yet his grounding, too, was dead. Dead. And it had happened so fast, too fast.
By a female.
His father, gone.
When he could, he looked at each of the males afore him, the two on horseback, the two on foot, the one to his right. With weighty realization, he knew that whatever destiny lay ahead, it would be shaped by what he did in this moment, right here, right now.
He had not prepared for this, but he would not turn away from what he must do:
"Hear this now, for I shall utter it but once. No one is to say a thing. My father died in battle with the enemy. I burned him to pay homage and keep him with me. Swear this to me now."
The bastards he had long lived and fought with so vowed, and after their deep voices drifted away on the night, Xcor leaned down and raked his fingers through the ashes. Raising his hands to his face, he streaked the sooty marking from his cheeks to the thick veins that ran up either side of his neck - and then he palmed the hard, bony skull that was all that was left of his father. Holding the steaming, charred remains aloft, he claimed the soldiers before him as his own.
"I am your sole liege now. Bind yourselves unto me at this moment or thou art mine enemy. What say you all."
There was nary a hesitation. The males set upon bended knee, taking out their daggers, and bursting forth with a war cry before burying the blades into the earth at his feet.
Xcor stared at their bowed heads and felt a mantle fall upon his shoulders. The Bloodletter was dead. No longer living, he was a legend starting this night.
And as is right and proper, the son now stepped into the soles of his sire, commanding these soldiers who would serve not Wrath, the king who would not rule, nor the Brotherhood, who would not deign to lower themselves to this level ... but Xcor and Xcor alone.
"We go in the direction from whence the female came," he announced. "We shall find her even if it takes centuries, and she shall pay for what she hath wrought this night." Now Xcor whistled loud and clear to his stallion. "I shall take this death out of her hide myself."
Springing up onto his horse, he gathered the reins and spurred the great beast into the night, his band of bastards falling into formation upon his heels, prepared to go to the death for him.
As they thundered out of the village, he put the skull of his father in his leather battle shirt, right over his heart.
Vengeance would be his own. Even if it killed him.
Chapter One
PRESENT DAY
AQUEDUCT RACETRACK, QUEENS, NEW YORK
"I want to blow you."
Dr. Manny Manello swiveled his head to the right and looked at the woman who'd spoken to him. It was hardly the first time he'd heard that combination of words, and the mouth they'd come out of certainly had enough silicone in it to offer a good cushion. But it was still a surprise.
Candace Hanson smiled at him and adjusted her Jackie O. hat with a manicured hand. Apparently, she'd decided that the combination of ladylike and raunchy was enticing - and maybe it was to some guys.
Hell, at another time in his life, he probably would have taken her up on it, under the why-the-hell-not theory. Now? File that under not-so-much.
Undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm, she leaned forward, flashing him a set of br**sts that didn't so much defy gravity as flip it off, insult its mother, and piss on its shoes. "I know where we could go."
He bet she did. "Race is about to start."
She pouted. Or maybe that was just the way her post-injection lips poofed out. God, a decade ago she'd probably been fresh faced; now the years were adding a patina of desperation to her - along with the normal wrinkle-linked aging process that she clearly fought like a boxer.
"Afterward, then."
Manny turned away without replying, unsure exactly how she got into the owners' section. Must have been in the rush to come back here from the saddling up at the paddock - and no doubt she was used to getting into places she technically wasn't allowed: Candace was one of those Manhattan social types who was nothing but a pimp away from being a prostitute, and in a lot of ways, she was like any other wasp - ignore the nuisance and it'll go land on something else.
Or someone else, as it were.
Putting his arm up to keep her from getting any closer, Manny leaned on the rail of his owner's box and waited for his girl to be brought out onto the track. She was posted on the outside, and that was fine: she preferred not to be in the pack, and going a little extra distance had never bothered her.
The Aqueduct in Queens, New York, was not quite on the prestige level of Belmont or Pimlico, or that venerable mother of all racetracks, Churchill Downs. It wasn't dog shit, either, however. The facility had a good mile and an eighth of dirt, and also both a turf and a short course. Total capacity was ninety thousand-ish. Food was meh, but no one really went there to eat, and there were some big races, like today: The Wood Memorial Stakes had a $750,000 purse, and as it was held in April, it was a good benchmark for Triple Crown contenders -
Oh, yeah, there she was. There was his girl.
As Manny's eyes locked on GloryGloryHallelujah, the noise of the crowd and the bright light of the day and the bobbing line of the other horses disappeared. All he saw was his magnificent black filly, her coat catching the sun and flashing, her superlean legs flexing, her delicate hooves curling up out of the track's dirt and planting down again. With her at nearly seventeen hands high, the jockey was a tiny pretzeled gnat on her back, and that size differential was representative of the division of power. She'd made it clear from day one of her training: She might have to tolerate the annoying little humans, but they were just along for the ride. She was in charge.
Her domineering temperament had already cost him two trainers. The third they were on now? The guy was looking a little frustrated, but that was just his sense of control getting hoofed to death: Glory's times were outstanding - they just had nothing to do with him. And Manny was summarily unconcerned with the inflated egos of men who bossed horses around for a living. His girl was a fighter, and she knew what she was doing, and he had no problems letting her go and watching the fun as she buried the competition.
As his eyes stayed with her, he remembered the sucker he'd bought her off of a little more than a year ago. That twenty grand had been a steal, given her bloodlines, but was also a fortune going by her temperament and the fact that it hadn't been clear that she'd be able to get her gate card to race. She'd been a unruly yearling on the verge of getting benched - or worse, turned into dog food.
But he'd been right. Provided you gave her her head and let her run the show, she was spectacular.
When the lineup approached the gate, some of the horses started to twinkle-toe it, but his girl was rock steady, as if she knew it was pointless to waste her energy on this pregame bullshit. And he really liked their odds in spite of their pole position, because this jockey on her back was a star: He knew precisely how to handle her, and in that regard, he was more responsible for her success than the trainers. His philosophy with her was just to make sure she saw all the best routes out of the pack and then let her choose and go.
Manny rose to his feet and gripped the painted iron rail in front of him, joining the crowd as it crested out of the seats and popped countless binocs. As his heart started to pound, he was glad, because outside of the gym he'd been all but flatlining it lately. Life had carried a terrible numbness with it over the past year or so, and maybe that was part of the reason this filly was so important to him.
Maybe she was all he had, too.
Not that he was going there.
At the gate, it was a case of move it, move it, move it: When you were trying to stuff fifteen high-strung horses with legs like sticks and adrenal glands that were firing like howitzers into itty-bitty metal boxes, you didn't waste time. Within a minute or so, the field was locked down and the track hands were hightailing it for the rails.
Heartbeat.
Bell.
Bang!
The gates released and the crowd roared and those horses surged forward like they'd been blown out of cannons. The conditions were perfect. Dry. Cool. Track was fast.
Not that his girl cared. She'd run in quicksand if she had to.
The Thoroughbreds thundered by, the sound of their collective hooves and the driving beat of the announcer's voice whipping the energy in the stands to an ecstatic pitch. Manny stayed calm, however, keeping his hands locked on the rail in front of him and his eyes on the field as the pack rounded the first corner in a tight knot of backs and tails.