The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,153

it was something else: This fight with Wrath was not over.

There was no way it ended here, like this. Too easy.

Reflecting upon his journey to this moment, Xcor could only shake his head. Before he had come unto the New World, flying across the ocean at night, things had seemed rather much in his control. Following the death of the Bloodletter, he had taken the reins of the soldiers and enjoyed centuries of conflict with the Lessening Society after the Brotherhood had come to Caldwell.

Eventually, however, after all their successes in the field, there had been no one save humans to chase after, and it was difficult to find much sport in those rats without tails.

He had wanted the throne as soon as he had landed because … it was there.

And perhaps he knew that unless he took the crown, he and the Band of Bastards would be hunted: Sooner or later, the Brotherhood would discover their presence and want to exert superiority over them.

Or eliminate them.

Through his efforts, though, those tables had been turned; he had gained power over them and their King. And that’s what was so strange. The sense that he was in some way out of control now was illogical—

As Balthazar let out a whooping laugh and Zypher poured more gin—or was it vodka?—Xcor’s temper lit.

“He has not responded yet,” Xcor cut in.

The group of them turned upon him with frowns.

“Who has not?” Throe asked as he lowered his glass. The others had red plastic cups or were drinking from the bottle.

“Wrath.”

Throe shook his head. “He cannae have one, as legally he is powerless. There is naught he can do.”

“Do not be naive. There will be an answer to our cannon shot. This is not over the now.”

He got to his feet, a restlessness drumming through his body, animating him with twitchy movements he struggled to keep within himself.

“With no disrespect intended,” Throe hedged, “I fail to see what he can do.”

Turning away from the joviality, Xcor said, “Mark my words, this is not over. The question is, on the basis of his reply, may we still sustain.”

“Whither goest thou,” Throe demanded.

“Out. And I shall not be followed, thank you.”

“Thank you” was rather more like “fuck you,” he thought as he dematerialized through the flimsy front door and reappeared upon the lawn.

There were no more houses in this part of the development, the only other structure a pump house for the municipal sewer system.

He tilted his head back and considered the sky. There was no light from the moon, a cloud cover that promised more snow blocking out the illumination.

Yes, in this moment of his triumph, he felt no great joy or sense of accomplishment. He had expected to be … well, happy would be one word for it, although that emotion was not in his lexicon. Instead, he was as empty as he had been when he’d arrived upon these shores and ill at ease to the point of anxiety—

Oh, fuck. He knew the cause of the worry.

It was his Chosen, of course.

Whilst his men enjoyed the illusion of victory, there was only one place he wanted to go—even though it would undoubtedly put his life at risk.

And go unto the north he did.

Traveling upon the frigid night air, his molecules scrambled in a wave to the foot of one of the mountains on the very farthest edge of Caldwell’s territory.

Standing amongst the pines and oaks, his combat boots planted in the crusty snow, he looked up even though he could not see the apex of the mount.

He could not, in fact, see much more than that which was three feet afore him.

The great smudging of the landscape ahead of him was not based on the weather or the terrain. It was magic. Some kind of sleight of hand that he could not understand, but could not question the existence of.

He had followed his Chosen here.

Back when she had gone unto the clinic, and he had been terrified that the Brothers had hurt her in retaliation for feeding him, he had waited for her to emerge from treatment, and followed her here. Indeed, she had been manipulated into providing him with her vein. Had saved his life not through true choice, but a conceit created by Throe—and not for the first time did he regret sending that fighter unto the Brotherhood. If he hadn’t sought to punish the male as such, neither one of them would have e’er met her.

And his pyrocant would have remained