Lover Reborn (Black Dagger Brotherhood #10) - J. R. Ward Page 0,101

same with the females and women as well, and they were a good pair. Syphon could keep up: in the bed, on the floor, against a wall… in the field as well.

“Aye. If he comes home.”

“Wouldnae kill m’ if he dint.” The brogue was thick in that deep voice, putting a different twist on the syllables. And it was the same for the male’s cousins. “He shouldnae done that.”

“Aye.”

“You dinnae haft t’ stand up to him y’self.”

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

The grunt that came in reply suggested that there was backup available at a moment’s notice and he might well need it. Xcor was as ugly a fighter as he was a lover—

“Damn spiders,” Zypher muttered as he slapped at the back of his neck again.

“We should ’ave done aught,” somebody said in the dimness.

It was Balthazar.

And a rumble of ayes rippled through the candlelight.

“We shan’t sit idly by again,” Zypher announced. “And shan’t do so the now.”

Assuming the fucker came back. Which, if he didn’t, would not be because he had second thoughts or regrets about what he’d done. Not Xcor. He was as decisive as his blades.

One thing was clear, however: If Throe was dead, Xcor was going to have a mutiny on his hands. Hell, that might be true regardless of whether that soldier lived. No one was going to put their heads on the chopping block in pursuit of the throne for someone who didn’t honor the bonds of—

Zypher smacked the nape of his neck so hard, someone remarked, “If you’d prefer some floggers, we have ’em.”

Wetness on his palm made him bring the thing forward—

Blood. Red blood. A lot of it.

Damn it, he must have been bitten by the fucker. Putting his other hand up, he investigated the area, probing with his fingertips—

A droplet hit the back of his wrist.

Looking up to the floor joists above him, his cheek caught the next one that fell through a small crack in the hardwood.

He was off his bunk with knives in both hands before there was another.

The others went on instant alert, not even proffering a question—just seeing him ready to fight called them up out of their beds and to attention.

“You’re bleedin’,” Syphon whispered.

“It’s not me. Someone’s upstairs.”

Zypher inhaled in an attempt to catch a scent, but all he could smell was the musty, clinging stench of the damp underground.

“Could the Brotherhood have delivered Xcor back to us?” somebody breathed.

In a matter of seconds, guns were checked and armor plates were strapped on chests.

“I go first,” Zypher announced.

There was no argument—then again, he was already at the base of the sturdy stairs, and beginning to ascend. The others followed him, and even though the lot of them easily weighed a total of seventy-two stone, they went up without making a sound, no creaks or groans of old wood tipping their hand. Or their feet, as it were.

At least until they got to the top. The final three planks were set badly on purpose so as to give away any infiltration. He skipped them by dematerializing directly to the steel-reinforced door that was locked into a steel frame set into four walls that had steel mesh nailed to the plaster.

No way anyone could get in or out the easy way.

With care, he gently threw the steel bolt and cranked the knob. Then he eased the way open a quarter of an inch.

The scent of fresh blood rushed into his nose and his sinuses, so thick he tasted sweet metal in the back of his throat. And he recognized the source.

It was Xcor. And there was nothing and no one else with him: no stench of lesser, no dark spice of a male vampire, no pathetic cologne of a human.

Zypher motioned for the others to stay back. He was going to need them to save his ass if his nose had misinformed him.

Opening the door on a quick, soundless shove, he stepped out into the artificial darkness created by the boards and drapes that covered all the windows—

Across the chipped tile of the kitchen and the dusty hardwood of the hall, in the far corner of the living room, in a circle of honey-colored candlelight… Xcor sat in a pool of blood.

The soldier was still dressed in his fighting clothes, his scythe and his guns set beside him on the floor, his legs outstretched, his bare and bloodied forearms resting on his thighs.

There was a steel dagger in his hand.

He was cutting himself. Over and over with