Lover Reborn (20 page)

Lassiter’s voice knocked on his inside door:
That’s why I’ve come—I’m here to help you, help her.

“I have to go back to the mansion,” he mumbled.

Next move was to get to his feet, but that didn’t go well. Between a sudden weakness in his body and that fucking foot, he slammed into one of the stacks, the contour of his shoulder pushing a wave into the books whose spines were so carefully arranged. Annnnnnnd then it was a case of the floor tipping in the opposite direction, pitching him into free air.

Something small and soft got in the way of his falling.…

It was a body. A diminutive female body with hips and breasts that suddenly, shockingly imprinted on him even through the freak-out.

Instantly, the vision of No’One in that pool, her naked form glistening and wet, exploded like a land mine in his brain, the detonation so great that it blasted its way through everything that had been driving him.

It happened so fast: the contact, the memory… and the arousal.

Underneath the fly of his leathers, his cock punched out to its full length. Without apology.

“Let me help you back into the chair,” he heard her say from a vast distance.

“Don’t touch me.” He pushed her off. Stumbled away. “Don’t get anywhere near me. I’m… losing it.…”

Floundering his way down the stacks, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t… stand himself.…

As soon as he was free from the library, he raced away from the Sanctuary, returning his faithless body to his bedroom at the mansion.

He was still erect when he got there.

Duh.

Staring down at his button fly, he tried to find another explanation. Maybe he’d thrown a clot? A cock clot… or maybe… shit…

There was no way he could be attracted to another female.

He was a bonded male, goddamn it.

“Lassiter,” he looked around. “Lassiter!”

Where the fuck was that angel?

“Lassiter!” he bellowed.

When there was no reply, no burst-through-the-door, he was stuck alone… with his hard-on.

Rage curled his right hand into a fist.

With a vicious swing, he punched himself where it counted, nailing himself in the
cojones
—

“Fuck!”

It was like getting hit with a wrecking ball, and his skyscraper went down, the pain buckling him so fast he ate carpet.

As he retched and tried to push himself up on his knees, all the while wondering if he hadn’t done some serious internal damage, a dry voice filtered in through the ow-ow-ows.

“Shit, that musta hurt.” The angel’s face entered his line of watery vision. “On the plus side, you could probably sing Alvin’s part on a Christmas CD.”

“What…” Hard to talk. But then it was hard to breathe. And every time he coughed, he wondered if his balls were coming up his throat. “Tell me… the In Between…”

“You want to wait until you’re not hypoxic?”

Tohr snapped out a hand and gripped the angel’s biceps. “Tell me, motherfucker.”

It was a universal truth among males that anytime you saw a guy get it in the nuts, you experienced a shot of phantom pain in your own croquet set.

As Lassiter crouched beside the Brother’s pretzel of a body, he was feeling a little nauseous himself, and he took a moment to cup what hung between his legs—just to reassure the boys downstairs that however much of an iconoclast he was, some things were sacred.

“Tell me!”

Impressive that the guy could still summon the energy to yell. And, yeah, there was no maybe-later-after-you-recover option with a son of a bitch who could punch himself like that.

No reason to pad shit, either. Natch.

“The In Between is not really the jurisdiction of the Scribe Virgin or the Omega. It’s the Maker’s territory—and before you ask, that would be the creator of all things. Your Scribe Virgin, the Omega, all of it. There’s a couple ways of ending up there, but mostly it’s because you won’t let go or because someone won’t let go of you.”

When Tohr was silent, Lassiter recognized the signs of brain-fry and took pity on the poor son of a bitch.

Placing a hand on the Brother’s shoulder, he said gently, “Breathe with me. Come on, we’ll do it together. Let’s just breathe shit out for a minute.…”

They stayed there for the longest time, Tohr bowed around the front of his hips, Lassiter feeling like a plank.

In his long life, he had seen suffering in all its forms. Disease. Dismemberment. Disenchantment on epic scales.

Staring at his outstretched hand, he realized he had become detached from it all. Hardened by overexposure and personal experience. Separated from any compassion.

Man, he was the wrong angel for the job.

Helluva situation the pair of them were in.

Tohr’s eyes lifted, and they were so dilated, if Lassiter hadn’t known they were blue, he would have said they were black.

“What can I do…?” the Brother moaned.

Oh, man, he couldn’t stand it.

Abruptly, he got up and went to the window. Outside, the landscape was discreetly lit, the gardens far from resplendent in their nascent state. Indeed, spring was a cold, cruel incubator, summer’s wallowing warmth months off.

A lifetime away.

“Help me help her,” Tohr said hoarsely. “That’s what you told me.”

In the silence that followed, he had nothing. No voice. No thoughts, even. And this was in spite of the fact that unless he pulled something out of his ass, he was headed back to a hell custom-made for him, with no hope of escape. And Wellsie and that young were stuck in theirs. And Tohr was stuck in his.

He’d been so arrogant.

It had never dawned on him this wasn’t going to work. When he’d been approached, he’d been flippant, confident, and ready for the aftermath—which had been all about freedom for himself.

A struggle had never occurred to him. The concept of failure had not been anywhere near his radar screen.

And he’d never expected to give two shits about what happened to Wellsie and Tohr.

“You said you were here to help me, help her.” When there was no reply, Tohr’s voice lowered. “Lassiter, I’m on my knees here.”

“That’s because your balls are in your diaphragm.”

“You told me—”

“You don’t believe me, remember.”

“I saw. In the books on the Far Side. She is not in the Fade.”

Lassiter stared out at the gardens and marveled at how close to life they were—in spite of how shriveled and decrepit they appeared, they were about to burst forth and sing for spring.

“She is not in the Fade!”

Something grabbed him, spinning him around and slamming him ass-first into the wall so hard, if he’d had his wings on, they would have been snapped off.

“She is not there!”

Tohr’s face was twisted into a facsimile of its features, and as a hand clamped on his throat, Lassiter had a moment of clarity. The Brother could kill him, right here, right now.

Maybe that was how he ended up in the In Between again. Couple of head shots, then maybe a snapped neck, and poof! You failed. Hello, infinite nothingness.

Funny, he’d never even considered going back. Probably should have.

“You’d better open your fucking mouth, angel,” Tohr growled.

Lassiter traced that face again, measured the power in that body, took the temperature of the rage. “You love her too much.”

“She is my
shellan
—”

“Was. Goddamn you,
was
.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then a crack, and a light show, and a lot of pain. As well as a little wobble of the knees—not that he’d have admitted that.

The bastard had coldcocked him.

Lassiter shoved the guy off him, spit blood out on the carpet, and thought about hitting back. Fuck the fighting, though. If the Maker was going to reclaim him, then the Be All and End All was going to have to come get him; Tohr was not going to be airmailing him in.

Time to get the hell out of this room.

As he headed for the door, the muttered cursing from behind him was
easily ignored. Especially given that he was wondering whether one of his eyes was hanging by its optic nerve.

“Lassiter. Fuck, Lassiter—I’m sorry.”

The angel wheeled around. “You want to know what the problem is?” He pointed right into the guy’s puss. “
You
are the problem. I’m sorry you lost your female. Sorry you’re still suicidal. Sorry that you have nothing to get out of bed for—or get into bed for. I’m sorry that you’ve got a boil on your ass and a toothache and goddamn fucking swimmer’s ear.
You
are alive.
She
is not. And your hanging on to the past is putting you both in an In Between.”

Catching his flow, he marched up to the cocksucker. “You want the fine print? Well, here it goddamn is. She is fading out—not heading for the Fade. And you are the reason it’s happening. This”—he motioned around the male’s stringy body and his bandaged foot and hand—“is why she’s there. And the longer you hold on to her, and your old life, and everything you lost, the less of a chance she has of getting free. You are in charge here, not her, not me—so how about you punch yourself again next time, asshole.”

Tohr dragged a shaking hand down his face, like he was trying to sand off his features. And then he clasped the front of his muscle shirt—right over his heart. “I can’t just stop… because her body did.”

“But you’re acting like it happened yesterday, and I’ve got no sense this is going to change.” Lassiter went over to the bed where the mating gown was laid out. Fisting the satin, he dragged the thing off by the thick skirt and shook it. “This is not her. Your anger is not her. Your dreams, your fucking pain… none of it is her. She is
gone
.”

“I know that,” Tohr shot back. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

Lassiter shoved the gown forward, the satin falling like a rain of blood. “Then say it!”

Silence.

“Say it, Tohr. Let me hear it.”

“She is…”

“
Say it.
”

“She is…”

When nothing came back at him, he shook his head and tossed the gown on the bed. Muttering under his breath, he went for the door again. “This is going nowhere. Unfortunately, the same is true for her.”

A
s dawn grew near, Xhex wrapped up her first night back in her old boots. The pace of the hours had been good, the Ping-Pong nature of dealing with a fuckload of people in an enclosed space with alcohol in the mix making the time pass fast enough. It was also good to be Alex Hess, head of security, once again—her own female, even if the name she used among the humans was fake.

And it was frickin’ fantastic not having the Brotherhood breathing down her back.

What was not so hot was the fact that everything felt flat, like life had been bulldozed in preparation for the paving trucks to come.

She’d never heard of females doing the bonding thing. But as usual, that didn’t mean she wasn’t an outlier. And bottom line, without John by her side, everything seemed to be just a big, resounding
meh
.

A quick check of her watch told her there was one hour left of true darkness. Man, she wished she’d come in on her bike so she could can the headlight and roll through the shadows at ridiculous speeds. The Ducati was locked up tight in her garage, however.

She wondered if there was a rule against
shellans
riding.

Probably not… As long as she was sidesaddle, dressed in armor plating, and had a helmet made of reinforced, skid-resistant Kevlar, they’d probably let her go a few circles around the fountain in front of the house.

Vroom-vroom.
Fucking wheeeeeeee.

Leaving her office, she locked the thing up with her mind so she didn’t have to worry about keys—

“Hey, Trez,” she said as her boss emerged from the ladies’ locker room. “I was just coming to look for you.”

The Shadow was tucking his crisp white shirt into his black slacks, and looking a little more relaxed than usual. A second later, one of the working girls came out from behind the door with a glow on her like she’d been hand-polished.

Which was probably not far from the truth.

At least her clueless expression told Xhex that Trez was keeping things on the DL. But still… you shouldn’t feed where you worked. Complications could arise.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” the woman said with a loopy smile. “I’m late. Meeting friends.”

After the girl went out the back, Xhex looked at Trez. “You should use other sources.”

“It’s convenient and I’m careful.”

“Not safe. Besides, you could scramble her mind.”

“I never use the same one twice.” Trez put an arm around her. “But enough about me. You off?”

“Yeah.”

Together, they ambled down to the door the woman had used. God… it was old times all over again, as if nothing had happened since the last time they’d closed up together. And yet Lash had happened. John had happened. The mating had—

“I’m not going to insult you by offering to escort you home,” Trez murmured.

“So you like your legs right where they are, huh.”

“Yup. They fill out my pants just fine.” He did open the door for her, the cold air rushing in like it was trying to get away from itself. “What do you want me to tell him if he hits me up.”

“That I’m fine.”

“Good thing lying isn’t a problem for me.” When she went to argue, the Shadow just rolled his eyes. “Don’t waste your breath or my
time. Go home and get some sleep. Maybe things will be better tomorrow.”

By manner of reply, she gave him a quick hug, and stepped into the darkness.

Instead of dematerializing north, she wandered along Trade Street. Everyone was in closing mode: the clubs were spitting out their last few patrons—who looked about as attractive as masticated gum; the tat shop was clicking off its neon sign; the Tex-Mex restaurant had already battened down its hatches.

Shit grew seedier as she kept going, everything getting gloomier and grungier until she arrived at the blocks-long stretch of abandoned buildings. With the downturn in the economy, businesses were drying up like roadkill, and lessees were fewer and farther between—