“Thanks, Ehlena.” Mary gave the other female a wave. “You’re the best.”

As the door eased shut, Rhage dropped his voice. “Unplug me.”

“What?”

“Either you do it or I do it—but I need you, now.”

When Mary didn’t make a move, Rhage started blindly for the machines, knocking into a computer on a stand that looked like it cost more than a house.

“Rhage!” Mary started laughing as she gathered his hands and pulled them back. “Come on—”

Next thing she knew, he’d lifted her up and over his hips, settling her right on top of his erection. And yup, as soon as her weight appeared to register, that beep-beep-beep thing started speeding up again.

“You can hook me back up as soon as it’s done,” he informed her. “And even though it’ll be a sacrifice, if you only want to give me a handjob, I’ll settle for waiting for you till a little later. But I’ve come close to death once already tonight—don’t make your hellren die from the wanting.”

Mary had to smile at him. “You slay me.”

“And you could lay me? Please?”

She shook her head in spite of the fact that he couldn’t see her. “You just don’t take no for an answer, do you.”

“When it comes to you?” Rhage grew serious, his Bahama blue eyes staring blindly at her, his beautiful face growing grim. “You are both my strength and my weakness, Mary mine. So what do you say? You want to make my whole night? And may I remind you . . . I died in your arms earlier.”

Mary burst out laughing, and as she fell forward onto him, she ducked her head into his neck. “I love you so much.”

“Ahhhh, now that’s what I like to hear.” Big hands stroked over her back. “So what’s it going to be, Mary mine?”

NINE

Watching from the shadows was not the normal course for Xcor, son of no one.

As a lawless fighter and the deformed, de facto leader of a renegade team of sociopaths, he was more used to action. Preferably with his scythe. Or knife. Gun. His fists. Fangs.

He might not have been descended of the Bloodletter, as he had once believed, but he had indeed been reared by that most cruel of warriors—and the brutal lessons that had been imparted in the war camp by that hand in a spiked glove had been learned well.

Attack before you are attacked had been the first and most important of all other rules. And it had remained his primary operating principle.

There were times, however, when a certain neutrality of action was required, much as inner instincts argued to the contrary, and as he sheltered behind the burned-out shell of a car in the very worst part of Caldwell’s underbelly of alleys, he reined himself in. Up ahead, standing just out of the pools of dirty light cast by thirty-year-old street lamps, three lessers were exchanging items; a pair of backpacks being turned over for a single satchel.

Given what he had observed of late on the streets, he was confident that one load was cash and the other black-market wares of the powdered and injectible varieties.

Breathing in, he sorted the scents out and cataloged them. The trio had yet to fade to white, their dark hair and brows signifying their recent recruitment into the Lessening Society—and indeed, that was all one came across in the New World. Ever since he and his band of bastards had made the trip across the ocean from the Old Country, the only enemy they had encountered was this freshly inducted, mostly inferior variety.

Rather lamentable. But where there was a dearth in quality, there was an abundance of quantity.

And the slayers had found themselves a new business venture, hadn’t they. This particular threesome was not going to go any further in their drug-dealing endeavors, however. As soon as they finished their little handoff, he was going to slaughter them—

Three different cell phone tones went off, all muffled, all registering only because of Xcor’s sharp hearing. Things moved quickly from there. After each of them checked what had to be a text, they argued for a mere moment; then scrambled into a boxy vehicle, the gleaming silver exterior of which was plastered with pictures of tacos and pizza.

As an illiterate, he was unable to read the writing.

As a fighter, he was damned if he were going to let his targets get away.

When the vehicle trundled past him, Xcor closed his eyes and dematerialized onto its top, finding a place in which to settle his frame thanks to a sunken area behind an airshaft of some kind. He had no thought of calling for back-up. No matter where the lessers were going or who they would meet up with, if he were overpowered, he could depart without any knowing he was about.

Truer words ne’er were spoken, as it turned out.

The fact that the driver proceeded in the direction of the Hudson River was hardly a surprise. Given the wares they were peddling, one could easily surmise some conflict, armed or otherwise, might require reinforcements in the area below the bridges—or mayhap it was something with the Brotherhood. But alas, that rancid concrete jungle was not their destination. A ramp was soon entered upon, and the highway was surmounted with gathering speed, necessitating that he arrange himself into a tuck and secure his body against the wind draft by wrapping his arms around the base of the shaft and holding on readily.

The ride was rough, although not from uneven terrain, more from the biting cold and the speed. Not long thereafter, however, another exit was taken and the velocity slowed such that he could lift his head and identify a suburban section of abodes that was north of downtown. That populated area did not last. Soon, a more rural area presented itself.