“Aye. She was well and good.”
“I’m glad—”
A scent upon the air drew both of their heads toward the door to the terminating room. As Xcor inhaled deeply to confirm what he had caught a mere whiff of, the smell of fresh human blood was an unwelcome surprise.
Unlike the expression on Throe’s face. Which was an unwelcome nonsurprise.
“Do not even consider it,” Xcor bit out. “Throe—Fuck.”
The fighter was turning to the door with a thunderous expression—his aggression no doubt inflamed because that was female blood being spilled: The fertility was obvious in the air.
“We have no time for this,” Xcor spat.
In a manner of reply, Throe kicked the fucking door in.
As Xcor cursed, he only briefly considered dematerializing out of the scene; all it took to cure the impulse was a look inside. Throe’s ridiculous heroic streak had opened the way to a mess. Literally.
A human female was tied down onto the bed, with something crammed into her mouth. She was almost dead—and too close to the edge of her grave to save. Her blood was everywhere, on the wall beside her, dripping onto the floor, soaking into the mattress. The tools of whoever had done this were on the bedside table: two knives, duct tape, scissors . . . and half a dozen small clear jars with colorless fluid in them and tops that were set aside.
There were things floating in the—
&
nbsp; A slam echoed out of the bathroom. As if a transom or window had been opened and shut.
As Throe ran in, Xcor lunged forward and caught the other male by the arm. In a quick one/two, Xcor unclipped the steel cuff he kept on his weapons belt and clamped it on the thick wrist of his soldier. Hauling back with all his weight, he hauled the male around, swinging him like the ball on the end of a chain. There was a thump on the far wall as the cheap plaster stopped the vampire pendulum.
“Let me go.”
Xcor yanked the guy right in close. “This is not your concern.”
Throe pulled back his arm and threw out a punch into the wall, smashing the flat plane. “It is! Release me!”
Xcor slapped his palm on the back of the male’s neck. “Not. Your. World!”
They struggled at that point, the two of them wrestling and knocking into things, creating more noise than they should. And they were just about to fall on the bloodied carpet when a human man with no neck and sunglasses the size of windowpanes slid into the doorway. He took one look at the bed, another at Xcor and Throe, and then he muttered under his breath, covering his eyes with his forearms as he ducked out.
A split second later, the door to the room they had fucked in opened and shut . . . then opened and shut again. High heels clip-clopped fast and uncoordinated, and there was a clomp, clomp of people getting into a car.
An engine roared and the Mercedes peeled out of the parking lot, no doubt with the whore and the cash in it.
And didn’t the fast departure prove Xcor’s assumption about the clientele here.
“Listen to me,” he said to Throe. “Listen to me, you stupid bastard—this is not our problem. But if you stay here, you make it so—”
“The killer got away!”
“And so are we.”
Throe’s pale eyes shot over to the bed, and the mask of anger slipped for a brief moment. What was underneath arrested even Xcor’s aggression. Such pain. God, such pain.
“She is not your sister,” Xcor whispered. “Now come with me.”
“I can’t . . . leave her. . . .” Wide glassy eyes hit his. “You cannot ask me to.”
Xcor spun around while keeping hold of his soldier. There had to be something of the murderer’s in here, something they could—
Xcor dragged his fighter into the bathroom, and there was a grim satisfaction to be found upon the window above the toilet. The single, thick pane of frosted glass was unbroken, but there was a bright red streak on the edge of the sharp metal casing.