At this point, Payne lost all control, the anger that had carried her through that night she had killed her father coming back and taking over: Vishous was her blood and her savior for all he had done for her. And she was not going to have him disrespected—even if defending him cost her her life.
Between one heartbeat and the next she was consumed by an inner energy that illuminated the cellar they were all in with a brilliant white light.
The cuffs burned away, falling down to the packed dirt floor with a clanking.
And the male before her leaped back and braced into a fighting stance while the others grabbed for weapons. But she was not going to attack—at least, not physically.
“Listen to me now,” she proclaimed. “I am birthed of the Scribe Virgin. I am of the Chosen Sanctuary. So when I say unto you the Bloodletter, my father, bore no other male issue, that is fact.”
“Untrue,” the male breathed. “And you—you cannot have been born unto the Mother of the race. There is none born unto her—”
Payne lifted her glowing arms. “I am what I am. Deny it at your peril.”
The male’s complexion drained of what color had been in it, and there was a long, tense standoff, as conventional weapons pointed in her direction and she glowed with holy fury.
And then the head soldier’s fighting stance relaxed, his hands falling to his sides, his thighs straightening. “It cannae be,” he choked out. “None of it . . .”
Fool male, she thought.
Kicking up her chin, she declared, “I am the begotten issue of the Bloodletter and the Scribe Virgin. And I say to you now”—she stepped forward to him—“that I killed my father, not yours.”
Lifting her palm, she peeled back and slapped him across the face. “And do not insult my blood.”
As the female struck him, Xcor’s head whipped so far and so fast to the side that he pulled his shoulder in the attempt to keep the damn thing stuck to his spine. Blood immediately flooded into his mouth, and he spit some of it out before righting himself.
Verily, the female before him was majestic in her fury and her resolve. Nearly as tall as he was, she stared him straight in the eye, her feet planted, her hands in fists she was prepared to use against him and his band of bastards.
No ordinary female, this. And not just because of the way she had dissolved those cuffs.
In fact, as she met his gaze full-on, she reminded him of his father. She had the Bloodletter’s iron will not just in her face or her eyes or her body. It was in her soul.
Indeed, he had the very clear sense that they could all fall upon her and she would fight them each and every until the last breath and beat of her heart.
God knew she slapped like a warrior. Not some limp-wristed female.
But . . .
“He was my father. He told me that.”
“He was a liar.” At that, she did not blink. Nor did she duck her eyes or her chin. “I have witnessed within the seeing bowls countless bastard daughters. But there was one and only one son, and that is my twin.”
Xcor was not prepared to hear this in front of his males.
He glanced over at them. Even Throe had armed himself, and on each of their faces was impatient rage. One nod from him and they would set upon her, even if she incinerated them all.
“Leave us,” he commanded.
Not surprisingly, Zypher was the one who started to argue. “Let us hold her whilst you—”
“Leave us.”
There was a beat of immobility. Then Xcor screamed, “Leave us!”
In a flash, they peeled off and disappeared up the stairwell to the darkened house above. Then the door was shut, and footsteps rang out from up above as they paced around like caged animals.
Xcor refocused on the female.
And for the longest time, he just stared at her. “I have searched for you for centuries.”