toe.
But he had to fight, and he would do so.
Until the last beat of his heart and the final exodus of his breath, he would fight with all that he was for the one thing he had left to live for.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Goddamn it, but Tohr noticed a difference in himself. Much as he hated to admit it, as he, John, and Qhuinn headed into their quarter of the downtown area, he was stronger, nimbler. . . clearheaded as a motherfucker. And his senses were back: No more wonky balance problems. His vision was spot-on. And his hearing was so good he could catch the scratching paws of rats as they scrambled for cover in the alleys.
You never realized how thick your fog was until it lifted.
Feeding was undeniably powerful, especially given his kind of work, and yup, he clearly needed a new profession. Accountant. Lint picker. Dog psychic. Anything where you sat on your ass all night long.
Then again, he couldn't ahvenge his Wellsie doing any of those. And after everything that had happened last night, from what had gone down in the pantry, to what he'd done to himself after he'd finally gone to bed, he felt like he had things to make up to her for.
Christ, the fact that No'One had given him such strength made him think that Wellsie's memory had been violated in some manner. Stained. Eroded.
When he'd fed from the Chosen Selena, it hadn't bothered him as much - maybe because he'd still been in shell-shock mode. . . more likely because he hadn't been aroused in the slightest, before, during or afterward.
Fucking hell, he was so ready for a fight tonight.
And fewer than three blocks later, he found what he was in search of: the scent of lessers.
As he and the boys fell into a silent jog, he didn't get out any of his weapons. With the mood he was rocking, hand-to-hand was what he was after, and if he was lucky -
The scream that cut through the dull sounds of distant traffic was not made by a female. Low and ragged, it could only have come out of a masculine throat.
Screw the quiet-approach routine.
Breaking into a sprint, he shot around the corner of an alley and ran smack into a wall of scents that he had no trouble processing: vampire blood - two kinds, both male. Slayer blood - one kind, rank and nasty.
Sure enough, up ahead, there was a male vampire down on the asphalt, two slayers up on their feet, and one lesser lurching around, having obviously just been nailed in the face. Which explained the holler.
That was all the intel he needed to go on.
Bolting forward, he sent himself flying and locked onto one of the lessers, catching the bastard around the neck with his arm and Pop-Tarting him into the air with a yank. As gravity took care of biz and slammed the enemy down onto the pavement faceup, the temptation was to kick the crap out of him - but with somebody injured in the middle of the alley, this was an emergency situation. He outted one of his daggers, nailed the fucker in the chest, and reestablished his fighting stance before the flash faded.
Over on the left, John was taking care of the lesser with the leak in his cheek, stabbing him back to his unholy maker. And Qhuinn had picked up on number three's option, swinging him around and throwing him headfirst at a wall.
With no more of the enemy to engage, at least for the moment, Tohr jogged over to the downed male.
"Throe," he breathed as he got a load of the guy.
The soldier was on his back, clutching his gut with the hand that wasn't on his dagger. Lot of blood. Lot of pain, given that tortured expression.
"John! Qhuinn!" Tohr called out. "Keep your eyes peeled for company of the Bastard variety. "
As he got a whistle and a "Roger that" in reply, he got down on his haunches, and felt for a pulse. The flickering he found was not a good sign.
Easing back, he met a pair of sky blue eyes. "You gonna tell me who did this to you? Or let me play Q and A all by my lonesome. "
Throe opened his mouth, coughed some blood, and closed his eyes.
"Okaaay, I'm going to guess your boss. How'm I doing?" Tohr lifted up the guy's hand and got a gander at the gut wound. Make that wounds. "You know, you never belonged with that motherfucker. "
No response, but the guy wasn't out cold - his respiration was too quick, the panting indicating the kind of pain that came only with consciousness. Whatever, though. Xcor was the only explanation. The Band of Bastards always fought in a single squadron, and they never would have left a soldier behind - unless Xcor had ordered them to.
Besides, two kinds of vampire blood? Had to have been a dagger-to-dagger conflict.