His beating at the hands of those two Brothers had healed up almost immediately, and the Brotherhood had released him shortly after that second feeding.
He still had a number of hours before he was due to meet Xcor, and he passed the time with his own thoughts, walking in running shoes that had been a gift from the enemy.
During his stay with the Brotherhood, he had learned nothing about where their facilities were located. He had been unconscious when brought into their compound - and locked in a van with no windows when he'd left. After a drive of some time, no doubt due to a circuitous route, he'd been deposited by the river, and left to his own devices.
Naturally, the van had had no license plate, and no distinguishing features. And he'd had the sense that he was being watched - as if they were waiting to see if he tried to follow it as it departed from him.
He did not. He stayed where he was until it had driven off. . . and then he had started upon his walkabout.
Xcor's brilliant maneuver had succeeded in gaining naught. Well, aside from likely saving Throe's life. What little he had discovered about the Brotherhood was nothing that couldn't have been guessed at: Their resources were extensive, judging by the amount and sophistication of the medical equipment he'd been treated with; the number of people he'd seen or heard walking in the hall was just as impressive; and security was taken very seriously. Indeed, theirs appeared to be an entire community, hidden from human and lesser eyes alike.
Everything had to be underground, he thought. Well guarded. Camouflaged to appear as if it were nothing in particular; for even during the raids, when so many of the race's homes had been found and wiped out, there had been no rumor that the king's household had been hit.
So Xcor's plan had yielded little on Throe's part but animosity.
And for a moment, he questioned whether he would show up to meet his former leader or not.
In the end, he knew such rebellion would remain unrealized. Xcor had something Throe wanted - the only thing, really. And as long as those ashes were retained by the male, there was naught to be done but grit one's teeth, duck one's head, and push onward. It was, after all, what he had been doing for centuries.
Except he would not make the same mistake twice. Only an idiot would not recall this visceral reminder of where things really stood between them.
The answer was to get the remains of his sister back. And as soon as he did? He would miss his fellow soldiers in the same manner he ached for his family, but he would take himself out of the Band of Bastards - forcibly if need be. Then perhaps he would put down some roots somewhere else in America - there would be no returning to the Old Country. He might be too tempted to try to revisit his bloodline, and that would not be fair to them.
Toward the end of the night, at around four a. m. judging by the moon's position, he dematerialized to the rooftop of the skyscraper. He had no weapons on which to draw for protection - but he had no intention of fighting. As far as he had been taught, his sister could not enter unto the Fade without the proper ceremony so he had to live long enough to bury her.
As soon as he did, however. . .
Up high above the streets and other buildings of the city, in the curiously silent stratosphere where there were no horns or shouts or rumbles of delivery trucks coming in early, the wind was strong and bracingly chilly in spite of the humidity in the air and the warm temperature. Overhead, thunder rumbled and lightning skipped along the underside of storm clouds, promising a wet beginning to the day.
When he'd started his journey with Xcor, he had been a gentlemale better tutored in the fine art of leading a female upon the dance floor - as opposed to engaging in hand-to-hand combat. But he was no longer who he had been.
Accordingly, he stood out in the open without cowardice or apology, feet braced and arms at his sides. There was no weakness in the line of his chin, the contour of his chest, or the straight angle of his shoulders, and no fear in his heart at what might step out to greet him. All of that was because of Xcor: Throe had technically been born male, but it wasn't until he had run afoul of that fighter that he had truly learned how to live up to his gender.
He would always owe that to the soldiers he had been with for so long -
From behind the mechanicals, a figure stepped out, the wind catching a long coat and blowing it free from a heavy, deadly body.
Instinct and training overrode intent as Throe fell into a fighting stance, prepared to face his -
As the male took a step forward, the light from the fixture above the rooftop door caught his face.
It was not Xcor.
Throe did not ease his stance. "Zypher?"
"Aye. " Abruptly, the soldier lurched forward, and then broke into a run to close the distance between them.
Before Throe knew it, he was encompassed in a rough embrace, held in arms as strong as his own, against a body as big as his own.
"You live," the soldier breathed. "You are alive. . . . "
Awkwardly at first, and then with a strange desperation, Throe latched onto the other fighter. "Aye. Aye, I am. "
With an abrupt shove, he was pushed back and examined from head to foot. "What e'er did they do unto you?"
"Nothing. "
Those eyes narrowed. "Be in truth with me, brother. And afore you answer, one of your eyes is still black-and-blue. "