Exhaustion overtook him. Would his life always be based on such a crude and unforgiving scale of balances?
The Bloodletter smiled. "This bastard who calls himself my son has no spine, it appears. Perhaps the seed that his mother's womb ate was of another?"
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and someone yelled out, "No son of yours would hesitate at such an hour!"
"And during a fight no true son of mine would be so cowardly as to attack a male's vulnerable place as such." The Bloodletter met the eyes of his soldiers. "The weak must be devious, as strength is not available to them."
The sensation of being strangled locked onto Vishous's throat, sure as if his father's hands were wrapped around his neck. As his breath quickened anew, anger swelled in his chest and his heart pounded. He looked down at the fat soldier who had beaten him... then thought of the books his father had made him burn... and the boy who had gone after him... and the thousands of cruel and graceless acts that had been done to him over the course of his life.
V's body quickened from the anger that burned in him, and before he knew what he was doing he was rolling the soldier over onto his fat belly.
He took the male. In front of his father. In front of the camp.
And he was brutal about it.
When it was over, he disengaged and stumbled back.
The soldier was covered with V's blood and sweat and the remnants of his rage.
With a scramble like a goat he got himself out of the ring, and though he knew not what time of day it was, he ran through the camp to the main way out of the cave. As he burst free, the cold night was just gaining its hold on the land, and the faint glow in the east burned his face.
He bent over at the knees and threw up. Again and again.
"So weak you are." The Bloodletter's voice was bored... but only on the surface. There was a depth of satisfaction in his words caused by a mission completed: Although Vishous had done what he had to the soldier, his retreat afterward had been precisely the kind of cowardice his father had sought.
The Bloodletter's eyes narrowed. "You shall never best me, boy. Just as you shall never be free of me. I shall rule your life - "
On a surge of hatred, V sprang up from his crouch and attacked his father head-on, leading with his glowing hand. The Bloodletter went rigid as the electrical blast went through his massive body, and the two of them fell upon the ground, with Vishous on top. Going on instinct, V locked his bright white palm on his father's thick throat and squeezed.
As the Bloodletter's face turned brilliant red, V's eye stung briefly and a vision replaced what was before him.
He saw the death of his father. As clearly as if it happened in front of him.
Words left his mouth, though he was not conscious of speaking them: "You shall see your end in a wall of fire caused by a pain you know. You will burn until you are nothing but smoke, and be cast upon the wind."
His father's expression turned to abject horror.
V was peeled off by other soldier and held by the armpits, feet dangling above the snowy ground.
The Bloodletter leapted up, his face ruddy, a line of sweat beading above his upper lip. He breathed like a horse ridden hard, clouds of white shooting out of his mouth and nostrils.
V fully expected to be beaten to death. "Bring me my blade," his father snarled.
Vishous scrubbed his face. To avoid thinking about what happened next, he thought about how that first time with the soldier had never sat well with him. Three hundred years later it still felt like a violation of the other male, even though that had been the way of it at the camp.
He looked at Jane curled up next to him and decided that, as far as he was concerned, tonight was when he'd finally lost his virginity. Though his body had done the act in many different ways to many different people, sex had always been about an exchange of power - power that flowed in his direction, power that he fed off of to reassure himself that no one was ever going to get him flat on his back and tied down and unable to fight while shit was done to him.
Tonight had not fit his pattern. With Jane there had been an exchange: She had given something to him, and he had turned over a piece of himself in return.
V frowned. A piece, but not everything.
To do that they would need to go to his other place. And... shit, they would go there. Even though he got a case of the cold clammies just thinking about it, he vowed that before she left his life, he'd give her the one thing he had never let anyone have.
And would never give to anyone else.
He wanted to repay the trust she gave to him. She was so strong as a person, as a woman, and yet she put herself in his sexual care - even while knowing that he had hard-core Dom tendencies and she was no match for him physically.
Her trust brought him to his knees. And he needed to return the faith before she left.
Her eyes blinked open and met his, and they both spoke at the same time:
"I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to leave you."
Chapter Twenty-six
When John woke up the following afternoon, he was afraid to move. Hell, he was afraid to open his eyes. What if it had been a dream? Bracing himself, he lifted his arm, cracked his lids, and... oh, yeah, there it was. Palm as big as his head. Arm longer than his thigh bone had been before. Wrist thick as his calf once had been.
He made it.
He reached for his cell phone and sent texts to Qhuinn and Blay, who hit him back at a dead run. They were totally pumped for him, and he grinned a big fat-bastard smile... until he realized that he had to use the bathroom, and glanced at the open door. Looking through the jambs, he saw the shower.
Oh, God. Had he really choked in there last night with Layla?
He tossed the phone onto the comforter, even though the thing was beeping that there were texts waiting for him. Rubbing his strangely broad chest with his new Shaquille O'Neal hand, he felt like hell. He should apologize to Layla, but for what? Being a lame-ass who went soft? Yeah, that was a conversation he was dying to have, as she was no doubt totally unimpressed with him and his performance.
Was it better to let it go? Probably. She was so beautiful and sensual and perfect in every way, there was no chance she'd ever think it was her fault. All he'd do would be embarrass himself into an aneurism as he wrote what he'd say if he'd had a voice box.
He still felt like hell, though.
His alarm clock went off, and it was just too fricking weird to reach over with this man arm and silence the thing. When he stood up it was even more freaky. His vantage point was totally different, and everything seemed smaller; the furniture, the doors, the room. Even the ceiling was shorter.
Just how big was he?
As he tried to take a few steps, he felt like one of those circus stilt-walkers; gangly, loose, in danger of falling. Yeah... a circus walker who had had a stroke, because the commands his brain gave weren't received properly by his muscles and bones. On his way to the bathroom he lurched all over the place, hanging onto drapes, the molding around windows, a dresser, the doorjamb.
For no particular reason he thought about crossing the river on his walks with Zsadist. As he went along now, the stationary objects he used as crutches were like the stones he jumped one to another to stay out of rushing water, little aids of big importance.
The bathroom was pitch dark, as the shutters were still down for the day and he'd turned all the lights off after Layla left. With his hand on the switch he took a deep breath, then flipped on the recessed lights.
He blinked hard, his eyes supersensitive and way more acute than they'd been before. After a moment, his reflection came into focus like an apparition, emerging from the glare, like a ghost of himself. He was...
He didn't want to know. Not yet.
John shut the lights off and went to the shower. As he waited for the hot water to get running, he settled back against the cold marble, wrapping his arms around himself. He had this absurd need to be held at the moment, so it was a good thing he was alone. Although he'd hoped the change would make him stronger, it appeared to have nancied him out even more.
He thought back to killing those lessers. Right after he'd stabbed them he'd gotten such clarity as to who he was and what kind of power he had. But that had all faded, so much so that he wasn't sure he'd ever really felt that way.
He pushed open the shower door and stepped inside.
Christ, ow. The fine spray was like needles going into his skin, and when he tried to soap up his arm that French-milled stuff Fritz bought stung like battery acid. He had to forced himself to wash his face, and though it was cool to have stubble on his jaw for the first time in recorded history, the idea of taking a razor to his puss was utterly repellent. Like drawing a cheese grater down his cheeks.