She never wore a helmet.
She always wore her leather chaps and her biker jacket.
The motorcycle roared between her legs, and she took the long way home, weaving in and out of downtown's maze of one-ways, then opening the Ducati up on the Northway. She was going well over a hundred when she blew past a cop car parked under the pines in the median.
She never put her lights on.
Which explained why, assuming she'd tripped the guy's radar and he wasn't asleep behind his badge, he didn't come after her. Hard to chase what you couldn't see.
She had two places in Caldwell to lay her head: a basement apartment downtown for when she found herself needing privacy stat, and a secluded two-bedroom cabin on the Hudson River.
The dirt road to her waterfront property was nothing but a footpath, thanks to her having let the underbrush grow in over the past thirty years. On the far side of the tangle, the 1920s-era fishing cabin sat on a seven-acre lot, the house built solidly but without grace. The garage was detached and over to the right, and that had been a major value-add when she'd looked at the property. She was the kind of female who liked to keep a lot of firepower around, and storing the ammo outside of the house reduced the likelihood of her getting blown up in her sleep.
The bike went into the garage. She went into the house.
Walking into the kitchen, she loved the way the place smelled: old pine boards from the ceiling and walls and floors, and sweet cedar from the closets that had been built for hunting gear.
She didn't have a security system. Didn't believe in them.
She had herself. And that had always been enough.
After a cup of instant coffee, she went into her bedroom and stripped out of her leathers. In her black sports bra and panties, she lay down on the bare floor and braced herself.
Tough as she was, she always needed a moment.
When she was ready, she reached down to her thighs, to the barbed metal bands she had clamped into her skin and muscles. The locks on the cilices released with a pop, and she groaned as blood rushed to the wounds. With her vision flickering, she curled onto her side, breathing through her mouth.
This was the only way she could control her symphath side. Pain was her self-medication.
As her skin went slick with her blood, and her body's nervous system recalibrated, a tingling went through her. She thought of it as her reward for being strong, for keeping it together. Sure it was chemical, nothing except garden-variety endorphins racing around in her veins, but there was magic to the spacey, racy, ringing sensation.
It was times like this when she was tempted to buy herself some furniture for this place, but the impulse was easy to resist. The wooden floor was easier to clean up.
Her breath was easing and her heart was slowing and her brain was starting to turn over again when something popped into her head that reversed the trend toward stabilization.
John Matthew.
John Matthew... that bastard. He was, like, twelve, for godsakes. What the hell was he thinking, trying to sex her up?
She pictured him standing underneath those lights in the mezzanine bathroom, his face that of a fighter, not a young boy, his body that of a male who could deliver, not a wall- flower with self-esteem issues.
Reaching to the side, she pulled over her leathers and took out the folded paper towel he had given her. Unfurling it, she read what he had written.
Next time say my name. You'll come more.
She snarled and wadded up the damn thing. She had half a mind to get up and burn it.
Instead, her free hand went between her legs.
As the sun came up and light spilled into her bedroom, Xhex pictured John Matthew on his back beneath her, thrusting what she had seen in his jeans up to meet her riding surges...
She couldn't believe the fantasy. Resented the hell out of him for it. Would have cut the shit if she could have.
But she said his name.
Twice.
Chapter Fifty-six
The scribe virgin had control issues.
Which was not a bad thing when you were a goddess and had created a whole world within the world, a history within the universe's history.
Really. It was not a bad thing.
Well, mayhap it was a good thing... in measure.
The Scribe Virgin floated over to the sealed sanctum in her private quarters, and at her will, the double doors eased open. Mist poured out of the room beyond, billowing like satin cloth in a wind. Her daughter was revealed by the condensation's recession, Payne's powerful body suspended inanimate in the air.
Payne was as her father had been: aggressive and calculating and powerful.
Dangerous.
There had been no place among the Chosen for a female such as Payne. No place in the vampire world, either. After that final act of hers had come to pass, the Scribe Virgin had isolated here the daughter who would not fit anywhere, for everyone's safety.
Have faith in your creation.
The Primale's words had been ringing e'er since he had spoken them. And they exposed a truth that had been buried in the deep earth of the Scribe Virgin's inner thoughts and fears.
The lives of the males and females whom she had called forth from the biological pool by a single gift of will could not be shelved in separate sections like books in the Sanctuary 's library. The order was appealing, true, as there was safety and security in order. Nature, however, and the natures of living things, was messy and unpredictable and not subject to binding.
Have faith in your creation.
The Scribe Virgin could see many things to come, whole legions of triumphs and tragedies, but they were mere grains of sand within a vast shore. The larger whole of fate, she could not envision: As the future of the race she had borne was tied too closely with her own destiny, the thrive or demise of her people was unknown and unknowable to her.
The only totality she had was the present, and the Primale was right. Her beloved children were not flourishing, and if things stayed as they were, soon there would be none of them left.
Change was the only hope they had for the future.
The Scribe Virgin lifted her black hood off her head and let it fall down the back of her robing. Extending her hand, she sent a warm rush of molecules scampering through the still air toward her daughter.
Payne's ice white eyes, so like her twin brother Vishous's, snapped open.
"Daughter," the Scribe Virgin said.
She was not surprised at the reply.
"Fuck you."
Chapter Fifty-seven
More than a month later, Cormia woke up in the way she was becoming accustomed to greeting the night's fall.
Phury's hips were pushing at hers, his body nudging a rock-hard erection against her. He was likely still asleep, and as she rolled over onto her stomach and made room for him, she smiled, knowing what his response would be. Yup, he was on her in a heartbeat, the blanket of his heavy weight warm and grounding and -
She moaned as he pushed inside.
"Mmmm," he said into her ear. "Good evening, shellan."
She smiled and tilted her spine so he could go even deeper. "Hellren mine, how fare thee - "
They both groaned as he surged, the powerful stroke going right into the very soul of her. As he rode her slow and sweet, nuzzling at her nape, nipping at her with his fangs, they held hands, their fingers intertwined.
They hadn't been officially mated yet, as there had been too much to do with the Chosen, who wanted to see what this world was like. But they were together every moment, and Cormia couldn't imagine how they had lived apart.
Well... there was one night a week that they were separated for a little while. Phury went to his NA meeting every Tuesday.
Quitting the red smoke was hard on him. There were a lot of times when he would get tense or his eyes would lose focus or he would struggle not to snap at something in annoyance. He'd had day sweats for the first two weeks, and though they were lessening, his skin still went through periods when it was hypersensitive.
He hadn't had one single relapse, though. No matter how bad it got, he didn't cave. And there had been no alcohol for him, either.
They had been having a lot of sex, however. Which was fine with her.
Phury pulled out and rolled her over on her back. As he settled into place at her core again, he kissed her with urgency, his palms going to her br**sts, his fingertips brushing over her tight ni**les. Arching into him, she slipped her hands between them, took his arousal, and stroked it just as he liked it, from base to tip, base to tip.
Over on the bureau, his cell phone went off with a beep, and they ignored it as she smiled widely and guided him back inside. When they were one again, the firestorm took off and took over them, their rhythm becoming urgent. Holding on to her love's surging shoulders and mirroring his thrusts, she was carried away by him, with him.