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As he kept going, the slayer became a StairMaster for his fury and his self-hatred, an object to work out the feelings. Naturally his actions made him think even less of himself, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His blood was propane and his emotions were flame and the combustion was inescapable now that it had been ignited.
Focused on his gruesome project, he didn't hear the other lesser come up from behind. He caught the whiff of baby powder right before the thing struck, and just barely wheeled out of the way of the baseball bat that was aimed for his skull.
His rage shifted from the incapacitated slayer to the one that was up on its feet, and with his warrior DNA screaming in his veins, he attacked. Leading with his black dagger, he ducked low and came up for the abdomen.
He didn't make it. The lesser clipped him in the shoulder with the bat, then laid in a solid backswing to Phury's good leg, catching the side of his knee. As he crumpled, he concentrated on keeping hold of his dagger, but the slayer was all José Conseco with that aluminum number. Another swing and the blade went flying away, twirling end over point, then dancing away across a stretch of wet pavement.
The lesser jumped on Phury's chest and held him down by the throat, squeezing with a one-handed grip that was strong as wire cable. Phury clapped a palm on the thing's thick wrist as his windpipe compressed, but then suddenly he had issues other than hypoxia to worry about. The slayer switched his grip on the bat, choking up until he was holding it in the middle. With deadly focus he lifted his arm high and brought the butt of the bat down square on Phury's face.
The pain was a bomb burst in his cheek and eye, its white-hot shrapnel ricocheting throughout his whole body.
And it was... curiously good. It overrode everything. All he knew was the heart-freezing impact and the electric throbbing that came right afterward.
He liked it.
Through the one eye that was still working right, he saw the lesser lift the bat up again, piston-style. Phury didn't even brace himself. He just watched the kinetics at work, knowing that the muscles that were coordinating to elevate that piece of polished metal were going to tighten up and bring that thing back down on his face again.
Death blow time, he thought dimly. His orbital bone was already shattered, in all likelihood, or at the very least fractured. One more belt and it wasn't going to protect his gray matter anymore.
An image of the drawing he'd done of Bella came to him, and he saw what he had put to paper: her sitting at the dining room table turned toward his twin, the love between them as tangible and beautiful as silken cloth, as strong and enduring as tempered steel.
He said an ancient prayer for them and their young in the Old Language, one that wished them all to be well until he met them in the Fade at some far, far future point. Until we live anew, was the way it ended.
Phury let go of the slayer's wrist and repeated the phrase over and over again, dimly wondering which one of the four words would be his last.
Except there was no impact. The lesser disappeared from atop him, just popped off his chest like a puppet whose strings had been pulled.
Phury lay there, barely breathing, as a series of grunts echoed in the alley, and then a bright flash of light went off. With his endorphins kicking in, he had a nice, spacey high that made him glow with what felt like health, but was really evidence he was in deep shit.
Had the death blow already happened? Had that first one been enough to leave his brain hemorrhaging?
Whatever. It felt good. The whole thing felt good, and he wondered whether this was what sex was like. The afterwards, that was. Nothing but peaceful relaxation.
He thought about Zsadist coming up to him in the midst of that party months ago, a duffel bag in his hand and a hellacious demand in his eyes. Phury had been sickened at what his twin had needed, but he'd nonetheless gone with Z to the gym and hit the male over and over and over again.
That hadn't been the first time Zsadist had needed that kind of release.
Phury had always hated giving his twin the beatings he'd demanded, had never understood the why of the masochistic drive, but he got it now. This was fantastic. Nothing mattered. It was as if real life were a distant thunderstorm that would never reach him because he'd gotten out of its path.
Rhage's deep voice came from a distance as well. "Phury? I've called for pickup. You need to go to Havers's."
When Phury tried to talk, his jaw refused to do its job, sure as someone had glued it in place. Clearly, the swelling was setting in already, and he settled for shaking his head.
Rhage's face came into his lopsided vision. "Havers will - "
Phury shook his head again. Bella would be at the clinic tonight dealing with the baby issue. If she was on the verge of miscarrying, he didn't want to tip her over the edge by showing up as an emergency case.
"No... Havers..."he said hoarsely.
"My brother, what you've got going on is more than first aid can handle." Rhage's model-perfect face was a mask of deliberate calm. Which meant the guy was really worried.
"Home."
Rhage cursed, but before he could push for the Havers trip again, a car turned into the alley, its headlights flashing.
"Shit." Rhage flipped into action, hefting Phury up off the pavement and hustling behind the Dumpster.
Which brought them right next to the desecrated lesser.
"What the f**k?" Rhage breathed while a Lexus with chromed-out twenty-fours eased by them, rap thumping.
When it had passed, Rhage's brilliant teal eyes narrowed. "Did you do that?"
"Bad... fight...'s'all," Phury whispered. "Get me home."
As he closed his eye, he realized he'd learned something tonight. Pain was good, and if garnered under the right circumstances, it was less shameful than heroin. Easier to get, too, as it could be a legitimate by-product of his job.
How perfect.
As Jane sat in the chair across from her patient's bed, her head was down and her eyes were closed. She couldn't stop thinking about what she had done to him... and what he had done as a result. She saw him just as he climaxed, his head kicked back, his fangs gleaming, his erection jerking in her grip, while his breath went in on a gasp and came out on a groan.
She shifted around, feeling hot. And not because the radiator had kicked on.
God, she couldn't stop herself from replaying the scene over and over again, and it got so bad, she had to part her mouth for breath. At one point during the continuous loop she felt a brief sting in her head, like her neck had settled into a bad position, but then she dozed off.
Naturally, her subconscious took over where memory left off.
The dream started when something touched her shoulder, something warm and heavy. She was eased by the feel of it, by the way it slowly went down her arm and over her wrist and to her hand. Her fingers were gathered in a grip and squeezed, then splayed out for a kiss placed on the center of her palm. She felt the soft lips, warm breath, and the velvet brush of... a goatee.
There was a pause, as if permission had been asked.
She knew exactly who she was dreaming about. And she knew exactly what was going to happen in the fantasy if she allowed things to continue.
"Yes," she whispered in her sleep.
Her patient's hands went to her calves and eased her legs off the chair, then something broad and warm moved in, going between her thighs, splaying them wide. His hips and... oh, God, she felt his erection at her core, the rigid length pressing in through the soft pants she had on. The collar of her shirt was dragged aside and his mouth found her neck, his lips latching onto her skin and sucking while his arousal started on a rhythmic push and retreat. A hand found her breast then skirted down to her stomach. Down to her hip. Down farther, replacing the erection.
As Jane cried out and arched, two sharp points ran up the column of her neck to the base of her jaw. Fangs.
Fear flooded her veins. And so did a blast of high-octane sex.
Before she could sort out the two extremes, his mouth left her neck and found her breast through the shirt. As he sucked at her he went after her core, rubbing what was ready for him, hungry for him. She opened her mouth to pant, and something was pushed into it... a thumb. She latched on desperately, nursing him while she imagined what else of his could be between her lips.
He was the master of all of it, the driver, the one operating the machinery. He knew exactly what he was doing to her as his fingers used the soft sweats and her wet panties to push her right up to the cliff.
A voice in her head - his - said, "Come for me, Jane - "
