Lover Reborn Read Free Page B

mutely as the closest thing he had to a father jumped.
    Later, John would reflect that moments like this had to be what people said of death itself—as you one-plus-oned the series of events that were unfolding, and the math added up to certain destruction, your mind flipped into slide-show mode, showing you clips of life as you had always known it:
    John sitting at Tohr and Wellsie’s table that first night after he’d been adopted into the vampire world… The expression on Tohr’s face as the blood results had announced that John was Darius’s son… That nightmarish moment when the Brotherhood had arrived to tell them both that Wellsie was gone…
    Then came images from the second act: Lassiter bringing a shriveled shell of Tohr back from wherever he had been… Tohr and John finally losing it together over the murder… Tohr gradually working his strength up… John’s own
shellan
appearing in the red gown that Wellsie had mated Tohr in…
    Man, destiny sucked ass. It just had to barge in and piss all over everyone’s rose garden.
    And now it was taking a shit in the other flower beds.
    Except then Tohr abruptly disappeared into thin air. One moment he was all fly-be-free; the next, he was gone.
    Thank God, John thought.
    “Thank you, baby Jesus,” Qhuinn breathed.
    A moment later, on the far side of a pylon, a dark arrow sliced into the river.
    Without a glance or a word between them, he and Qhuinn tore off in that direction, getting to the rocky shore just as Tohr surfaced, grabbed the slayer, and started to swim in. As John got into position to help drag the
lesser
onto dry land, his eyes locked on Tohr’s grim, pale face.
    The male looked dead, even though he was technically alive.
    I got him
, John signed as he leaned in, nabbed the closest arm, and heaved the soaking-wet slayer out of the river. The thing landed in a heap and did an excellent impression of a fish, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, little clicking sounds coming from its wide-open gullet.
    But whatever, Tohr was the issue, and John looked the Brother over as he emerged from the water: Leather pants were sticking like glue to thighs that were thin, muscle shirt was second-skinned to a flat chest, cropped black hair with that white stripe was standing straight up even though it was wet.
    Dark blue eyes were locked on the
lesser
.
    Or studiously ignoring John’s stare.
    Probably both.
    Tohr reached down and grabbed the
lesser
by the throat. Baring fangs that were viciously long, he growled, “Told you.”
    Then he outted his black dagger and started stabbing.
    John and Qhuinn had to step back. It was either that or get a paint job.
    “He could just hit the damn chest,” Qhuinn muttered, “and get this over with.”
    Except killing the slayer wasn’t the point. Desecration was.
    That sharp black blade penetrated every square inch of flesh—except for the sternum, which was the lights-out switch. With each slashing blow, Tohr exhaled hard; with every jerk free, the Brother inhaled deep, the rhythm of respiration driving the gruesome scene.
    “Now I know how they make shredded lettuce.”
    John rubbed his face, and hoped that was the end of the commentary.
    Tohr didn’t slow down. He just stopped. And in the aftermath, he listed to the side, propping himself up by throwing a hand out to the oil-soaked dirt. The slayer was… well, shredded, yeah, but he wasn’t finished.
    There’d be no helping out, though. In spite of Tohr’s obvious exhaustion, John and Qhuinn knew better than to mess with the end game. They’d seen this before. The final strike had to be Tohr’s.
    After a couple of moments of recovery, the Brother lurched back into position, double-handing the dagger and lifting the blade over his head.
    A hoarse cry tore out of his throat as he buried the point in the chest of what was left of his prey. As bright light flashed, the tragic expression on Tohr’s face was illuminated, a comic book rendering of his twisted, horrific