"John . . ." she croaked. "Oh, God . . . why are you doing this to yourself."
He frowned, but no doubt it was because of something Qhuinn was saying. Except then his own palm lifted and he placed it where she was touching him.
It was just to sweep his tears away, though.
When he stood up, he took the pillow with him, and he stepped right through her.
Xhex watched his back retreat, her blood thundering in her ears. This was, in some ways, an echo of the process of death, she thought. Little by little, inch by inch, what tied her to life was leaving, heading off, departing. With each step John took toward that door, her breath was evaporating in her lungs. Her heart was stopping. Her skin was growing cold.
Her chance of rescue was walking away. Her chance at . . .
It was then that she knew what she had been fighting all along, and for once, she felt no inclination to hide her emotions. No need to. Though he was with her, she was totally alone and separate from him, but more to the point, her own mortality clarified her priorities.
"John," she said softly.
He paused and looked over his shoulder toward the bed.
"I love you."
His handsome face tightened in pain, and he rubbed the middle of his chest, as if someone had fisted up his heart and squeezed it dead.
And then he turned away.
Xhex's body overrode her mind. With a frantic leap, she ran for the open door, arms outstretched, mouth cranked wide.
As she hit the confines of her prison, she heard a loud noise, like a siren . . . or the shrill whistle of fireworks after they were lit . . . or maybe it was the security system's alarm going off.
But it was none of those.
She was screaming at the top of her lungs.
SIXTEEN
John had to tear himself away from that bedroom. If it hadn't been for the overriding logic and the need to crack open that lesser, he wouldn't have been able to budge his boots an inch.
He could have sworn he felt her presence . . . but he knew that was a mind trick born out of his quest. She wasn't in the room. She'd been in the room. Two totally different things . . . and his only chance at finding out what had happened to her was downstairs in the kitchen.
As he headed for the first floor, he rubbed his eyes and his face and found that one hand wanted to linger over his cheek. The skin there was tingling . . . kind of like it did when Xhex had touched him the few times she had.
God . . . the blood in that room. All that blood. She'd been fighting Lash off, and though it was a source of pride to think she'd shanked the fucker a good number of times, he couldn't stand the reality that had rolled out in that bedroom.
John hung a left and stalked through the dining room, trying to get his game head back while feeling as if he'd had his skin stripped off and been thrown raw into the ocean. Pushing through the butler's door into the kitchen--
The instant his eyes locked on the lesser, an earthquake ripped through him, his firmament breaking open all the way down to his hot core.
His mouth stretched wide and he let loose a mute bellow.
As he lunged forward, rage punched his fangs out into his mouth and his body went on autopilot, dematerializing through the space, taking form in front of the bastard. Shoving Blay off the slayer, John's bonded vampire attacked with a kind of ferocity he'd heard about . . . but never seen.
Certainly never experienced.
With his vision on whiteout and his muscles energized by mania, he was all action, no thought as he attacked, his hands cranking into claws, his fangs slicing like daggers, his inner wrath so great he was an animal.
He had no idea how long it took him . . . or even what he did. The only thing that registered was the dim awareness that a sweet stench was all he could smell.
Sometime later . . . much later . . . a lifetime later . . . he paused to catch his breath and found that he was down on all fours, his head dangling off the top of his spine, his lungs burning from exertion. His palms were planted on tile that was slick with black blood and something was dripping off his hair and out of his mouth.
He spit a couple of times to try to get rid of a foul taste, but whatever it was, the shit wasn't just around his tongue and teeth; it was down the back of his throat and into his gut. His eyes were also stinging and blurry.
Was he crying again? He didn't feel sad anymore . . . he felt empty.
"Jesus . . . Christ . . ." someone said softly.
Abruptly overcome with exhaustion, John allowed his elbow to go lax and let his weight shift to the side. Laying his head down in a cooling puddle, he closed his eyes. He had no strength. It was all he could do to breathe.
A while later, he heard Qhuinn talking to him. Innate politeness, rather than any clue what was going on, made him nod when there was a pause.
He was momentarily surprised when he felt hands on his shoulders and his legs and his lids managed to flicker open as he was lifted up.