by J. R. Ward
You believed what your soul told you even if the fallible mind struggled with the implications.
Peace. All he wanted was peace. And if he had to stop questioning and just believe to stay here in this relief? Then he was on that train, goddamn it.
Staring at his brother’s contact on the screen of his cell phone, it felt all wrong not sharing this with iAm. The other male suffered as he did. Hell, maybe that was why the poor bastard had let that sauce burn on the stove tonight. He was newly mated, to a female he loved with everything in him, but he had a basket case for a nearest blood relation.
The last thing iAm needed was a crazy-ass phone call from said basket case that was full of happy tears, proclamations of reincarnation, and suggestions that they double date. This was especially true given that the guy’s party line on his newest waitress was that the female was not in fact Selena. To iAm, she was Therese. From Michigan. Come to Caldwell to start a new life independent from whatever family she had left behind.
Any news flash to the contrary was not going to go well.
And iAm wasn’t the only one who didn’t need a conversation like that. Trez was not interested in anyone talking him out of this happiness. Trying to prove him wrong. Attempting to “reason” with him.
He was liable to go batshit, and not in an insane way. In a combative manner.
“Fuck.”
As he stared at his phone, he found such irony in the fact that his good news alienated him as much as his bad news had. He had a secret he knew he couldn’t share, and that made him lonely.
Maybe even when it comes to the owner of this key, he thought to himself.
His female had seen him in her dreams… but again, she did not recognize him in real life.
Before he became frustrated with the whole situation, he deliberately remembered the way he had felt as he had stood in front of that funeral pyre, those flames consuming the remains of his queen. How many times, during the burn, and then after it was all embers and ashes—hell, even before then, when his female had been on the lip edge of death, lingering, suffering… how many times had he begged for a different destiny? Promised all kinds of things, both within and without of his control, for her to come back, for his life to return to normal, for them to have years, decades, centuries ahead of them.
Instead of what they’d been granted. Which had been too short, and too tragic.
What if this was the fate he had asked for being delivered unto him? What if… this was the only way it could happen, the only manner in which his prayers could be answered?
The reunion with his queen granted.
But only him knowing it.
“I’ll take it,” he said out loud as he clicked his phone off. “I will fucking take this shit a hundred times during the week, and a thousand times on every Sunday.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following evening, Trez all but skipped down the formal front staircase of the Brotherhood’s mansion. As he descended the red-carpeted, tsar-worthy steps, he was glad no one was hanging around down in the multicolored, marble-columned foyer: Even though he was whistling, very nearly skipping, and liable to high-five anyone in range, he didn’t want anybody to catch him in his good mood.
In fact, his body was bouncy and buoyant, a buoy on gentle seas, and his feet were all Fred Astaire, light and nimble. Then again, the incredible weight that had been sitting on his rib cage like an elephant had disappeared. In its absence, he could breathe for the first time since Selena’s death—and hey, another bonus, his heart wasn’t bleeding out in his chest anymore, either.
And it was funny. Even though he’d been so very aware of how badly off he’d been—because, hello, he’d been in so much pain, he’d had no choice but to recognize the major-organ-failure equivalent of his damage—he nonetheless had a fresh perspective on his mental and emotional states.
Not until the removal of the pain had he understood the depths of it.
Plus, check it, he was actually looking forward to something.
Someone.
Was this what Rehv had been talking about when the guy had come and pressed the drug thing? Because if a person could get this effect by popping a pill every twenty-four hours? Man, sign his shit up. He just didn’t think it was that simple.
No, this optimism, this return to a normalcy he had never really had, was both complicated and simple. Soon, he was going to see his shellan, in the form she had been returned to him as. And what do you know, that solved so many of his problems—and the ones it created? Well, he’d spent all day lying in bed and thinking them over.
Yup, he was more than comfortable managing them.
As he hit the mosaic floor, he stopped and looked toward the cheerful sounds spilling out through the dining room’s archway. There was laughter and chatter, and the soft clinking of sterling silver on porcelain, and the occasional scrape of chair legs as someone got up or sat down. He could picture the people in there. See their faces, their smiles, their bodies in those hand-carved seats. Thirty of them, including the servants.
He had been avoiding mealtimes, not because he didn’t like who was in that grand room, but because he loved the people in there. And it was hard, when you were in a dark place, to be around those who were not. You didn’t want to bring anybody down, but you also couldn’t fake the happiness.
With his change in mood, he was tempted to go into the dining room, hug each and every one of them, and then plant himself at a vacant place setting. As he tucked into the roast beef he could smell, he would apologize for putting them all through what he had—because he knew the Brothers and their shellans, the other fighters, even Fritz and his staff, had worried about him. And then he would join the talking and the laughing.
Except… no. He couldn’t do that. This resurrected mood—natch—he was sporting was like getting rhinoplasty. Everybody was going to notice, and there was no not-explaining, not to the nearest-and-dearest crew.
It was better that he made a gradual reentry.
Yes, that was how this had to go. Especially as he started bringing Selena in her new incarnation around the Brothers. Thank God at least Xhex knew what was doing and could help frame the hellos.
Taking a deep breath, he headed for the door into the vestibule, and reminded himself that him knowing the truth was enough. Reality didn’t become more real just because he drew others in it—there wasn’t some kind of occupancy requirement to yup-this-is-happening. Besides, if anybody challenged his good news? He was liable to get defensive in a forty-millimeter kind of way—
Trez was just about to open the vestibule’s first door when something in the billiards room caught his eye.
Behind the lineup of pool tables, down on the floor, a couple dozen pages were laid out in a fan. There had to be at least twenty or so, and they were marked with splashes of bright red and green. Breathing in, he smelled paint, but not the stinky oil kind. It was sweet and—
“Bitty?” he said.
The little young, who was stretched out on her tummy and surrounded by open containers of tempera paint, looked up and smiled. “Hi, Uncle Trez.”
Walking over to Rhage and Mary’s daughter, he got down on his haunches. “Wow. This is some kind of work.”
“I’m doing Christmas cards for everybody.” She rinsed her paintbrush in a glass full of murky water. “It’s a human tradition.”
“So I’ve heard.”
As he inspected her work, he thought of her hard start in life. She had lost so much, been hurt so badly. But now she was on the far side of that, having been adopted by a father and mahmen who loved her like nothing else. She had a good ending, and it was nice to feel like he was with her in that.
Her lovely soft face became very serious. “My mom and Auntie Beth told me all about how humans do it. You get cards for the people you love this time of year and then everyone puts them on their mantelpiece so they can look at them every night. I saved up my babysitting money, and I went to Hannaford’s with my dad, but
none of the cards for sale really fit any of us.”
Trez smiled. “Well, vampires and all. Some things don’t translate as well. But I know I would rather get a handmade card from you than a store-bought one.” He put his palm up. “Not that I’m taking for granted that I’m on your list.”
“But you are, Uncle Trez. Of course you are.” Except then her eyes grew sad. “I mean, both of you are.”
“iAm?” Trez nodded. “You know, it’s more efficient to give us both one—”
“No. He gets a separate one.” She hesitated. Then she sat up and leaned across her masterpieces. Picking one up, she offered it to him. “Here, this is for you. I’m sorry if it’s… not good.”
Without even looking at the artwork, Trez frowned and put his hand on her tiny shoulder. “Bitty. How can I not love what you’ve made me?”
She just indicated the card, so he focused on it.
As he went to take what she had made for him, his hand started to shake ever so slightly. The 8½-by-11 sheet was split in two, clearly with the intention that it was to be folded in half down the middle. Turning it around, he blinked hard. There was a pair of figures depicted, and they were holding hands, a gold star above where they were linked. On the right, the larger of the pair had dark skin, super-short hair, a green sweater, and red pants. On the left, the smaller of the pair was wearing a red blouse and a green skirt, and had long, dark hair. But instead of being flesh-colored, the arms and legs and face of the female were silver.
“I wanted Selena to be on your card.” Bitty reached across her collection and pulled another page over. “So I made her like I made my mahmen. See? And my younger brother. They are all silver because they are not here on earth, but they are still with us.”
Trez took the card she had made for her mahmen. There was a figure like the one that represented Selena, silver-skinned with a red-and-green dress, and in her arms, in a little red-and-green swaddling blanket, was a silver-faced young. Next to the pair, depicted with flesh-colored skin, was how Bitty saw herself, slim and in red pants and a green shirt. Bitty was not smiling, but she was holding her mahmen’s hand.
“I have another card, though.” Bitty brought a third sheet over. “I have this one, too.”
On the third one, there were three figures in the foreground, a huuuuge blond-haired one in black clothes with a red-and-green scarf, a small one that had short brown hair and green pants and a red shirt, and then the same depiction of Bitty that was on her mahmen’s card.
In this card, Bitty was smiling. Everyone was smiling.
Rhage was standing with his big arms over Mary’s and Bitty’s shoulders, and the two females were holding hands across his torso. Over their heads, there was another gold star, as well as two silver figures in white robes, their arms outstretched, smiles on their faces, trails from their flying done in sparkles that fell like snow from the sky to form the ground line the little family was standing on.
“That’s my mahmen and my brother,” the girl pointed out. “Up above.”
“Watching from the Fade.” He looked at Bitty. “I think these are all really beautiful.”
Bitty took the two cards she had done for herself back and tested the paint gently with her fingertip.
“It’s dry.” She carefully folded the piece of paper down the center. “See, this is how they are supposed to look.”
She repeated the bend-and-flatten routine with the other, and then lined the pair up. Sitting back on her heels, she frowned.
“I don’t know whether I should have done one for Mahmen and Charlie separately.” She glanced over. “I was to have a brother, you see. He came to me in a dream. So I know he’d have been a boy if he lived, and he didn’t have a name, so I gave him Charlie. At least in my own head.”
Bitty touched both cards, linking them as the figures were linked by hands and arms. “It felt wrong not to do a card for them. But it was a sad card. Then…” She pointed to the other. “Then I did this one, and I realized I could fit us all in. And this is a happy card, even if they’re not with us. Because they’re with us.”
Grave thirteen-year-old eyes locked on his own. “When I went to do your card, I thought maybe I would put Selena up over you, but… I just felt like she was on the same line. Next to you.”
Goose bumps ran up the back of his neck. “You have no idea how right you are. May I keep this?”
“Let me fold it so it’s right.”
“Of course,” he murmured as he gave her artwork back.
Bitty lined up the corners precisely and then, with care to rival a brain surgeon’s, drew her fingertips downward, creating a perfect crease. She made as though she were going to give it to him, but then she took the card back.
“I was supposed to write something on the inside. But I don’t have the pens I was going to use. They are up in my room. I didn’t expect to do the lettering yet.”
Trez looked at the silver figure and the image of himself. “You know, it was made with love and I love what you’ve painted. So I’m not sure it needs words.”
“Okay, you can have it like it is.”
As he accepted the gift, the little girl threw her arms around him and squeezed. With a lump in his throat, Trez returned the hug lightly. She was such a tiny little thing, but her heart and spirit were fierce. She had more than proven that.
“Thank you, Bitty. I will treasure this always.”
“I love you, Uncle Trez.” Bitty pulled back. “And I don’t want you to be sad anymore.”
“I’m better now,” he whispered. “Honest.”
The sound of approaching boot falls brought Trez’s head around. Rhage was striding into the billiards room, a turkey leg in one hand, a chocolate milkshake that was half finished in the other. The Brother smiled.
“Hey, Trez, what’s doing?” He looked at Bitty. “And young lady, it’s time for dinner. I gave you an extra ten minutes, but that’s turned into twenty. You can always come back here soon as you’re done.”
“Okay, Dad,” she said as she stood up.
“Wow, look at your cards,” Hollywood murmured as he took a draw on his straw. “They are beautiful.”
“She made one for me.” Trez held out his as he got to his feet. “Isn’t it perfect.”
A shadow of sadness crossed Rhage’s Bahamas-blue stare. “Yeah. It is—”
“It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
Rhage smiled down at this daughter. “Good job.”
“Do you think George will walk on them?” Bitty asked.
“No, he sticks with his master. And as for Boo—well, that cat does its own thing. But I think you’re pretty much in a paw-free zone in here.”
“I don’t want them to get paint on their paws and lick it off. What if it made them sick?”
“You are a very thoughtful little girl, Bits.”
“I’m going to go find Mom.” She waved. “Bye, Uncle Trez. I’m glad you liked the card.”
“I love it!” he called out as she skipped across the mosaic floor, her long brunette hair flagging out behind her slip of a body. “Thank you again!”
When they were alone, Rhage cleared his throat. “Listen, if that’s, you know, too hard for you to hold on to, you can throw it—”
“No.” Trez recoiled. “I’m keeping this. I love this. She is a talented artist, and this is my favorite card. Ever.”
As Hollywood looked doubtful and tried to hide it behind taking a hunk out of that turkey leg, Trez switched subjects.
“Hey, did you happen to hit Sal’s last night?” he asked.
“Yup.” Hollywood took a refresh on the milkshake, hitting his straw again. After he swallowed, he smiled. “Your brother is a helluva good cook, you know that. And actually…”
When the Brother didn’t finish, Trez had a feeling where the male had gone in his head.
“What.” Even though he knew. “You can tell me. It’s okay.”
* * *
On time, Therese thought as she re-formed i
n the shadows thrown by the restaurant’s far corner. Let’s hear it for being on time.
Jumping over a low-level snowbank, she hit the shoveled part of the walkway and made her way to the staff entrance. Opening the door, she—
Stopped dead.
iAm’s office was at the end of the shallow concrete hall, and she couldn’t see through the open doorway for all the people crammed shoulder to shoulder in front of it. They were all facing away from her, and their voices were overlapping. It was everyone who worked at the restaurant, from the servers and the bartenders, to the sous chef and the manager. What the heck was going on?
Walking over, she tapped the pastry chef on the shoulder. “What’s happening—”
“You’re alive!” he called out.
The next thing she knew, he was giving her a hard hug that smelled like melted sugar and strawberries.
The staff pivoted around, and then they were all talking again, their voices loud and shouty, shock and relief warring on their faces as they looked her over as if they were searching for leaks of the arterial variety.
The next thing she knew, she was being drawn through them all, urged into iAm’s utilitarian office. Emile’s red-rimmed eyes were wide as he stood next to their boss. He looked awful, like he hadn’t slept for a week.
“You’re alive,” he said. Just like the pastry chef.
Emile’s embrace did not smell like shortcake with mixed berries. He was wearing a cologne of some kind, but it wasn’t something he had put on fresh that night. It was in his clothes.
“I’ve been calling you all day,” he explained. “Something happened at that club shAdoWs last night and we had to leave without you—”
Wincing, he stopped talking and brought his hand up to his temple as if he had a sudden headache. Which was characteristic when a human had had their memories stripped and replaced with some other version of events than what had actually happened. For the most part, the patches held, but when the person tried to probe past the story their minds had been supplied, they typically felt pain in their gray matter.
