Blood Truth

by J. R. Ward

  “I think I’m good,” Butch said as they walked back out into the kitchen proper. “Thanks for the paper bags.”

  “My pleasure, sire. May I open another up for you?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

  The chef flapped one free of its folds and Butch put the meat hook in there. Then he grabbed the two that had the cloak and the knife and headed back to the foyer. Rhage had come late and was making up for his delay by doing the duty with his camera phone, taking pictures of the body and the door.

  But like the stuff in the Hannaford bags, all of that was kind of belt-and-suspenders irrelevant. The explanation had been provided, the faith in God’s powers of revelation rewarded, the this-then-that-then-the-other-thing finally spelled out. Still, habits of a professional lifetime and all that malarkey.

  Setting the bags down, Butch went into the parlor, where Boone was sitting with the two females and Helania was getting checked out by Doc Jane.

  “You’ve got a heck of a knot back here,” the doctor was saying. “And you probably have a concussion of sorts, although I can’t do any diagnostic imaging to prove that. The good news is your pupils are equal and reactive, and you passed your neurological exam just fine, so I think you’ll be right as rain. Just let me know if you see double, feel nauseous, or can’t seem to stay awake, okay? And no . . . you don’t have to worry about any effects on anything else that may be going on.”

  “Thank you,” Helania said as her hand found her lower abdomen. “I’m grateful.”

  As the doc gave all three a hug and then took off, Butch shook his head. “I know you guys have got to be in shock.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Boone murmured as he stroked Helania’s back.

  “Listen,” Butch said, “I’ve got a good idea of how things went down tonight, but just so we can close the case, I’ll have to ask that you all come into the training center for something official. But we can wait. Tomorrow is fine for that.”

  “Thank you,” Rochelle said. “I’m not thinking straight right now.”

  “I don’t blame you. This is tough stuff. Do you have someone who can come and get you?”

  Rochelle frowned. “I really can’t bear the thought of going home—”

  “You can stay,” Boone said. “With us.”

  “Yes,” Helania added. “Please. In fact . . . can we all just stay here for the day? The storm is terrible and my apartment is small.”

  “Sure,” Boone offered. “Doesn’t matter to me where we are, as long as we’re together.”

  “Thank you.” Rochelle lifted her hands and started pulling pins out of her hair one by one. “That would be . . . thank you.”

  As she shook her chignon out, took her high-heeled boots off, and repositioned herself with her stocking feet tucked under her, Butch smiled. Nothing like letting your hair down with family who happened to be friends, he thought.

  He’d learned that one firsthand.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to remove the body now. I want you guys to stay here, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem,” Boone said as the females nodded.

  “And listen, I’m going to get in touch with Mai’s parents before the end of tonight. I’ll go to their house in person. They’re going to want to know what happened.”

  “Of course,” Rochelle said. “That’s very good of you. And please feel free to be completely honest. I have nothing to hide, not anymore.”

  “You got it.” Butch then hesitated as he looked at Boone. “You know this house is yours now, right?”

  “What?” the male said in surprise.

  “Marquist is dead. You’re your sire’s living next of kin. It’s all yours. I know it’s not the time to think about it right now, but the law is the law. It is what it is.” Butch waved a dismissive hand in the air. “But like I said, that’s nothing to think about right now. Don’t even know why I felt the need to say something about it.”

  That last one was bullshit, of course. The bottom line was the kid had been never been anything but perfectly loyal and an all-around stand-up male. And meanwhile, he’d been royally screwed over by his sire and by that butler—and sometimes, fuck it.

  You just wanted the good guy to win in the end.

  “Call me if you need me,” Butch said to them.

  Pivoting away, he was striding out of the room when something caught his arm. As he turned around, it was Helania.

  “Your sister is really proud of you right now,” she whispered. “You’ve helped give yet another group of people a measure of comfort and the kind of resolution they need to move on.”

  Butch’s breath caught. And he didn’t know what to say in return.

  But that didn’t matter. Helania wrapped him up in a hard hug, and sometimes that communicated everything, didn’t it.

  As he lowered his head and embraced her in return, he felt, deep inside his chest, the lingering pain he always carried with him . . . lift a little more.

  This one was for you, Janie, he thought to himself.

  Then again, every killer he’d ever found had always been for her.

  • • •

  As Boone watched Helania and Butch hug, he was reeling from what the Brother had said about the will. But he supposed Butch was right. With Marquist dead and no other beneficiary named . . . he was the next of kin.

  Getting to his feet, he made like he’d gone vertical just to stretch his back, but that wasn’t why he’d stood up. He was looking around the parlor with new eyes and had the sense that he was trying on for size the idea of staying put.

  Except that was crazy. He didn’t want any part of this glymera bullshit. He hadn’t been a fan of it before, but after what Rochelle and Helania had been through? He was so not interested—

  Through the archway, he saw the staff of the house still clustered together in the foyer, Thomat and the dozen or so doggen standing in that clutch they’d formed. And they were all looking at him. They had clearly heard what Butch had said.

  Because there was hope in their faces.

  Loyalty . . . for Boone . . . in their eyes.

  “I think they want you to stay,” Rochelle said softly.

  As Helania came over to him, he opened his arms, and she eased right up against him. They stayed there as Marquist’s remains were removed, the big front door opening, the storm’s gusts sweeping in and replacing the warmth with cold. But then the Brothers said goodbye, and Boone watched through the parlor window as the surgical van pulled away and proceeded out the drive.

  In the wake of the departure, there was the strangest silence in the house, an emptiness that was at once shocking . . . and liberating.

  “How’d you like to have something to eat?” Helania asked him. “That’s what I was trying to do before . . .”

  “Everything went off the rails?” he murmured.

  “Yup.”

  Rochelle stood up. “I think we should try the whole hot-cocoa thing over again.”

  “Maybe it’s bad luck?” Boone offered. “We could give something else a shot.”

  “Nah, I’m not superstitious,” his friend said as the three of them started to walk out of the parlor.

  In the foyer, Boone paused and looked at the staff. “Thomat, I think everyone needs a good meal. Some food. Some drink. And by that, I mean . . . the whole household. Together.”

  As he met the chef’s eyes straight on, he was aware that he was laying down a rule. A new operating system. A fresh way of conducting things in the house.

  And if the chef didn’t agree? Then Boone realized with total clarity that he would walk away. Sell the house and the stuff. Cut a clean break with the sick, twisted, toxic legacy he’d been born into.

  Thomat looked around at the other staff. There was some whispering. And then the chef bowed deeply.

  “My Lord, we would find that most agreeable. Perhaps we shall adjourn to the kitchen and communally decide upon a menu?”

  Boone smiled slow
ly and put his arm around Helania’s shoulders. “Good deal. That’s . . . that’s just the way I’d like it to be.”

  Falling into a loose group, everyone headed through the dining room and out into the polishing room and the pantry. As he passed by the opened door of the butler’s suite, he leaned in and closed it firmly.

  An hour later, they were all seated around the dining room table, passing silver trays and porcelain bowels around, the eclectic meal of leftovers and easy-make sides created by all hands, everyone served by each other, all plates filled with the same food.

  Boone sat at the head of the table, with Helania not at the far end, but right beside him. Rochelle was down in the middle, sitting between Thomat and one of the maids. Everybody was talking, and there were occasional laughs, although Boone was aware that they were all still recovering from the extraordinary turn of events.

  Helping himself to more mashed potatoes, he looked at Helania.

  And found himself wondering whether she was with his young.

  That was the only way he would feel better about things. If they had a—

  Frowning, he stopped that thought by remembering what she’d said about them getting mated. Talk about a no-win situation. He was in love with her. He had realized that in so many different ways and so many different situations, but he was trapped by the prospect of the pregnancy. If he told her he loved her now? If he asked her to mate him? She’d already made it clear she’d just see it as him meeting a duty. And the problem was . . . even though she might not have noticed herself, he could sense a very subtle change in her springtime scent.

  He had a feeling . . . that she was with his young.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she reached out and took his hand.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He forced a smile. “These potatoes are great.”

  “They’re how we made them in my family. The cream cheese makes all the difference.”

  “You don’t say,” he murmured, rubbing the hollow pit behind his sternum. “Cream cheese. Who’d have thought.”

  • • •

  As Helania followed Boone down a long, formally decorated hallway, she looked at all the closed doors and lost count at sixteen.

  Incredible, how big the house was.

  Finally, he stopped. “So this is my bedroom.”

  “I’m excited to see it.”

  “It’s nothing fancy.” He caught himself and then laughed a little. “I mean, it’s not like—oh, whatever, let’s just do this.”

  As he opened the door, she stepped inside to—“Wait, is this a living room?”

  “It’s the sitting area of the suite.”

  “Oh.” She shook her head ruefully. “Wow. Okay—”

  She stopped talking as she looked through an archway on the far wall. Called by what she saw, she walked forward into a dream bedroom. The bed was Boone-sized, for real, a huge king that was draped in monogrammed sheets and covered by a duvet that had some kind of a seal on it in the center. But none of that was what had gotten her attention.

  It was the books.

  Lining the walls, set into shelving, there were hundreds of books, some modern, some old, some bound with leather, some with cloth. As she stepped up to read the spines, she smiled to herself. Her solution to being quiet had been movies. His clearly was reading.

  And she loved that they had introversion in common.

  “This is amazing,” she breathed as she glanced over her shoulder. “I had no idea you . . .”

  She let the sentence drift as she took in his somber expression—and his sad eyes. Without having to ask, she knew where he’d gone in his mind, and she thought about what Rochelle had told her by the door, right before things had gotten really crazy.

  With so much answered tonight, there was still one very open issue. And it was a big one for the both of them.

  But she also knew the solution. Had known it . . . pretty much all along, even though she’d been afraid to admit it.

  Crossing over to him, she took Boone’s hand and led him to his own bed. As they sat down together, he stroked his thumb on the inside of her wrist . . . but he would not look her in the eye. And that sadness of his was a heartbreaker.

  Helania swallowed hard. “I’m so glad I met you.”

  He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

  “And I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me in these last couple of . . .” Nights? God, it felt like years. “. . . you know, since I met you. About Isobel. And the case.”

  Her words were failing her. Her brain wasn’t working right.

  But her heart knew exactly where she stood.

  Shifting over in front of him, she got down on one knee and captured both his hands in her own. Staring up into his surprised eyes, she smiled—and suddenly found every syllable she needed.

  “Do you remember when I told you I didn’t want you to ask me to mate you?”

  He closed his eyes and stiffened. “Yes.”

  “I said that I would never be sure whether it was out of duty and obligation.”

  “You did.”

  “I said that I wanted to be chosen.”

  He exhaled and popped his lids. “No offense, but we don’t need to rehash it all. That was a painful conversation I will not forget anytime soon—”

  “Well, I’ve decided something.”

  He put his hand out to stop her. “We don’t know if you’re pregnant. So there’s nothing to decide. But I want you to know, if you are, then I am—”

  “I love you, and I want to know if you’ll be my hellren.”

  Boone blinked. Then jerked back in surprise. “What? Wait, what did you—”

  Helania smiled. “I’m asking you. See, it’s different this way. No obligation on your part, as we don’t know for sure if I’m pregnant, and I’m doing the choosing. I’m choosing you. I’m telling you that I love you and I want you and—”

  That was as far as she got.

  “I love you, too,” Boone said in a rush as he came down onto the carpet and kissed her. “Oh, God . . . yes, please, I will mate you. I don’t care if you’re pregnant—” He yanked back. “I mean, I do care. I really want you to be.”

  Helania blinked back tears as she took his dagger hand and placed his big palm on her belly. “I really want to be, too.”

  “What’s changed?” he breathed.

  As she thought about everything the last couple of nights had brought, and then remembered her sure shot as she had protected her sister’s one true love from a madman, she shrugged.

  “Like I told you when you asked me if I could stand on my own downstairs”—she stared into his beautiful eyes—“I’ve found my two feet. I don’t need to be Wonder Woman, and I don’t have to always get it right . . . but when you know who you are and that you can take care of yourself, then you’re free to love whoever you want honestly and completely. Whether they’re a male or a female . . . or a young you birthed of your own body.”

  Boone’s smile was a sunrise that illuminated not just his face, but clearly his soul, too.

  “Well,” he whispered against her mouth. “If that isn’t a blood truth . . . I don’t know what is.”

  EPILOGUE

  Two nights later . . .

  Boone traveled through the winter air in a scatter of molecules, tracing the trail Helania left for him by virtue of their having fed from each other. As he re-formed, he found himself in a snow-covered, wooded glen, the forest of pine trees thick until they parted for some explicable reason to create a perfectly circular clearing.

  Helania was standing off to one side, her red and blond hair free and teased by a soft breeze, her face somber, her eyes trained on the ground.

  When she noticed him, she smiled, the haunted look leaving her stare. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Walking through the snow, his boots packed a pattern of prints into the pristine fall of tiny flakes, and as he came up behind his female, she settled back against his body. With h
is arms wrapped around her, and his eyes on the same spot as hers, he was content to wait until she spoke.

  “This is where we buried Isobel,” she said after a moment. Then she laughed a little. “In case you haven’t figured that out.”

  Boone kissed the top of his love’s head. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “I wish you had known her.”

  “Me, too. I think I would have loved her.”

  “Oh, I guarantee you would have.”

  The wind that traveled through the clearing was gentle and not as frigid as it had been, as if it had warmed itself and slowed down out of respect for the dead.

  “I want to believe she’s in the Fade,” Helania said, “and not just . . . you know, under the earth.”

  Boone found himself looking up to the sky and measuring the stars that twinkled in the great black expanse overhead. As he considered the chances of him and Helania finding each other, and of Rochelle being who she turned out to be?

  “It’s like Isobel found one last way of taking care of me,” Helania murmured.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just pretty remarkable, the whole story. You ending up in my life as you did. Rochelle—”

  “Being who she is in it all,” he finished. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Helania leaned to the side and smiled at him. “I love when we do that.”

  “Me, too.”

  She straightened again and refocused on the ground. “And yes, I kind of think my big sister had a hand in all this.”

  From out of nowhere, a waft of fine French perfume entered the forest, and there she was, Rochelle appearing in the snow. She was in a raspberry coat and heavy, fur-trimmed boots, and as she tromped over, she, too, stared at that spot in the middle of the clearing.

  As the female came up to them, Helania reached out and took her hand. “Hello, friend.”

  “Hello, friend.” Then Rochelle sighed sadly. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to come here.”

  “I feel the same way.” Helania went back to looking at the ground. “But it’s an important night.”

  “We have some news to share,” Boone said. “And we want you to be the first to know.”