A Warm Heart in Winter

by J. R. Ward

  He looked right, into the library. The Christmas tree had been left on, its red, green, and gold lights blinking, its bulbs and garland sparkling. Red skirting had been tucked around its base, and presents were already appearing on the velvet. Likewise, stockings had started to be hung at the fireplace. There would be a countless lineup of them come December 24th, the human tradition fully embraced.

  Glancing left, the dining room was closed down, the chandelier dimmed, the table glossy and polished and empty of everything but a huge bouquet of red roses and holly in the center. Beyond that, the kitchen was also silent.

  But not all was quiet.

  He followed the theme song for Magnum, P.I. into the billiards room.

  Lassiter was sprawled on one of the couches that faced the new concave TV screen, his blond-and-black hair spilling over the throw pillow he’d wedged behind his head, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He was wearing wool leggings that seemed like the lower-body version of a hair shirt, and a My Little Pony T-shirt that shouldn’t have been warm enough—and evidently wasn’t, given the blanket he’d pulled across his chest.

  As Qhuinn stopped in front of the sofa, the angel paused what was on the big screen with the remote and looked up without surprise.

  Like he’d been expecting this.

  He also didn’t jump to his feet and assume a defensive response.

  Meanwhile, Qhuinn just stood there like a dummy. “Hi.”

  Lassiter shifted into a sit, piling the blanket in his lap. “Hi.”

  “I, ah…” Dragging a hand through his hair, he felt himself start to sweat. “Ah—”

  “You don’t have to apologize.” Those strangely colored eyes were steady as they stared up. “I understood in that moment why you went after me and I understand now.”

  At a loss, Qhuinn looked around at all the things he’d seen before: The pool tables, the mounts of sticks on the wall, the balls arranged in their triangles on the felt. He saw the Persian rugs under each play area, the leather sofas, the bar with its top-shelf liquor bottles and its sparkling glasses.

  “You want something?” Lassiter said as he got up.

  “Ah…”

  “That’s a yes.”

  “Are you drinking? ’Cuz you don’t usually drink.”

  “Not alcohol.” The angel went behind the bar. “Sit. I’ll make us some fruit juice for the vitamin C. You can’t be too careful with scurvy.”

  Qhuinn sidled up to the long, thin granite counter and parked it on a stool. And then he watched in silence as Lassiter sliced four Hale Groves pink grapefruits in half and started to squeeze them on an old school glass mount, the kind that had a ribbed center to do the grinding and a circular base to catch the juice.

  Clearing his throat, Qhuinn figured there was no reason to wait for better words. “So the night my brother died—” At that moment, he realized he would never use that other word. As accurate as it was. “—I know that you were in the tunnel. Just before dawn.”

  Lassiter didn’t say anything; he just kept working the halves on the grind part. The juice that filled the base was pink as a blush and smelled like sunshine.

  “That’s how Luchas’s remains were still there the following night,” Qhuinn said quietly. “You stayed with him all day long and blocked the sun from him. Didn’t you. You protected him… so I could see him one last time. Didn’t you.”

  Lassiter tipped the juicer over a rocks glass and then put the serving in front of Qhuinn.

  “I repaid you by attacking you.” Qhuinn swallowed. “And insulting you. Oh, shit, Lass, I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t mean it—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No.” Qhuinn reached across the bar and touched the angel’s arm. “It’s not. Thank you for what you did for him and for me. And I’m truly sorry.”

  Lassiter paused in the middle of working on his own serving of juice—and his eyes stayed ducked. “Just so you know, I can’t really talk about some things. It’s the rule.”

  Qhuinn slowly straightened on the stool, a shimmy of awareness going down his spine and landing in his ass cheeks, causing them to pucker.

  It was easy to forget who Lassiter was. What he was. The enormous power he held.

  But at this moment, Qhuinn became fully in touch with the fact that he was sitting across… from a deity.

  “I do what I can,” the angel murmured as he tossed the rind and picked up the last of the halves. “I do what I’m allowed to do. You know, to make things easier. My heart broke for you, and yet all I could do was stand on the sidelines and watch the crash. It’s fucking torture…” As his voice broke, he cleared his throat. “But I do what I can.”

  Lassiter poured the juice into his own glass and then clinked the rim of Qhuinn’s. “Bottoms up.”

  As the angel tossed his back, Qhuinn did the same—and had to click his tongue at the tartness. As the burn rushed down into his gut, his stomach rolled—but not from the grapefruit.

  “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you,” Qhuinn said.

  “Everyone wants to be in charge—until they are.” Lassiter put his glass down with such care, it made no sound on the bar. “Why do you think I watch the kind of TV I do? I’ve got to shut my mind off somehow. Otherwise, I’d go mad.”

  “Shit.”

  “All the strands of all the lives, woven in patterns of suffering and joy, the cloth infinite in every direction, the layers upon layers unending. And I see every fiber in every thread, at every moment. I feel the reverberations, too. I am but a tuning fork of flesh, struck by the hand of the Creator. I am but a servant of destiny, yet I am accountable.”

  As Lassiter spoke the words, his voice grew deeper and deeper, and then behind him, revealed first as a figment of the eye, and then as a glorious, three-dimensional reality, the set of iridescent wings he usually hid appeared at his shoulders. And that was not all. From overhead, cascading down, not from the ceiling of the room, but from the great above, a shaft of light, brighter than the sun, yet not painful to the eye, bathed the angel in a halo that encompassed his entire body.

  In his holy form, as a glimpse into eternity and the mystery of fate, Lassiter looked across the bar. And now his lips remained closed, even as his voice permeated the space around them.

  Ask what you want to know.

  Qhuinn began to tremble, a precipice he had not intended to confront appearing at his feet.

  Ask. And I shall tell you.

  Covering his face with both his hands, Qhuinn felt like a child, for the answer could well crush him in a way that couldn’t be contemplated when you were an adult, when you were big and strong and capable of protecting yourself. The knowledge he sought and feared was of the ruination kind, the sort against which he had no defenses.

  “Is my brother in the Fade?” he choked out. “Is he safely in the Fade, even though he… ended himself. And therefore cannot be granted a peaceful afterlife?”

  Motherfucker, why had he said any of that out loud? He already knew the answer—

  Your brother was killed by the blizzard. Murdered by snow.

  As Lassiter’s voice entered his mind, Qhuinn dropped his hands. Through tears, he whispered, “So is he in the Fade?”

  Lassiter, in all his mystical splendor, nodded. He is safely in the Fade forevermore. He was murdered… by the snow.

  All at once, the magic was gone as if it had never been, the wings disappearing, the pool of golden illumination dissipated, the halo around the body no longer visible.

  Qhuinn blinked. “You are the one who makes that call. Aren’t you. You’re the one who decides where they go—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lassiter’s tone was brisk as he held up his empty glass. “More grapefruit? I think I’m going to have another—”

  “Thank you,” Qhuinn croaked out.

  When Qhuinn’s glass was taken back, he could only watch in silence as more grapefruit was cut and squeezed, the sweet and tang
y scent rising up, another round of summer in the midst of December.

  In his mind, Qhuinn heard the angel’s voice: I do what I can. What I’m allowed to do. You know, to make things easier.

  “You are the best savior we could ever have,” he whispered reverently.

  Lassiter didn’t respond. He just filled up the glasses again and returned Qhuinn’s. When Qhuinn went to take it, the angel didn’t let go.

  “You should definitely ask him. He’s going to say yes.”

  Qhuinn drew back with surprise. “What?”

  The angel winked. “You know what I’m referring to. Or you will as soon as you think about it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  At nightfall, Blay got dressed in civilian clothes. He wore his second favorite pair of slacks—his first favorite having been so delightfully destroyed two nights before—and chose a Christmas green cashmere sweater, a red-and-green silk scarf, and the camel hair hand-me-down coat he’d gotten off of Butch the season before.

  At the last moment, he took one of his nines and clipped it to his waistband. When he pulled the sweater down, you couldn’t see it, and that was the goal.

  Stepping out of the walk-in closet, he put his arms wide and did a spin. “This good? Do I look okay?”

  Qhuinn, who was sitting over on the bed, smiled. “Come here.”

  As Blay walked over, he was conscious of those mismatched eyes watching every move he made—and not necessarily in a sexual way, although there was heat, as always, in that gaze. It was more—

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” Qhuinn said as he wrapped his arms around Blay’s waist and put his chin on Blay’s belly button.

  “You’re going to make me blush.”

  “Good. I like when you do.”

  Blay could only shake his head slowly and smile like a fool. The truth was, something had happened during the day to his male. He wasn’t sure what it was. Qhuinn was still sad. That was obvious. But there was… a peacefulness about him. A calmness in the mourning that had not been there before.

  “You must have finally slept,” Blay said as he stroked that black-and-purple hair back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look… rested.”

  Qhuinn shrugged. “I’m finding a way to cope, I guess. And I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

  “Anything for you.”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Blay bent down and brushed his mate’s lips with his own. “But just know that whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”

  They departed the mansion about fifteen minutes later. As they left, they waved at everyone who was enjoying First Meal in the dining room. There was no question of them stopping to eat, though. Blay was too nervous to eat as well.

  Leaving the mansion, they dematerialized to the address that was on the driver’s license V had found. It turned out to be a block-sized apartment building, the two-story split-sides orientated around open stairwells.

  “Over here, on the left,” Qhuinn said.

  They walked across the skirt of parking lot that had been well plowed, scanning the area the entire time. Cars were parked under open-air ports, and there were others in exposed slots. No trucks. Sedans and SUVs. Mostly Hondas, Fords, and Kias. No minivans.

  All the apartments had lights on in them, and there were residents getting out of their cars and going into their flats, the human workday done, the nighttime hunker-down arriving for the other species.

  Qhuinn led the way up the staircase in question, and they were halfway up when the tenant on the front right of the building opened her door and stepped out. She had her coat buttoned to her neck, her purse at her shoulder, one glove on, the other in her hand. She was mid-twenties, with her hair all loosely curled and a full face of makeup. Given the time? Probably going on a date.

  She took one look at Qhuinn, blanched—and ducked back into her apartment. The sound of the dead bolt getting thrown was loud.

  “Shit,” Qhuinn muttered. “Gimme a second.”

  He didn’t knock on the door. He just leaned into it, his brows tight, his eyes closed. Then he backed off. A second later, the young woman came out again, gave them a cheery smile, and danced down the stairs. They both watched her cross the parking area and get into a Sorento.

  “He better not stand her up. She likes him,” Qhuinn murmured.

  On that note, he pivoted to the apartment directly across from her place. The number on the door was 114B.

  “I think you better do the knock and greet,” he said. “Assuming she’s human, I don’t want to scare her, and I’d rather not go into her brain. I don’t want to lose any memories she has.”

  “Okay.”

  Blay squeezed his mate’s shoulder and then put himself solidly in front of the peephole. Curling up a fist, he knocked his knuckles against the cold metal panel.

  No answer.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn had wrapped his arms around his chest and was staring at the concrete landing under his shitkickers. In the tense silence, a breeze whiffled in, carrying the scent of sautéed onions and ground beef from somewhere.

  Blay tried again. “The light’s on—”

  The door opened.

  The woman on the other side was, just as the license had stated, five feet six inches tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. Her skin was very pale, and she looked thinner than her government-issued photograph—or maybe it was more drawn, as if she were getting over an illness or struggling in life. She was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a cream Irish sweater, and she smelled like shampoo and toothpaste.

  Beyond her, a barren apartment was clean… except for the bedroom in the distance. A light illuminated a messy bed with crumpled snack bags on the floor.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice was quiet and a little hoarse. The accent was French. And the scent was decidedly human.

  “Hi.” Blay smiled warmly, but kept his lips together so his fangs didn’t show. “Are you Anna Sophia Laval?”

  “I am.”

  At that moment, she glanced to her right. And saw Qhuinn.

  Her eyes popped wide, and she put her hand to her mouth. Just as Blay began to worry they were going to have to go into her mind and calm her, she spoke.

  “You’re Luke’s brother. Aren’t you.”

  * * *

  As soon as that door opened, Qhuinn took in every detail of the woman and the apartment behind her. And then she said words he couldn’t immediately translate into meaning.

  When they clicked, he was overcome with emotion.

  “Yes,” he replied roughly. “I am his brother.”

  She stepped back and indicated the way inside with a hand that trembled. “Please.”

  Qhuinn let Blay go first, and then he hesitated on the threshold. Before he followed his mate, he ducked a hand into his jacket and made sure he had the letters and the Scotch tape ball.

  “Won’t you sit down,” she said formally as the door clapped shut behind them all.

  The sofa was the only place to park it, so he and Blay went over even though the last thing Qhuinn wanted was to get physically trapped. He felt a buzzy need to run—although not to get away. He had nervous energy that was hard to contain.

  “May I offer you something to drink?”

  Qhuinn narrowed his eyes. There was a regal posture to her in spite of her casual clothes and modest surroundings, and he could see Luchas approving of that. But she was a human; she was very definitely of the other species.

  “No, we’re good,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She went across to a shallow kitchen area and brought over one of the three chairs that were around a little table.

  Sitting down, she put her hands in her lap. “You’ve come to tell me he’s dead, haven’t you.”

  Qhuinn leaned forward on the couch and plugged his elbows into his knees. Wiping his face with his palm, he nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

&nbs
p; As she closed her eyes and sagged, Qhuinn felt a communion with her, a deep, abiding connection in which he found a curious relief.

  He had to clear his throat. “Listen, it feels inappropriate to have to ask this, but how did you know him? Is it okay for me to ask that?”

  She took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen him for over three years. Is that when he died?”

  Qhuinn’s mind chewed over responses. And in the end, he went with: “Yes.”

  Because his brother had been killed in the raids. That was not a lie. And was he really prepared to tell her the whole true story?

  “What happened to him?” she asked. “How did he pass?”

  “It was natural causes.” Or a snow murder, depending on who you asked.

  “You look like him.” She smiled wanly and then swept him from head to toe with her eyes. “Well, you’re different, too.”

  “I am. But I loved him and he loved me.”

  Anna Sophia cleared her own throat. “He was easy to love. He was such a good man. I am…”

  “Here,” Blay said, leaning forward with his handkerchief.

  The woman took what was offered and patted at her face. Then she was quiet for a long while. Just as Qhuinn was about to jump out of his skin, she spoke again.

  “We met when I was taking a night class in English literature here at the college.” She unfolded and refolded the kerchief. “He was in the same class. It ran from six to nine in the evening for twelve weeks.”

  That sounded like Luchas, Qhuinn thought.

  “Luke sat in the back. So did I. I didn’t think I belonged, and oddly, neither did he. Which never made any sense to me. He was so brilliant. He was just… special.” She stared off into the distance. “It started with a hello. And then a smile. He was…”

  When she didn’t go on, Qhuinn prompted, “He was a wonderful male.”

  “I need to be honest with you.” Her eyes flashed across the space. “I was married at the time.”

  There was a moment of silence, as if she were waiting to be judged. When Qhuinn just nodded, she sighed and traced Blay’s monogram with her fingertip.