by J. R. Ward
Chapter Seventy-One
As Tohr emerged naked and dripping from the shower, the knock on his bedroom's door was loud and a little muffled, as if it had been made by the heel of a hand, instead of a set of knuckles - and after so many years of being a brother, he knew it could have been made by only one male.
"Rhage?" He put a towel around his waist and walked over to open the way up. "My brother, what's doing?"
The guy was standing out in the hall, his incredibly beautiful face solemn, his body clad in a white silk robe that fell from his broad shoulders and was tied at the waist with a simple white rope. Across his chest, his black daggers were holstered by white leather.
"Hey, my brother. . . I, ah. . . "
In the awkward moment that followed, Tohr was the one to break the tension. "You look like a powdered doughnut, Hollywood. "
"Thanks. " The brother stared down at the carpet. "Listen, I brought you something. It's from Mary and me. "
Opening his big palm, he held forward a heavy gold Rolex, the one that Mary wore, the one that the brother had given her when they'd been mated. It was a symbol of their love. . . and their support.
Tohr took the thing, feeling the warmth that lingered in the metal. "My brother. . . "
"Look, we just want you to know we're with you - I added back the links so it'll fit your wrist. "
Tohr slipped the thing on, and yeah, it clipped just fine. "Thank you. I'll return it - "
Rhage snapped out his arms and gave the kind of bear hug that he was known for - the sort that put a strain on your spinal cord and made you have to reinflate your rib cage afterward just to make sure you hadn't punctured a lung.
"I got no words, my brother," Hollywood said.
As Tohr clapped him on the back, he felt the dragon tattoo seethe, as if it, too, were offering condolences. "It's okay. I know this is hard. "
After Rhage left, he was just shutting his door when there was another knock.
Peering around the jamb, he found Phury and Z lined up side by side. The twins were wearing the same robing and tie that Rhage had on, and their eyes were just the same as Hollywood's Bahama blues: sad, so damned sad.
"My brother," Phury said, stepping up and embracing him. When the Primale eased back, he held out something long and intricate. "For you. "
In his hand was a five-foot-long grosgrain white ribbon on which a prayer for strength had been carefully and beautifully embroidered in gold thread.
"The Chosen, and Cormia, and I are all with you. "
Tohr took a moment to fan out the strip, and trace the Old Language characters, reciting the ancient words in his head. This must have taken hours, he thought. And many, many hands. "My God, it's beautiful. . . . "
As he forced back tears, he thought, Fan-fucking-tastic. If just the warm-up to the ceremony was getting to him like this? He was going be a goddamn mess when it actually happened.
Zsadist cleared his throat. And then the brother who hated touching others leaned in and put his arms around Tohr. The embrace was so gentle that Tohr had to wonder if it was from lack of practice. Either that or Tohr looked as fragile as he felt.
"This is from my family to yours," came the soft words.
The brother offered forward a small piece of parchment paper, and Tohr's fingers shook as he opened it. "Oh. . . shit. . . "
In the center was a tiny handprint in red paint. A young's. Nalla's. . .
There was no greater or more precious thing to a male than his offspring - especially if it was a female. So the palm print was the symbol that everything Z had and all that he was, now and in the future, was pledged in support of his brother.
"Fuck," Tohr said simply as he took a shuddering breath.
"We'll see you down there," Phury stated.
They had to close the door.
Tohr backed up and sat down on his mattress, laying the ribbon across his thighs and staring at the child's print.
When another knock sounded, he didn't look up. "Yeah?"
It was V.
The brother seemed stiff and awkward, but then, he was probably the worst out of all of them when it came to mushy shit.
He didn't say anything. Didn't try any of the hugging bullshit, either, which was just as well.
Instead, he placed a wooden case next to Tohr on the bed, exhaled some Turkish smoke, and went back for the exit like he couldn't wait to get out of the room.
Except he stopped before he left. "I gotchu, my brother," he said to the door.
"I know, V. You always have. "
As the male nodded and left, Tohr turned to the mahogany case. Freeing the black steel clasp and lifting the lid, he had to curse under his breath.
The set of black daggers was. . . breathtaking. Taking one out, he marveled at the fit against his hand, and then saw that there were symbols etched into the blade.
More prayers, four of them, one on each side of each of the weapons.
All for strength.
These daggers were really not for fighting - they were too valuable. Christ, V must have worked on these for a year, maybe longer. . . although of course, as with everything the brother made down in that forge of his, they were deadly as hell -
The next knock was Butch. It had to be.
"Ye - " Tohr had to clear his throat. "Yes?"
Yup, it was the cop. Dressed as all the others were, in that white robe with the white rope tie.
As the brother came across the room, there was nothing in his hands. But he hadn't come empty-handed.
"On a night like tonight," the guy said roughly, "I only got my faith. That's all I got - 'cuz there're no mortal words to ease where you're at - I know up close and personal. "
He reached up behind his neck and worked at something. When he brought his hands forward once more, he was holding the heavy gold chain and even heavier gold cross that he never, ever took off.
"I know my God is not yours, but can I put this on you?"
Tohr nodded and dropped his head. As the linchpin of the male's awesome Catholic faith was hung around his neck, he reached up and touched the cross.
It had incredible weight, all that gold. It felt good.
Butch bent over and put a squeeze on Tohr's shoulder. "I'll see you down there. "
Fuck. He had nothing to say anymore.
For a while, he just sat there, trying to hold it together. Until he heard something at the door. A scratching, as if. . .
"My lord?" Tohr said as he forced himself to his feet and went across the way.
You opened the door for the king. No matter what state you were in.
Wrath and George came in together, and his brother was characteristically blunt. "I'm not going to ask how you're holding up. "
"I appreciate that, my lord. Because I'm pretty fucking ragged. "
"Why wouldn't you be. "
"It's almost harder when people are kind. "
"Yeah. Well. Guess you're going to have to suck some more of that shit up. " The king worked at something on his finger. And then put forward -
"Oh, fuck, no. " Tohr threw his hands up and out of the way even though the male was blind. "Uh-uh. No way. No fucking way - "
"I order you to take it. "
Tohr cursed. Waited to see if the king would change his mind.
Got nowhere on that one.
As Wrath just stared straight ahead, Tohr knew he was going to lose this argument.
With a dizzying feeling of total unreality, he reached out and took the black diamond ring that had only ever been worn by the king.
"My shellan and I are there for you. Wear that during the ceremony so that you know my blood, my body, my beating heart are yours. "
George chuffed and wagged his tail as if backing his master.
"Fucking hell. " This time, Tohr was the one who reached for his brother, and the embrace was returned sharply and with power.
Afte
r Wrath left with his dog, Tohr pivoted around and leaned back against the door.
The final knock was soft.
Steeling himself so that he at least appeared to be a male, even though he was feeling like a pussy on the inside, he found John Matthew out in the hall.
The boy didn't bother signing anything. He just reached out for Tohr's hand, and pressed. . .
Darius's signet ring into Tohr's palm.
He would have wanted to be here for you, John signed. And his ring is all I've got of him. I know he'd want you to wear it during the ceremony.
Tohr stared at the crest that was stamped in the precious metal and thought of his friend, his mentor, the only father he'd really had. "This means. . . more than you can imagine. "
I'll be right beside you, John signed. The whole time.
"Right back atchu, son. "
They embraced, and then Tohr shut the door quietly. Going back over to the bed, he looked down at all the symbols of his brothers. . . and knew that when he faced this crucible, it was with all of them with him - not that that had ever been at issue.
Something was missing, though, in all of this.
Autumn.
He needed his brothers. He needed his son. But he needed her, too.
He hoped what he'd said to her would be enough, but there were some things you couldn't come back from, some things that there was no healing from.
And maybe she had a point about the cycle thing.
He prayed there was more to it than that, however. He truly did.
As Lassiter stood in the corner of Tohr's room, he kept himself invisible. Good thing. Watching that in-and-out of males had been rough. How Tohr had managed to get through it in one piece was a flipping miracle.
But this was finally coming together, the angel thought. Finally, after all this time, after all this - well, shit, frankly. . . things were finally turning in a good direction.
After spending the previous night and day with a very quiet Autumn, he had left her at sunset to stew in her thoughts, putting his faith in the fact that she was replaying that Tohr visit over and over in her head and finding nothing but sincerity in what had been said to her.
If she showed tonight, he was home-fucking-free. He'd done it. Well, okay, fine - they had done it. In truth, he had been a sideline player in all this. . . except for the fact that he kind of fucking cared about the pair of them. And Wellsie, too.
Across the way, Tohr went to the closet and seemed to brace himself.
Taking out a white robe, the Brother put the thing on and then returned to the bed to gird his waist with the magnificent ribbon Phury had brought. After that, the guy picked up the folded piece of parchment Z had given him, tucked it into the tie, and drew on a white holster - into which he slid V's two spectacular black daggers. The signet ring went on his left middle finger, the black diamond on the thumb of his fighting hand.
With the unfamiliar sense of a job well-done, Lassiter thought about all the months he'd been back on earth, recalling the way he and Tohr and Autumn had all worked together to save a female who would in turn. . . well, in different ways, free each of them.
Yeah, the Maker had known what was up when this assignment had been made: Tohr was not the same. Autumn was not the same.
And Lassiter himself was not the same: It was simply impossible for him to disconnect from this, to be all blase, to act like nothing mattered - and the funny thing was, he really didn't fucking want to pull out.
Man, there were a lot of purgatories getting expunged tonight, he thought ruefully, both real and figurative: When Wellsie transitioned unto the Fade, he was going to finally get out of his prison. And with her release, that meant Tohr's burden was lifted so the both of them were free.
And as for Autumn? Well, with any luck, she'd allow herself to love a male of worth - and in turn be loved back - so after all these years of her suffering, she could finally begin to live again; she would be reborn, resurrected, come back from the dead. . . .
Lassiter frowned, a strange alarm beginning to ring in his head.
Looking around, he half expected some lessers to be rappelling down the side of the mansion or landing out in the gardens from a helicopter. But no. . .
Reborn, resurrected. . . back from the dead.
Purgatory. The In Between.
Yeah, he told himself. Where Wellsie was. Hello?
As an odd, disembodied panic gripped him, he wondered what the fuck his problem was -
Tohr froze and looked over into the corner. "Lassiter?"
With a shrug, the angel figured he might as well make himself visi. No reason to hide - although, as he took form, he kept his dread to himself. God. . . what the hell was wrong with him? They were at the finish line. All Autumn had to do was show up at the Fade ceremony - and, going by the way she'd been laying out clothes as he'd left to come here, it was pretty clear she wasn't just going to be scrubbing floors at that cabin all night long.
"Hey," the brother said. "I guess this is it. "
"Yeah. " Lassiter forced a smile onto his face. "Yeah, it sure is. I'm proud of you, by the way. You've done well. "
"High praise. " The guy fanned his fingers out and looked at the rings. "But you know what? I really am ready to do this. Never thought I'd say that. "
Lassiter nodded as the Brother turned and headed for the door. Just before Tohr got there, he stopped at the closet, reached into the darkness, and pulled out the skirting of the red gown.
As he rubbed the delicate fabric between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth was moving like he was talking to the satin. . . or his former mate. . . or, shit, maybe it was just to himself.
Then he released his hold on the dress, letting it settle back into the quiet void it hung in.
They left together, Lassiter pausing to give a last measure of support before breaking off and paving the way down the hall of statues.
With each step closer to the stairs, that alarm bell got louder, until the sound of it reverberated through the angel's body, his stomach going sour as his legs grew sloppy.
What the hell was his problem?
This was the good part, the happily-ever-after. So why was his gut telling him that doom was waiting in the wings?
