by J. R. Ward
To protect her, he must disappear from her life to ensure she was raised as a normal.
“Sire?” the gentlemale asked meekly. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”
“I’m sorry. But of course . . . I am very sure.” Darius felt his chest burn as he leaned forward and placed the young in the arms of a stranger.
Her father.
“Thank you . . .” The male’s voice cracked as he accepted the small weight. “Thank you for the light you have presented us in our darkness. Verily, though, is there naught we may do for you?”
“Be . . . be good to her.”
“We shall.” The male went to turn away and paused. “You are never coming back, are you.”
As he shook his head, Darius could not take his eyes off the swaddling cloth the young’s mother had made. “She is yours sure as if your bloodline had borne her. We shall leave her here in your fine care and trust you shall treat her well.”
The gentlemale came forward and took Darius’s upper arm. With a squeeze, he offered commiseration and reassurance. “You have put your faith in us wisely. And know that you are always welcome here to see her.”
Darius inclined his head. “Thank you. May the blessed Virgin Scribe look with favor upon you and yours.”
“And the same for you.”
With that, the gentlemale walked through his door and entered his mated home. On a final lifted palm by way of good-bye, he shut himself in with the wee one.
As the stallions snorted and stamped their hooves, Darius walked around and glanced through wavy leaded glass, hoping to see—
O’er by a fire, upon a bed of clean linens, a female lay with her face turned toward the flaming warmth. She was pale as that which covered her, and her empty eyes reminded him of the tragic female who had passed unto the Fade before his own hearth.
The gentlemale’s shellan did not sit up or look over as her hellren entered the bedchamber, and for a moment, Darius worried that he had made a mistake.
But the young must have let out a sound, because the female’s head suddenly snapped around.
As she beheld the bundle that was presented to her, her mouth fell open, confusion and then awe filtering through her lovely features. Abruptly, she cast the coverlet from her arms and reached for the babe. Her hands were shaking so badly, her hellren had to place the young against her heart . . . but she held her newborn daughter in place all by herself.
’Twas the wind which made Darius’s eyes water. Verily, ’twas but the wind.
As he brushed over his face with his palm, he told himself that all was well and how it should be. . . . even if he felt a mourning within his breast.
Behind him, his charger let out a roar and reared up against the hold on his reins, his massive hooves pounding against the earth. At the sound, the female in the bedchamber looked up with alarm and cradled her precious gift closely, as if she needed to protect the babe.
Darius wheeled away and blindly jogged over to his steed. With a leap, he was up on the back of the great beast, taking control of the animal, harnessing the power and rage that had been bred into its every muscle and bone.
“We shall go unto Devon,” Darius said, needing a purpose more than he needed breath or heartbeat. “There are reports of lessers.”
“Aye.” Tohrment looked back at the house. “But are you . . . of a proper spirit to fight now?”
“ The war waits for no male to be of sound mind.” Indeed, at times ’twas better to be in lunacy.
Tohrment nodded. “Onward to Devon, then.”
Darius gave his stallion all the head it wanted and the warhorse burst forth from its enforced halt, galloping off into the woods, tearing o’er the ground. The wind in Darius’s face cast his tears away, but did naught to cure the ache in his chest.
He wondered as he rode off back to the war whether he would see the babe again—but he knew the answer. There was no way their paths would cross. How could they? In what manner of life’s twists and turns could they find themselves united once more?
Verily, it defied destiny, did it not.
Oh, the wee one. Ill begotten. Ne’er to be forgotten.
E’er to have a piece of his heart.
SEVENTY-THREE
Later Xhex would reflect that good things, like bad, came in threes.
She’d just never had that particular experience before . . . not with the three thing, but with the “good” part.
Thanks to John Matthew’s blood and Doc Jane’s handiwork, she was up and around the night after the rollout with Lash, and she knew she was back to her normal self because she’d put her cilices on again. And trimmed her hair. And been to her house on the Hudson River to get clothes and weapons.
And spent about . . . four hours making love with John.
She’d also met with Wrath and it looked like she had a new job: The great Blind King had invited her to come fight with the Brotherhood. In the wake of her initial shock, he’d maintained that her skills were much needed and welcome in the war—and gee, yeah, kill some lessers?
Great. Idea. She was so on board with that.
And speaking of on board, she’d moved into John’s room properly. In his closet, her leathers and her muscle shirts were hanging next to his, and their shitkickers were lined up together, and all her knives and her guns and her little toys were now locked up in his fireproof cabinet.
Their ammo was even stacked together.
Too frickin’ romantic.
So, yup, business as usual.
Except . . . well, except for the fact that she’d been reduced to sitting on this big bed, rubbing her sweaty palms on her leathers for, like, the last half hour. John was having a workout down in the training center before their ceremony and she was glad he was busy elsewhere.
She didn’t want him to see her nervous like this.
Because it turned out, in addition to a phobia about medical crap, there was another little glitch in her hardwiring: The idea of standing up in front of a ton of people and being the focus of attention during their mating made her want to vomit. Guess it shouldn’t have been a total surprise, though. After all, in her job as an assassin, the whole point was to remain unseen. And she’d long been an introvert by both circumstance and character.
Pushing herself back to the pillows, she leaned against the headboard, crossed her feet at the ankles, and grabbed the remote. The little black Sony number discharged its duties with admirable flair, the thing firing up the flat-screen and switching the channels until they flicked by quick as the beat of her heart.
It wasn’t just the fact that there were going to be so many witnesses to her and John’s ceremony. It was because getting hitched made her think of the way things should have been if she’d had a normal life. On nights like this, most females were getting dressed in gowns made just for the occasion and being strewn with family jewels. They were looking forward to being presented to their intended by their proud fathers, and their mothers were supposed to be sniffling now as well as when the vows were exchanged.
Xhex, on the other hand, was walking down the aisle by herself. Wearing leathers and a muscle shirt, because that was all she’d ever owned for clothes.
As the TV stations flipped before her eyes, the distance between herself and “normal” seemed as great a divide as that of history itself: There would be no recasting of the past, no editing the peaks and valleys of her story. Everything from her mixed blood, to the kindly mated couple who had raised a nightmare, to everything that had happened to her since she’d left that cottage . . . all of it was written in the cold stone of the past.
Never to be changed.
At least she knew that the wonderful male and female who had tried to raise her as their own had finally had a babe of their bloodline, a son who had grown up strong and mated well and given them a next generation.
All that had made the leaving of them so much easier.
But everything else in her life, save for John, had not had a happy resolu
tion. God, maybe that was the cause of her nerves as well. This mating stuff with John was such a revelation, almost too good to be true—
She frowned and jacked upright. Then rubbed her eyes.
She couldn’t be seeing what was on the screen correctly.
It wasn’t possible . . . was it?
Scrambling for the right button on the remote, she turned up the volume. “. . . Rathboone’s ghost haunting the halls of his Civil War mansion. What secrets await our Paranormal Investigators team as they seek to uncover . . .”
The narrator’s voice faded from hearing as the camera drew closer and closer upon a portrait of a male with dark hair and eyes that were haunted.
Murhder.
She’d know that face anywhere.
Leaping up, she rushed at the TV—but like that was going to help?
The camera panned back to show a beautiful parlor and then shots of the grounds of a white plantation house. They were talking about some kind of live special . . . during which they were going to try to flush out the ghost of a Civil War abolitionist who so many maintained still roamed the halls and the grounds of where he’d once lived.
Tuning in to the commentary again, she desperately tried to catch where the mansion was located. Maybe she could . . .
Just outside Charleston, South Carolina. That’s where it was.
Stepping back, she hit the bed with her calves and sat down. Her first thought was to flash there and see for herself whether it was her former lover or a real live ghost or just some talented television producers making a lot of noise.
But logic overrode the impulse. The last time she’d set her eyes on Murhder, he’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. Besides, just because there was an old oil painting that resembled the male didn’t mean he was taking up res in that old manse playing Casper.
Although that was a helluva portriat. And terrorizing humans actually did sound right up his alley.
Shit . . . she wished him well. She totally did. And if she wasn’t convinced she’d be as unwelcome as the secret she should have told him about after they’d gotten involved, she would have made the trip.
The fact was, however, sometimes the best thing that you could do for someone was stay away from them. And she’d given him her address on the Hudson. He knew where to find her.
God, she hoped he was okay, though.
The knock on the door brought her head around. “Hello?” she said.
“Is that a come-in?” a deep male voice answered.
She got to her feet and frowned, thinking that sure as hell didn’t sound like a doggen. “Yeah. It’s unlocked.”
The door swung wide to reveal . . . a trunk—as in a wardrobe trunk. A Louis Vuitton wardrobe trunk from back in the day. And she assumed the guy holding it was a Brother—given the shitkickers and leathers showing down below.
Unless Fritz had eschewed the vanilla lifestyle for something out of V’s playbook. And put on a hundred pounds.
The LV lowered enough so that she got a clear shot at Tohrment’s face. The Brother’s expression was serious, but then, he wasn’t a Lite-Brite kind of guy. Never had been . . . and given where his life had ended up, never would be ever.
He cleared his throat and then inclined his head toward what was up against his chest. “I’ve brought you something. For your mating.”
“Um . . . well, John and I haven’t registered anywhere.” She motioned for him to come in. “Not like Crate and Barrel carries handguns. But thanks.”
The Brother stepped through the jamb and put the trunk down. The thing was five feet tall and about three feet wide and seemed to be the kind to split wide down the middle.
In the quiet that followed, Tohrment’s eyes traced over her face and yet again she had this odd sense that the guy knew too much about her.
He cleared his throat. “It is customary upon the mating of a female for her family to proffer vestments for the ceremony.”
Xhex frowned again. Then slowly shook her head from side to side. “I have no family. Not really.”
God, that grave, knowledgeable stare of his was freaking her out . . . and in a rush, her symphath side reached out to thread through his grid, assessing, measuring.
Right. This made no sense. The resonant grief and pride and sadness and joy he was feeling . . . were reasonable only if he knew her. And as far as she was aware, they were strangers.
To find the answer, she tried to penetrate his mind and memories . . . but he was blocking her from getting into his brain. Instead of a read on his thoughts . . . all she got was a scene from Godzilla vs. Mothra.
“Who are you to me?” she whispered.
The Brother nodded at the trunk. “I have brought you . . . something to wear.”
“Well, yeah, but the why is what I’m more interested in.” Sure, that sounded ungrateful, but manners had never been her strong suit. “Why would you bother?”
“The particular reasons are not relevant, but they are well sufficient.” Read: He wasn’t going to go into it. “Will you let me show you?”
Normally, this would be a no-go for her on so many levels, but this was not a normal day or a normal mood she was in. And she had the oddest sense . . . that he was protecting her with all his mental blocking. Protecting her from some series of facts that he feared would cut her to the core.
“Yeah. Okay.” She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling uncomfortable. “Open it.”
The Brother’s knees cracked as he knelt in front of the trunk and took a brass key out of his back pocket. There was a click and then he released the latches on the top and the bottom and moved around behind the thing.
But he didn’t split it wide. Instead, his fingers trailed across the trunk reverently—as his emotional grid nearly collapsed from the pain he was feeling.
Concerned for his mental health and the suffering he was going through, she raised a hand to stop him. “Wait. Are you sure you want to—”
He cracked the trunk open, pulling the front halves wide—
Acres of red satin . . . acres of deep bloodred satin spilled out of the LV’s confines, falling onto the carpet.
It was a proper mating gown. The kind of thing that was passed down from female to female. The sort of dress that took your breath away even if you weren’t a girlie-girl.
Xhex’s eyes snapped up to the Brother. He wasn’t looking at what he’d brought for her. His stare was locked on the wall across the room, his expression one of forbearance as if what he was doing was killing him.
“Why are you bringing me this?” she whispered, recognizing it for what it had to be. She knew little about the Brother, but she was well aware his shellan had been shot by the enemy. And this had to be Wellesandra’s mating gown. “It’s agony for you.”
“Because a female should have a proper dress to walk down . . . the . . .” He had to clear his throat once more. “This dress was last worn by John’s sister on her mating day to the king.”
Xhex narrowed her eyes. “So this is from John?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“You’re lying—I mean no disrespect, but you’re not telling me the truth.” She glanced down at all that red satin. “It’s incredibly beautiful. But I just don’t understand why you would show up here now, tonight, and offer to let me wear it—because your emotions are very personal at this moment in time and you can’t even look at the thing.”
“As I said, my reasons are private. But it would be . . . a well-intended gesture if you would be mated in it.”
“Why is this so important to you.”
A female voice interrupted them. “Because he was there at the very beginning.”
Xhex wheeled around. In the doorway, standing between the jambs, was a black hooded figure and her first thought was that it was the Scribe Virgin . . . except there was no light glowing beneath the robes.
Her second thought was that the grid of this female . . . was a blueprint of Xhex’s own.
To th
e point where it was identical.
The figure limped forward and Xhex found herself stumbling back and tripping on something. As she went down, she tried to catch her balance on the bed and missed, landing on her ass on the floor.
Their grids were absolutely identical, not in terms of emotions, but the construction itself. Identical . . . as a mother’s and daughter’s would be.
The female brought her hands up to her hood and slowly lifted that which covered her face.
“Jesus . . . Christ.”
The exclamation came from Tohrment, and the snap of his voice shifted the female’s iron gray eyes to him. She bowed in slow reverence. “Tohrment . . . son of Hharm. One of my saviors.”
Xhex was vaguely aware of the Brother bracing himself on the trunk, as if his knees had voted to take a holiday on him. But what she was truly concerned with were the features that had been revealed. They were so like her own, more rounded, true . . . more delicate, yes . . . but the bone structure was the same.
“Mother . . .” Xhex breathed.
As the female’s eyes swung back, she did the same search-and-memorize routine on Xhex’s face. “Verily . . . you are beautiful.”
Xhex touched her own cheek. “How . . .”
Tohrment’s voice was full of shock as he demanded, “Yes . . . how?”
The female came forward a little farther with that limp—and Xhex instantly wanted to know who or what had harmed her: Although there was no sense to any of this—she’d been told her true mother had died in childbirth, for godsakes—she wanted no injury to ever befall this sad, lovely creature in the robes.
“The night of your birth, daughter mine, I . . . I did die. But when I sought entry unto the Fade, I was not permitted to pass. The Scribe Virgin, however, in all Her mercies, did allow me sequestering on the Far Side and therein I have e’er stayed, serving the Chosen as penance for my . . . death. I am still in service to a Chosen, and have come here to be on this side to care for her. But . . . in truth, I have arrived unto this plane to finally look upon you in person. I have long watched and prayed for you from the Sanctuary. . . . and now that I see you, I find . . . I am well aware that there is much you would need to consider and have explained and be angered over . . . But if you should be of an open heart to me, I should like to forge . . . an affection. I can understand if it is too little, too late. . . .”
