The Savior

by J. R. Ward

  Manfred stopped cockeyed next to a blacked-out SUV, put his engine in park and turned things off. “That’s your car over there, right?”

  Sarah looked out the passenger side window. Right where she’d left it. God, with everything that had happened, she almost expected the thing to be turned on its roof with its wheels spinning and flames all over the undercarriage.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been here awhile. Look at the snow covering the hood.”

  She thought of her front walkway, no longer cleanly shoveled. “Yes.”

  “Tell me something, if you came here Sunday night to work and you left your car here, how did you leave? I mean, I’m assuming you didn’t decide to walk all the way back to your house. Nine miles is a long way to go. At night. In weather like this.”

  As Sarah turned to face the federal agent, she was amazed at how calm she was. Then again, she didn’t really feel like there was a whole hell of a lot for her to live for. And that kind of made you unimpressed even by someone with arrest powers.

  “Do you want to go inside?” she said. “It’s getting cold in here.”

  “Sure.” His tone was dry. “I’d hate to be accused of false imprisonment.”

  The two of them met up at his front bumper and walked to the entrance together. A member of the New York State police was guarding the interior door and Manfred flashed his ID to the officer.

  “I’ve got a witness,” Manfred announced. “We’re walking through the scene.”

  “Yes, sir. Head right in, sir.”

  Sarah walked through into the lobby, but she didn’t proceed down the hall. Instead, she went to Kraiten’s photograph. As she stared at the portrait, she remembered him under the thrall of Murhder’s mental control, by turns combative and threatening . . . and then foggy and acquiescing.

  “Is he really dead?” she murmured.

  “Do you want to see the pictures?”

  As she shook her head, she recalled everything about that night: Coming out of the secret lab with Nate. Seeing Murhder, John, and Xhex. Escaping with them and taking Kraiten along to the loading dock. Using Kraiten’s SUV to—

  “Dr. Watkins? Hello?”

  Sarah turned to the agent. “Who owns the company now?”

  “No one. Kraiten shut everything down the day before he killed himself. Weren’t you here working?”

  The shrewd light in his eye suggested she needed to step carefully.

  “Will you take me to my lab?”

  “Sure.” Same dry tone. “I’d be happy to.”

  They proceeded down the corridor, going past all the divisions with their opaque glass walls and their closed doors. From time to time, they passed a cop or another agent. Sarah just kept her eyes straight ahead.

  When they got to her lab, she stopped. Looked at him. “Do you want me to use my ID to get in?”

  He smiled a little. And pushed the door wide. “Locking systems are turned off.”

  Sarah stepped by him and stopped. The work area was exactly as she remembered, the cubicles with their desks in the same setup, the chairs where they had always been, the wastepaper baskets down on the floor.

  But all the computers were gone.

  “My pictures are in a drawer here,” she said as she went over to her assigned area. “Is it okay to take them?”

  “Sure.”

  She put her backpack down. Unzipped it. Took the photographs out. She found it impossible to look too closely at the images of her with Gerry. The fact that they were all from their uni days had never struck her as significant—until now.

  No pictures of them together after they’d moved to Ithaca.

  “So how’d you like to tell me about Sunday here.” Manfred hopped up on one of the bare desks. “And be creative, why don’t you. I like a challenge.”

  Sarah frowned and looked over her shoulder at the man. It was hard to read his expression, but professional implacability was no doubt part of his training. And yet . . .

  He didn’t know about the raid, did he. Somehow, the vampires had in fact managed to disappear all evidence of the infiltration and extraction—including Sarah’s role in it.

  “All I did was check on some work and the order of a new microscope. That’s it.” As Manfred looked away, there was a hint of frustration on his face. “You said Kraiten shut the company down? What do you mean, exactly?”

  “He dissolved it. Legally, RSK BioMed no longer exists.”

  “What about all the patents? The research? The people who worked here?”

  “Let’s refocus. After you finished your work, how did you get home if you left your car in the lot?”

  “Look, you already know I didn’t kill Kraiten, right. He was one of the most paranoid people on the planet. Do not tell me you don’t have security feed of how he died.”

  “As a matter of fact, we do. But what I’m wondering about right now is why you think you’re a suspect.”

  She thought long and hard about what to say. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

  “Great way to start. I commend you.”

  She took a deep breath. “I think Robert Kraiten murdered my fiancé two years ago. And I think he killed Gerry’s boss, too, but I don’t know why exactly on either account. Gerry was very private about his work. He didn’t talk to me about what he was doing, ever. I have no idea what the Infectious Disease division was working on or why Gerry would be a threat to Kraiten or this business. But I know that Gerry had managed his diabetes well, and I don’t believe for a second that he died of natural causes.”

  Manfred’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you really here Sunday night?”

  “I told you. I was just checking up on a couple of my protocols. I’ve been working on tumor markers in renal cell carcinoma. Sometimes I can’t turn my brain off for a whole two days.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Around eleven. My car didn’t start in the cold.”

  “So who’d you catch a ride with?”

  Sarah paused. “Kraiten. I rode home with Kraiten.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  After night fell over Caldwell, John Matthew did cartwheels down the grand staircase of the Brotherhood mansion. Like, literally. Hand hand, down—feet in the air. Land, shitkicker shitkicker. Hands in the air. Land, hand hand. Feet in the air. On the red carpeted steps.

  He was doing very well, calibrating the stairs perfectly, balancing like a boss—except then he slipped up and bowling-ball’d it, banging and crashing all the way to the bottom. Whereupon he sprawled on the mosaic floor like a crash-test dummy.

  Laughing his ass off.

  Silently, but still.

  Tohr’s face entered his field of vision from above, blocking the lofty painted ceiling of fighters on warhorses. “You okay there, big guy?”

  John shoved two thumbs up so high that the Brother had to jerk out of range or get his nose plugged.

  Then again, John had made love to his shellan for about seven hours straight—Xhex was still in bed, sleeping the marathon session off—and he’d followed that with a tray brought up from the kitchen by Fritz himself.

  Four cheeseburgers. Double set of homemade fries. A gallon of organic milk.

  And three frozen Hershey chocolate bars. The one-pounder size.

  John leaped up, landing solidly on his shitkickers. Pulling his dagger holsters back into place, he saluted Tohr and then stomped his foot.

  Tohr smiled. Pulled him in for a quick, hard hug. Pushed him back. “Okay, okay. I heard from Doc Jane that you’re cleared to fight, so yes, you can go out into the field.” As John pumped a fist, the Brother frowned. “Actually, why don’t you come with me to the Audience House? We had a strange voicemail during the day, and we’re following up on it. A lot of the guys are already there. I’m just running a little late.”

  John nodded. Like, a hundred times.

  Then he nearly skipped his way to the door out into the vestibule, all full of the joys of spring in spite of it being
January. And he would have Easter Bunny’d it out of the mansion—except the sense that he was being watched made him quit the fun-and-games. Just as Tohr opened things for them to leave, John glanced into the billiard room.

  Past the pool tables, over by one of the leather sofas, a tall figure stood in the shadows. Staring his way.

  A shiver went through him.

  “John?” As he jumped, Tohr said, “Is there something wrong?”

  John shook his head and walked through the vestibule, doing the duty on the heavy outer door. As he and Tohr emerged into the night, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate to dematerialize. The fact that Tohr ghosted out first was not a surprise.

  Why had Lassiter been looking at him like that?

  The blond-and-black fallen angel was rarely serious. And certainly never in the shadows.

  Casting off an eerie sense of foreboding, he forced himself to calm down . . .

  . . . and soon enough was flying through the cold air in a scatter of molecules, zeroing in on the gracious old house that Wrath held his meetings with civilians in. Tohr was waiting for him around back as John re-formed, and they both went into the kitchen.

  “Oh, yeah, danish,” the Brother said as he headed over to a silver tray set on the counter. “I need some danish right now.”

  As Tohr helped himself to four of the cherry ones intended for the waiting room, John had to smile. He had a feeling that the Brother had missed First Meal and was “a little late” for exactly the same reason John had been.

  Sometimes, a male just needed alone time with his female. And after all the ridiculous stress lately?

  John reached across his chest and massaged his shoulder. There was some residual stiffness where the wound had been, but the infection was gone, as far as Doc Jane and Manny were concerned. No more discoloration. And the puckering that had appeared as the retreat had intensified had cleared as well.

  All thanks to Murhder. And Sarah.

  A piercing sadness went through him. It still seemed wrong that they couldn’t stay. But like so much in the Brotherhood world? Not his call.

  “You want any?” Tohr asked as he held out his dinner plate full of danish.

  When John shook his head, the Brother took one more, thanked the doggen pastry chefs, and together they went down to the dining room. As they approached, deep voices rolled out of the open doors, filling the foyer sure as if the males were actually standing by the front doors.

  Tohr went in first.

  And then John entered—

  Everyone stopped talking and looked over at him. When no one moved, he glanced at Tohr, thinking maybe the Brother had been wrong about the meeting? Maybe it was only for—

  “John.”

  As the King’s voice rang out, big warrior bodies parted to reveal Wrath sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

  “Welcome back, son.”

  That was when the hugging started. Rhage and Butch. Phury. Blay and Qhuinn, his very good friends. Z gave him a high five, which was a miracle considering that the male didn’t really touch other people all that much. Even Vishous came over and pulled him into a hard, brief embrace.

  With each connection, each contact, John felt his face flush more and more. And then the King himself came over, George leading him across the Oriental carpet.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” Wrath smiled, revealing enormous fangs. “Things wouldn’t be the same around here without you.”

  Funny how it all worked out. John would never have volunteered to get injured as he had. Certainly wouldn’t have chosen to walk the lonely path of mortal disease, finding out what it was like to realize your friends and family were going to keep living without you on the planet. Clearly hadn’t wanted to go through a version of the transition as an adult.

  But he’d needed this moment of communion with the Brotherhood. He’d needed this. . . validation from them.

  This you’re-one-of-us-even-if-you’re-not.

  And in retrospect, he could understand that with the Murhder stuff, it truly was Brotherhood business. Given all the history that male had with the rest of them? Well, sometimes even the most intimate of friends still needed moments of privacy.

  But Murhder was gone now, and sad as that was, things had been recalibrated, taken back to normal.

  John didn’t need to be a member of the Brotherhood officially.

  This was more than good enough for him.

  Night had fallen by the time Sarah returned to her home. Then again, January in Upstate New York meant five p.m. was dark as the inside of your hat, to borrow a phrase from her father.

  She turned to Special Agent Manfred. “Thanks for the ride.”

  He put the unmarked sedan in park, but kept the engine running. “Do you think if this whole federal agent thing doesn’t work out, I could be an Uber driver?”

  “Absolutely. I’d totally use you again.”

  In the close quarters of the front seat, with the glow of the dash illuminating his face, she decided he was handsome enough. For a human.

  “What?” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Just thought of something funny. Gallows humor. You know how it goes.”

  “Too right. Listen . . . you have my card. You see anyone around your property, get any strange calls, feel like you’re even in the slightest danger, you call, okay? I’ll be checking in with you in a couple of days anyway.”

  “I’m not going to take any chances. Thank you—oh, listen, I might have a job interview out at Stanford University. In California. Is it okay for me to travel? I mean, I’ll let you know where I am and when I’m expected back and everything.”

  “Sure.” No dry tone anymore. “I just need to know where to find you in case I need you.”

  “Okay.” She picked her backpack up from between her feet. “Thanks again for the ride. I’ll send a tow truck for my car tomorrow or the next day. Guess that cold really drained the battery.”

  “Winter’ll do that.”

  Sarah got out and closed the passenger door. She was not surprised that he waited until she’d unlocked things and was in safely in her home before he drove away.

  He was a good guy, she thought as she locked herself in. A good guy in a tough job.

  Refocusing, she went back to her kitchen and intended to eat something, but there was nothing very inspiring available. Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine in the freezer. Ramen noodles in the cupboards. She settled for a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats and didn’t eat much of it.

  Probably for the best. The skim milk was twenty-four hours away from a “Best By” violation.

  As she sat at her little table in her silent house, the magnitude of her isolation was terrifying. No family. No friends, really.

  No Murhder.

  The only person she might call if she needed something? An FBI agent.

  To keep herself from hyperventilating, she thought about everything she had covered with Manfred. He’d been utterly shocked when she’d told him she had ridden home with Kraiten. He’d even questioned her as to why in the hell, if she believed the man might have killed her fiancé, she would ever get into a car with him.

  Sarah had lied and told Manfred that she’d wanted to see if Kraiten brought up the deaths. If the man had anything to say about Gerry or his boss.

  Pretty reckless, the agent had said. Downright dangerous is more like it.

  Sarah had looked him right in the eye. When the love of your life is gone, nothing is all that scary anymore.

  And that was that.

  When everything was said and done, it turned out the FBI had nothing to contradict her story about Sunday night. No evidence. No tapes. No security guards with different versions of the truth. Manfred hadn’t exactly told her as much, but the more comfortable he became with her and her story, the more his frustration with the case had started to come through. And it wasn’t hard to guess that there was nothing that got members of law enforcem
ent more twitchy than lack of evidence.

  Especially when their guts told them that a crime or crimes had been committed.

  If she hadn’t known what Murhder could do to the human brain—if she hadn’t experienced his tricks herself—she would never have understood how it was possible for three individuals to break into a secured location, rescue someone, and leave without a trace.

  Although Kraiten had certainly assisted them in all that by killing himself. Which was lucky . . .

  Or was it? For all she knew, Murhder could have programmed Kraiten to get rid of all of the evidence. Erase not just the footage, the servers, the logs, but the company itself.

  The CEO, himself.

  Neat and tidy.

  Like none of it had ever happened.

  Sarah put her hand on her heart and massaged the pain there. She was going to have to get used to a perpetual heavy weight behind her sternum again, wasn’t she.

  As she thought about that secret lab and what had been done to innocents there . . . she prayed that there were no other vampires held in captivity by other research companies.

  Dear God, what if there were? How would anyone know, though. Kraiten had been careful to keep what he’d been doing a secret, and so had the people who had worked in the lab. Other corporations would do the same.

  With a curse, she looked up at the ceiling and thought of Gerry at his desk in his study above. She had spoken the truth about him to Agent Manfred: Gerry had never told her what he was working on. Never once.

  And not even in the evidence he left behind after his death: None of it, after all, had been directed toward her or left for her.

  Getting to her feet, she went across to the door into the basement and descended into the cool dark cellar. When she got to the bottom, she flipped the switch.

  The fluorescent lights on the low-slung rafters flickered to life and she glanced at the remnants of her college days in those containers. Then she went in the opposite direction away from all that, over to the washer and dryer. Bending down, she pulled the lower panel under the dryer loose and put it aside. With a stretch, she reached in, all the way to the back, pushing through dust bunnies.