by J. R. Ward
He was just so incredibly… proud.
“Pretty goddamn promising.” V closed up the case. “I’ve got the equipment we’re going to need at the clinic—along with that bullet. Let’s do this.”
“One minute.”
Xhex turned to John. Walked over to him. Took his face in her hands. As she stared up at him, he knew she was reading every bit of everything he had in him.
Rising up onto her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his and spoke three words he hadn’t expected to hear again anytime soon.
“I love you.” She kissed him again. “I love you so much, my hellren.”
SIXTY-NINE
On the other side of the Hudson, down south from the Brotherhood compound, Autumn sat in the cabin in darkness, still occupying the same chair she’d settled into at the beginning of the night. She had long since willed the lights off, and the lack of illumination around her made the snow-covered landscape appear bright as day under the moon’s glow.
From her vantage point, the river was a wide, motionless expanse, even though it was iced in only at its shores.
From her vantage point, she had seen little of the view before her, having dwelled instead on the stages of her life.
Many hours had passed since Xhex had checked in with her, the moon shifting position, the black shadows thrown by the trees pinwheeling around over the white ground. In many ways, time had no meaning, but it did have an effect: The longer she spent mulling over things, the more clearly she saw herself, her earlier realizations no longer a shock, but instead something she steeped herself in.…
Something she began to change herself with—
At first, the dark slash that cut through the wintry vista seemed to be just another shadow cast by a tree trunk at the edge of the property. Except then it moved.
It was alive.
It was… not an animal.
It was a male.
A sudden shot of fear jerked her upright, but her instincts rushed forward and told her immediately who it was. Tohrment.
Tohrment was here.
Her first thought was to go down into the underground retreat and pretend she hadn’t seen him—and considering how he waited on the lawn, giving her plenty of time to identify him, he seemed to be offering her that out.
She was not going to run, however. She’d done enough variations of that to last for several lifetimes.
Rising from the chair, she went to the door that opened toward the river and unlocked it, pushing it wide. Crossing her arms over her chest against the cold, she tilted up her chin and waited for him to come forward.
And he did. With an expression of somber purpose, the Brother approached slowly, his heavy boots crunching through the crusty top layer of the snow. He still looked the same, still tall and broad, with his thick, white-striped hair, and his handsome, grave face marked with lines of distinction.
How odd of her to measure him for some kind of metamorphosis, she thought.
Clearly, she was ascribing her own transformation to anyone and everyone.
As he stopped in front of her, she cleared her throat, easing the tickle of the bitterly frigid air. She did not speak first, however. That was his due.
“Thank you for coming out,” he said.
She just nodded, unwilling to make whatever cursory apology he was about to offer easy on him. No, no more easing his way—or others’.
“I want to talk for a bit—if you have some time?”
Given the way the cold wind cut through her clothes, she nodded and stepped back inside. The interior of the cabin hadn’t seemed particularly warm before; now it was tropical. And cramped.
Sitting back down in her chair, she let him choose whether to stand or not. He picked the former, and did so directly before her.
Upon a deep, bracing breath, he spoke clearly and succinctly, as if he had mayhap practiced his words: “I can’t apologize enough for what I said to you. It was utterly unfair, and unforgivable. There’s no excuse for it, so I’m not going to try to explain it away. I just—”
“You know what?” she cut in evenly. “There’s a part of me that wants to tell you to go to hell… to take your apology, and your weary eyes, and your heavy heart, and never, ever get anywhere near me again.”
After a long pause, he nodded. “Okay. I get that. I can totally respect that—”
“But,” she cut him off again, “I’ve spent all night sitting in this chair, thinking about that candid soliloquy of yours. Actually, I’ve thought of little else since I left you.” Abruptly, she glanced out at the river. “You know, you must have buried me on a night like tonight, didn’t you.”
“Yes, I did. Except it was snowing.”
“It must have been hard to get through the frosted ground.”
“It was.”
“Blisters to prove it, yes, indeed.” She refocused on him. “To be honest, I was fairly close to ruined when you left my recovery room at the training center. It’s important to me that you realize that. After you departed, I had no thought, no feeling, nothing but breathing, and only because my body did that on its own.”
He made a noise in the back of his throat, as if, through his regret, he couldn’t find the voice to speak.
“I have always known that you love only Wellsie, and not just because you told me so yourself in the beginning—but because it was evident all along. And you’re right: I did fall in love with you, and I did try to keep it from you—at least consciously—because I knew that it would hurt you in an unbearable way—the idea that you had let some female get that close…” She shook her head as she imagined how that would have impacted him. “I really wanted to spare you any more pain, and I honestly wanted Wellsie to be free. Her disposition was nearly as important to me as it was to you—and that was not about punishing myself, but because I truly loved you.”
Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was so still. Barely even breathing.
“I’ve heard that you’re disposing of the home you had with her,” she said. “And have done likewise with her things. I am guessing it is because you are trying a new route to release her unto the Fade, and I hope it works. For the both of you, I hope it works.”
“I came here to talk about you, not her,” he said softly.
“That’s kind of you, and know that I am turning the conversation onto you not because I feel like a victim of some unrequited romance that has ended badly, but because our relationship in this era has always been based upon you. Which is my fault, but also the nature of the cycle we have completed.”
“Cycle?”
She rose up, wanting to put them on equal footing. “Just as the seasons come full circle, so have we. When we first crossed paths, it was all about me, my selfishness, my focus on a tragedy I had lived through. This time it was all about you, your selfishness, your tragedy that you had lived through.”
“Oh, Jesus, Autumn…”
“As you yourself pointed out to me, we can’t deny the truth, and shouldn’t attempt to. Therefore, I suggest that neither of us tries to fight it any longer. We are of an accord as of now, our transgressions one against the other wiped clean by deeds and words that neither of us can take back. I will always regret the position I put you in with your dagger so many years ago, and you don’t have to tell me that you feel deep sorrow as you stand before me now—I can see it written in your face. You and I… it’s a full circle, and it is completed.”
He blinked, his stare holding hers. Then he brought his thumb over his eyebrow and rubbed at his forehead like it hurt. “You’re wrong about that last part.”
“I fail to see how you can argue with the logic.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, too. I’m not going to fight with you about it, but I want you to know I was with you for more than just Wellsie. I didn’t realize it at the time—or I couldn’t let myself… I don’t fucking know. But I am rock solid that it was also very much about you, and after you left, that became clear—”
“You don’t h
ave to apologize—”
“This isn’t an apology. This is about waking up and reaching for you and wishing you were next to me. It’s about ordering extra food for you, and then remembering that you’re not around to feed it to. It’s about the fact that even as I was packing up my dead mate’s clothes, I had you in my mind, too. It wasn’t just Wellsie, Autumn, and I think I knew that after your needing and that’s why I snapped. I spent a day and a half sitting on my ass, staring into the dark, trying to figure this all out—and I don’t know… I guess I finally found the courage to be really fucking honest with myself. Because it’s hard when you’ve loved one person with everything you’ve got, and she’s gone, and someone else comes and treads all over her territory in your heart.” He put his hand up to his chest and struck at his sternum. “This was hers and hers alone. Forevermore. Or at least so I thought… but shit didn’t work out that way, and then you came along… and circle be damned, I don’t want to be finished with you.”
Now it was her turn to feel poleaxed, her body going numb as she struggled to comprehend what he was saying.
“Autumn, I’m in love with you—that’s why I came here tonight. And we don’t have to be together, and you don’t have to get over what I said, but I wanted you to hear that from me. And I also want to tell you that I’m at peace with it, because…” He took a deep breath. “You want to know why Wellsie got pregnant? It wasn’t because I wanted a young. It’s because she knew that every night when I left the house I could get killed in the field, and as she said, she wanted something to keep on living for. If I had been the one to go? She would have carved out a life for herself, and… the strange thing is, I would have wanted her to do that. Even if it included someone else. I guess I’ve realized that… she wouldn’t have wanted me to mourn her forever. She’d have wanted me to move on… and I have.”
Autumn opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
Had she really heard him say all that—
“Halle-fucking-lujah!”
As she let out a cry of alarm and Tohr unsheathed a black dagger, Lassiter stepped out into the middle of the room.
The angel clapped a couple of times, and then held his palms up to the heavens like an evangelist. “Finally!”
“Jesus,” Tohr hissed as he put his weapon away. “I thought you’d quit!”
“Okay, still not that guy who was born in a manger. And believe me, I tried to file my resignation, but the Maker wasn’t interested in what I had to say. As usual.”
“I called for you a couple of times and you didn’t come.”
“Well, first I was flat-out pissed off at you. And then I just didn’t want to get in your way. I knew you were up to something big.” The angel came over and put his hand on Autumn’s shoulder. “You okay?”
She nodded and managed something close to an uh-huh.
“So this is good, yeah?” Lassiter said.
Tohr shook his head. “Don’t force her into anything. She is free to choose her path, as she always has been.”
At that, he turned and went to the door. Just before he opened the way out, he glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes locking on hers. “Wellsie’s Fade ceremony is tomorrow night. I would love you to be there, and will understand completely if you don’t want to come. And, Lassiter, if you’re going to stay with her, and I hope you do, make yourself useful and get her a cup of tea and some toast? She likes the sourdough bread done on both sides, with sweet butter, preferably the whipped kind, and a little strawberry jam. And she’s Earl Grey with a teaspoon of sugar.”
“What—do I look like a butler?”
Tohrment just stared at her for the longest time, as if he were giving her a chance to see just how sure and steady and grounded he was—solid in a way that had nothing to do with his weight, and everything to do with his soul.
He had, in fact, been transformed.
With a final nod, he stepped out into the snowy landscape… and dematerialized into thin air.
“You got a TV in here?” she heard Lassiter ask from the kitchen as cupboards were opened and shut.
“You don’t have to stay,” she mumbled, still shocked down to her shoestrings.
“Just tell me you have a television and I’m a happy guy.”
“We do.”
“Well, what do you know, it’s my lucky day—and don’t worry, I’ll keep us entertained. I’ll bet I can find us a Real Housewives marathon.”
“A what?” she said.
“I’m hoping it’ll be New Jersey. But I’ll take Atlanta. Or B.H.”
Shaking herself, she went to look at him, and could only blink as she was blinded by all the lights he’d turned on.
Oh, wait, that was just him, glowing.
“Whatever are you speaking of?” she asked, finding it incredible that the male would be talking about human TV at a time like this.
From over at the stove, the angel smiled darkly and gave her a wink. “Just think—if you let yourself believe in Tohr and open your heart to him, you can get rid of me forever. All you have to do is give yourself to him, mind, body, and soul, baby girl, and I’m as good as gone—and you won’t have to worry about what a Real Housewife is.”
SEVENTY
The following evening, as soon as night fell, Assail, son of Assail, stalked through his glass house, heading for the garage. As he passed by the mansion’s rear door, he glanced at the glass that had been replaced back in the fall.
The repair was neat as a pin. To the point that one could not tell that anything violent had ever transpired.
The same could not be said about the events that had gone down that horrid night. Even as calendar days churned by, and seasons shifted, and moons rose and fell, there was no repairing what had happened, no way of patching up that mess.
Not that Xcor wanted to, he supposed.
Indeed, tonight he was finally going to get a sense of exactly how much damage had been done.
The glymera were so fucking slow, it was ridiculous.
Initializing the alarm system with his thumbprint, he went into the garage, locked up, and walked around the Jaguar. The Range Rover on the far side had huge tires with clawlike treads—his newest purchase having finally been delivered last week: As much as he loved the XKR, he was tired of feeling as though he were driving a greased pig on ice.
Once inside the heavily modified SUV, he hit the garage door and waited; then he reversed, K-turned, and waited again until the door was down.
Elan, son of Larex, was a right little shit, the kind of aristocrat who truly set Assail’s teeth on edge: too much inbreeding and too much money had insulated him too utterly from the realities of life. The male was no more capable of forging his way without the trappings of his station than a babe out in the cold.
And yet by the exigencies of fate, that male was in a position now to effect more change than he was worthy of: Following the raids, he was the highest-ranking non-Brother on the Council, but for Rehvenge—who was so entangled with the Brotherhood, he might as well have had a black dagger strapped on his chest.
Therefore, Elan was the one calling tonight’s little “unofficial” get-together.
Which would again not be including Rehvenge. And which was going to likely be about an insurrection.
Not that someone as highbrow as Elan would call it such. No, traitors who wore cravats and silk socks tended to couch their reality in much more refined terms—although the wording would change naught…
As Assail sped along, the trip to Elan’s house took a good forty-five minutes even though the highways were all salted and the streets plowed. Naturally, he could have saved himself time by dematerializing, but if things got out of hand, if he were to be injured and unable to disappear himself, he needed to make sure he had effective cover and escape.
He had taken for granted safety only once, and long ago. Never again. And, indeed, the Brotherhood were highly intelligent. There was no telling whether this nascent cabal would be raided tonight or not�
�especially if Xcor were to make an appearance.
Elan’s retreat was a gracious brick house, Victorian in derivation, with lacelike woodwork marking its every peak and corner. Located in a sleepy little hamlet of only thirty thousand humans, it was set well back from the lane it was on, and had a river snaking down one side of the property.
As he got out, he did not fasten the tortoiseshell buttons on the front of his camel-hair coat or put on gloves. Nor did he do up his double-breasted suit jacket.
His guns were close to his heart, and he wanted access.
Closing in on the front door, his fine black boots clapped over the shoveled walkway and his breath left his mouth in puffs of white. Overhead, the moon was bright as a halogen light and fat as a dinner plate, the lack of clouds and humidity allowing its true power to rain down from the heavens.
The drapes on all the windows had been pulled, so he could not see how many others had arrived, but it would not surprise him if they were already assembled, having dematerialized to the site.
Imbeciles.
Punching the doorbell with his bare hand, the entry was immediately pried wide, a formal doggen butler bowing at the hips.
“Master Assail. Welcome—may I take your coat?”
“No, you may not.”
There was a hesitation—at least until Assail cocked a brow at the servant. “Ah, but of course, my lord—please come this way.”
Voices, all of them male, flooded his ears as the cinnamon scent of mulled cider eased into his nose. Falling in behind the butler, he allowed himself to be led into a grand living room that was crammed with heavy mahogany furniture as per the period of the house. And in and amongst the antiques, there were a good ten males attending upon the host, their trim forms dressed in suits with ties or cravats at the throat.
There was a noticeable dip in conversation as he made his appearance, suggesting that at least some of them did not trust him.
