Jorie lies beside him, sleeping soundly, but Jud grimaces when he notices the bruises his kisses left on her breasts. Beneath the blanket he knows there’s more marks sucked into her hips, and on her inner thighs.
Over did it, he thinks as he starts moving around. Intent on finding his clothes and going home. This was a mistake, Judson Grace. Is what he tells himself as he jumps into his jeans.
Her bedsheets rustle with her movements, Jud knows she’s awake before he turns to face her. Jorie’s heartbeat changed, as did her breathing when she woke—his keen senses make him aware of those nuances that others miss.
A blessing and a curse.
“Leavin’ me already?” He can hear the hitch in her breath. Even as she tries to be blasé, Jorie isn’t, her heart is in the warble of her throat.
Judson wishes he could ignore the signs. He wants to be more like Tanner, a man with the ability to love them and leave them without hesitation. That’s not Judson, much as he wishes it were, and he turns with an apologetic smile.
“Wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.” She laughs, but it’s a cracked sound that lacks mirth.
“Like what?” Judson asks.
“Like you’re regrettin’ this, like you’re makin’ a promise to yourself to never touch me again.”
That’s exactly what he’s doing, and Judson wonders how a woman as human as Jorie can sense that truth so easily.
“Jorie,” he starts, but she cuts him off with a hasty reply.
“Don’t,” the word almost a shout. “Please,” her voice is small, fragile. Things one never associates with a woman like Jorie Madison. She’s tall, strong, and fearless. A broad-shouldered woman with muscle thick thighs and a helluva right hook.
Hurt doesn’t suit her.
Jud should’ve left well enough alone, he should’ve known better than to make Jorie curl in on herself as if he’s wrecked her soul.
Damnit.
“I can’t tell you why, Jorie,” he continues regretfully. “But we can’t do this again.”
“You act like I don’t know you, Jud.” she replies, drawing the sheets up to her neck. Hiding a nakedness that will be eternally burned into his memory. “I’ve been your sister’s best friend for a long, long time. I know the secrets you Graces keep.”
“Well,” he chuckles with a bemused sound. “Then you should know we aren’t allowed to keep women—or men—we aren’t supposed to breed. At least without permission from higher-ups.” His parents being a rare exception at the time—back when Mama was still alive. Back when Daddy was still a man with a place in an order that overlooked transgressions—as long as he performed on command.
Leaving that order meant less stress, but less luck with love.
“Celibacy doesn’t suit you, Jud.” She gestures to the love-bites left in her flesh. Drawing his attention back to her body. “Makes you savage and dangerous when you’re all pent up.”
“Well,” he shrugs. “That’s my burden to bear.”
He lifts his shirt from where it was thrown, over a chair, in their haste to undress. Pulling it on, Judson tries to avoid her gaze.
However, Jud can feel her eyes. Like a slow fire—burning a path across him—consuming everything in it’s wake.
“I have to go.”
He’s a coward of a man—a part of Judson wishes she would try to stop him. Jorie doesn’t, she sits rigid in her bed as he opens the bedroom door. Judson pauses in her hall, waiting to see if she’ll chase him, but Jorie doesn’t come.
Another notch of regret to add to a dwindling post full of them.
Judson comes home to a tense house. His brother and his dad sit stiff in the living room, watching something on the TV. Sounds that are more of a background noise to them, Jud can tell by the way they have their heads cocked—listening to an argument that is muffled to the untrained ear.
Down the hall, in one of the bedrooms, Tallulah and Lyric are having a fight.
“Where were you?” Lyric demands of his mother.
“I was…” she trails off, and Judson closes his eyes because he can practically taste Lyric’s disappointment.
“Don’t bother, Tallulah, it’s clear you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been.” Lyric sounds bitter.
Judson feels awful for him.
They raised Lyric better than to talk to her that way, but none of them rises to go reprimand him. There’s no point when Lyric is right in this situation.
Tallulah’s buried secrets laid in a shallow grave that was easily unearthed and they are all shattering from the discovery.
Lyric worst of all.
Across the street, Judson sees Beaufort Savage’s truck as it pulls in the paved driveway. A cold slithers down Judson’s spine. Jud has been dreading Sterling’s homecoming since the night Dad went to talk to Beaufort. As was usual, Beaufort hadn’t seemed interested in speaking with any member of the Grace family. All he’d issued was a warning— as was the Savage way—and went back into his home. Or so Tanner told Judson when he came to check on what was happening at the Grace house. They’re living in a truce—him and Tanner—so maybe the entire situation isn’t a tragedy. It’s been too long since there were anything resembling friends.
Judson knows that he’s responsible for their divide, and he hopes they live through this. If they do, Judson plans to repair what he broke all those years ago.
First, however, they have to survive this uncertain situation.
The race is on regarding Beaufort. Would he, wouldn’t he—are the questions swirling around in all of their heads as they wonder about his intentions where Lyric is concerned.
Death is the fear that hovers around them all. A heavy, awful stench that encompasses their small world—one that fouls them up with misery.
“A storm is comin’,” Merle says into the tension. “I can taste it.”
Judson can too, he tasted it last night when he was distracting himself in Jorie’s skin.
A thrilling regret.
One that makes him itch to know that regret again.
“Jud,” Tanner calls him out of his morose thoughts. Away from the lightning that starts striking across the evening sky.
“Yeah?” He turns to face his brother, and doesn’t enjoy the dark expression that turns Tanner’s face hard.
“I can hear them.” Tanner narrows his eyes in the direction of the big bay window that is open towards the house across the street.
“So, it’s begun,” Merle sighs. He stands from his recliner, moving towards the front hall where the only locked door in the Grace home resides. Undoing the locks, Merle opens up the door that conceals their dusty arsenal. Jud’s eyes catch over the gleaming, stainless steal of his throwing hatchets.
He swallows, wondering how long it’s been since one has been heavy in his palm.
Too long.
Not long enough.
Judson lets out his own regretful sigh as he moves towards the closet—accepting the weapons his father holds out to him with obvious intention.
“If they come, you both know what to do.”
“Yessir.” Judson and Tanner promise with solemn tones.
13
Sterling
There are some sounds that never leave you—for Sterling one of those sounds is the hard thud of Beaufort Savage’s boots on the hardwood floors of his parents home. A dirge of impending doom—Sterling’s fear of that music hasn’t lessened as the years have grown.
“Well.” Beaufort drawls, in that slow, Southern tongue that feels like a lash of the belt on a bare bottom. “Look who came crawling out of the mountain lion’s jaws.” His father spits—another sound that causes discomfort to slither across Sterling’s skin.
“Beaufort.” Sterling’s darling mother begins with that pleading tone that always hurts a tender part in Sterling’s soul. She’s only ever had to defend Sterling against his dad—Birdie, Beau, and Violet were always the good kids.
“Quiet, Vivian Mae,” Beaufort commands with a rumble
. “The men are speaking…well,” he sneers. “One man is speaking.”
Ain’t nothing like comin’ home a disappointment.
Sterling works hard to keep his anger in check—never does any good to fly off the handle at his dad. That’s what Beaufort expects, and it’s best to catch him off guard. So he sits, silent, as he stares up at where his father towers over the table.
“Who said you could come home?”
Because never mind that it’s a free damned country—as far as Beaufort is concerned he owns every mile of Louisiana. It’s a cardinal sin to enter these parts without his blessing.
A warning he gave Sterling the night he left this little corner of Hell rings through Sterling’s mind: If you run, boy, you best run far and stay gone. Ain’t no part of this place that has love left for you.
“I was just passin’ through,” Sterling tries for a casual shrug. It feels stiff.
“Mmmm.” Beaufort hums as he looks around, pausing long enough to cast a meaningful glance out the kitchen window that faces the Grace residence. “Figured you came home because some bastard pup yapped for you.”
“No, sir, I came home because I was just passin’ through,” Sterling tries to stay in control of the conversation.
Hard to do when the man leading it is always ten paces ahead. “I remember when I found out that bitch was gonna whelp.” Beaufort says with cruel amusement—a taunting grin on his thin mouth. “I went over there and I told Merle Grace I’d put her down if that bastard pup was yours.”
The hairs on Sterling’s arms rise to attention—his danger senses sounding alarms in his mind—he remains seated. Tense but unmoving.
“Do you know what the middle dog told me?” Beaufort’s eyes are lit with a challenge. “Guess boy, guess how depraved wolves are.”
Sterling’s refusal comes in the form of his silence. Beaufort steps forward—knocking him swiftly in the head for his disobedience. Yet another sound he’ll never forget. The one of blood rushing towards his ears as Sterling’s face explodes with pain.
“You know the rules, Sterling, you only get one chance or I’ll learn you a lesson.” Lessons were meted with violence.
Fucking piece of shit.
“I don’t know, sir, what did Tanner Grace tell you?” Sterling, for all his lessons, remains brazen and rebellious.
“Don’t speak its name, boy.” His dad hisses, rubbing the knuckles of his hand he smacked Sterling with. There’s a slight bit of satisfaction that comes from knowing it actually causes Beaufort physical pain to strike Sterling now; didn’t used to hurt the sonofabitch at all.
“The mutt told me it’s his spawn. Evil breeds evil, boy. That whore that tempted you, tempted her vile brother as well.” Beaufort informs Sterling with a mean hiss. “You can’t trust a loup-garou, boy.” He spits his dip into the cup he keeps in his front pocket, while glaring across the road. “Did you come here to tell me you need to meet your son?” Beaufort asks when he turns back towards his own son. A taunting expression on his face—an expression Sterling would love to smash into submission.
“You just said he’s not mine.” Sterling says, as blasé as he can manage when his voice feels like glass cutting his throat. “And I’m not exactly father material, am I, Dad?”
Beaufort snorts, “You’re too soft. Nothing a father should be.”
Sterling knows he shouldn’t feel hurt, but the words still sting—even as he expected them.
Under the table, Vivian Mae squeezes Sterling’s thigh. Her feeble attempt to console him while beneath the scrutiny of his father’s gaze. If Sterling didn’t fear his father’s ire being directed towards his jewel of a mother he would tell Beaufort a lot of hard truths. Like the fact that Sterling isn’t fit to be a father because he wasn’t given a proper father. His daddy showed love in beatings and sharp-tongued slander against his son’s masculinity. Sterling would also enjoy telling his father that the man’s not decent husband material—letting his kids down wasn’t the worst of it. As hard as Beaufort failed them, he failed Mama more.
Sterling squeezes his mother’s thin fingers, hoping it conveys how sorry he is that Vivian Mae has wasted forty years of her youth with a man who will never deserve her.
When Birdie comes rolls in to town fear creeps up his spine more than it had when Beaufort came clomping in from the back door.
“Hey, little brother,” she grins when she finds him in their mama’s kitchen. Birdie is wearing the same expression of derangement she’s always possessed. An expression that makes Sterling’s fears grow deeper rather than assuage them. “I heard there was a family reunion hunt.” Here her deep blue eyes take in the familiar space around them. “Seems Beau isn’t here—typical. Daddy says he’s workin’. I don’t believe that for a second. Idiot’s probably out tryin’ to get Jorie to notice him.” She runs her fingertips over the cheap tile countertop next to where Sterling’s black cup of coffee rests. “That worthless woman won’t notice Beau so long as there is breath in Judson Grace’s lungs.” A cruel cackle pushes past her full lips. “Guess I’ll have to poke holes in his lungs and let the air out of ‘em.”
Sterling doesn’t say a word. He wants to tell her to go get fucked, but he knows better than to do that. All it would bring him is the ire of his father and his eldest sister. Possibly the other older sister—the one who comes in through the back door with a large duffle slung over her strong shoulder.
“Give me a damn hand, Birdie,” Violet grumbles. “You can have your villainous monologue at Sterling later.” She drops her bag by the table and affectionately claps Sterling on the shoulder. “I’ll hit her with the taser later if she’s too mean, alright?” That promise helps ease the knot in Sterling’s stomach a small fraction.
Violet was always the neutral child. Birdie and Beau had always suckled at the tit of Dad’s tirades while Sterling rebuked the teachings as lies. Violet always looked at the sermons as the lesson plans to a career of killing. One that shouldn’t be emotional the way Birdie, Beau, and Beaufort made it. Of his siblings Sterling would label Beau the safest, but he’s not sure which of his sisters is more terrifying. Both of them are the daring hunters his dad had wanted more than the soft boys he raised.
Her eyes land on Sterling after she sets her bag down. With a frown she asks, “Who died?”
Sterlings eyebrows move towards his hairline as he replies, “What?”
“You heard me, son. Who died? You wouldn’t be here unless it was for a funeral.” She shoots their elder sister a glance and Birdie shrugs. There’s no way Violet doesn’t know why he’s back in town, but after her question Sterling is willing to bet Violet has no clue. She’s not the type to drop a current job to go kill her brother’s ex just because the woman happens to be something they classify as a monster. That goes against her money before everything code.
“You didn’t tell her?” Sterling asks Birdie.
“Not relevant. Daddy called so we came home to take care of whatever job he has here,” Birdie replies in her flippant way. Clearly trying to avoid telling Violet what brought them home to Abita Springs.
Violet frowns again at Sterling “What’s the matter? What’s the job about?”
“Tallulah Grace.” He tells her even as Birdie hisses a warning at him.
Growling, Violet turns to Birdie. Biting out, “You told me we were chasin’ a demon.”
“Not totally a lie, she is a devil from Sterling’s past.” Birdie sniffs at them, annoyed at being questioned by the younger siblings she’s always treated like her serfs.
“I gave up ten thousand bucks for killin’ a baby vampire, to rush home, for some daytime soap drama you and Beaufort are cookin’ up?” Violet crosses her arms over her small chest, scowling at Birdie as she huffs. “None of Tallulah nor Tallulah’s family have ever broken their strict instructions to remain as human as possible. Why are you suddenly up in arms about killin’ her?” There’s a code the Children of Michael follow when it comes to the Seeds of The Light Bringer—the
y leave each other be unless one of them interferes with the business of the other.
Birdie, in Violet’s eyes, is breaking code.
“Not just her,” Birdie comments in an offhanded manner. “All of them.”
“Fuckin’ Christ, Birdie.” Violet sighs—her words mirroring Sterling’s feelings on the situation.
Mama comes in while Violet starts giving Birdie an earful over this mess. Sterling feels bad for his mother when she appears more tired than glad at the sight of her two daughters.
“You dragged me home to kill a wolf who still has her milk teeth? I’m goin’ up North to finish my job and you ain’t gettin’ a damn red cent of my earnin’s.” Violet lifts her duffle again, throwing it over her shoulder as she starts back out the door. Mama doesn’t say a word, she puts her hands up in supplication when Birdie looks at them both, mouth agape and questioning.
“This is on you Birdie Mae, I’m not gettin’ in the middle of it,” Mama tells her with an exhausted finality. “Your daddy has his anger when it comes to the Grace family. You don’t understand a lick of it. All you want is violence, and I don’t think that’s healthy.”
They were raised better than to tell their mama to shut her mouth, but Birdie appears tempted. She sucks at her teeth with the sort of anger that Sterling swears he can feel between them. Like a sizzling coil that heats the air surrounding her.
“I understand why Daddy hates them, Mama. I understand better than you.”
Their mother’s laugh is full of regrets, full of a weariness she will not speak. “One day, sweetie, we’re gonna sit around this ol’ table and you’re gonna tell your daddy all about his grievances. And I’m gonna laugh because you won’t get a single one of them right.” She pulls the flower apron, a common sight of Sterling’s youth, over her head. Vivian Mae hangs the old apron on the hook that’s been there since Granny Savage was still alive—cooking up rabbit stew on the old gas stove.
The Grace of a Savage Page 6
