First thing Jorie notices is that the porch light isn’t lit—an unusual occurrence for any home in this town. Second thing Jorie notices, as she climbs out of the cab of her pickup, is that the house across the street is also dark. Beaufort Savage has never had a dark porch in all of Jorie’s life.
Shit.
She’s back in the cab a second later, grabbing her scuffed cellphone out of the dirty cupholder. Lula’s number goes straight to voicemail. Her recorded message fills Jorie with dread, but she puts the worry out of her mind as she backs out of the driveway. Jorie dials Judson next. Four rings and she closes her eyes for a second.
Jorie prays.
Something she hasn’t done since she was seventeen, waiting in that unmarked clinic with Tallulah sitting silent and sweet by her side.
Please, Judson, please answer.
He does, yet his voice sounds like a stranger’s. Full of a defeat Jorie never thought possible for a man like Judson Grace.
“It’s not a good time, Jorie.” Ever dismissive of her—Jorie hates him for his distance.
Jorie can hear her heart’s beat in her ears, nearly deafening her with the rush of blood. “Tell me where she is,” Jorie demands. There’s no need to name the woman she’s asking after. They both know her well, and it seems that they are both weary with fear from her absence.
“I don’t know,” Judson admits. She can hear how it kills him to say those three words. Jorie knows Judson well—she can feel his anguish. She wants to reach through the phone, hold him, and tell Judson this will all be okay. It will pass soon, but Jorie is having a hard time convincing herself of that lie.
If she can’t fool herself how will she ever deceive a wolf?
“Where are you?” she asks instead.
“You don’t need to know.” There he goes putting up walls. He’s been this way since they were young. Pushing Jorie out while she’s doing all she can to climb her way inside. “It’s safer this way, Jorie.”
“To hell with safe,” she spits into the receiver. “Tallulah is my family, Judson. More than the kin that bore me. And if you think I’m gonna sit here on my ass while shit’s goin’ down then you’re sorely mistaken.”
He releases a chuckle—it’s a hollow sound but there’s some mirth in the tone. That relieves some of the tension in Jorie, and she unclenches her jaw.
“You’re the fire I think I need right now,” Judson admits.
“Baby.” She murmurs, with the same tone she used during that night Jorie was able to whisper words against the skin of his ear. When Judson was held in that willing and hot, hidden place between Jorie’s thighs. “I’m here and ready with that fire. You say when and where—I’m yours.”
There’s a rumble in him at those words, one she can hear vibrate out from between his lips, “Mine.”
Always, baby.
She ignores the group of tourists that are wandering through the dark night—listening with rapt attention to the guide spinning the dark history of New Orleans. Voodoo queens, ghost, and witches galore.
Jorie knows real monsters and they aren’t nearly as fascinating as they are stubborn.
Jorie doesn’t notice or care for any of what the tour guides are saying. Her gaze is for Judson, who stands there looking like a different man. He’s both a man Jorie knows and one she doesn’t recognize as he slumps beneath the soft glow of the French Quarter at night. Still beautiful, but somehow more dangerous.
A danger Jorie ignores as she rushes towards him. Judson doesn’t push her out now, the way he had a few days prior. He holds Jorie tight, pressing his nose into the fall of her hair where he breathes her deep.
They embrace like that for long minutes, both of them clinging to the sliver of hope they find in the other.
When they finally break apart, Jorie looks up into Judson’s solemn face and whispers. “Where’s Tallulah?”
That cracks the stoic mask Judson wears. Something fragile lingers in his gaze—waiting to break at the slightest provocation.
“I don’t know.” Judson repeats. “Birdie took her.”
Birdie Savage. The last woman Jorie wants anywhere near a Grace. She doesn’t say that, however, instead Jorie asks, “What about Lyric?”
“With Sterling, or so I think.” Judson replies with a heavy sigh. “Lula sent him to Memphis before shit hit the fan. When we made it to Memphis’s place—after the dust settled—he said Lyric was already gone.”
“Did he say Sterling took him?” She asks while Judson leads her into one of the buildings. A slim black door that hides secrets Jorie isn’t meant to know. Ones he’s freely sharing now, it seems.
“Come on now, Jorie, you know how loyal Memphis is to both those kids. He wouldn’t tell us one way or another.” Judson seems torn between gratitude and rage at Memphis for the man’s loyalty.
They take a flight of narrow steps up to a second landing and another door—just as inauspicious as the first. “Where would Sterling go?”
Judson seems lost, as if he hasn’t got the slightest idea. Apparently, he doesn’t need a clue. A voice—deep and soothing like an undisturbed forest—answers for Judson.
“He’ll be in Nashville, seekin’ shelter with Ol’ Carolina if he’s usin’ his daddy’s contacts. Which would be foolish,” Merle rubs the stubble on his chin. Hairs that are growing in grayer as the years pass, making him a distinguished sort of handsome.
He’s exactly how Jorie imagines Judson will be in the future.
Jorie turns her attention to Merle, her eyebrows drawing together when she asks.
“Why would it be foolish?”
Merle settles a weary look over her, “Because hunters don’t help werewolves, darlin’. It’s against their inborn code.”
“There’ll be no love for Lyric in that world,” Judson agrees in a defeated manner.
All of this makes Jorie terrified—her pulse races in her veins—and she needs to sit down. Judson helps her into a chair, with regret heavy in his tone he asks her a question.
“Are you regrettin’ me yet, Miss Jorie?”
“Never.”
That’s the only thing Jorie is certain of in this moment.
21
Sterling
Franklin is a sight to behold. Relief rushes through Sterling, causing him to tremble with joy.
Or, perhaps, it’s all the energy drinks and the cheap speed wearing off. Something Sterling shouldn’t have done, he knows, and something he wouldn’t have done under normal circumstances.
However, his mean daddy trained Sterling well. Hunter’s gotta do what a hunter’s gotta do—meaning drugs are a part of the package. Humans don’t get the perks, boy. The only decent thing Sterling can say is that he didn’t snort the shit, he ate the pills like a person who doesn’t need a quick fix.
Still, as he glances at the sleeping boy beside him, Sterling feels an absolute mess for having to go to such lengths to get Lyric out of danger.
Playing with fire always burns someone.
Something his beautiful mama said plenty—a warning Sterling never heeded. Tallulah Rose was a forest aflame and he walked willingly into her blaze.
It’s been fourteen years and however many months—here they are still kicking up ashes in their wake.
The old house off Little East Fork Road is surrounded by acres of land and a gate of blessed iron. A warding for demons—if those can be warded against. A moment of worry seizes Sterling as he turns the Nova onto the paved path that leads to the house. As if the gates will somehow know and keep them outside of their protection. Fruitless worry, Sterling realizes, as he easily pulls through the iron.
The world is still dark, and out here the stars speckle the sky above in something akin to a sparkling blessing. Sterling kills the engine, watching as an elderly woman stands from a rocking chair on the porch. A flannel blanket is wrapped around her small shoulders, even from the lower level Sterling can see the steam rising from her coffee mug.
He leaves Lyric sleeping in th
e passenger seat. Stepping out of the car, Sterling smiles up at Carolina and gives her a small wave.
Her response is a loud laugh that rings through the night like a thunderous clap. Disturbing the stillness of this secluded corner of the world. Sterling hasn’t been used to the sound of silence for years—not since he’s been living in a fast-paced place like Los Angeles. Never a silent second in that Hell hole.
Being in the quiet reminds him of all the things he misses from this life, while Abita Springs had reminded him of the few things he would never miss.
“Is that a Savage I see?” Carolina calls down to him with that smoker-raspy voice she’s had Sterling’s entire life. Her question draws him back into the moment, out of his wayward thoughts.
“Yes’m,” Sterling calls back, as friendly as he can manage. He’s rusty and out of practice.
“Memphis Boone called to warm me you’d be comin’, get on up here, son. And bring the boy.”
She starts inside—an open invitation for him to follow. An invitation he plans on accepting once he’s got Lyric up. Which is proving to be an impossible feat. The kid is as dead to the world as a pile of rocks, and with a small smile Sterling hoists him into his arms.
“Bet you were lighter when you were new,” he says—knowing Lyric won’t hear. “I’m sorry I missed that, too, kiddo.”
Soft, even breathing follows those words and Sterling’s smile grows wider.
At least I can manage to make one of us feel safe.
When Sterling walks in the house he notices that the old dog—Bully—who used to be a constant guard at the door is gone. Probably long returned to dust. A sad and sobering realization.
All shit changes even when it stays the same.
“So what brings you here?” Carolina asks him. After he’s laid Lyric on the sofa in the common living space—the same tweed he fell asleep on many time in his own youth. “I know you, Sterling and I know that you left this business long ago.”
“Not long enough,” Sterling replies with a half grin. “And sometimes I think I was gone too long.” His wistful tone and his gaze towards the hall he’s just come out of aren’t subtle hints. Carolina, old as she is, knows what Sterling is implying.
“Looks just like you did when you were a sweet little shit. Darker hair is all.” Carolina tells him as she shuffles towards the kitchen counter. Her left leg stiff compared to the other one. As if Carolina can read his curiosity on the air she says, “Damned knee always acting up these days. Used to only hurt when a hunt was near. Now, I swear it’s faulty.”
Sterling hopes she cannot sense his discomfort.
Carolina gestures for him to take a seat before she starts puttering around the kitchen—making him something to eat and a strong cup of black coffee. Some home comings are better than others.
Sterling smiles when she sets a mug before him. “Thanks, Miss Carolina.”
“Of course, baby, now you tell Miss Carolina why you had to rush your ass here at the ass-crack of dawn.” She settles into the seat beside him.
Everything about this place is an antiquity of his past. They sit at the same beautifully crafted antique set Carolina’s had Sterling’s whole life. Dustier now than he remembers, like its owner, but still just as lovely.
This is where things are bound to get complicated.
Sterling knows no one outside of his immediate family is aware of his love affair with a she-wolf. Hell, he’s willing to bet that before this week only his father and Beau had a clue about Tallulah.
A blight of shame Sterling doubts Beaufort or his brother wanted to admit to the world.
Sterling takes a slow drink of his coffee, hoping to prolong the inevitable.
Carolina’s dark eyes pin him—waiting for his response. Sterling rubs his fingers over his tired eyes.
“Beaufort was havin’ it out with a family of wolves.” A truth that still conceals his own involvement in this poorly written tragedy.
“Boy’s old enough to help in a hunt.” Carolina’s immediate reply. A true enough statement. Sterling was helping with hunts soon as he was big enough to hold a knife.
Just because he could, however, doesn’t mean he should have been wielding daggers.
Sterling’s lips press together, forming a thin line as he pinches them between his teeth.
“He can’t help with a hunt, because he is something my father would hunt.”
The kindness in Carolina’s expression evaporates. Rage deepens the lines around her lips and eyes. What little grandmotherly beauty she held flees and Sterling realizes, too late, his mistake.
“You can’t stay here. Not with an abomination.” A word that stings Sterling’s heart—how could anyone see that child as less than perfect? Lyric is harmless. He’s not some beast in the night waiting to destroy lives or wreak havoc.
“I just need some sleep, Miss Carolina, please?” Sterling isn’t above begging for the son Tallulah loves.
“Allowing you—it—refuge goes against the Covenant of Michael. I swore an oath, Sterling. Somethin’ every Child of Michael swears, or have you forgotten?” Carolina recoils from him, disgusted by the sight of him. Furious that she has a true sinner beneath her roof, no doubt.
Sterling knows the words of the covenant well. Beaufort made sure to recite them with the same impassioned conviction of a preacher talking about the dangers of sin on a Sunday morning.
“Where can I take him?” He asks instead.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” She softens a bit—losing to her own reminiscence of who Sterling once was.
Carolina is kind enough to give him a few hours.
“For old time’s sake, Sterling.” Is what she said before she headed up to bed.
Sterling buries his hands in his hair, wondering how he’s supposed to keep a kid he hardly knows—but is growing to love—safe.
The thump of boots on wood alerts him to another presence. Glancing up sharply, Sterling sees a girl he hasn’t seen in years. She’s older—a woman—and just as vivacious as he remembers.
“Adeline.”
22
Adeline
Walking inside Miss Carolina’s home, Adeline is greeted with the profile of a man she thought lost to the realm of ignorant mortals. Those lucky enough to live in a world without worrying about the things that go bump in the night.
Bastard Seeds of The Light Bringer.
He looks up with those glittering hazel eyes she remembers—from all those days she tried to make him notice her during their shared summers in youth.
A moot effort on her part since Sterling’s mind was always with another. Probably the mother of the boy who has all the trashy magazines speculating about Sterling’s secret life. A secret they’d never be able to comprehend even if they finally uncovered the truth. Their world runs far deeper than a secret love-child.
A son is just the surface of Sterling’s hidden life.
“Adeline,” Sterling says with that same smokey voice. Drawing her back to the moment.
Another thrill rushes through Adeline. He’s better looking now than he’s ever been.
“What brings you to Miss Carolina’s?” She asks as she sets her heavy duffle down on the floor. Full of laundry that needs washing and weapons that need cleaning, but those duties can come later. After she tries to get closer to her childhood fantasy.
“Passin’ through, gonna have to find a safer place than this for my new responsibility.” He jerks his head in the direction of the living room.
Adeline had seen a boy on the couch on her way into the kitchen. A sleeping memory come back to life, a boy who could be a dark-haired twin to the Sterling from Adeline’s youth.
“Carolina mad at you?” She asks instead of talking about the boy.
The one she doesn’t want to think on for too long because his presence fills her with an uncomfortable rage. An envy for his faceless mother—a woman Adeline doesn’t know but hates with every fiber of her being. So she asks about Carolina. Her be
ing mad at Sterling is the only reason Adeline can think of that would make the old woman not want to keep Sterling or his kid for the night.
“No,” Sterling chuckles in response. Unwinding his hair from the messy knot on the top of his head. His hair falls like shining cornsilk, and Adeline still longs to know if it feels as soft as it looks.
“Carolina just can’t go against the code.” He turns to her with those pretty eyes, the ones that glitter like an undiscovered element. A rainbow of colors swirling around his pupil. “So I’ve got a little time to rest before I try and find some place to keep him safe.”
Going against the code can only mean one thing—the boy is something unworthy of blessed spaces.
Adeline casts a considering glance back to the living room where he sleeps. The kid seems human enough. Adeline knows sons born to witches are raised in Hell alongside their demonic fathers, so the boy has to be a shifter.
Shifters are the only ones who are human enough to not fuck a person and eat them after or during the act.
“What sort of shifter is he?” Adeline dares to ask, unmindful of the suspicion Sterling levels at her.
“Wolf.” He replies at length, when she drops into the seat beside him.
“There’s a safe house in the French Quarter, you know?” Adeline doesn’t bother asking where Sterling and the boy came from. An educated guess says Louisiana, but she’s not going to pry into his personal problems. “It’s like this place, but is for persons from a different walk of life.”
“I doubt they’d be happy to see a Savage in such a place,” Sterling replies with a thoughtful frown.
He’s not wrong.
Adeline only has the knowledge of that safe place because she helped a man recently—a man she wouldn’t have helped if she knew he could rip out her throat with ease. A mission that worked in her favor it seems—Adeline was given a totem that will get her into that house in the French Quarter. A totem she’s willing to barter for a certain price.
The Grace of a Savage Page 9
