The Grace of a Savage

by Collette Carmon

  “Not very,” Merle admits. “We didn’t see the point in trainin’ him. We try to avoid the awful lives we used to lead.”

  “Gone soft?” Colt taunts at Judson and at Tanner—the latter growls in response but Judson’s hand on his shoulder stops him from doing something foolish. Colt laughs, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Both of you will be liabilities. I can’t take soft pups to a dog fight.”

  Sterling’s pulse spikes in worry and Colt’s gray eyes turn toward him. He’s willing to bet Colt hears every nuanced change in his physiology—Sterling knows he won’t be able to hide anything from these two wolves.

  “Speaking of soft pups.” Colt trails off, his gaze roaming Sterling’s body. “You look fit enough, but so do these idiots.” Without care that Lyric is present he asks, “When’s the last time you killed a man, eh, Sterling?”

  “Miss Jorie,” Merle’s deep voice interjects into the chaos of the room. “Please take Lyric upstairs. We have to sort some things down here.”

  Lyric, ever his mother’s son, protests, “Wait! You can’t talk about savin’ my mama without me. I have to go.” He turns to Sterling, his wide eyes pleading for backup. “I have to see her. I have to make it right again, remember?”

  Sterling bows his head, centering himself for a moment. When he lifts his eyes again, Sterling says, “I promised I’d bring her back. I didn’t promise to take you with us.”

  Lyric’s jaw goes tight from how hard he grits his teeth. Rage burns in his gaze, and he’s an echo of a painful memory in that moment. Hate morphs Lyric’s face into Tallulah’s image. “Just another liar called blood.” Lyric spits, before he follows Jorie out of the room without further protest.

  When their steps fade up the stairs Remington directs his words at Judson.

  “Your scent is on that woman, and that’s a dangerous game to play.”

  Judson purses his lips into a hard line, but he doesn’t try to defend his actions or explain away Jorie’s presence. Or their mingling scents—Sterling isn’t a fool he knows what scent mixing implies.

  One of those dirty lines Tallulah used feed him while they fucked—mix your scent with mine, yeah, like that.

  Tanner’s the one who gets tired of the conversation about Jorie. He growls at Remington, “Fuck off about that. We’ll get to that messy bridge later. Right now, I want to find my fuckin’ sister before his fuckin’ sister,”—Tanner dips his head in Sterling’s direction—“kills her.”

  Sterling’s swallow is loud in his own ears, but no one mentions it or acknowledges the motion in any way.

  The room at large is too absorbed in watching Tanner as he continues, “When’re we leavin’?”

  Remington looks to Merle, then to Judson, and finally to Sterling. “We aren’t. I mean…you aren’t. You, Judson, and Merle are no good to me if you aren’t in top shape.”

  “Why the hell not?” Tanner rankles at those words. Sterling would bet his left nut it ruffles Tanner’s pride to be bossed around by a kid who looks like his balls just dropped.

  Colt snorts at Tanner’s rage. “For one thing you fly off the handle like that, and for another you’ll be a liability.” He shoots a glance at Merle, “Explain to your pup how I can’t save his sister if I’m busy saving his ass.”

  Merle nods his head. Agreeing with the Lowell boys.

  “The Coven of The Red Hood is different than anything you can handle in this state, Tanner. In our quest to be as normal as possible we grew soft.”

  “Dad,” Tanner protests and shakes off Judson’s hand when it covers his broad shoulder. “Fuck off, Jud.”

  “If we go with them there’s a greater chance Lyric will wind up with no blood kin—except for the ones willin’ to put a bullet in his head.” Merle’s quiet rumble soothes the fire in Tanner’s blood.

  Tanner’s face turns white with the same cold that slithers into Sterling’s belly at those words.

  “If we lose them, Merle,” Remington’s soft, deep voice bleeds into the tension. “We will come back here for Lyric because he won’t be safe with you.”

  “Now wait a fuckin-“ Tanner starts, but Judson yanks him back into his seat.

  “Shut up, Tanner.” Judson growls—his silence suddenly swallowed by his own emotions. “If they kill Lula and Sterling the boy won’t be safe with us. You know that.”

  Tanner’s jaw grows tight—a nerve jumping in his cheek. Looking up at Sterling, Tanner grits out, “That kid is the closest thing I have to a son. The only one I’ll ever have.” Sterling’s shoulders tense—uncomfortable with this man laying claim to what Sterling knows is his. Tanner’s mouth twists with a cruel grin. “I was here, Sterling so you’re goddamned right he’s mine more than yours. And if you get him taken from us I’ll drag your soul outta Hell with my bare hands and torment you myself.”

  “I’ll join you,” Judson adds with a solemn nod at his brother.

  A rare solidarity between the Grace brothers that must be another sign that it’s the end of days.

  “Guess I can’t let you down.” Sterling tries for light, but the words fall like lead between them.

  “Bring my baby home,” Merle tells Sterling. A pleading command that twists Sterling’s guts—Hell is freezing if Sterling is Merle’s last hope. Approaching, to clap Sterling on the shoulder, Merle adds. “I know you did what you had to then to spare her, but I’m still not happy about it. I won’t forgive you until I see her again.”

  “Yessir.” Sterling’s words exit his mouth like glass, cutting his throat on the way out.

  “Let’s go,” Remington commands with his quiet but strong voice. Holding out a hand to Merle, he waits until a strip of fabric is unwound from Merle’s wrist. Remington takes the ratty cotton while he asks, “Is this the most recent scrap?”

  Merle nods. Remington holds it up to his nose—taking a deep draw—breathing in the scent. After he’s done he throws the cloth to Colt; who catches the flimsy black fabric with a fast hand.

  Colt also puts the cotton to his nose, to draw in the smell of Tallulah Rose.

  A scent that Sterling hopes lives in more than just his memories.

  32

  Colt

  Watching the tense interactions between Sterling and his son makes Colt shift with discomfort. Remington, at his side, casts a glance in his direction and whispers. “What?” Low enough for only Colt to catch.

  “Can you imagine not knowing Dad?” Colt hates what-if’s and feelings—getting involved in messy family drama always brings out both of those things.

  Killing is an easier business.

  Remington’s face morphs from impassive to a scowl.

  “No,” is his gruff reply.

  Remington has never been one to talk needlessly, but Colt is disappointed that his brother doesn’t have more to say. He wants Remington to be as bothered by all of this shit as he is, but if Colt is emotionally stunted then Remington is emotionally disfigured.

  Colt doesn’t press further—never does any good to annoy his big brother—instead he watches as Sterling pulls Lyric into a hug. Despite the space between them—a wide sidewalk and the stoop that leads up to the door—Colt can hear the words Sterling speaks as if he is standing right next to the man.

  “I’ll bring her home, I promise.” A bold assertion for a man who is the joke of his terrible family.

  Someone’ll bring Tallulah home, Colt thinks with a frown. Damn good chance it’ll be me.

  “Don’t decide our fate before we begin,” Remington warns.

  Colt doesn’t reply. His scent most likely tells his brother more than his words ever could.

  “Look sharp,” Remington informs him. “Here he comes.”

  Tallulah’s scent is a trail that leads them from NOLA to Atlanta. After the long, hard ride straight from Columbus Colt decides this is a cakewalk of a drive.

  The fighting—the main event—is what Colt isn’t looking forward to during this adventure. The last mess they got into has Colt feeling sorer than shit
. Under his thin T-shirt a wound still festers; thanks to the holy water a deranged priest poured into a slash the man created with a blessed, silver blade.

  Colt had planned to stop by one of their contacts in Ohio, but the call from Judson came and there’s never time for self-care in an emergency.

  “So what’s it that you specialize in?” Sterling asks, breaking the thick tension in the van.

  A question that pulls Colt out of focusing on his throbbing side. Honestly, he’s thankful for the distraction. The shitty radio music crackles through their old speakers, and Remington leans over to turn down the volume. For Sterling’s sake more than for theirs. Colt and Remington are trained so well they could hear a pin drop in the middle of an explosion.

  “We are the ones they call when they need a job done.” Colt’s the one who replies to Sterling’s question. He isn’t too keen on revealing their secrets to a Child of Michael so he keeps the answer vague.

  Nothing good ever comes from cavorting with the enemy—Tallulah in the clutches of a Savage hunter is proof enough of that fact.

  “Does that mean you aren’t bonded with a witch?” Sterling continues.

  Colt shoots Remington a sideways glance.

  “No,” Remington is the one who replies this time. His hands grip the steering wheel—knuckles white from how tight he wraps his fingers around the leather. That’s the only indication Colt has that his brother isn’t fond of the fact Sterling knows about some of their world’s inner workings. “We haven’t met the one yet, and until then we are free agents more or less.”

  Colt frowns, wishing he were bonded to Remington for a second so he could tell the idiot to shut the hell up telepathically.

  “Beaufort used to talk about the bonded shifter. He said it was a hell of a lot harder to kill one than a shifter who wasn’t bound to a witch.” Casual words for a heavy subject, but Colt doesn’t feel like responding.

  “Bonding definitely increases your power,” Remington agrees. Revealing secrets that has Colt scowling.

  “Don’t tell him that,” Colt complains with a hiss. They don’t need enemies rolling in privileged information. Colt would rather leave the Children of Michael to their speculations.

  “He’s probably going to die,” Remington replies with a shrug. Causing Sterling to let out a bright laugh—one that seems wrong in their current situation.

  “Yeah, that’s a real possibility.” Sterling admits, at length, with a self-deprecating smile curving his mouth.

  Colt finds it strange that Sterling is not offended by Remington’s statement. He’d be madder than hell if someone suggested he was going to die in lighthearted conversation.

  Sterling seems to be an odd sort. A Savage who hates killing—one who’d rather sing about his feelings and roll in bed with a she-wolf.

  This is too weird for me.

  Colt is ready to be through with this job. He wants to get back to easy things. Jobs where he’s not conflicted about the presence of a hunter—Colt wants to be back to the world where he accepts that every hunter is his enemy. Sterling Savage’s existence is calling into question Colt’s belief that all Sons of Michael are out to destroy them and their kind.

  Recalling the way Sterling hugged Lyric—like he was precious—is fucking with Colt’s brain.

  “You alright?” Remington asks him when Sterling leans against the headrest in the backseat to rest his eyes. His breathing evens out and his heart beat drops to a lower rate—faster than it should considering Sterling is in a van with his natural-born enemies.

  “Yeah,” Colt lies.

  His brother can tell and frowns at the dishonesty. “If you’re sure,” he says instead of calling Colt on the lie.

  “Just hurting from that bastard priest.” He says as he leans his head agains the passenger window. Watching the cars that pass them—full of people who aren’t driving to their possible deaths.

  Remington chuckles, making a dig to lighten the mood. “Must be getting soft if that little cut hurts you.”

  “Fuck you, man,” Colt replies, his tone lit with laughter.

  33

  Remington

  Birdie Savage has Tallulah in some horrible, abandoned place on the outskirts of Atlanta. The rotten wooden farmhouse stinks of death. Filling Remington with a sense of disquiet, causing the hairs on his nape to stand as he stares at the crumbling structure.

  The animalistic instincts that live in his soul warn against the tang that coats the back of his throat—danger is here.

  His inner wolf has never been wrong, but even still Remington has never heeded the creature’s warnings.

  Fergus’s voice fills his mind, the thick Irish accent whispering, you will never know a lover more thrilling than Danger, she is my most beloved mistress.

  While he doesn’t share his brother’s and his father’s reckless devotion to near-death experiences, Remington’s stomach does swoop with a thrill. Birdie Savage is in that dilapidated shell of a house and Remington owes her a debt of retribution.

  His payment is long overdue.

  Remington’s hip stings with the phantom memory of a long healed scar. One of the few wounds that remain in Remington’s hide—one that doesn’t melt away with the passage of time—a rarity for a child of darkness. A Seed of The Light Bringer. “Lucifer” was generous with his vain gifts according to legend, but Remington isn’t sure he believes in any superior being of good let alone one of unbridled evil.

  “Birdie’ll have this place all rigged up.” Sterling’s voice breaks through Remington’s silent pondering.

  “Damn right she will, those Red Hood whores love to maim people. The traps will be nasty,” Colt comments with a low growl. A sideways glance at Colt reveals that he has his lips pulled back, exposing sharpened teeth and his pink gums.

  “Down, boy,” Remington tells his brother with a teasing lilt. “Doesn’t ever do any good to run in on rage.”

  Birdie Savage is a patient sadist.

  “So what’s the plan?” Sterling asks—his body exuding an anxious odor that stinks of fear.

  “We wait until midnight.” Remington turns to walk back to where they parked the van. “It will give us time for a short rest and then we can come back when night is at its darkest.”

  Sterling doesn’t appear pleased with that decision, but wisely he keeps his opinions to himself. Instead, he follows Remington’s lead back to their car.

  Dinner is one of their rare luxuries. Remington savors his as the old waitress sets his breakfast sampler plates on the scarred formica table.

  “Careful, hun, plate’s hot,” she warns with a voice that’s gravelly from too many cheap cigarettes and late night fifths of whiskey. The remainders of those things cling to her skin, embedded so heavily into her smell a human nose can detect them. Remington watches the way Sterling’s nose wrinkles at the scent. Even though she’s detestable, they all thank the waitress before she saunters to another of her tables. Smiling brightly as she talks to some curly headed boy who won’t sit in his seat for anything.

  Children are terrors. Remington would much rather wrestle with angels than father a child.

  Sterling chews at his bottom lip, ruminating over something unpleasant before he finally spits out a question Remington has been anticipating. “Why’re we here when we should be in there savin’ Tallulah?”

  Colt shrugs at Remington when he shoots his brother a glance. His signature expression that translates to—you tell him.

  Sometimes, Remington hates being the older brother.

  “How much do you know about the Coven of The Red Hood?” Remington asks, hoping this question can ease them towards the other one’s answer.

  With as little resistance as possible, Devil willing.

  “I know they’re a bunch of crazy fuckers who delight in murderin’ things that go bump in the night,” Sterling settles back in his cracked vinyl seat. Scrubbing a hand over his short, dark golden beard before he says. “My sister couldn’t wait to join that rabid
cult.”

  “So you know it’s basically a suicide mission for us to try and retrieve something that they view as a hard-won prize?” A muscle in Sterling’s jaw ticks at the words, but Remington isn’t afraid of some soft man who left his child and his woman to the real monsters of the world. “We don’t usually save our own from those people, but Merle is an old friend of my dad’s. For him we made an exception.”

  Remington has told many a pleading mother that he cannot help her—mothers with children far more innocent than Tallulah Rose Grace.

  Colt sets his chipped coffee cup on the table, and from beside Remington he adds. “Just so you know—none of us believe she’s coming back from this breathing. Merle knows we’re really here to bring Tallulah home to bury. Even if her big brothers can’t accept that truth.”

  “Am I gonna watch her die?” Sterling is a big man, and the broken tone of his voice seems too tiny for a man his size.

  “Probably,” Colt confirms.

  They weren’t raised to have a kind bedside manner, Remington and Colt have been raised to do what needs to be done. Sometimes what’s needed is harsh truths.

  “It’s why we didn’t want to bring any of you along, but I guess you can call this your penance.” Colt pauses, waiting for those words to sink in, before casting his final blow. “This is what happens when you leave the ones you love in the line of danger, Sterling Savage.”

  “Eat up.” Remington commands of Sterling with a slightly kinder tone than his brother’s. “You’re a liability if you’re dead from hunger before we begin.”

  34

  Tallulah

  A brown water stain blooms across the old ceiling like a deep bruise, and Tallulah focuses on that spot as Birdie’s awful voice murmurs about the toughness of Tallulah’s hide.

  The pain isn’t lessened by her distraction, but it’s better than watching Birdie cut into her bit by bit.