by J. R. Ward
A push. A shove. And then the hand of the one who had started it went inside his sloppily made coat.
“—you must come on the morrow. I have told many you will be in attendance. And I promise, there will be females of availability—”
Rhage clamped a grip on the back of Jabon’s finely constructed high-collar jacket. Shoving the male down under the table, Rhage ducked as well as the first lead shot rang out. With the discharge of the gun, the drunken joviality of the establishment lost its ebullience. There was no shouting in alarm, however. This was not the first time such had happened and humans commenced to take cover as if they had been well-drilled in the response.
Beneath the table, Jabon’s pale eyes widened and he clutched his fine coating tightly, pulling the lapels up close to the front of his throat as a fragile chain mail of wool and silk and cotton.
There was an ensuing rustle of bodies and shuffling of feet, the crowd scrambling to duck under oak tables and chairs, beside the stone hearth, behind the bar—although that latter was stopped by a barman with his own gun who held his turf with greater interest than whatever was occurring within his pub. ’Twas a good businessman, that one.
“What shall we do?” Jabon put his face all the way down on the rough, stained floorboards. “What shall we do, what shall we do…”
Rhage rolled his eyes. The danger would not last long and he was right. Three shots off and it was done.
Through the sturdy table legs and the twisted bramble patches of upended chairs, Rhage assessed the damage with little interest. Both combatants were down and unmoving so he sat up and stretched, rotating his bad arm. Jabon stayed down as if he had taken up a new pursuit of becoming a carpet. Most of the others did the same.
The door to the pub opened and closed as someone entered. Rhage did not pay that any mind. This human establishment was known only for trouble of their variety. The enemy did not come upon this theater of human depravity often, as lessers did not court with them if they could avoid it. The same was true for vampires, although members of the species could pass far easier among the rats without tails. And one did wish for adventure.
Adventure was all one had, really.
The human mat formed by all those who had sought to avoid the bullets began to break apart as heads were lifted and torsos tentatively rose.
The curling impatience as characteristic to Rhage’s corporeal confines as his blond hair and his blue-green eyes took its cue and weaved through his muscles and his bones. Ever on the move, he turned to take his leave not only of the humans and their silliness, but of Jabon’s incessant nagging—
The strike came from the left and it was a full-body one, something large and heavy taking Rhage back down to the floor. It was whilst he hung for the briefest of moments in midair that he noted two things: One, as his vision swung ’round, he witnessed a bullet passing through the space from which his flesh and blood had been forcefully vacated, the lead slug burrowing into the oak paneling of the pub’s homely wall, creating a circled coffin for its honed metal body.
The second realization was that Rhage knew who had come upon him.
His savior was not a surprise, either.
The landing was hard as he bore both his own heft and another’s of similar tonnage, but he cared not about the bruising. Looking through the forest of table and leg anew, he eyed the resumed skirmish whereby the initiating combatant, briefly resurrected, had raised his gun once more and attempted to ensure death had indeed arrived upon his fellow drunkard.
The threat he represented was currently being addressed by the other patrons, however. Several jumped on him and disarmed him.
Rhage was able to take a deeper breath as the boulder upon him was removed. And then a hand extended toward him to help him up.
He laughed and accepted the lift. “That was rather fun!”
Darius, son of Marklon, did not, evidently, feel the same. The brother’s blue eyes were the color of slate from disapproval. “Your definition of that word and mine are not the same—”
“You must come as well!”
Rhage and his brother in service both looked down at Jabon, who had popped up from under the table like a gopher from a hole.
The cloying aristocrat clapped his hands. “Yes, yes, you as well. On the morrow’s eve at my home. You know where it is, do you not?”
“We shall be working, I’m afraid,” Darius announced.
“Aye,” Rhage said, though he had no particular plans.
“There will be females of noble blood.”
“Of noble complication, you mean.” Rhage shook his head. “They are a bore in too many regards to consider.”
Darius hitched a hand under Rhage’s arm and led the way to the pub’s door. When Jabon sought to join, all that was required was a stern stare over the shoulder and the male was cured of the impulse to exit à trois.
Outside, the moon draped the village landscape in a shimmering illumination, the contours of the brick and timber buildings of commerce glowing in a saintly way, as if they had converted their purpose away from the base, temporal concern of money. Summer was in its early bloom of June, the leaves on the trees in the square fully unfurled, yet of a pale green. Jade, as opposed to the deep emerald of August.
“Whate’er you doing in such a place,” Darius demanded as they walked off over the cobblestones.
“The same question could be asked of thee.”
Rhage’s counter had no censure in it. Not only did he not bother himself with the concerns of others, he well knew of Darius’s reputation for decency of thought and action. The paragon of virtue would no sooner partake of debauchery than he would cut off his own dagger hand.
“I am in search of workmen,” the brother stated.
“For what purpose?”
“I have in mind to construct a house of great safety and security.”
Rhage frowned. “Is not your current abode sufficient?”
“It will be for another purpose.”
“And you would use humans to construct such a place? You’d have to dispose of your workforce when it was finished, one grave at a time.”
“I search for workmen of our kind.”
“No such luck in that pub, then.”
“I knew not where else to go. Our species is too scattered. One cannot find oneself in this morass of humans.”
“Sometimes it is best to remain unseen.”
As a series of bells began to ring out across the flower-scented night, Rhage looked to the clock tower of Caldwell’s square. Stopping, he started to smile as he recalled a rather comely female of obliging countenance who lived three blocks over.
“Forgive me, my brother, I have somewhere I need to be.”
Darius halted as well. “ ’Tis not out to hunt, I presume.”
“There is time on the morrow.” Rhage shrugged. “This war will ne’er be over.”
“With your commitment to the conflict, you are correct.”
As Darius turned away, Rhage caught the male’s elbow. “I shall have you know, I took down two lessers this midnight, or do you think this ink stain is indeed ink?”
Rhage presented the sleeve of his calfskin coat for regard. But Darius’s stare did not drop thereto.
“Well done, my brother,” the male said in a level tone. “I am so proud of you.”
At that, Darius reclaimed his arm and stalked off, heading down to the river’s shore. Left to his own, Rhage glared at the space the brother had taken up. Then he departed in the opposite direction.
It was some distance before he could calm himself sufficiently to dematerialize unto the female who had never turned away his carnal inclinations. He told himself the emotion that plagued and delayed him was anger at the self-righteousness of that brother.
’Twas a lie he nearly believed.
CHAPTER THREE
The following evening, after the sun had set and it was safely dark enough, Nyx opened the front door of her family’s farmhouse. The creaking
screen was next, and as she stepped out onto the porch, its frame banged back into place with a clap and bounce.
She’d heard that sound all her life, and as it registered in her ear, every age she had ever been was strung along the percussive cadence. The child. The pretrans. The young adult. Where she was now… wherever that was.
Janelle had left over fifty years ago—
The screen door opened and closed again, and she knew who it was. She’d been hoping for some alone time because the day’s hours had been very long. But the silent presence of her grandfather was a second-best option. Besides, he wouldn’t stay long.
“Off to the barn?” she asked without looking back at him. “You’re a little early tonight.”
His reply was a grunt as he sat in one of the wicker chairs he had made himself.
Now she frowned and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re not going to work, then?”
Her grandfather took his pipe out of the loose pocket of his work shirt. The tobacco pouch was already in his hand. The filling of the chamber was a ritual that felt too intimate to witness, so Nyx lowered herself down on the top step of the stairs and stared out over the lawn toward the barn. The shcht of him initiating his old-fashioned lighter was followed by the sweet smell of the smoke, another familiar.
“When do you leave?” he asked.
Nyx twisted around. Unlike the screen door’s frame strike or the pipe’s aroma, her grandfather’s voice was not something that frequently registered. And it was such a surprise that the soft syllables didn’t immediately translate into words with meaning.
When they did, she shook her head.
But that was not her answer.
Her grandfather got to his feet and came forward, the puffs of sweet smoke released from his mouth rising over his head and lingering in his wake. She thought he was coming to address her, but he didn’t stop as he passed by. He continued down the steps and onto the fresh green lawn.
“Walk with me,” he said.
Nyx jumped up and scrambled to his side. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d asked her for anything, much less to be in his company.
They were silent as they progressed over to the barn, and he opened the side door, leaving the big bay panels locked in place. As she entered the cool darkness and smelled the wood shavings, Nyx was aware of her heart pounding. This was their grandfather’s sacred space. No one came in here.
Illumination flared overhead and all around, and Nyx tried not to gasp in wonder. Strings of little lights had been strung around the rafters, a galaxy of stars, and the other old-fashioned fixtures glowed golden yellow. As she breathed in deep, she couldn’t stop herself from going forward to the two sawhorses in the center of the bay.
A work of art was being constructed upon them.
Adirondack guide boats were a thing of the gracious past, first built in the mid-1800s to serve the sporting needs of the wealthy who came north to enjoy upstate New York’s lakes and mountains. Designed to accommodate two passengers and their gear, they were lower-gunwale’d and of broader beam than canoes, and they were rowed cross-handed from the center seat by a guide who had a set of oars.
Although so much had changed in the last hundred and seventy years, there were still those who valued the antiquated, beautiful glide of the handmade creations, and her grandfather made and serviced them for a small list of loyal customers.
Nyx ran her fingertips over the long, raw cedar laps that ran horizontally along the cedar ribs.
“You’re almost done with this one.” She touched the rows of tiny copper nails. “It’s beautiful.”
There were four other guide boats on sawhorses in the barn: two that had received their first coats of varnish, the honey color of the wood and graining coming through. Another one was just a skeleton. Another was being repaired.
Nyx pivoted around. Her grandfather was standing by his display of tools, the gleaming array of chisels, hammers, handheld sanders, and clamps mounted down the wall of the barn over a long work counter. Everything had its place, and there was no power anything. Her grandfather made the boats in the old way… because that was how he’d done it since he’d begun making them in the Victorian era. Same process. Same discipline.
“When do you leave?” her grandfather said.
As she focused on him, she realized she often dropped her eyes when he was around. Part of it was his preternatural self-containment, and her sense that he preferred not being looked at. Most of it was because she felt as though he could read her mind, and she preferred her thoughts to be private.
Maybe he could see into her thoughts, maybe he couldn’t.
She’d rather not know either way.
God, he’d aged. His hair was all white now, and his cheeks were hollowed more than she remembered, but his shoulders were straight and so was his spine. Surely they had more time with him. In vampires, you had to worry as soon as the first physical changes of aging started to manifest. The decline was usually lightning fast thereafter.
“Grandfather,” she hedged.
“Do not lie to me, young. There are others who must be considered here.”
He didn’t mean himself, of course. Posie was the problem, the thing that was holding everything up. As usual.
“At midnight,” Nyx said. “I want to leave at midnight.”
“I heard you speaking with that pretrans. He told you where the camp was?”
“It’s hard to know exactly what he was saying. But I think I know where to go.”
“He’s stopped speaking the now.”
“He’ll be dead by dawn’s arrival.” Nyx rubbed her eyes. “Posie’s going to lose it. She needs to stop rescuing things. Not everything is a puppy to keep.”
“Your sister gives her heart freely. It is her way.”
“She should snap out of it.” To keep from cursing, Nyx paced around the guide boats, her boots loud over the well-swept bare floor. “And I have to at least try.”
“Janelle is who she is as well. You accuse Posie of trying to rescue things. You may well heed your own counsel with regard to your departure this night.”
“How can you say that?” Nyx looked across at her grandfather. “Janelle is stuck in that prison—”
“She earned her place there.”
“No, she did not—” Nyx forced herself to calm down. “She did not kill that male.”
Her grandfather puffed on his pipe, the smoke he released in the still air blooming and then dissipating. His face was so calm and composed, she had to look away from the contrast to her anger.
“I won’t be gone long,” she said.
“It’s more likely you will not come back,” he countered. “You need to stay out of this, Nyxanlis. It’s too dangerous.”
* * *
At eleven fifty-three, Nyx shoved the last thing in her backpack. She had two water bottles, six protein bars, a flashlight, a fleece, a fresh pair of socks, and her toothbrush. That last one had been an afterthought and stupid. Like she needed to worry about dental health or bad breath?
As she tested the weight by strapping it on, she picked a baseball cap off her bed. Then she looked at her thin pillow. Of course she was going to put her head there again. She was going to be back—
“He’s doing so much better.”
Nyx closed her eyes before she turned around to her sister. And she made damn sure none of her the-hell-he’s-getting-better showed in her expression.
Posie was leaning into the bedroom, her eyes bright and shiny, her hair damp and flat as a board, fresh from a fragrant washing. Her dress was buttercup yellow and had small blue and pink flowers all over it, the lace hem at the bottom brushing the tops of her bare feet.
“Come, see—” Posie frowned as she noticed the boots, the pack and the hat. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. Just out for a hike.”
“Oh, okay.” She motioned furiously. “See for yourself how well he is!”
Nyx followed her sister into the gues
t room next door. Across the dim interior, a slight form under heavy blankets lay without motion.
Posie lifted her long skirt and tiptoed across the throw rug. “I’m here, Peter. I’m right here.”
Her sister knelt down and took a hand in both of hers. As her thumbs rubbed a palm that was gray, and fingers that did not move in response, Posie put her face close to the pillow. There were too many quilts to see anything, but the desperate murmurs coming out of her mouth were entreaties that Nyx knew would not be answered.
“Posie—”
Her sister looked up with expectation. “See? He’s so much better.”
Nyx took a deep breath. “When was the last time he spoke?”
Posie looked down at the blankets. “He’s sleeping. He needs his rest. So he can heal.”
Before Nyx said something she’d regret, she nodded, strapped on her pack, and went into the kitchen to exit through the back door. She looked at the dishes that were stacked in the rack, drying. The windows that had had their heavy daylight curtains opened. The messy bouquet of meadow flowers that Posie had picked before they’d made that fateful trip for groceries.
“Nyx?” Posie came in, her brows lifted like she was worried. “Don’t you think he’s getting better?”
Nyx pictured a shovel in her sister’s tender hand. Dirt from a freshly dug grave on her bare feet. Tears running down that soft face.
“No, Posie. I don’t.”
“But he ate something last night.” Her sister padded forward, clutching her skirting in desperate, straining hands. “And he drank something this afternoon.”
Nyx looked out of the window over the sink. The barn seemed far away, by a factor of miles. Their grandfather was going to be out there all night long.
“He’s going to recover, right?” Posie’s voice grew reedy. “I mean, I didn’t kill him, did I?”
With a curse, Nyx unstrapped her pack and let it dangle from her hand.
