by J. R. Ward
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 have 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.
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.
It was likely the only wise thing about the group.
His host broke away and approached with a smug smile. “How good of you to come, Assail.”
“Thank you for having me.”
Elan frowned. “Where is my doggen? He should have taken your coat—”
“I prefer to leave it on. And I shall take that seat over there.” He nodded to the one corner that would provide the most visual access. “I trust we will be getting started soon.”
“Indeed. With your arrival, we await only one more.”
Assail narrowed his eyes on the subtle line of sweat that dotted the skin between the male’s nose and upper lip. Xcor had chosen the correct pawn, he thought as he went over and eased himself into his chair.
A sharp draft announced the arrival of the final guest.
As Xcor strode into the room, there was a hell of a lot more than a lull in the chatter. Every one of the aristocrats fell silent, a subtle rearrangement of the crowd being effected as they each stepped back.
Then again—surprise! Xcor had more than a plus-one with him.
The entirety of the Band of Bastards filed in on his heels, forming a semicircle behind their leader.
In person and up close, Xcor was precisely as he had always been: rough and ugly, the kind of male whose countenance and stance suggested his reputation for violence was based on reality, not conjecture. Verily, standing in the midst of these weaklings, in their environment of luxury and civility, he was ready and perfectly capable of cutting down everything that breathed in the room—and the males at his back were just the same, each dressed for war, and prepared to bring it to bear at a mere nod from their liege.
Regarding the lot of them, even Assail had to admit they were impressive.
What a fool Elan was—he and his glymera gadabouts had no clue of the Pandora’s box that they had opened.
With an officious cough, Elan stepped forward to address all and sundry as the one who was in charge—even though he was dwarfed not only by the soldiers’ heft, but their very presence.
“I believe there are no introductions necessary, and it goes without saying that if any one of you”—at this point, he eyed his fellow Council members—“speaks of this meeting, there will be reprisals the likes of which shall make you wish for the raids to return.”
Whilst he spoke, he gathered a certain momentum, as if assuming the mantle of power, even if it was provided by someone else, was a sort of masturbation for his ego.
“I thought it was important to bring all of us together this night.” He began to pace, clasping his hands at the small of his back and leaning forward to address his shiny shoes. “From time to time in the last year, the esteemed members of the Council have each come unto me and expressed not just their catastrophic losses, but their frustration with the current regime’s response to any meaningful recovery.”
Assail’s brows popped at the word current: This uprising had progressed further than he’d guessed if that was being thrown around.…
“These discussions have taken place over a period of months, and there has been an unwavering consistency to the complaints and disappointments. As a result, and after much deliberation with my conscience, I have found myself for the first time in my life eschewing the race’s current leader to the extent that I am compelled into action. These gentlemales”—at that ludicrous term, he waved an open hand to the collection of fighters—“have expressed similar concerns, as well as a certain willingness to—how shall I put it—effect a change. As I know that we are all of one mind, I thought we might discuss our next steps.”
At this point, the assembled dandies decided to piss on the conversational guidepost, reiterating, in their own interminable words, precisely what Elan had just stated.
Clearly they felt it was an opportunity for them to prove to the Band of Bastards how serious they were, but he doubted Xcor was moved by any of t
he hot air. These members of the aristocracy were fragile, expendable tools, each one of them limited in use and easily broken—and Xcor had to know this. No doubt he was going to work them until he didn’t need them, and then he was going to snap their paltry wooden handles and cast them aside.
As Assail sat back and listened, he had no particular love or regard for the monarchy. But he was clear on the fact that Wrath was a male of his word—the same could not be true of any of these glymera yahoos: This whole group, with the exception of Xcor and his males, would kiss the king’s ass until their lips went numb—right up until they caused his death. And after that? Xcor would serve himself and himself alone—and to hell with anyone else.
Wrath had stated that he would allow commerce with the humans to continue unfettered.
Xcor, however, was the type who would not permit any other seats of power to rise up—and with all the money there was to be made in the drug trade, sooner or later Assail would have a target on his back.
If he didn’t have one already.
“… and my family’s estate is lying fallow in Caldwell—”
When Assail rose up from his chair, all the eyes of the fighters flipped to him.
Stepping forward through the crowd, he was careful to show his hands, lest they believe he had taken out a weapon.
“Please excuse the interruption,” he said without meaning it. “But I must leave now.”
Elan began to sputter as Xcor’s lids lowered.
Addressing the true leader in the room, Assail spoke clearly. “I shall make no reference to this meeting, either to the individuals here in this room or to any others, neither about the statements that have been made nor who has attended. I am not a political individual, nor do I have designs on any throne—I am but a businessman seeking only to continue to prosper in circles of commerce. In leaving this meeting and resigning herewith from the Council, I am acting accordingly, seeking neither to promote nor obstruct any of your agenda.”