by J. R. Ward
Tohr took one step, and then another, and then a third.…
As he descended, he looked at the upturned faces. These were his people, and they had been Wellsie’s. This was the community he was continuing with, and the one she had left.
Even in the sadness, it was hard not to feel blessed.
There were so many with him in this, even Rehvenge, who was now so much a part of the household.
And yet Autumn was not among them; at least, not that he could see.
Down at the bottom, he fell into a bracing stance before the urn, his hands clasped in front of his hips, his head lowered. As he settled into his body, John joined him, assuming the same pose even though he was pale, and his hands couldn’t seem to still.
Tohr reached out and touched John’s forearm. “It’s okay, son. We’re going to get through this together.”
Instantly, the jerky movements stopped, and the boy nodded as if eased a little.
In the ticking moments that followed, Tohr thought dimly that it was amazing how a crowd this size could be so quiet. All he could hear was the crackle of the lit fires on either side of the foyer.
Over to the left, Phury cleared his throat and bent down to a table over which a bolt of white silk had been draped. With graceful hands, he lifted the cover to reveal a mammoth silver bowl filled with salt, a silver pitcher of water, and an ancient book.
Picking up the tome, he opened it and addressed them all in the Old Language. “On this night, we come herein to mark the passing of Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm; blooded daughter of Relix; adoptive mahmen of the soldier Tehrror, son of Darius. On this night, we come herein to mark the passing of the nascent Tohrment, son of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm; blooded son of the beloved departed Wellesandra; adopted brother of the soldier Tehrror, son of Darius.”
Phury turned the page, the heavy parchment making a soft noise. “According to tradition, and in hopes it will be both pleasing to the Mother of the race’s ears, and of solace to the bereaved family, I call upon all who tarry herein to pray with me for the safe carriage of those who have passed unto the Fade.…”
So many voices rose up as Phury commanded sentences and had them repeated, female and male tones mixing together such that the words were lost to Tohr and all he heard was the pattern of somber speech.
He glanced over at John. Lot of blinking going on, but the boy was holding back the tears like the male of worth he was.
Tohr swung his eyes back to the urn, and gave his mind free rein to play through a slide show of images from all different parts of their shared lives.
His reminiscing ended on the very last thing he had done for her before she’d been killed: put those chains on the tires of that SUV. So she’d have traction in the snow.
Okay, now he was blinking like a motherfucker.…
The ceremony became a blur at that point, with him saying things when prompted, and staying silent the rest of the time. He found himself glad that he had waited this long to do it. He didn’t think it would have been possible to get through all this at any other moment.
On that note, he glanced over at Lassiter. The angel was glowing from head to foot, his gold piercings catching the light around and within him and magnifying it back tenfold.
For some reason, the guy didn’t look happy. His brows were squeezed together as if he were trying to crunch numbers in his head and coming up with a sum total he didn’t like—
“I would now ask the Brotherhood to pledge their condolences to the bereaved, starting with His Majesty Wrath, son of Wrath.”
Tohr decided he was seeing things and refocused on his Brothers. As Phury stepped away from the little table, Wrath was discreetly led forward by V so that he was standing over the bowl of salt. Drawing up the sleeve of his robe, the king unholstered one of his black daggers and drew the blade up the inside of his forearm. As bright red blood rushed to the surface of the cut, the male extended his arm and let drops fall.
Each one of the Brothers did the same, their eyes locking on Tohr’s as they reaffirmed without words their shared mourning for all he had lost.
Phury was the last, with Z holding the book as he completed the ritual. Then the Primale picked up the pitcher and spoke sacred words as he poured water from it, turning the pink-stained salt into brine.
“I would now ask Wellesandra’s hellren to disrobe.”
Tohr was careful to take out Nalla’s palm print before untying the Chosen’s sash, and he put both down on top of the robe after he’d removed it.
“I would now ask Wellesandra’s hellren to kneel before her for one last time.”
Tohr did as commanded, falling to his knees in front of the urn. In his peripheral vision, he watched Phury walk over to the marble fireplace on the right. From out of the flames, the brother withdrew a primeval iron brand, one that had been brought over from the Old Country long ago, one that had been made by hands unknown, long before the race had had a collective memory.
The terminal part was about six inches long and at least an inch wide, and the line of Old Language symbols was so hot it glowed yellow, not red.
Tohr assumed the proper position, curling his hands into fists and easing forward so that his knuckles were planted on the heavier white cover that had been laid on the floor. For a split second, all he could think about was the mosaic depiction of the apple tree that was underneath him, that symbol of rebirth that he was beginning to associate only with death.
He had buried Autumn at the foot of one.
And now he was saying good-bye to Wellsie on top of one.
As Phury stopped beside to him, Tohr’s breath began to come in punches of air, his ribs jerking tight and popping open.
When you were mated, and you got your shellan’s name carved in your back, you were supposed to bear the pain in silence—to prove that you were worthy of both her love and the mating.
Breath. Breath. Breath…
Not so with the Fade ceremony.
Breath-breath-breath…
For the Fade ceremony, you were supposed to—
Breathbreathbreath—
“What is the name of your dead?” Phury demanded.
On cue, Tohr dragged in a giant pull of oxygen.
As the brand was laid to the skin where her name had been carved those many years ago, Tohr screamed her name, every ounce of pain in his heart and his mind and his soul coming out on a oner, the sound shattering through the foyer.
The scream was his final good-bye, his pledge to meet her on the flip side, his love made manifest one last time.
It went on forever.
And then he was sagging so badly, his forehead was on the floor, while all across the top of his shoulders, his skin burned as if it was on fire.
But this was just the beginning.
He tried to drag himself up, but his son had to help him, because he had lost all muscle tone: With John’s help, he reassumed his position.
His breath took over once again, that rhythmic, shallow panting pumping him up, restoring his energy.
Phury’s voice was rough to the point of hoarseness. “What is the name of your dead?”
Tohr grabbed another hectare of oxygen and got ready to do it again.
This time, the name he screamed was his own, the pain of losing his blood-born son cutting him so deep he felt as though the inside of his chest was bleeding.
He screamed longer the second time.
And then he flat-out collapsed on his arms, his body spent—even though it was still not over yet.
Thank God for John, he thought, as he felt himself get repositioned.
From up above, Phury said, “For to seal unto your skin e’ermore, and to bind our blood with yours, we shall now complete the ritual for your beloveds.”
No panting this time. He didn’t have the energy.
The salt stung so badly he lost his vision and his body convulsed, his limbs jerking uncontrollably until he fell
over on his side, even though John was trying to hold him upright.
Indeed, all he could do was lie there in front of all of these people, many of whom were crying openly, his pain their own. Tracing the faces, he wanted to comfort them in some way, spare them what he had gone through, ease their sorrow.…
Autumn was at the far end, by the billiards room archway, standing in the flesh.
She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back from her face, her delicate hands up to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and red rimmed, her cheeks wet, her expression one of such love and compassion, it instantly made the pain fade.
She had come.
She had come for him.
She still had love… for him.
Tohr started to weep properly, his sobs exploding out of his chest. Reaching for Autumn, he held his hand forward, beckoning to her, because in this moment of letting go, after this seemingly endless, painful journey, along which she and she alone had joined him, he’d never felt closer to anyone.…
Even his Wellsie.
Reborn, resurrected… back from the dead.
Across from where Tohr was writhing in pain from the salt wash, Lassiter grit his teeth not because he was commiserating, but because his head was driving him nuts.
Reborn, resurrected… back from the dead—
Tohr began to sob, his heavy arm stretching, his hand opening… and reaching for Autumn.
Ah, yes… Lassiter thought, the final part of it. Fate had demanded the blood, and the sweat… and the tears, not for Wellsie, but for another. For Autumn.
This was the final part, these tears spilled by the male for the female he had finally allowed himself to love.
In a rush, Lassiter looked up to the ceiling, to the painted warriors with their fierce steeds, to the deep blue background—
The sunbeam seemed to come from out of nowhere, piercing through the stone and mortar and plaster of what was above them all, the bright light so strong even Lassiter had to wince as the illumination arrived to claim a female of worth from a hell that was not of her doing.…
Yes, yes, there in the center of the dome, with her young in her arms, Wellsie appeared as brilliant and vibrant as a rainbow, lit from without and within, color returned unto her, life renewed because she was saved, because she was free—and so was her son.
And just before she was subsumed, from the loft of her heavenly heights, she looked upon Tohr, and looked upon Autumn, though neither of them saw her and nor did the crowd. Her expression was nothing but love for the pair, for the hellren she had had to leave behind, for the female who would spare him his own torment, for the future the two would have together.
Then with an abiding, peaceful expression, she lifted her hand in a good-bye to Lassiter… and was gone, the light consuming her and her son and carrying them away to the place where the dead were at home and at rest for all of eternity.
As the light faded, Lassiter waited for his own burst of illumination, his own claiming sun, his own return for a final time to the Maker.
Except…
He was still… right where he was.
Resurrected, reborn… back from the dead…
He was missing something here, he thought. Wellsie was free, but—
At that moment he focused on Autumn, who had gripped the skirting of her white robe and taken a step forward, toward Tohr.
From out of nowhere, a second bolt of great light broke through from above—
But it came not for him. It came… for her.
Lassiter’s mind made the connection with the speed and shock of a lightning bolt: She had died long ago. Taken her own life…
The In Between. Different for each person. Tailor-made.
Everything went into slow motion as the second truth was revealed: Autumn had been in her own In Between the whole time, traveling to the Sanctuary and serving the Chosen for all those years, then coming down here to earth to complete the cycle that had begun back in the Old Country with Tohrment.
And now that she had helped him save his shellan… now that she had let herself feel for him and let go of her sorrow at her own tragedy…
She was free. Just as Wellsie was.
Fucking hell! Tohr was going to lose another female—
“No!” Lassiter screamed. “Noooooo!”
As he broke out of the lineup and lunged forward, trying to stop the connection between the two of them from being made, people started shouting, and someone grabbed onto him, as if to keep him from getting in the way. But it didn’t matter.
It was too late.
Because the pair of them didn’t have to touch. The love was there, and so was the forgiveness of deeds past and present, as well as the commitment in their hearts.
Lassiter was still lunging forward, in midair, when the final beam of light claimed him, catching him in flight, plucking him out of the present and pulling him upward, even as he still screamed at the cruelty of fate.
His entire purpose had culminated in condemning Tohr to another round of tragedy.
SEVENTY-THREE
For truth, Autumn had not been sure she would come unto the mansion… until she did. And she had not been sure how she would feel about Tohrment… until she saw him searching the crowd and knew he was looking for her. And she did not completely open her heart to him… until he reached out for her, his control breaking the moment he locked eyes with her.
She had loved him before now—or had thought she did.
But she had not been all the way there. The critical part that had been missing was a sense of herself not as somebody who was unworthy and had to be punished, but as an individual with value and a life to live beyond the tragedy that had defined her for so long.
As she stepped forward, it was not as a servant or a maid, but as a female of worth… one who was going to go to her male, and embrace him, and be joined with him for as long the Scribe Virgin deemed.
Except she didn’t make it.
She was not even halfway across the foyer when her body was struck by some kind of force.
She could not comprehend what o’ertook her: One moment she was striding toward Tohr, answering his silent plea that she come to him, crossing over the floor, zeroing in on the one she loved.…
And the next, a great light fell upon her from some unknown source, halting her in her tracks.
Her will commanded her body to continue to Tohr, but a greater force laid claim to her, and take her it did: With a pull that was as undeniable as gravity, she was drawn up from the earth, into the light. And as she was lifted upward, she heard Lassiter screaming, and saw him surge forward as if he wanted to stop her departure—
That was what energized her to flail against the current. Struggling fiercely, she fought with all she had, but there was no freeing herself from what had captured her: No matter how she battled, she could not alter her ascension.
Down below, chaos reigned, people racing forward as Tohr dragged himself up off the floor. As he regarded her, his face was a mask of confusion and disbelief—and then he began to leap up as if he were trying to catch her, as if she were a balloon, the string of which he sought to palm. Someone grabbed him as he lost his balance—John. And the Primale rushed to his side. And his Brothers…
Her last image was not of any of them, not even of Tohrment, but of Lassiter.
The angel was beside her, rising as well, the light consuming them both until he disappeared and so did she, until she was nothing at all, not even conscious.…
When Autumn came to once again, she was in a vast white landscape, one so wide and so long that it had no horizons.
Before her was a door. A white door with a white knob and a glow around its jambs as if there was a bright light awaiting her on the other side.
This had not been what had greeted her when she’d first died.
Back years and years ago, when her consciousness had returned to her after she had inflicted that dagger upon her own stomach, she had found herself in a different white
landscape, one that had trees and temples and rolling lawns, one that was populated by the Scribe Virgin’s Chosen females, one that she had gone on to live in without question, accepting her fate as not one of her choosing, but the inevitable result of her choices down below.
This, however, was not the Sanctuary. This was the entrance unto the Fade.
What had happened?
Why had she—
The explanation came to her in a rush as she realized that she had finally let the past go and opened her heart to embrace all that life had to offer… thus freeing herself from her own In Between—even as she had been unaware she had been within it.
She was out of the In Between. She was… free.
But Tohrment was down below.
Her body began to shake, rage shooting through her, the anger so deep and abiding she wanted to claw through the door and have a harsh word with the Scribe Virgin or Lassiter’s Maker or whoever the sick bastard was who dealt out fates.
After having traversed the great distance from where she had first started, only to find that the prize was nothing but another sacrifice, she was livid to the point of violence.
Not holding anything back, she let herself go, throwing herself at the portal, beating at it with her fists, tearing at it with her nails, kicking at it with her feet. She uttered curses that were vile and called the holy forces names that were villainous—
When arms shot around her waist and began to drag her back, she attacked whoever it was, baring her fangs and biting into the thick forearm—
“Fucking hell! Ouch!”
Lassiter’s indignant voice cut into her temper, stilling her body until she just heaved to catch her breath.
The damn door was utterly uninjured. Uncaring. Unmoved.
“You bastards,” she hollered. “You bastards!”
The angel turned her around and shook her. “Listen to me—you’re not helping here. You need to calm the fuck down.”
With a force of will, she pulled herself together. And then promptly sobbed. “Why? Why are they doing this to us?”