The Savior

by J. R. Ward

  Looking around, he saw nothing but trees on the periphery. Talk about sitting ducks. As the pair of them crossed this open area, they were completely without cover, but he wasn’t worried. There were no foreign scents on the cold wind, and the Brothers were no doubt on the fringes and playing nursemaid. If anyone rode up on them?

  Shit was going to go down.

  The closer they got to the farmhouse, the worse the structure looked. Between its swaybacked roof, distorted windows, and loose clapboards, the place looked like it was on its last legs—and he felt a renewed sense of guilt.

  Not that regrets over this female had ever needed help getting over his fence and into his backyard.

  If only he’d been faster at that lab. Or if that male hadn’t gotten shot. Or if—

  “How did she find you?” Xhex asked.

  “Eliahu Rathboone.” His breath left his mouth in puffs as he spoke. “My B&B. She said she saw the portrait of me on TV.”

  As a cutting wind came up against them, Murhder put his gloved hands into the borrowed parka’s pockets and thought about Fritz providing the insulated clothes. The butler had not been surprised to see him and had offered the same wrinkled smile he always had. In his eyes, though, the doggen’s sadness had been evident and Murhder got it. Back in his old life, he’d crashed so many times at Darius’s, he’d been a member of the household. Now? Being an outcast meant he was worse than a stranger.

  He was family with bad baggage.

  And on top of that? Darius, the Brother who had brought that butler and Murhder together, was now dead, the conduit between them gone, one more emptiness to register on the long list of people who were no longer there.

  Speaking of which . . . they were about twenty yards away when the dark windows of the shack made him worry. He’d expect any exterior glass to be shuttered during the daylight hours, but the sun wasn’t a problem now. Why no interior lights? Eyeing the anemic wires that came out of the forest and attached to a corner of the roof, he worried that she’d lost power.

  Or what if she’d moved from where she’d received Havers’s surgical aftercare, but stayed in the same town? The fact that the female hadn’t included her home’s location or a phone number had made sense to him because she hadn’t been any surer of where he was than he had been of her identity. And as vampires living in a world dominated by humans, everyone was careful.

  Especially someone like her who had been tortured by the other species.

  But now, he wondered. Was this all a ruse? Except then how had she known what had happened as he’d broken into the lab?

  These questions burned up the short distance to the front door, and out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Xhex had discreetly taken out a handgun.

  Curling up a fist, he knocked to announce their presence—and did not like the way the panels rattled in the frame. When there was no answer, he knocked again.

  The door had an old-fashioned iron latch instead of a modern knob, and as he lifted the weight, he expected the metal to fall right off its mounting. Instead, he got resistance as he tried to push and then pull things open.

  He knocked a third time. And then his training and experience as a Brother took over. This position at the door was too much exposure, sentries in the woods notwithstanding.

  Murhder turned his shoulder to the flimsy barrier and busted through it, his momentum carrying him into an ice-cold center room.

  Silence.

  Taking out a penlight, he moved the thin beam around, fine dust turning what was a spotlight into a flood. There was a threadbare sofa. A TV, which surprised him until he recognized it as being from the nineties. A desk with . . .

  Walking across the floorboards, he trained the light on a letter that was partially written on paper that was the same as the missives that had been sent to him. And sure enough, in the same hand, the salutation was to Eliahu Rathboone.

  He didn’t bother reading the two and a half paragraphs.

  “She’s here. Or she was—”

  The moan was so soft, a creak of the floor beneath his feet nearly drowned it out. Hurrying toward the sound, he went into what looked like a cold-water kitchen, everything painfully neat on the pitted counters, the old seventies-era refrigerator making a rhythmic choking noise.

  The bedroom was in the back on the right, and now he could scent a female. But she had a terrible visitor with her.

  Death.

  The acrid and achingly sad scent of the dying was heavy in the still, frigid air, and as Murhder breached a narrow doorway, he clasped the shard of seeing glass once more.

  “You found me,” a weak voice said.

  In the glow of the penlight, a bed was revealed, and upon it, under layers of handmade quilts, a female was on her side facing him, her skeletal visage on a thin pillow. Wisps of hair, gray and curled, formed a halo around the stark bones of her features, and her skin was the color of fog.

  Murhder went to her, dropping to his knees.

  As her sunken eyes sought his, a tear escaped and dropped off the bridge of her nose. “You came.”

  “I did.”

  Strangers they were. And yet as he reached for her hand, it was a family connection.

  “I have no more moons left,” she whispered. “And my night skies are going starless.”

  “I will do what you need me to do.” He rushed the words, in the event she passed right now. “I will find your son, and I will get you medical help—”

  “Too late . . . for me.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Xhex. “Get the Brothers. Bring them here to help her—”

  The hand in his own squeezed. “No, it’s all right. I know you will not fail . . . I cannot hold on any longer, and I do not want my beloved son to see me like this.”

  Xhex disappeared, and he was relieved. She would bring aid.

  “What is your name, female?” he asked as those lids lowered.

  “Ingridge.”

  “Where are your people?”

  “I have been shamed. Leave them be . . . I told you where my son is. Go, rescue him, make him safe. He would have come unto me here if he had escaped. He knows of this place. We were to meet here if e’er we were separated.”

  “Ingridge, stay with me,” Murhder prompted as she fell silent. “Ingridge . . . stay . . .”

  “Find my son. Save him.”

  “Don’t you want to see him again?” Murhder was aware he could not promise such a reunion, but he would say anything to keep her on this side of the grave. “Hold on, help is coming—”

  “Save him.”

  Beneath the faded quilts, her body jerked and she inhaled sharply as if a sudden pain had gripped her. And then came an exhale that lasted as long as eternity.

  “Ingridge,” he choked out. “You need to stay here . . .”

  As he tried to find words to compel her unto life rather than death, he thought about the testimony of wahlkers, those who had come up to the brink of death yet returned unto the living, those stories of a foggy landscape that parted to reveal a white door. If you opened the door, you were lost from the earthly world forever.

  “Do not open that portal,” he said sharply. “Do not step through. Ingridge, come back from the portal.”

  He had no clue whether the command made sense or even if she could hear him. But then her eyes popped open and she seemed to focus on him.

  “Natelem is his name. I told you where to find him—”

  “No, you didn’t—”

  Ingridge switched over to the Old Language, the syllables muddled in places, the words running together. “Upon my bed of mortal demise, and with the Virgin Scribe watching o’er me, I hereby grant you all rights and responsibilities o’er my young, Natelem. I seek your acceptance of this precious gift upon your honor as a male of worth.”

  Murhder twisted around. He wanted to see Brothers rushing in with a medic.

  Not happening.

  On to plan B.

  Yanking up the tight cuff of the
parka, he didn’t get far enough so he ripped off the jacket, and pulled his shirtsleeve up to reveal his wrist.

  “Swear it,” she begged. “So that I might die in peace.”

  “I swear it.” He met her eyes. “But you’re going to live.”

  As she exhaled in relief, he bit into his own vein and then brought the puncture wounds to her mouth. “Drink, take from me and . . .”

  She was still exhaling, her eyes closing, her body loosening, but she opened her mouth prepared to accept what he offered—

  “Ingridge,” he said sharply. “Ingridge, take from me.”

  His blood, red, warm, vital, dropped onto her lips. Yet she did not respond. There was no turn toward the source, no seal of her mouth upon his vein, no response whatsoever.

  Murhder’s heart pounded. “Ingridge! Wake up and drink.”

  With his free hand, he awkwardly reached under his extended arm and gently shook her body. Then he did this again, more forcibly—

  She rolled off her side onto her back, but the movement was like blocks falling from a stack, not anything that represented volition.

  She was gone.

  “No . . .” Murhder swallowed hard. “Don’t go. Not now . . . please.”

  As he argued against the reality before him, his eyes clung to her hollowed face and he prayed for some kind of rousing, his blood slipping down the back of her throat and entering her body, reviving that which was animated no longer.

  Instead, she remained still. And the contrast between the vital red of what he wanted her to take from him and the pasty, deathly white color of her immobile lips made his soul scream at the unfairness of life.

  With a shaking hand, he reached up to her mouth. He wanted to leave his blood where it was, but he couldn’t bear the idea that she looked unattended in her death. Forgotten. Uncared for.

  Wiping the stain away as best he could, he whispered hoarsely, “I shall get your son, and I shall make sure he finds a safe home. This is my vow to you.”

  Pulling the quilts up higher on her neck, as if he could stave off the cooling of the body, he was crushed even as he remained whole. And though she was nominally a stranger, it was impossible not to think of her as blooded kin, the two of them united by events that forged a bond ne’er to be broken.

  Bending over the bed, he covered her fragile remains with his strength, the shield of his support too late in coming, the sword of the Reaper having already done its work.

  Why was he always too late? Murhder thought as he gathered her in his arms.

  Despair, a familiar swamp, drenched him in its swill of sadness, and he retreated deep into his mind as he began to weep.

  I will find your son a proper father, he vowed silently. It will be the last thing I do before I join you unto the Fade.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Xhex ended the call to the training center’s clinic and looked across the meadow. The Brotherhood was somewhere in the trees and she waved her hand to catch their attention. Figuring they’d know what the signal meant, she went back inside the farmhouse, treading over creaking boards, walking through cold, still rooms.

  When she got to the bedroom, she stopped short in the doorway. She had intended to go in.

  She did not.

  Across the cold, barren space, a tapestry of mourning tore at her soul, and told her all she needed to know about the futility of medical help. Murhder had covered the female’s form with his own body, and the shuddering of his shoulders as well as the scent of tears was such a private moment that she backed off.

  Lowering her head, she covered her mouth with the palm of her gloved hand and put her other arm around her middle. Sometimes in-the-nick-of-time was still not good enough, and it was impossible not to put herself in Murhder’s position.

  God, that male had been born under a dark star. He seemed destined for suffering.

  She was standing in the middle of the main room when Rhage and Vishous came up onto the shallow porch.

  “What’s going—” Rhage didn’t finish the question. The scents in the air said everything. “Shit.”

  “She’s dead. The female is dead.” Xhex glared at V. “And no, he didn’t kill her.”

  The Brother cocked an eyebrow. “Did I say anything?”

  “I can read your grid.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “Symphath, remember?”

  “How can we help?” Rhage interrupted. “What can we do?”

  Xhex glanced over her shoulder. As she blinked, she saw Murhder crumpled over that corpse, and wanted to scream at destiny that the poor bastard deserved a break.

  “Nothing,” she muttered. “There’s nothing to be done.”

  “We can’t just leave a dead body here.” V took out a hand-rolled. “We’re gonna have to—”

  “Don’t you fucking light up in here.”

  That diamond stare narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Have some respect—and if you point out she’s dead, I will have your throat in my hand before you get the final word out. This is still her house, goddamn it.”

  As V’s icy eyes flashed with aggression, she hoped the Brother came at her. She wanted to fight with something she could physically strike. But instead, he turned around and headed back for the door. The muttering was under his breath. The f-bombs were nonetheless still audible.

  Xhex ripped off her hat and rubbed her short hair. Talk about emotional grids. With the amount of anger she had in her, she was dangerous and not a value add in this highly charged situation. And the last thing Murhder needed was more drama.

  Marching over to the open door, she leaned out. V had set up shop against a column and was blowing a stream of smoke into the night.

  “I am sorry I took your head off,” she said roughly. “This is a shitty situation.”

  The Brother looked across at her. His inhale on the hand-rolled was long and slow, the tip glowing bright orange. As he exhaled, he talked through the smoke. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be lighting up in someone else’s crib. It’s rude.”

  Xhex nodded. Vishous nodded.

  When she went back inside, she stopped short. Murhder had come out from the back bedroom, and other than bloodshot eyes that gleamed too bright, you wouldn’t have known he’d just lost it.

  Good male, she thought.

  Him showing any weakness around the Brothers did not seem like a good idea.

  “I wrapped her up in quilts,” he announced in a hoarse voice. “Let’s shut this place up tight. The cold will preserve her body for the Fade Ceremony.”

  Murhder knew his mouth was moving and he guessed that he was communicating things which made at least nominal sense because Xhex and Rhage were nodding back at him. His mind was somewhere else, however.

  I told you where to find him.

  Except she hadn’t.

  And he had already tried to find out if there were any other spin-off labs. Over the years, when he’d gotten particularly antsy, he had searched the Internet for signs that such research could still be going on. The original pharmaceutical company had shuttered its doors, and there were no more facilities registered under the name. He had taken that as a good sign, and tried to use it to ease his conscience—

  As conversation swirled around him, his eyes went to the desk.

  Murhder ran across the bare room like that half-written letter was the way out of a three alarm fire.

  Picking the piece of paper up with shaking hands, he read the Old Language symbols—and exhaled in relief. Okay. All right. She had told him after all.

  He knew where to go. Ithaca. There was a rebranded laboratory associated with the original one doing work in Ithaca. She’d found it after scouring PETA websites that tracked pharmaceutical companies with animal rights violations.

  Opening his mouth, he turned to Xhex—and then shut things up tight. Rhage was looming in the corner, a big blond mountain who was chewing a grape Tootsie pop like a Great White.

  Best to keep this quiet, Murhder thought as he slipped
the letter into his pants pocket.

  “Where’s her son?” Rhage asked as he chewed. “We can help bring him here.”

  Murhder shook his head. “He’s dead. He didn’t make it. She told me this right before she died.”

  The Brother lowered his head and cursed. “I am so sorry.”

  “Me, too. It’s so much tragedy.” He was aware of Xhex frowning as she looked at him, but he refused to acknowledge her. Symphaths always knew too much. “I guess we should just go, then—”

  “We can’t leave her here.” Rhage went over to the flimsy front door and gave it a shake. The thing had been left open on a why-bother because the inside of the shack was the same temperature as the great outdoors. “This isn’t strong enough, even if you lock it.”

  “To keep out the wind, it damn sure is.”

  “There are wolf tracks all over these woods, and we scented a pack while we came across the meadow. Go around back. You’ll see that they’ve been sniffing the property already.”

  Murhder rubbed his eyes to get the grit out. “We’ll tie it shut. The door. The front door.”

  He had no idea what he was saying.

  Xhex spoke up. “Rhage is right. She’s not safe here. Let’s take her back to my cabin, and Murhder, you can stay with her the whole time. You can do the Fade Ceremony there. The place has been shut down for the winter, so it will be cold, and it’s solid.”

  Damn it, just let me go, he wanted to yell. He needed to find the exact location of the rebranded lab and case the place. There was no way he was fucking up his last chance with a haphazard attack. And he needed weapons. Supplies. A plan.

  “You can make sure she’s taken care of,” Xhex said flatly. “You don’t want to run the risk of her remains being desecrated.”

  Before he could reply, Vishous stuck his head into the farmhouse. “Xhex. I need you to come back home with me right now.”

  The heartbeat of silence that followed took Murhder back to his Brotherhood days. There were some combinations of words spoken in certain tones of voice that you didn’t want to ever hear.