The Savior

by J. R. Ward

  “It’s easier for you if I—”

  “I don’t want easy. I want you. And if I can’t have you, then I want to remember you for the rest of my life. Besides, you’re taking something that doesn’t belong to you in service to people who you’re no longer tied to.”

  “I don’t care about them. All I’m thinking about is how much I’m going to miss you—and how I can spare you that.”

  “Don’t do it. You have my word. I will not look for you. I will not look for them. So in this regard, no one will ever know.” She held up his necklace with its sacred shard of glass. “But I will know who gave me this. And I will know who loved me.”

  Murhder sat back, his softening arousal slipping from her and hating the cold of the outside. As she closed her legs and tucked them up, she pulled the throw blanket she’d just folded over her nakedness, and though he wanted her warm, he hated that he could not see her body.

  “I’ve taken some of your memories already, Sarah.”

  She sat up. “When? And which ones.”

  Murhder looked across the sofa. She was upset and he didn’t blame her. And instead of explaining, he entered her mind with his will and found the patches, releasing them.

  She hissed and dropped her head into her hands as if it ached. After a moment, she raised her eyes to level again. “The FBI agent. Who came by my house and asked me about Gerry.”

  “I couldn’t risk you contacting him while you were entering our world. I didn’t know what your motivations were and there was too much risk. Too much to be exposed.”

  “Is there anything else that you hid?”

  “No.”

  She seemed to wait for him to say something. When he didn’t, she murmured, “You’re not going to do it, are you.”

  He had to look away. His ties to the Brotherhood were deeper than he’d realized; the idea that he’d given his word to Tohr, to the King himself, still meant something even if he wasn’t one of them . . . even if he wasn’t in their world any more than Sarah was.

  Old habits died hard.

  But Sarah meant more to him than his word to those males. And even though he knew damn well it would be so much easier on her—better for her—to resume her life without any conscious knowledge of him or his species, he would not, as she had rightfully pointed out, take something from her that was not his to remove.

  That was a violation.

  “No, I’m not going to.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “I can’t come see you, though. I will always want to and I will always miss you. But the Brotherhood would know. They know everything. They’ll check on your house to make sure I’m not around. They might even monitor you for years to come—I mean, you’ve seen the training center. You know what kind of technology they can afford. If I show up in your orbit and you recognize me? God only knows what they’ll do.”

  “I won’t bother anyone, I promise.”

  There was a pause. And then he asked, “What are you going to do?”

  Sarah’s eyes went to the fireplace and fixated on it as if there were flames in there. “I have a standing offer to interview out in California. I may go work there. I don’t want to be here in Ithaca anymore—and I’d kind of reached that decision before . . . you know, all this.”

  Everything in him wanted to say that he’d go out west with her. That he’d find her there. That he’d . . . be with her there.

  “With Kraiten dead,” she continued, “and BioMed closing, all I was worried about is a non-issue.”

  “If the FBI comes to you, you can’t—”

  “I know.” She looked back at him. “I mean, I feel like I have friends in your world. Jane and Manny and Ehlena. John and Xhex. Nate. And then there’s you . . . I would never endanger any of you. Ever. I’ve seen how the human race treats your kind, and it’s an abomination.”

  As she stared at him, he felt so responsible for how this was all ending. Maybe if he hadn’t so impulsively gone looking for Xhex all those years ago. . . if her relatives had not taken control of his mind . . . if he hadn’t come out of the colony obsessed with finding her . . .

  If he hadn’t taken responsibility for what she’d done at that first lab and then done the same kind of thing himself at the second.

  Maybe the Brotherhood wouldn’t be so . . .

  What did it matter. However he and Sarah had come to be at this point, here they were.

  “I should go,” he said in a voice that cracked.

  They leaned in and met halfway, their mouths finding a kiss that shattered his soul. Then he cradled her to his chest.

  Of all the suffering he had ever been through, nothing compared to this.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Dawn arrived in the way of the winter season, the sun on a quiet, slow approach low on the horizon, as opposed to summer’s brilliantly streaming pop-up sunrises.

  As the weak frosty light bled in through the drapes in Sarah’s living room, she turned her head and played a little game trying to guess what time it was. Not that she really cared.

  Seven-ish, she decided.

  As things got brighter outside, she continued to stay where she was, on the sofa, still wrapped up in the blanket. She had some vague sense that her toes were cold and her shoulders, too. But she was disinclined to do anything about it.

  Next door, she heard her neighbor’s garage door go up. Moments later, their sedan putt-putted down their driveway in reverse, the tires crushing the ice pack of treads. She couldn’t see out into the street from where she was sitting, but she knew when the car went by her house and sped off, another workday ahead for them.

  What day of the week was it, anyway?

  Dragging herself to her feet, she went around the sofa and nearly burst into tears as she saw the track marks the piece of furniture had left in the carpet from when they had made love and things had gotten pushed out of position.

  She left the sofa where it was even though the thing wasn’t lined up properly anymore and ordinarily, wonkiness wasn’t something she could tolerate.

  Tucking the blanket around herself, she headed for the stairs, but stopped by the front door. Her backpack was set down by the jambs. He’d obviously brought it in for her, not that she’d noticed.

  Even though there was a temptation to leave the thing where he had last put it, she picked the backpack up and carried it to the second floor. As she got to the top landing, she looked into Gerry’s study. Seeing the desk where he had done his work was a reminder there were things she had to take care of. Obligations. Loose ties.

  Phone calls to make. A few personal things to pick up at the lab.

  And then there was her car in that parking lot.

  The former she could maybe leave behind, but her car she was going to need.

  In her bathroom, she dropped the backpack on the counter and started her shower. She should probably eat something. But God, that felt like an insurmountable obstacle course of what to choose, where to find it—and then, fuck, the chewing.

  Too much like work.

  Under the spray, she tried not to think about what she and Murhder had done in that hospital room’s shower. And when she stepped back out and toweled off, she tried not to think about everything she had just washed off of herself.

  Little by little, she was losing pieces of him. Of them together. Of her happiness.

  She was familiar with this phenomenon. After Gerry had died, she had monitored the gradual forgetting. Like the first night she was able to sleep through. Or the first day she didn’t think of him at all. Or the first week she went without tearing up.

  This was going to happen with Murhder, what she had refused to let him do to her mind on a oner occurring anyway because of time’s passing.

  But at least now it wasn’t going to be a complete erase.

  As she got dressed in front of her bureau, she felt as though she were putting on a stranger’s clothes. And as she brushed her wet hair out and tied it back, there was a str
anger staring at her in the mirror. And when she went over and sat down on her bed to use her landline, she didn’t remember what the switchboard number at BioMed was.

  That last one wasn’t a very material lapse as it turned out. She managed to recall the digits after a couple of pattern tries on the number buttons, but just got a recorded message stating that the laboratory was closed.

  She did find something interesting on her own voicemail. Her colleague from Stanford was looking to meet with her, and not just for networking. He had a real-life lab position that was opening up.

  She’d have to think about that.

  Before she left her room, she went over to the duffel and decided to empty it so she had something to put the few personal effects she had at her workstation in. And there might be employee severance packets or something.

  Who knew. Who cared.

  Unzipping the top flap, she—

  Murhder’s scent, that incredible dark spice that she loved so much, wafted out and she had to blink quick as her eyes watered from sadness. It was a good minute before she could start the unpacking, and as she took her clothes out, the shirt and the pants, the sweatshirt, the bra—

  “Oh . . . God . . .” she choked.

  With a hand that shook, she reached in and pulled out a thick length of braided rope.

  It was black and red, and tied on both ends with leather strapping.

  Murhder’s beautiful locks.

  Running the heavy weight through her hands, she collapsed backward onto the floor and lowered her head. He had cut it off for her, she realized.

  He had wanted to leave her something more of him, even if they could not be together.

  There was no blinking away anything as she cradled the unexpected gift to her heart and then touched the necklace he had tied around her neck. The talisman and the braid were all she had of him.

  Sarah wept until she felt sure that her soul cracked in half.

  The attic in Eliahu Rathboone’s house still smelled the same.

  As Murhder sat at the trestle table, his sole companion was a single candle in an antique holder that burned steadily before him. The small flame that hovered at the top was unmoving, the yellow glow perfectly round at the bottom where it fed upon the wick, the tip like that of a paintbrush’s fine point.

  The softness of the light made him think of the head of a dandelion gone to seed, downy and gentle.

  Down below, he could hear humans moving around in the house. Doors shutting. Voices trading places in conversation. Footsteps. The fact that this was their active time, that these daylight hours he could not safely enjoy were the basis of the men’s and women’s lives, was a reminder of the divide that existed between the species.

  The divide that could not be crossed in his and Sarah’s case.

  There was a cheap pen on the old wood panels of the table and he picked it up. Blue ink, its plastic body marked with the logo of an orthodontist’s office in Virginia. The thing had been left behind by a guest, and he had used it to sign those papers Wrath had wanted executed.

  The guests did that often—leaving things behind, that was, the incidentals forgotten in their haste to repack what they’d brought with them on their break from their normal lives. The lost-and-found down at the front desk was a series of Rubbermaid bins tucked under the check-in counter into which all manner of human detritus was stored in the event the owners called looking for their sunglasses, reading glasses, regular glasses. Sweaters. Socks. Retainers and bite plates for teeth. Keys. Belts. Books.

  He had always told the people who worked for him to send the things home as requested, no matter if the postage required was greater than the intrinsic worth of the object.

  As an exhile from what he considered his home in the Black Dagger Brotherhood, he had always felt badly for the objects left behind.

  Staring into the flame, he pictured Sarah’s face with all the specificity his memory could provide, everything from the curve of her lip to the arch of her brow, her nose, that beauty mark on her cheek. He had never seen her with makeup on. Her hair done up with false fancy. Her body clothed in the distraction of “fashion.” She had never presented herself as anything other than exactly what she was, and he had loved her for that and so much more.

  But what would have happened to them in the far future, as his much longer lifespan outpaced hers? And what of her family? He knew her parents had both passed—she had shared that with him during one of their quiet times—but surely she had friends. More distant members of her bloodline. Acquaintances.

  As his mind churned over everything she would have had to give up to be in his world, he knew he was trying to find footing in the reality that they were not together.

  Great loss, like death, required time to become real. The brain needed to get trained in the absence, the never again, the there-but-now-gone.

  Emotions, after all, could be so strong that they could warp reality—not in the sense that mourning could resurrect what had been lost, but more like grief could sharpen recollection to such painful degrees that it was as if you could call the person to you, touch them . . . hold them.

  The brain had to learn to accept the new reality.

  Sarah, his love, was a human he could not have. She might as well have died.

  And he should have taken her memories. That had been a mistake. She had weakened him with her logic, but he should have done the right thing even if she hadn’t wanted it.

  Except Tohr was right.

  Murhder’s nature was that of impulse, and it was because of this, as much as his insanity, that the Brotherhood had kicked him out: He had never bowed to even their loosest rules, even as he had fought beside them in service to the race.

  He had been born a loner.

  And he would die one, as well.

  Sitting back in the spindle chair, the creaking wood was a loud, familiar sound in the silent attic and he reflected on how he had been right. When he had headed up to Caldwell, summoned by Ingridge’s letters, he had known he wasn’t coming back . . . that he was on his final mission.

  His premonition had proven to be too right.

  As a bonded male without his mate? He was dead, even as he had a heartbeat and could still draw oxygen.

  The fate he had known was coming had in fact been realized. And as for committing suicide? Given how numb and cold he was . . . that seemed just plain redundant.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  I thought this place was closed? Didn’t you see the news?”

  As the Uber driver pulled up to BioMed’s gatehouse, Sarah sat forward in the backseat. “I used to work here. I have to be able to get in to pick up my car. They can’t just lock everything and walk away.”

  “Did you hear what the guy did to himself?” The older woman made the sign of the cross. “My granddaughter showed me some pictures from the Internet. Who does that to themselves?”

  “I can’t even guess.”

  “Well . . . what do you want to do?”

  There was clearly no one in the guardhouse, and it wasn’t like Sarah was going to climb up the gate’s fencing and pull a gymnastic move over all that barbed wire. And on the security note, she couldn’t see the complex from here, something that never had struck her as significant because hey, she’d always had her pass card and never spent any time parked at this entrance. But clearly, there was a rise and long drive for a reason.

  Shoot. “I guess I’ll go back—”

  “Someone’s coming up behind us.”

  Sarah twisted around. It was an unmarked sedan. Dark gray. And she recognized the man behind the wheel.

  “I know him. Gimme a minute?”

  “Yup, sure thing.”

  Opening her door, she got out of the Camry and was careful to show her hands as she walked forward. Special Agent Manfred immediately disembarked from his vehicle.

  “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Sarah Watkins. You’re a hard lady to get ahold of.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”
<
br />   “I’ve been calling your home phone. And your cell.”

  Given that he worked for the frickin’ FBI, she figured it was stupid to ask him how he’d gotten the numbers. Besides, she had more important things on her mind.

  Like whether or not he was going to arrest her for trespassing or something worse.

  Except as she waited for him to Miranda her or something, he seemed content to wait for her to answer his implied where-have-you-been question.

  Huh. Guess there weren’t any handcuffs in her future. At least not for this ten minutes.

  “Again, I’m sorry I haven’t returned the calls.” She pointed to the closed gates. “Do you know how I can get my things? And my car?”

  “Yeah, you were here Sunday night, weren’t you.” He smiled, but the expression did not make it to his eyes. “Working late on a weekend.”

  “No doubt you know what that’s like.”

  “You can bet your life I do.”

  There was a pause. And Sarah shrugged. “Well, if you can’t help me, I guess I’ll go back home—”

  “Where have you been, Dr. Watkins.”

  As a cold breeze whipped around, her ears stung. Or maybe that was her anxiety. “Nowhere.”

  “So you routinely do not answer calls from federal agencies? When the CEO of the company you work for is found dead?”

  “I’ve never had them before. Calls from the Feds, that is.”

  “Tell you what, how about you and I go in together. You can answer some questions, and give this Uber driver the opportunity do some actual driving instead of parking.”

  “Am I being taken into custody for something?”

  “If I were arresting you, you’d be handcuffed and in the back of my car.”

  “You have such a way with people, Special Agent Manfred. Has anyone ever mentioned this?”

  “My ex-wife. For about ten years straight.”

  Sitting shotgun in Special Agent Manfred’s unmarked, Sarah couldn’t help but lean into the dashboard as they rounded the drive and BioMed’s low-profile, windowless expanse came into view. With all the snow on the ground, its white walls and gray roof blended in. What did not? All the FBI and other law enforcement vehicles parked right up next to the entrance, without regard to the yellow lines for parking spaces or even the arrows that directed traffic on the lane.