The Savior

by J. R. Ward

  It was Murhder. Murhder was speaking.

  Even as John Matthew nodded, he could not believe this was happening. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe they were—

  Tohr’s voice now, loud and clear. “Mine son, will you join us this night and for all others that Fate provides you?”

  John Matthew bowed low. As he straightened, he mouthed the word “yes” at the same time he nodded and signed.

  You know, just in case there were any doubts.

  “Put this on.”

  A black robe was shoved at him and he whipped that thing over his head so fast, he almost tore it. Putting the hood up, he found himself trembling. But not from fear.

  No, it wasn’t fear.

  “Lower thine eyes and keep them thus. Your hands shall be clasped at the small of your back. You are not to look up until told to do so. You are not to respond unless prompted to do so. Your bravery and the honor of the bloodline you and I share by virtue of adoption shall be measured in every action you take. Do you understand this?”

  As John Matthew nodded, he did as instructed, and felt his arms get gripped on both sides. Tohr was on his left. Murhder was on his right.

  The two males, one the only father he had ever known, and the other, a new acquaintance that he knew only too well, led him down the grand staircase.

  Everything was dark, all the lights in the mansion seemingly extinguished.

  And then he was outside, and being put into a van.

  The next thing John knew, he was being drawn out of the back of the van, his bare feet hitting frozen ground that was covered in fallen pine needles. The air was bracingly cold, and full of the scents of the forest.

  They had taken him somewhere on the mountain, but he would not look around. He would do nothing he was not told to do. His arms were gripped again by Tohr and Murhder and he was led forward, his footfalls mirroring theirs, his trust in them absolute, the frigid ground not even registering.

  And then they were out of the gusts, in a space that smelled like damp earth. A cave. They were in a cave.

  Pause. And then a procession along a gentle decline. Another pause.

  He had the impression that a second gate was being opened. More forward going.

  He could sense the other members of the Brotherhood behind him, the large bodies moving in succession, the power in the group magnifying by proximity.

  Warmth came after further walking, and now underneath the hem of his robe . . . candlelight. And no longer a packed dirt floor or one of rough stone, but fine honed marble.

  He was jerked to a halt.

  All around him, there was a shifting of fabric. The Brothers were disrobing, he thought. And then a heavy hand clamped on the back of his neck and the deep growl of the King’s voice shot into his ear.

  “You are unworthy to enter herein as you are the now. Nod your head.”

  John nodded his head.

  “Unclasp thine hands and say that you are unworthy.”

  I am unworthy, John signed.

  “He states that he is unworthy,” Tohr translated.

  Immediately, there was a shout in the Old Language, a protest uttered by every one of the Brothers.

  Wrath continued, “Though you are unworthy, you desire to become as such this night. Nod your head.”

  John nodded.

  “State that you wish to become worthy.”

  I wish to become worthy, John signed.

  “He has so declared that he wishes to become worthy,” Tohr said.

  Another shout in the Old Language, this time a cheer of support.

  Wrath went on to say, “There is only one way to become worthy and it is the right and proper way. Flesh of our flesh. Nod your head.”

  John nodded.

  “State that you wish to become flesh of our flesh.”

  I wish to become flesh of your flesh, he signed.

  After Tohr translated again, a low chanting started up, and John heard the Brothers shifting their positions, big feet whispering over the glossy marble, a line of bodies forming in front of, and behind him. And then they were swaying. Back and forth, back and forth, in rhythm with their deep bass voices.

  John did not struggle to find his place, his movement, his echoing of the larger group.

  Sure as if he had done this before, he fell immediately into the groove.

  And then they were all going forward.

  Together. As one body—

  Without warning, there was a great change in acoustics, the booming voices blooming in a vast open space and echoing around, the chanting redoubling on itself, expanding . . . exploding. And just as abruptly, tears formed in John’s eyes and he blinked quickly but could not catch them. As he swayed along with the others, the tears landed on the tops of his bare feet.

  But he was smiling.

  In the strangest way, he felt like he’d come home.

  He even somehow knew when he needed to stop even before someone’s hand on his shoulder halted him.

  The chanting silenced, the tail ends of the voices trailing off. Both of his arms were clasped, and then he was led forth once again.

  “Stairs,” Murhder said softly.

  John took the marble steps one by one, and though his hood and his lowered head prevented him from seeing anything, he knew that he was being moved onto a stage. And even before he was positioned so that his toes touched something and he was left by himself, his mind told him that it was the wall.

  The Wall.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Deep within the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s sanctum sanctorum, Murhder stepped off the dais and stood shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, the whole lot of them staring up at John Matthew as he faced the great wall of names. Every single member of the Brotherhood who had served had had his name inscribed in the marble expanse in the Old Language, and the torchlight that glowed in the subterranean cave played over the beautiful characters.

  Breathing in deep, he braced himself for the appearance of the Scribe Virgin—except no, the mother of the race would not be coming. Wrath would be performing her part in the ceremony, and sure enough the King was being led up to the marble steps by Tohr—

  All at once, a brilliant light blazed through the cave, so bright that it had a white-hot blast to it. Everyone covered their eyes, and even John, who was still hooded and facing away from its source, had to duck his head into his shoulder.

  When the blast of illumination faded some, Murhder dropped his arm, looked over his shoulder . . . and gasped along with many of the others.

  A male figure had materialized at the entrance of the cave, his body glowing from within and without, an aura surrounding his naked body. Draped in chains of gold, from his neck to his nipples to his hips, he had long hair that was blond and black, and an unearthly beauty that defied description.

  But none of that was what truly awed.

  Rising behind his shoulders, a magnificent pair of iridescent angel wings glimmered with all the colors of the rainbow.

  He did not walk down to the Brotherhood. He floated over the marble aisle that led down to the dais.

  Next to Murhder, Vishous slapped a palm on his face and cursed.

  Rhage chuckled. “So this is who your mom picked as a successor, huh.”

  “Yeah, I always knew she hated us,” V muttered.

  Over by the steps, Tohr leaned into the King, clearly telling him what had arrived and Wrath smiled slowly.

  “Yes, I know,” the King said.

  The angel passed by the row of brothers, and paused in front of Vishous. In a low voice, he whispered, “Who’s your daddy?”

  Vishous rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest.”

  The angel blew a kiss and then looked at Murhder.

  Abruptly, the angel’s voice entered Murhder’s mind, “Worry not over your female’s future. I have her in hand.”

  Murhder’s eyes flared as he recoiled. “What?”

  But the angel merely continued on, stopping in front of the King
. With a deep bow, Tohr stepped aside, leaving the sacred male to escort the race’s leader up to the great wall’s altar.

  In a clear, deep voice, the angel called out, “Who proposes this male?”

  “We do,” Tohr answered. “Tohrment, son of the Black Dagger warrior Hharm.”

  Murhder shook himself back into focus and spoke up as well. “And Murhder, son of the Black Dagger warrior Murhder.”

  “Who rejects this male?”

  When there was only silence, the angel spoke again. “On the basis of testimony from Wrath son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, and upon the proposal by Tohrment, son of Hharm, and Murhder, son of Murhder, I find this male before me, John Matthew, blooded son of Darius, adopted son of Tohrment, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, I hereby give you permission to begin.”

  Wrath nodded. “Turn John. Unveil yourself.”

  Up at the wall, John pivoted around and removed his robe, keeping his head still lowered as the folds fell to the marble at his feet. As Murhder watched, he remembered his own induction and had to blink away tears. Never had he thought he’d stand here again. And how wonderful this all was.

  “Lift thine eyes,” Wrath ordered.

  The inductee slowly followed the command—only to gasp at the sight of the cave and the Brotherhood before him. His gaze then went to the altar on which an ancient skull was placed, a tangible representation of the great history of the warriors serving the race.

  “Step back against the wall. Grasp that which fits your hands.”

  John Matthew did as he was told, locking fists on two pegs that were mounted in the wall, his position framed by the lines of names.

  Wrath brought up his dagger arm, revealing an ancient weapon that was locked on his entire forearm and hand. Made of silver, the flexible glove had barbs at the knuckles, and inside the curl of his fist was the handle of a black dagger.

  Tohr led him over to the altar and positioned the King’s other wrist above the silver cup that was mounted in the top of the skull. With a vicious streak of the blade, Wrath cut himself and let his sacred pure blood flow into the reservoir.

  “My flesh,” the King said. Then he licked his wound closed, put the blade down, and approached John.

  After Tohr made sure he was in correct alignment, the King grabbed onto the inductee’s jaw, wrenched the male’s head to the side, and bit him in the neck, clearly sparing none of his strength. In response, John’s body spasmed from the pain, but he gritted his teeth and did not so much as exhale, his hands using the pegs to control his response. Like a Brother should.

  Wrath stepped back and wiped his mouth, smiling with aggression. “Your flesh.”

  Then he curled up a fist within the silver glove, drew back his powerful arm, and pounded the barbs into John’s pec . . . directly over the scar that was already present there.

  As if John had previously been through the ceremony.

  What a birthmark, Murhder thought.

  Tohrment was next, scoring himself with the black dagger, mingling his blood with the King’s in the sacred skull cup, biting John, and brutally marking the male’s chest in the same place Wrath had.

  And now it was Murhder’s turn as the second nominator.

  Trading places with Tohrment, he accepted the glove and slipped it onto his own hand. Over at the altar, he picked up the black dagger, the candlelight flashing on the blade. For a moment, his eyes clouded once more with tears.

  He thought of Sarah, waiting for him when this was through.

  He thought of Nate, with her now.

  He thought of what he hoped for the future.

  For no particular reason, he glanced over at the angel who was far off to the side. The male was watching him, and the smile that came at Murhder was full of love and acceptance, as if the angel had had a hand in all this.

  In everything.

  The angel’s hand lifted and swept through the air—and Murhder jumped as he felt a stroke on his cheek, a tear being wiped away. Then the angel made a fist and opened his palm. Something caught the light, sending out a sparkle.

  Shaking himself, Murhder refocused and turned back to the skull. “My flesh.”

  The pain as he opened his vein was sharp and sweet, and his blood glowed red in the candlelight as it dropped in to join Wrath and Tohr’s. Licking the wound closed, he went up to the inductee. As he approached John, his eyes went to the list of names . . . and as he found his own, he felt a flush of pride.

  “Your flesh.”

  He didn’t have to tilt John’s head to the side. The male did it by himself.

  The bite marks on John’s throat were bleeding, leaving a trail of blood down his collarbone and his chest, the side of his torso and his hip. The male was unwavering in the pain, his face composed and his body strong, even as his jaw spasmed from the agony he was in and his arms trembled from how hard he was gripping the pegs.

  Murhder curled up a fist in the glove and spared none of his strength. To do so would have been disrespectful to John.

  John took all of the bites and all of the strikes, adrenaline running through him, keeping him upright even as the pain magnified and threatened his vision and hearing.

  When it was Qhuinn’s turn, his best friend seemed to tear up as their eyes met. John did the same.

  And then Zsadist was the last one to approach him from the lineup. John stared into the male’s yellow eyes as a pair of massive fangs dug deep into a wrist still marked with a slave band. And then came the impact on John’s chest, all breath knocked out of him, his upper body going limp such that he nearly lost his hold on the grips.

  But he remained standing.

  His hollow belly pumped in and out as he refused to lose consciousness. And when next he was fully aware again, he saw with clarity the lineup of males that had gathered around the altar, proud warriors, all with the same mark on their pec as he had.

  Wrath picked up the skull and held the ancient relic high. “This is the first of us. Hail to him, the warrior who birthed the Brotherhood.”

  A roar of triumph and respect echoed around the candlelit cave, and then the King turned to John and was brought over by Tohr.

  “Drink and join us,” Wrath said.

  John released the pegs and went for it, taking the skull and putting the silver rim of the reservoir to his mouth. Opening his throat, he drank it all down, the blood blazing a trail to his gut, scorching him.

  The King took the skull back, and said softly, “Better hold on to those grips, son—”

  The firebrand of power that came unto him was like nothing John had ever experienced before. It was a rush of incalculable dimension, sure to blow him apart—and yet in the midst of it, he recognized each of the Brothers within it, their individual characteristics entering him, nourishing him . . . strengthening him.

  Teeth chattering, muscles jerking, heart pounding, he hung on . . . until he could no longer. Falling . . . he was . . . falling . . .

  . . . John opened his eyes and blinked . . . blinked again . . .

  He was on the marble floor, facing the wall of names, his body spent as if it had been used to run a hundred marathons. His head was like a balloon, his spinal cord the string that tethered it to his torso, his legs useless—

  Abruptly, everything became focused.

  Below the inscription of his best friend Qhuinn’s name . . . was his own. John Matthew. In the symbols of the Old Language.

  Pushing up against the marble floor, he started to smile as he reached out and traced the deep carving.

  Clapping brought his head around.

  The Brotherhood was standing behind him, re-robed, their hoods down. All of the fierce males were smiling as they cheered for him.

  Tohr extended his dagger hand. “Let me help you up, my brother.”

  John looked into the male’s face and was reminded of the first time he’d seen the one he wo
uld call “father.” As tears threatened, Tohr’s eyes became misty, too.

  John stood up on his own, and the two embraced, holding each other tightly.

  It had been a long road from that bus station where he’d been born and left for dead, so much of it full of terrible losses. But there had been amazing surprises, too, and blessings that had been both prayed for and unexpected. There had been laughs and sobs, illness and health, confusion and clarity.

  Throughout all of it, John had questioned his path so many times. Had felt for sure he would never recover from countless problems. Had worried he would be alone for his days and nights.

  But that was not how things had ended up, had they.

  If he’d only known to put a little more faith in Fate.

  Just before he broke away from the only father he had ever known, he caught Lassiter’s strange silver gaze. The fallen angel smiled at him.

  And then pulled a Taylor Swift move, making a heart of his forefingers and thumbs over his pec.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, did anyone bring a tissue?” someone muttered.

  As multiple brothers started to sniffle, somebody else said, “Use your robe. I did.”

  “Goddamn it, I hate crying.”

  “So why do you watch Grey’s Anatomy?”

  “It’s the angel’s fault. Fucker is a glutton for punishment . . .”

  As the Brotherhood talked and laughed, John and Tohr separated and then he was hugging Qhuinn. Murhder. Everyone.

  John could not stop smiling. He was one of them for reals.

  And wasn’t that awesome?

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Sarah got out of the Mercedes slowly, rising from the warm interior without noticing the cold. At all.

  The structure before her was more castle than house, a monolithic stone construction with gargoyles on its roofline, a thousand diamond-pane windows, and multi-story’d wings that went on forever. The magnificent expanse was anchored by a courtyard with a fountain that was shut down for winter, and there was also a carriage house off to one side and a lineup of very different cars and trucks across the way.