Lover Unveiled, page 22
There would be others. Not that he could share that.
Fate was, after all, a need-to-know kind of jam.
Lassiter stopped before the skull, meeting the black voids of the eye sockets as if he were trading gazes with a living thing.
“I wish I could reassure them,” he murmured.
It turned out, when you were in charge, there were things that the rank and file were not permitted to know. And of all the surprises that had come since he’d accepted this job from the Scribe Virgin, the biggest shocker was the amount of information he was not able to share with the people who would be most affected by it.
Evidently, knowing the outcome sometimes changed the “free” part of the will thing.
So as much as he hated it, he had to zip it a lot of the time—
Voices, deep and far off, percolated down to him, and before the Brotherhood arrived, he took a final look around at the stalactites, the black candles, the torches… the altar, the wall.
Stepping away from the skull, he went off to stand at the side. Moments later, the voices dried up and were replaced by the approaching sounds of heavy boots and the shifting of heavy fabric.
The first of the black robes entered alone. And even though the ceremonial garb’s hood was up and shielding most of the facial features, it was obvious that it was Wrath—and not because of the white cane sweeping side to side, either. He was just bigger than the others, in ways that had nothing to do with physical size.
The next in line was Tohr, a spot of honor earned by virtue of him being the first lieutenant of the Brotherhood. And as the fighter’s presence registered, Lassiter had a memory of finding the male in the forest and bringing him some McDonald’s. The grief-stricken widower had been surviving off the blood of deer, waiting impatiently to die so he could join his shellan and unborn son in the Fade.
Destiny had had other plans for him, however.
Behind Tohr, the rest of them filed in, and the four in the middle were not empty-handed. Or empty-shouldered, as was the case. Rhage, Vishous, Phury, and Zsadist had the old coffin up on their shoulders, and they bore the responsibility with solemn honor.
The Black Dagger Brother Sahvage was back in the house, so to speak.
The coffin’s wood had darkened nearly to black, the paneling run with age-created cracks and spotted with wormholes. But the carvings were still evident. Symbols in the Old Language detailed warnings on all sides, and woven among the dire missives was the brother’s name.
At the altar, Tohr bowed before the skull. Then he picked it up and gave the relic to Wrath, the King’s black diamond flashing as he accepted the sacred symbol of all that had gone before.
The coffin was placed upon the slab, taking up all of the flat surface.
The brothers tightened their circle around it, standing shoulder to shoulder, and as Wrath held the skull over his head, a low chanting started up, the voices of the males blending together to become one tone, one sound, that was amplified by the acoustics of the cave.
Tohr stepped forward, taking out of the folds of his black robe a silver wedge and an old hammer with a wooden handle. Finding the seam of the coffin lid, he drove the tool’s sharp cleave in with a series of bam-bam-bams, and then repeated the process all around, teasing loose the single plane of wood that sealed the mortality box. The air that was released hissed out, and the sense that something imminent was closing in on the group made Lassiter’s nape prickle in warning.
If he’d been Catholic, he’d have made the sign of the cross. Fortunately, Butch O’Neal did that for them all.
Hey, it never hurt to belt-and-suspenders with the God thing.
The coffin nails were long and rectangular, having been forged by hand centuries before, and there seemed to be a hundred of them. With every turn of the wedge, they protested against the separation they had been called into duty to prevent, the squeaks a reminder that not only were they good at their job, they had been doing it for a very, very long time.
Putting the tools back into his robe, Tohr nodded at the lineup of brothers, and Rhage and Vishous joined him, one at the head, one at the foot.
The chanting got louder as the three brothers squeezed their fingers in between the lid and the body of the coffin—and Lassiter had a thought that he was glad this wasn’t a John Carpenter movie.
The nails came free in a series of pops and then the interior was revealed.
With a synchronized tilt, the Brotherhood leaned in as if they had linked arms, and Lassiter did the same off to the side. As his heart started to pound, he told himself that he had given them the right advice.
The solution to all of this was in there—
Everyone froze, including the three who were holding the lid.
“What the fuck,” V breathed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
While Sahvage was up on the cottage’s second floor listening for the boogeyman, Mae was down in the basement, staring into the darkness of Tallah’s bedroom. The light from the cellar stairs was enough to let her see the old female lying on the chaise lounge by her antique writing desk. She’d cast her fragile body out on the silk cushions, one arm over her head, the other across her midriff. Her feet in those slippers were extended into arched points, like she was a ballerina about to come down for landing.
If she had been back in her youth, her recline would have been sensual. In her dotage, her pose seemed as sad as all her fancy furniture stuffed into this run-down little house: Evidence that the best of her life had come before, and what was left was only remnants of glory and youth, both faded to the point of no return.
“I lied to him,” she whispered. “I couldn’t tell him about—”
A creak up above in the kitchen made her shoulders tighten with anxiety.
Turning away, she tugged the hem of her fleece down and went over to the base of the wooden steps. Looking up at Sahvage as he stood at the top, he was nothing but a looming mass, faceless yet not shapeless, his muscles carving his presence out of the illumination streaming from behind him.
“Did you leave already?” she asked quietly.
“Yes. I’m back now.”
Wow, that was fast. “She’s sound asleep.”
“Everything’s secure up here. And I have… what we need.”
Mae was careful on the ascension, making sure to sidestep the creakers in the planks. As she closed in on where he was, Sahvage backed up to give her some room.
Closing the basement door behind herself, she glanced around. “So… yeah.”
“No, there still aren’t any errant books. Anywhere.”
“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Yes, it was.”
Mae crossed her arms over her chest. “I refuse to argue about what’s going through my head with a disinterested third party.”
Sahvage’s lids lowered. “Oh, I’m hardly disinterested.”
Mae leaned back against the cellar door. There was the temptation—nearly irresistible—to go back and forth with him, but instead she rotated her sore shoulder and stayed quiet.
“What are we going to do now?” she said.
“Sit and wait.”
“For what.”
“What’s up with that shoulder of yours?”
“Huh? Oh.” She rubbed the knot in the muscle with her opposite hand. “I was in a car accident a couple of years ago. The seat belt saved my life, but it caught me right across here—and ever since, it gets to talking to me.”
“Sit down,” he said as he spun one of the seats at the table around. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not looking for help.”
“No, really?” He clasped his hands to his chest. “What a reversal. I’m reeling over here. You, turning down aid?”
Mae smiled a little. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe, but I know what I’m doing with shoulder injuries.” He patted the chair. “Come on, what are you worried about? That I’m going to kiss you?”
Mae blinked. And thought, No, I’m worried that if you do, I’m going to ask you to do it again. And again. And again—
“No.” To prove the point, she went over and planted her butt in front of him. “Do whatever you like.”
Just as she was about to qualify that with a “shoulder only” chaser, she felt his broad, warm hand slide over the spot in question. Bracing herself, she got ready for him to pull some chiropractic move and snap her in half—
“Ohhhhhh…” she groaned as he massaged the top of her arm.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, that’s amazing.”
He was gentle but firm as he worked the tension-filled cords that ran across the side of her neck… and God, the way the warmth from his palms translated into her skin, her muscles, her bones. And that weave of heat wasn’t contained to just where he was touching. The connection between him and her body flowed everywhere, from her head to her feet.
The next thing she knew, she wasn’t just sitting in the chair, she was relaxing into it. And after that, she noticed that her breathing was slowing and the persistent ache she’d had behind her right eye was also getting up and leaving—its presence registering because of its sudden absence.
So much stress over the last couple of weeks, winding her tighter and tighter. But with every subtle squeeze and rotating touch, Sahvage was taking it away from her, giving her a temporary peace that she knew was going to last only as long as he was massaging her.
But damn it, she was going to take the respite where she found it.
“Here, I’ll come around and do the clavicle,” he said.
She barely noticed Sahvage moving, but then he was in front of her and his thumb was pushing into the hollows above and below the bone that had been broken and healed wrong.
The second she winced, he stopped. “Too much?”
“No, it’s wonderful,” she murmured. “Please keep going.”
There were a pair of cracks from his knees as he knelt down, and he was so big that his face was in front of hers even though the rest of him was on the floor. And as he fell into a rhythm of pressure and release, her torso moved back and forth, becoming a wave, as opposed to an intractable I-beam of stress.
It was hard to say when relaxation turned to awareness.
When she started to focus on how close he was to her.
When her eyes, which she hadn’t been aware of closing, slowly reopened.
Sahvage was staring at her face instead of where he was rubbing, and his harsh features were a mask, showing nothing. His stare, though… it was full of heat.
I take lives against the will, but never females.
“I think you’re good,” he said as he dropped his magical hands.
In the silence, he didn’t rise to his full height. He didn’t move in to get closer. He just stayed where he was, showing her nothing and telling her everything with his obsidian eyes.
And that was when she realized…
“Not black, but blue,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Your eyes.” Her voice got huskier. “I’ve been thinking they were black. They’re a very dark blue.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“How can you not know what color eyes you have?”
“Because I don’t care.”
Their voices were low and soft in the silent cottage, but not because either of them was worried about waking up Tallah. At least that wasn’t on Mae’s mind. No, to her, they had created a separate space from the entire world, and there was no reason to speak any louder than it took to cross the infinitesimal distance between them.
“How can you not care?” she said.
“I don’t like to look at myself.” He reached up and brushed a strand of her hair back. “Mirrors are not my friend.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I can’t stand my reflection.”
Her hand lifted of its own volition to his face. The second she made contact with his cheek, his breath seemed to catch—which seemed strange given how powerful his body was.
With careful fingers, she traced his jaw… and lingered at his chin. “You have a five o’clock shadow.”
“Do I.”
“Do you shave without a mirror?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “How?”
“I do it in the shower.”
Sure as if he had implanted the image in her mind, she pictured him under a cascade of water, his head tilted back, his hair slick from the moisture… his naked body the peaks and valleys the spray traveled over. Glistening. Glossy.
As it rushed down his torso toward his—
“Do you ever cut yourself?” she breathed.
“No. I’ve been doing it that way for years.”
She stopped with her hand cupping the side of his face. And as she fell quiet again, he turned to her palm… and pressed his lips to her lifeline, to the place she had scored herself with the knife so she could bleed into the silver basin and call the Book that had yet to come.
“I’m sorry,” she said roughly.
“For what.”
“I don’t know.”
Sahvage took her hand down and ran his thumb over the already-closed cut. “I thought you hurt your finger, not here.”
“No, this was from before.”
“You’re not very good with knives, huh.”
“Guess not.”
Lowering his head, she closed her lids as he brushed his lips over the healed slice.
She stayed exactly where she was for what felt like an eternity.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring right at her—and she spoke one and only one word:
“Yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sometimes you had to go in for a second look.
Or twelve.
Deep in the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s sacred Tomb, Lassiter elbowed his way through big male bodies to get to the coffin’s edge. But it wasn’t like proximity changed what he was seeing.
Which was absolutely fucking nothing… except half a dozen old bags of—
“What is that?” someone said.
V outed one of his black daggers and stabbed at the discolored burlap sack. As a white powder was exposed, he speared some onto the blade.
“I’d think twice before throwing that in your nose,” somebody else remarked.
“Oat flour,” Vishous announced as he scented it. “Really fucking old oat flour.”
What the fuck, Lassiter thought.
No skeleton surrounded by spiderwebs. No mummy. No zombie with perpetually rotting flesh and a hankering for fresh meat. Not even a generic set of remains where there was a collapsed death shroud and some dust over a bunch of discombobulated bones.
But no, they had something Fritz could make a bread loaf out of.
And not the weapon Lassiter had brought them here for.
“Someone better tell me what the fuck is happening,” Wrath growled as he yanked the hood of his robe down.
“Nothing is happening.” Lassiter looked over at the King as the other brothers likewise lost the coverings over their heads. “There’s a couple bags of flour in there. Otherwise, the coffin is empty.”
The happy little announcement made the great Blind King register surprise behind his wraparounds. “Sahvage. Is gone.”
“If he was ever in there.” Lassiter backed away and ended up looking at the wall of names. “Maybe we have the wrong coffin.”
Tohr picked up the lid. “His name is carved into the damn thing. Along with all the warnings.”
“So they didn’t kill him,” Wrath said with a shrug. “Those guards must have not killed him, after all.”
“Warlocks aren’t immortal, if that’s what you mean,” Lassiter said absently. “Just because you practice magic doesn’t mean you live forever. It doesn’t work like that.”
“And just because you say you killed someone and nailed ’em into a coffin doesn’t meant that’s what you did,” Wrath shot back. “The glymera lying. Imagine that. That never fucking happens.”
“He must have used the supposed death to his advantage,” Tohr said. “He disappeared and stayed that way because he knew nothing good was going to come from what happened with that aristocrat, at that castle. He would have wanted to spare the Brotherhood the problems—”
Phury spoke up. “For those of us who don’t know the story, can anyone please explain?”
As Lassiter went over and checked out the names that had been inscribed into the marble wall, he listened to Wrath lay out the fact pattern: Sahvage with the hocus-pocus in the Old Country. Local glymera leader gets spooked. A hunt-down that supposedly ended in the slaughter of an aristocrat and his guards, and Sahvage’s own death. The brother put in this coffin along with the Gift of Light.
Except not so much, as it turned out.
“And what is the Gift of Light?” Phury said.
“It’s a source of energy,” Lassiter replied as he found Sahvage’s name in the lineup of inscriptions. “But more than that. It’s incredibly powerful, and if you want to fight evil, it’s really fucking handy.”
“So you weren’t going to try and resurrect Sahvage? I thought bringing him back was the point of all this.”
“No.” Lassiter shook his head. “Sahvage was never the thing. He was supposedly buried with the Gift of Light, and that’s what I want you to have.”
“What is that exactly? A sword? Another book—”
“Yeah, like we need a second hardcover in all this,” V muttered.
There’s something wrong here, Lassiter thought. This is not the way it’s supposed to be.
Turning away from Sahvage’s inscription, he cleared his throat. “The Gift of Light is a prism, a sacred relic of an ancient time that goes all the way back to when the Scribe Virgin was creating the vampire race. It reflects whatever goes into it. So if you leverage it against great evil—”
“Then that’s what you get back out of it,” V finished.
