Lassiter, page 42
How was he gone.
Even after the first night and day alone, and now after the funeral, she still could not get a part of her brain to comprehend that he was dead, that she would never hold him, or smell him, or hear his voice or laugh again. No more heavy shitkickers pounding the way into this suite. No more masculine beauty arching back under the shower to wash his long hair.
No more a whole.
Only a lonely half.
She supposed the fact that she didn’t want to go on was typical. But just because things happened to other people, that others had shared some or all of what you were feeling, did not lessen the impact when you were the one going through the experience.
Collective grief was not subject to the law of diminishing returns.
As she lay alone and contemplated the years ahead, she didn’t know how she was going to do it. She had thought a lot in the last twenty-four hours about how she had to live for L.W., and she liked to think she would embrace the only purpose she had, but she really could have used a sign—
The knock was soft and she closed her eyes, debating whether she could pretend she was not in. But like the entire household hadn’t watched her go up the stairs?
“Yes,” she croaked out.
The door slowly opened, and she thought it was probably Fritz. The doggen was having a terrible time of it. From the moment Wrath had pushed him out of the way of that bomb at the back door of the Audience House to the text he’d sent out to the Brotherhood as soon as he had come around on the ground… to the funeral preparations and the ceremony itself… the butler was suffering almost more than anyone else, for he blamed himself.
Even though it was absolutely not his fault—
Beth frowned and lifted her head. “Rahvyn?”
As the mysterious, silver-haired female stood in the doorway to the bejeweled suite, there was the strangest energy pouring off of her in invisible waves, the effect buffering across the space, distorting the air or perhaps the room itself.
I need you to trust me, she said in a deep voice.
Even though she did not move her lips.
A feeling of complete disassociation unplugged Beth from her body. Which wasn’t hard to do given how numb she was.
Trust me, the female said without speaking. When you are of despair, and even though you do not know me, you must trust me.
With a sudden surge of motivation, Beth found herself nodding. “All right. I will.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Well, the demon Devina thought, she was almost packed up.
As she looked around her lair, she regarded all the empty racks and the occasional empty hanger that had fallen on the floor. She had done the work herself, needing something to occupy her hands and mind.
Jesus, movers were not fucking paid enough.
Walking over to the kitchen area, she doubled-checked that the cabinets were empty—not that she’d had much in them, because outside of that stretch when she’d been on the human heart diet, she didn’t cook a lot. Fridge was empty, again, not that she ate here much. The tub and toilet areas were good to go, the drawers of the little storage compartments cleaned out.
Everything was carefully set in U-Haul boxes. Now, those she’d conjured, because who the fuck needed to lug back all that cardboard physically? Likewise, the truck waiting at the loading dock was an out-of-her-ass manifestation because she had not been in the mood to deal with the reservation process, even if she could do it online.
Staring over at the lineup of those boxes—there had to be fifty or sixty of them—she thought about the hours it had taken to get all her haute couture sorted and packaged. In a way, it had been nice, the handling of everything she loved. It felt… grounding in the midst of her pain.
And oddly, she’d thought a lot about Lassiter, the fallen angel.
She was still evil, it was true. Down to her marrow. But as she listlessly contemplated the future ahead, she was coming to the heretical conclusion that she’d had no right to rob him of what had been his due.
There had been a moment, when she’d been fucking him and enjoying the idea she was taking away what mattered most to him because she had been cheated of what had mattered most to her, that his mask of composure had slipped… and the pain in him had shown in his face.
At the time, she’d been so damned satisfied by his show of weakness. So triumphant, the angel’s ruination part of the prize, in addition to her getting her true love.
And now she was here, stewing in an agony that was eternal for her: Because the reality was… no one wanted her. Not really.
’Cuz she was a demon.
Yeah, yeah, boo-hoo and all that bullshit. But the truth was, she hadn’t been asked to be born as she had been, made as she had been… created as she had been. There’d been no consent even contemplated by the Creator when He’d conjured her out of space and time.
And the thing that she was coming to realize was that if He had asked her? She would have begged to be different.
Everything that had gone down with Lassiter was letting her see that now, and that meant, in so many ways, he was as important to her immortal life as Lash was. Kind of ironic, really. That angel was probably living his best life with his female, not thinking of Devina even a little—and dismissing her if she did cross his mind for a brief second. Meanwhile, he was a ghost that constantly stalked her in the shadows, a reminder that her nature was immutable… and what do you know, she didn’t want to be alone with herself any more than anybody else did.
“It’s me… hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” she sang under her breath.
Thanks, T. Swift.
Fucking hell, no wonder she liked retail therapy so much.
On that note, there was just one collection left to deal with.
Throwing off all her damned introspection, she pivoted and regarded her Birkins. Of all the things she owned, the bags were her absolute favorite, her most prized, and she went over to the display of Lucite stands. The boxy purses with their perky handles and their little buckles were in all kinds of colors and different types of leathers, the most exclusive handbags in the world, made by the very best artisans in the world.
And she had so many that she loved so much.
Ultimately, though, it was the ruined one at the top that she loved most. Man, it had been her true pride and joy, that Himalayan. And though it had been burned beyond utility, she still loved it best anyway.
Which was why she had used it for that stupid fucking spell.
But again, there was no reason to retread all that. And no, she wasn’t making yet another promise to move on, get over herself, be independent. She was just going to go along, putting one Louboutin after another, and see what happened.
What wasn’t happening next? She wasn’t bribing anyone to love her. She wasn’t engineering any destiny for herself. And she wasn’t making herself indispensable in the hopes that reliance could take the place of true regard. After Lash had inducted all those women she’d found him?
He’d just waltzed on out with them and left her behind. He hadn’t even looked back.
So yup, she was just packing up her clothes and moving on. Maybe she’d find something to do, or maybe, like so many mortal souls, she’d just wander her days and nights in the shadows of dreams that had never manifested—
The knuckle rap on her door was loud, and she rolled her eyes. Stupid fucking security guards. This was a goddamn storage space as far as they knew. Who the fuck did they think was going to answer.
When the knocking came again, she marched across and yanked open…
… the…
… door.
Out in the hall, dressed in the dark gray suit she’d picked out for him, Lash was standing in the low light of the commercial hallway.
He of course looked beautiful and pathological. Which made her hate him—and in a way, the return to her normal state of rage felt good in a nostalgic sort of fashion. Like a friend had come back for a nice meal.
“What do you want,” she said.
His eyes went down her body and he cocked a brow.
Yes, I’m wearing blue jeans and a fucking sweater, she thought. I’m packing, you asshole.
“What,” she snapped.
As he arched his other aristocratic brow, yes, she did entertain a brief fantasy of shaving both of them off. With a chain saw.
“I have a table for two reserved in twenty minutes at L’Orangerie,” he announced. “I want to know if you want to go on a date.”
Devina opened her mouth. Closed it.
“I also got you a present. Here.”
He held out an enormous orange bag, the thing swinging gently between them.
The demon looked at him. Looked at the bag.
And when she just stood there, frozen, he bounced the weight a little—like maybe she hadn’t seen it.
As if she could have missed the thing, especially given the logo in the center, of a jaunty little man in front of a horse and carriage.
With a shaking hand, Devina reached out and took the handles. Stepping back, she wondered where to open it—and decided her coffee table, over where her white leather chairs and love seat still were.
As she padded across the concrete floor, Lash said, “Where are you moving to? You got a new place?”
Sitting down on her little sofa, she took out an orange box the size of a microwave, and boy, it was heavy. Undoing the brown ribbon, she lifted the top and saw layers of carefully folded tissue paper.
She was gentle with the revealing, peeling back the fine sheets until she exposed a pale herringbone-patterned bag with the Hermès crest once again on it, the little horseman and his trotter a perfect visual vignette to remind the customer that saddlery was where it had all started.
As she pushed the box aside, she opened the neck of the giant fabric pouch, and the instant she saw the handles, her heart stopped.
With careful tugs, she pulled out… a pristine Himalayan Birkin 35 with the diamond hardware.
“Yours got wrecked,” Lash said remotely. “So I bought you a new one.”
Putting her hand to her mouth, she had to blink away tears.
“There are matching bangles. I bought them for you, too. They’re in the bag itself.”
When she could compose herself, she looked up at him. The Omega’s son was staring down at her, his evil eyes guarded, but unwavering.
“So,” he said. “You want to get dressed and head out? I’ve got a limo waiting for us.”
It was an eternity before Devina could find her voice to answer him.
Clearing her throat, the demon replied, “I do.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The night after the funeral, the Brotherhood and the other fighters convened in Wrath’s study, and Lassiter made sure that he was down from the Sanctuary for the meeting. Unsurprisingly, no one spoke as they filed in and found their regular spots, like they were visiting hallowed ground and didn’t want to be disrespectful.
On his side, Lassiter felt conflicted. He and Rahvyn had spent the daylight hours up in his private quarters. They had made love, yes, in a reconnecting, reverent way—and when they hadn’t been joined in that special fashion, they had both lain awake. Until she had gone to check on Beth just now.
And he had come here.
It was hard to balance their joy with all the suffering. But life was like that, an equilibrium that was sustained, by the good… and the bad, both parts required.
By design.
As the doors were shut by Tohr, Lassiter glanced across the way. Eddie and Adrian were in their spot in the corner and the angels lifted their hands in greeting to him. They were going to be a great addition, especially as things got rougher. Which they were going to.
When everybody was present and it was time to get started, Tohr went over to the desk and the throne, and stood there for a moment, looking like he was lost. Then the brother who had seen more grief than anybody else slowly pivoted around.
Taking a deep breath, his voice was low and strained. “We need to, ah, discuss the memo that was circulated by the newly established Council.” He cleared his throat and went around to stand beside the throne and face out into the room. “There is the meeting of them tonight, and I’ve asked Saxton to check the legality of what they’re doing, see if there’s some way of stopping them… He doubts there is, but, yeah, he’s going to look.”
There was a grumble from a couple of males. Halfhearted, at best.
“Um, so we are going to have to get an announcement out about what… happened.” Tohr took another deep breath. “Civilians have a right to know. Of course, this couldn’t be a worse time… not that it would ever be a good time.”
The brother looked around the room. “As for succession, Wrath was democratically elected so… there is none. Not in the traditional bloodline sense. I imagine that, with the Council re-forming, they’ll put up somebody. I don’t know if any of you want to step forward for consideration? I won’t be putting my name into the ring. I have no interest in… anyway, we’re going to end up being ruled by some dandy in a suit. And I… well…”
He let the sentence drift. Then there was a silence that no one filled.
It was within the dense quiet that the implications of the tragedy clawed into them all anew, it seemed: A private guard with no King to protect. Brothers who had lost one of their own. A family… without a patriarch.
A shellan without her mate.
A young without his father.
A species without a leader.
All those levels of loss, private and public, intersecting into one void the size and shape of a grave… that would never be filled because the explosion had left no remains to bury.
“Anyway…” Tohr sighed. “That’s where we are, which is nowhere, actually. The King’s power was extensive, but he was the one who abolished the monarchy. So, yeah… of course, the irony is, the civilians he’s been meeting with all wanted his lineage to continue. They told us so, every time they showed up.”
Grumbles of agreement percolated around.
“But yeah, nothing to be done.”
More silence. To the point where Lassiter realized, it was all over. The Brotherhood. The mansion. This community. There were many parts to what had made the whole, but Wrath had been the binding. Without him, all was going to scatter, and Lassiter had the strangest sense that this was the last time they were going to be together at once—
The double doors to the study burst open with such force they banged against the walls.
Filling the void of the archway, a dark-haired female in a red and black gown stood proud and tall. In her arms, a young dressed in a black robe. By her side, the dead King’s dog.
Beth, the Queen, marched through the room, and as she went along, she looked at every single one of the males, her stare full of vengeance and purpose.
At the desk, she went around, faced them all…
And sat upon her hellren’s throne.
There was no weakness in her voice, no stammer or stutter, and there was no forgiveness, no quarter, no compromise:
“I will not allow the Lessening Society to rob my son of his father’s legacy.” Then, with even more power, she said, “Rahvyn.”
As ripples of confusion shot around the room, Lassiter recoiled and wheeled toward the door.
His beloved entered, and immediately looked at him.
I love you, she mouthed.
What the hell is going on, he wanted to ask. But instead, he just mouthed back, I love you, too.
With a nod, as if she needed his support and had gotten it—and thus was ready to move forward with something—his shellan started walking across the study, in the path cut by the Queen.
The transformation was sequential, the stages coming with each step his female took: First, her hair changed from platinum to black. Second, her body began to lengthen its limbs and fill out. Third, her robe altered shape and color.
Taller. Broader. No longer feminine, but masculine.
No longer Rahvyn…
… but Wrath.
By the time she reached the throne and turned around, she was the very image of their lost ruler, the one who had been killed saving his most trusted and loyal servant.
The eyes were pale green and had tiny pupils. The midnight hair fell from a widow’s peak down to the waist. Heavily muscled arms with tattoos of the great Blind King’s lineage along the insides were on display.
The black muscle shirt. The leathers.
The shitkickers.
One of the brothers started to faint; someone caught him. Vishous looked like he was going through a mental splintering. Even Eddie and Adrian had thrown out arms and were using one another as crutches to stay upright.
The last thing Rahvyn did was reach forward to the blotter.
And pick up a pair of black wraparound sunglasses that had been left behind.
Just before she slipped them onto the image of Wrath’s face, she mouthed those three words again to Lassiter.
Then it was complete. The transformation… done.
Beth spoke up in that new voice of hers. “We continue as if nothing happened. No one will know outside of this household. The civilians will continue to be heard, their concerns and problems sorted. The Lessening Society and Lash will believe they failed to kill my mate. And my son will have the opportunity to grow into maturity.”
She looked around. “First thing tonight, my husband Wrath will reinstate the monarchy. Though during his lifetime, it was his wish for democratic elections, in this current situation, the Council will take control of ruling the population, and they will abuse their power because they always have. Families without means will suffer, the slayers will get the upper hand, and the species will die off. That is what will happen. Therefore, we will reverse his decision. Sometime in the future, my son can reinstate the election process in honor of his father. But it is too dangerous for all of us right now, and I’m not just talking about the people in this house.”
