Lover Reborn (71 page)

“Layla?”

She glanced over at the female. “I know right where he is. He hasn’t moved.”

“That isn’t what I’m asking about.”

Layla had to smile a little. One of the big surprises of the night had been the
symphath
—whom she actually no longer felt comfortable defining as such. Xhex was razor-sharp mentally, and strong as a male physically, but there was a warmth to her that was at odds with those traits: She had never once left Layla’s side, hovering like a
mahmen
over a young, ever solicitous and careful, as if she knew that so much of this was foreign work under troubling circumstances for her charge.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

As Layla refocused on the signal of her blood some two blocks away, she stayed quiet.

“I’m sure you’re already aware of this,” Xhex murmured. “But you really are doing the right thing here.”

“I know. He’s changing positions.”

“Yeah, I can sense that.”

Abruptly, Layla turned toward a lofty, glowing beacon to the west: the highest skyscraper in the city. As she focused on the lights that blinked white and red at its apex, she imagined him standing in the gusting cold atop the monument, staking his claim to the city.

“Do you think he’s evil?” she asked roughly. “I mean, you can sense his emotions, yes?”

“To a point I can.”

“So… is he evil?”

The other female exhaled long and slow, as if she regretted what she had to share. “He wouldn’t be a good bet, Layla. Not for you, not for anyone—and not just because of the Wrath issue. Xcor’s got some sinister shit in him.”

“So he is a dark soul.”

“You don’t need to read him to know that. Just think about what he did to your king.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.”

From Qhuinn to Xcor. Fabulous track record for picking males—

“He’s moving fast,” Layla said urgently. “He’s dematerialized.”

“This is it. This is where you come in.”

Layla closed her eyes and shut out all of her senses except the instinct to find her own blood. “He’s moving north.”

As previously agreed, the two of them traveled a mile and reconvened; traveled another five miles and reconvened; traveled another ten, and another
ten… with Layla’s instincts acting as a compass, steering their course.

And all the while time was of the essence, dawn racing in, a dangerous glow lodging in the seat of the sky and getting stronger.

The final leg of their race found them in a wooded forest, a good mile to a mile and a half away from where he had stopped—and at last gone no farther.

“I can get you closer,” Layla murmured.

“He’s not going anywhere?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Then you go. Now—go!”

Layla took one last look in the direction he was in. She knew she had to depart—for if she could sense him, he could perhaps sense her as well. The expectation, of course, was that if he did, he would not be able to react fast enough, that her disappearance to the
mhis
-protected environment up north would stop her trail and stymie him completely, not just giving him no inkling of her destination, but scrambling his blood sense so totally, he would be sent in a different direction like light bouncing off the surface of a mirror.

Fear made her heart skip, and she held on to the sensation, recognizing it as more real than her assessment of the time they’d been together when he had fed from her.

“Layla? Go!”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she had condemned him to death this night—

No, she corrected. He had done that to himself. Assuming that rifle was found in and among the Band of Bastards’ living arrangements, and that it proved what the Brothers thought it would, Xcor had set the wheels of his doom in motion months ago.

She might be the conduit, but his actions were the electrical charge that was going to stop his heart.

“Thank you for giving me this opportunity to do the right thing,” she told Xhex. “I’ll go home right now.”

With that, she dematerialized away from the wooded glen, zeroing in on the mansion, making it into the vestibule just as the light was beginning to sting her eyes.

It was not tears doing that. No, those were not tears—it was the coming dawn.

Tears shed for that male would be… wrong of her on too many levels to count.

*   *   *

“We need to go, buddy.”

John nodded as Qhuinn spoke to him, but he didn’t move. Standing in the middle of Wellsie’s kitchen, he was suffering from a kind of culture shock.

The cupboards were bare. The pantry was empty. So were all the drawers and the two closets. The bookcases over the built-in desk. The desk itself.

Walking around, he circled the table that was in the alcove, remembering the dinners Wellsie had served on it. Then he ambled down the long stretch of granite countertop, imagining her bowls of bread dough draped with dish towels, her cutting boards with piles of diced onions or sliced mushrooms on them, her canister of flour, her crock of rice. At the stove, he almost bent down to breathe in the aroma of the stew and the spaghetti sauce and the mulled apple cider.

“John?”

Turning away, he walked over to his best friend… and then kept going, heading out into the living room. Shit, it was like the place had been bombed in a way. The paintings had all been stripped from the walls, nothing but their claw-shaped brass hangers left where they had been hung: Everything in a frame had been moved over to the far corner, the works of art leaning up against each other, separated by thick terry-cloth towels.

The furniture had likewise been shifted all around, the lot of it sorted into arrangements of chairs, side tables, lamps—God, the lamps. Wellsie hadn’t liked overhead lighting, and that had meant there were, like, a hundred lamps of different shapes and sizes in the house.

Same with rugs. She’d hated wall-to-wall, so there were Orientals—
had
been Orientals—lying everywhere on hardwood and marble. Now, though, like everything else, they had been rolled up with their pads and organized into a cordwood-like stack against the long wall in the living room.

The best of the furnishings and all of the artwork were going to be brought north to the mansion, the staff securing a U-Haul truck for the relocation. What was left over would be offered to Safe Place, and, if declined, forwarded on to Goodwill or the Salvation Army.

Man… even after the four of them had worked for ten hours straight, there was a lot left to do. This first big push, however, seemed like the most critical part.

From out of nowhere, Tohr stepped into his wandering path, stopping him short. “Hey, son.”

Oh, hey.

As they clapped palms and then shoulders, it was a relief to be on the same page again after months of estrangement. The fact that the Brother had brought him here to help with all this had been a measure of respect that had surprised him and touched him deeply.

Then again, as Tohr had said on the trip out here, Wellsie had been as much John’s as anyone else’s.

“I sent Qhuinn back, by the way. Figured this is an extenuating circumstance—and I gotchu.”

John nodded. As much as he loved his friend, it felt right for him and Tohr to be in the house together alone, even if just for a few moments.

How’d it go at Safe Place?
he signed.

“Really well. Marissa was—” Tohr cleared his throat. “You know, she’s just a lovely female.”

She totally is.

“She was really happy about the donations.”

You give her the rubies?

“Yeah.”

John nodded again. He and Tohr had gone through what little was in Wellsie’s jewelry collection. That necklace, bracelet, and earrings had been the only things with any intrinsic value. The rest was more personal: little charms, a couple pairs of hoops, a set of tiny diamond studs. They were going to keep all that.

“I meant what I said, John. I want you to use the furniture if you want. The art, too.”

There’s a Picasso in there I really like, actually.

“It’s yours, then. All of it, any of it, is yours.”

Ours.

Tohr inclined his head. “That’s right. Ours.”

John walked around the living room again, his footsteps echoing up and around.
What made you decide tonight was the night
, he signed.

“It wasn’t any one thing. More like a culmination of a lot of stuff.”

John had to admit he was glad for that answer. The idea that this might have somehow been solely tied to Autumn would have made him angry—even though that would have been unfair to her.

People moved on. It was healthy.

And maybe that lingering anger was a sign that he needed to let go a little more as well.

I’m sorry I wasn’t better about Autumn.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, son. I know it’s tough.”

Are you going to mate her?

“No.”

John’s brows jumped.
Why not.

“It’s complicated—actually, no. It’s pretty simple. I blew up the relationship the night before last. There’s no going back.”

Oh… shit.

“Yeah.” Tohr shook his head and looked around. “Yeah…”

The pair of them just stood there side by side, their eyes tracing the mess they had created out of the order that had once been. The state of the house was now, John supposed, rather like where their lives had been after Wellsie had been killed: blown apart, hollow, everything in wrong places.

It was more accurate than what had been before, though. False order, preserved out of a refusal to move on, was a dangerous kind of lie.

You’re really going to sell the property?
he signed.

“Yeah. Fritz is calling the Realtor as soon as the business day gets rolling. Unless… well, if you and Xhex want it, it goes without saying—”

No, I agree with you. Time to let it go.

“Listen, I want to see if you can take the next couple of nights off? There’s a lot still to do here, and I like having you with me.”

Of course. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.

“Good. That’s good.”

The two of them stared at each other.
I guess it’s time to go.

Tohr nodded slowly. “Yeah, son. It really is.”

Without another word, the pair of them stepped out of the front door, locked up… and dematerialized back to the mansion.

As his molecules scattered, John felt like there should have been some kind of proclamation or exchange between them that was momentous, some conversational flag in the sand, a grave, milestone-y recitation of… something.

Then again, he supposed the healing process, in contrast to trauma, was gentle and slow…

The soft closing of a door, rather than a slam.

S
everal nights after Autumn arrived at Xhex’s cabin, a towel changed everything.

It was just a white hand towel, fresh from the dryer, destined to be rehung in the aboveground bathroom and used by either one of them. Nothing special. Nothing that Autumn hadn’t handled either at the Brotherhood mansion or up in the Sanctuary over the course of decades and decades and decades.

But that was the point.

As she held it in her hands, feeling the warmth and the soft nap, she began to think of all the laundry she had done. And the trays of food she had delivered to the Chosen. And the bedding platforms she had made. And the stacks of johnnies and scrubs and towels…

Years and years of maid service that she had been proud to do…

You’ve been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries.

“I have not.” She refolded the towel. And unfolded it again.

As her hands made work for themselves, Tohr’s angry voice refused to yield. In fact, it got even louder in her head as she went out and saw the
floors gleaming from her hand-polishing, and the windows sparkling, and the kitchen neat as a pin.

That
symphath
was your fault. I’m your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault—

“Stop it!” she hissed, clamping her hands on her ears. “Just stop it!”

Alas, the desire to become deaf was thwarted. As she limped around the small house, she was trapped not by the confines of the roof and walls, but by Tohrment’s voice.

The trouble was, no matter where she went or what she looked at, there was something she had scrubbed or straightened or buffed right in front of her. And her plans for the night had included more of the same, even though there was no demonstrable need for any more cleaning.

Eventually, she forced herself to sit down in one of the two chairs that faced the river. Extending her leg, she looked down at the calf that had not looked right or worked right for such a very long time.

You enjoy being the victim—you’re all about it.

Three nights, she thought. It had taken her three nights to move into this place and slip right into the role of maid—

Actually, no, she had started in as soon as she had woken up after that first sunset.

Sitting by herself, she breathed in the lemon-scented fragrance of furniture polish and felt an overwhelming need to get up, find a rag, and start wiping tabletops and counters. Which was part of her pattern, wasn’t it.

With a curse, she forced herself to stay seated as a replay of that horrid conversation with Tohrment churned through her brain again and again.…

Immediately after he had left, she had been in shock. Next had come great waves of anger.

Tonight, however, she actually heard his words. And considering she was surrounded by evidence of her behavior, it was hard to dispute what he had said.

He was right. Cruel though the expression of the truth had been, Tohrment was right.

Although she had couched it all in terms of service to others, her “duties” had been less of a penance, more of a punishment. Every time she had cleaned up after others, or bowed her head under that hood, or shuffled off to stay unnoticed, there had been a satisfying lick of pain in her heart, a little cut that would heal nearly as quickly as it was inflicted.…

Ten thousand slices, over too many years to count.