J.R. Ward: Lover Reborn

With the unfamiliar sense of a job well-done, Lassiter thought about all the months he’d been back on earth, recalling the way he and Tohr and Autumn had all worked together to save a female who would in turn… well, in different ways, free each of them.

Yeah, the Maker had known what was up when this assignment had been made: Tohr was not the same. Autumn was not the same.

And Lassiter himself was not the same: It was simply impossible for him to disconnect from this, to be all blasé, to act like nothing mattered—and the funny thing was, he really didn’t fucking want to pull out.

Man, there were a lot of purgatories getting expunged tonight, he thought ruefully, both real and figurative: When Wellsie transitioned unto the Fade, he was going to finally get out of his prison. And with her release, that meant Tohr’s burden was lifted so the both of them were free.

And as for Autumn? Well, with any luck, she’d allow herself to love a male of worth—and in turn be loved back—so after all these years of her suffering, she could finally begin to live again; she would be reborn, resurrected, come back from the dead.…

Lassiter frowned, a strange alarm beginning to ring in his head.

Looking around, he half expected some lessers to be rappelling down the side of the mansion or landing out in the gardens from a helicopter. But no…

Reborn, resurrected… back from the dead.

Purgatory. The In Between.

Yeah, he told himself. Where Wellsie was. Hello?

As an odd, disembodied panic gripped him, he wondered what the fuck his problem was—

Tohr froze and looked over into the corner. “Lassiter?”

With a shrug, the angel figured he might as well make himself visi. No reason to hide—although, as he took form, he kept his dread to himself. God… what the hell was wrong with him? They were at the finish line. All Autumn had to do was show up at the Fade ceremony—and, going by the way she’d been laying out clothes as he’d left to come here, it was pretty clear she wasn’t just going to be scrubbing floors at that cabin all night long.

“Hey,” the brother said. “I guess this is it.”

“Yeah.” Lassiter forced a smile onto his face. “Yeah, it sure is. I’m proud of you, by the way. You’ve done well.”

“High praise.” The guy fanned his fingers out and looked at the rings. “But you know what? I really am ready to do this. Never thought I’d say that.”

Lassiter nodded as the Brother turned and headed for the door. Just before Tohr got there, he stopped at the closet, reached into the darkness, and pulled out the skirting of the red gown.

As he rubbed the delicate fabric between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth was moving like he was talking to the satin… or his former mate… or, shit, maybe it was just to himself.

Then he released his hold on the dress, letting it settle back into the quiet void it hung in.

They left together, Lassiter pausing to give a last measure of support before breaking off and paving the way down the hall of statues.

With each step closer to the stairs, that alarm bell got louder, until the sound of it reverberated through the angel’s body, his stomach going sour as his legs grew sloppy.

What the hell was his problem?

This was the good part, the happily-ever-after. So why was his gut telling him that doom was waiting in the wings?

As Tohr stepped into the pitch-dark hallway outside of his room, he accepted a quick hug from the angel and then watched the guy walk off toward the glow at the second-floor balcony.

Damn, his breath sounded loud in his ears. And his heart rate was the same.

Ironically, it had been just like this when he and Wellsie had been mated, his nervous system all a-twitter. And funny, the fact that his physiological response was identical in this context proved the body was a one-note machine when it came to stress, the adrenal gland firing in the same way, regardless of whether the trigger was good or bad.

After a moment, he began to walk down the corridor toward the grand staircase, and it was good to feel all the symbols of his brothers on him. When you got mated, you went into it alone: You came up to your female with your heart in your throat and your love in your eyes, and you didn’t need anyone or anything else, because it was all about her.

When you were performing her Fade ceremony, on the other hand, you had to have your brothers with you, not just in the same room, but as close as you could get them: The weights on his hands and around his neck and the tie about his waist were all that were going to keep him standing. Especially when the pain came.

As he got to the head of the stairs, he felt the floor under his feet go into a wave, the great swell beneath him shifting his balance right when he really fucking needed it to stay in place.

Down below, the foyer had been draped in vast bolts of white silk that fell from the ceiling molding, so that everything, from the architectural features to the columns to the fixtures to the floors, was covered up. All the electric lights had been turned off throughout the mansion, and massive white candles on stanchions along with fires in the fireplaces made up for the deficit.

Every member of the household was standing around the edges of the great space, the doggen , the shellans , the guests all dressed in white, according to tradition. The Brotherhood had formed a straight line off from the center starting with Phury first, who was going to officiate, and then John, who was going to be part of the ceremony. Wrath was next. Then V, Zsadist, Butch, and Rhage on the end.

Wellsie was in the middle of it all, in her beautiful silver box, on a small table that had been draped in silk.

So much white, he thought. As if the snow had sneaked in from outside, and was breeding in spite of the warmth.

It made sense: color was for matings. For the Fade ceremony, it was all about the opposite, the monochromatic palette symbolizing both the eternal light the dead would be subsumed in, as well as the intention of the community to someday join with the deceased in that sacred place.

Tohr took one step, and then another, and then a third.…

As he descended, he looked at the upturned faces. These were his people, and they had been Wellsie’s. This was the community he was continuing with, and the one she had left.

Even in the sadness, it was hard not to feel blessed.

There were so many with him in this, even Rehvenge, who was now so much a part of the household.

And yet Autumn was not among them; at least, not that he could see.

Down at the bottom, he fell into a bracing stance before the urn, his hands clasped in front of his hips, his head lowered. As he settled into his body, John joined him, assuming the same pose even though he was pale, and his hands couldn’t seem to still.

Tohr reached out and touched John’s forearm. “It’s okay, son. We’re going to get through this together.”

Instantly, the jerky movements stopped, and the boy nodded as if eased a little.

In the ticking moments that followed, Tohr thought dimly that it was amazing how a crowd this size could be so quiet. All he could hear was the crackle of the lit fires on either side of the foyer.

Over to the left, Phury cleared his throat and bent down to a table over which a bolt of white silk had been draped. With graceful hands, he lifted the cover to reveal a mammoth silver bowl filled with salt, a silver pitcher of water, and an ancient book.

Picking up the tome, he opened it and addressed them all in the Old Language. “On this night, we come herein to mark the passing of Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm; blooded daughter of Relix; adoptive mahmen of the soldier Tehrror, son of Darius. On this night, we come herein to mark the passing of the nascent Tohrment, son of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm; blooded son of the beloved departed Wellesandra; adopted brother of the soldier Tehrror, son of Darius.”