Chapter 60
She’d won again. She’d torn his life in two for a second time, and this time, his grief outweighed his ability to endure. Last time, he’d had vengeance to hold on to. Now, it seemed even ripping the witch to shreds wouldn’t be enough. He couldn’t lose Caster. Not now. Not when they’d barely begun.
He was aware of bodies bumping into him, of movement and voices, but his world had shrunk down to the depths of his pain, a ringing in his ears drowning out reality.
His vision blurred with tears, and he started to fall to his knees, needing to touch Caster’s skin one last time, only to be thwarted by a wall of muscle pulling him back.
The cage of biceps holding him away from the only person he wanted was familiar, and he should struggle against it, but his strength drained from his body with every chant of Caster’s name echoing in his mind, every breath.
His blurred vision recognized the image of Damien as he lifted Caster into his arms and walked toward the house, but the cage holding him in place and his own weakness prevented him from doing anything about it.
“He’s OK.” It was a whisper in his ear, the words penetrating the haze that was his mind, but unbelievable.
“He’s not dead.” Dean turned him, and he offered little resistance. He wanted to follow Caster, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Dean’s hands moved to his shoulders, shaking him with a desperation that wouldn’t match his own. “Do you hear me? He’s not dead.”
He shut his eyes against the new barrage of pain he was powerless to stop as Dean’s Alpha invaded the space in his mind.
His wolf howled their shared pain, but in the second it took his brother to move past the psychic barrier keeping it in check, it fell silent, giving in to the darkness that had once been its domain. It was gone. Again.
He stared at his brother, the concern on his face pulling him out of his grief for a moment.
“Riley says he’s not dead. He’s trapped.”
The tiniest hint of relief colored the intensity of the grief, but all he could do was stare at his brother, tears stinging.
Dean shook him harder. “Hey.” His large hands cradled Mark’s cheeks. “Please don’t do this to me. Not again.”
“I can’t…” His voice echoed in the dark void of the grief intent on swallowing him whole. “I can’t…”
“He’s fine. Riley said he’ll be OK. He’s going to need you.”
Dean’s emphasis on the last of his words brought him back from the brink, and a brilliant light of hope flickered in the vast void.
Dean nodded. “Don’t let her take him from you, do you hear me?”
His vision cleared, his brother’s demand that he take charge infusing his limp body with renewed energy. He nodded, and his brother released his face, the tears he couldn’t hold back cooling his skin.
His environment, the stench of the army Ethel had left behind in her haste to escape his vengeance, infected the once lush lawn. His brother’s influence reached past the barrier his animal had retreated to, and there was an inkling of the healing elixir that signaled his presence.
He held his brother’s gaze and nodded his gratitude.
The possibility of losing Caster had sent the wolf crawling back into its hiding place, but his brother’s demand, his determination, was the dose of courage he needed to fight back.
Movement over Dean’s shoulder caught his eye, and he focused his gaze to see his younger brother, subdued, almost as if he feared Mark’s reaction if he approached.
Mark shook out of Dean’s persistent hold and went to Mikey, engulfing him in an embrace, taking and giving comfort in equal measure.
Two things were different from the last time the witch had torn his heart to shreds; this time, he had his brothers with him, and he was aware of his strength.
Last time, he thought she’d been there to kill him.
Now he knew he had something she was desperate to have.
That meant she would come to him again, and he’d be ready.
He released his younger brother and took a breath. The house and Caster seemed so far away.
Dean’s comforting arm went around his shoulders, drawing him to his side. “We’re here.”
It was in this assurance, in this renewed strength, that he took the first step towards what would either shatter him or give him the strength to endure.
The distant war cry for vengeance, the same one he had heard a decade ago, the one that had kept him alive, paled in comparison to the hope he held on to.
Caster had to be alive. His world made little sense without him.
§
The witch was gone, but the toxicity of her energy remained.
The house was broken beyond repair, and Mark ignored the crunch of glass tearing into his bare feet as he followed the voices to wherever they’d taken Caster.
His unfocused pursuit led him to the room they’d left only a few hours ago.
The same room that had housed his safety, his hope of a future, of everything with Caster.
The queen stood by the door, the grief she couldn’t hide coloring her expression. She reached for his arm as he approached, tears filling her eyes. “Get dressed first?”
It was only then that he became aware of his nudity, and he nodded, too far into his grief for shame to be a factor.
She gestured for him to wait by the sitting area as she walked into the main bedroom, returning a second later with a bathrobe. “I don’t know where you keep your clothes.”
The same bathrobe Caster had torn off him a few hours ago brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on, unable to meet the Queen’s eyes.
Acknowledging the pain she seemed determined to hide with a subdued smile would only release the wall he’d erected around his own, and he couldn’t fall apart now, not in full view of everyone.
She reached for his arm under the heavy material of the bathrobe and squeezed. “I know.”
He met her eyes, but the rickety fortifications around his crumbling heart didn’t break. Instead, the understanding he saw in her expression, the strength she demonstrated, and her small smile gave him the energy to walk past the living area to the bed.
She stayed with him, her arm linked with his as he stared at the immovable mass that was Caster’s body, lying on the still crumpled beddings they’d left behind.
He looked so peaceful, as if in deep sleep.
The rhythm of his breath, the rising and falling of his chest, was imperceptible, nonexistent, and Mark couldn’t help the gasp.
He glanced at the others in the room, his gaze landing on the only person who would have answers.
Riley anticipated his question. “He’s alive.” His voice lacked its characteristic strength. “Listen…”
He frowned, unable to follow Riley’s direction.
The Queen squeezed his arm. “Take a breath.”
He turned to her, Caster’s words in her mouth, tearing a small piece of that wall around his breaking heart. But he did as she asked, and the most glorious sound reached past his clogged mind to awaken his wolf. The steady, soft, and distant thud that was Caster’s heart.
His gasp sounded more like a small sob. “He’s alive.”
The queen’s smile was a touch brighter, Riley nodded.
He caught the male witch’s blue gaze, giving him little room to deny him. “You can bring him back?”
Riley’s nod was emphatic, his sadness an indication of his love for Caster. “I will need your help.”
“I’ll do anything you want.” Right now, he longed to touch Caster. His fingers itched with the need to feel his skin, confirm that the sound he couldn’t stop eavesdropping on is his heart.
“We can’t stay here.” The anger distorting Damien’s voice into a low growl drew Mark’s attention. It was then that he noticed the black goo obscuring the original color of everyone’s clothing. The blood of the undead creatures that made up Ethel’s army. His body was covered in it, as was Caster’s.
“Yes,” Marcus said, his gaze on Caster. “She will come back. We need somewhere defensible.” It was impossible to miss the dominance in his tone. The submissive in him recognized it. Mark was unsure of his relationship with Caster. He didn’t bear a familial resemblance, but it was clear he cared.
“How about my place?” Damien asked.
“No,” Julian, who was Damien’s version of Kyle, said. “Too close to this. There is no way humans failed to notice everything that happened here.”
He was right. Considerable cleanup would be necessary before they can even think of returning to this part of the world. When he’d first arrived here, he’d hated the house. Now, he didn’t want to leave.
“We go to my house,” Dean said, and even lost in the desire to be left alone with Caster, the significance of his pronouncement was impossible to ignore. Vampires had never been to the Prime Alpha’s residence, or any other werewolf household.
Silence descended as everyone reached the same conclusion. This would change everything and perhaps not for the better.
“What?” Dean seemed undeterred. He pointed at Mark. “I assume you’ll only go where he goes?”
That wasn’t even up for discussion.
Dean’s blue gaze bore into him for a millisecond before he glanced at Marcus. “It’s settled. We’re all going to my place.”
Marcus nodded. “Good. Everyone, clean up and meet back here for Teleportation in ten minutes?”
The cleanup wasn’t necessary, and Mark saw Marcus’s pronouncement for what it was. He promised himself to thank him later when everyone but the Queen left the room, giving him the space he needed to shed his tears in private.
She stayed for a minute, sharing in his grief as best she could before she too, left him alone. The weight of it all descended on him as he sat on the bed, his keen senses focused on the distant thud of Caster’s heartbeat. It seemed so far away, like his heart was encased in layers of padding.
He had to try twice to move his hand to Caster’s forehead, brushing against the sweat-dampened brown curls that stuck to his skin. His skin was a touch warm, unusual for a vampire, but warm was good, right?
His grief tore out of him in silent tears.
He wanted to curl into his side, feel all of him against his skin, but he feared he would lose his ability to move if he gave in.
The others were right, they needed a safe place to help him heal from whatever the witch had done to him.
Only when he was sure Caster was out of danger would he let his pain overwhelm him.