Prologue #2
She hadn’t been in that closet since the night Wrath died, and she sure as hell wasn’t going in now.
No way she could stand to see the clothes on the left, hanging behind back-lit glass doors that had once felt like a fancy department store but were now just museum cases full of relics: Black leathers, black muscle shirts, and black leather jackets.
Shitkickers. The black suit that he’d worn on their first proper date.
A ritual black drape for when he went to the Tomb.
And a single Hawaiian shirt given to him by Rhage for a movie night—
Pulling a desperate pivot, her eyes locked on the bassinet. “Icantdothisanymore.”
The next thing she knew, she was striding out, passing through the vault door, descending the short-stack stairway.
Emerging on the second-story landing.
Instantly, the scents of Last Meal, of roasted turkey and beef, stuffing and fresh bread, wine and cocktails and candle flames, bombarded her nose.
Next, the voices registered. The pastiche of tones, inflections, and syllables felt like something she’d known all her life, but that was emotion, not facts.
She’d spent the vast majority of her years alone. At the orphanage first, then on a series of trial runs with adoptive parents that hadn’t worked out, and finally, as an adult on her own in the world, with only Boo, her black cat, for a roommate.
And then…Wrath had come and found her, sent by her father to help her through her transition. Her future hellren had not only told her the truth of what she really was, he’d seen her through the change, given her an extended family and community, and made her a mahmen.
That had been the start of the golden years, as she’d come to think of them. So good, too short. Now, only a memory.
“Do you need something?”
Her head jerked to the male voice. Wrath’s second-in-command was sitting in one of the gilded armchairs by the Hall of Statues, and as Tohr rose to his feet, he towered over her.
His military haircut was newly trimmed, the white strip in front a contrast to the rest of his dark hair, and as always, his navy blue eyes were grave.
She cleared her throat. “You should be down eating with your family.”
“I’m just having a rest. Feet were tired.”
Bullshit, she thought. And God, she loved him.
In the silence that followed, she remembered the first night she’d met Tohrment. Wrath had sent him to watch over her because the guy was the steady Freddy of the Brotherhood, the hypothetically reasonable male in a sea of hotheaded warriors. He’d also had a shellan he’d loved very much.
She had served him some Sam Adams beer and oatmeal cookies, and they’d watched a Godzilla movie together.
As they’d both agreed rooting for the monster was the vibe, there’d been no way of knowing that they’d lose their mates in such a short time.
And in some ways, his tragedy was worse than hers.
His pregnant female had been gunned down by a lesser, and after that, he’d disappeared for a long time.
He had learned to love again, though, and his Autumn had saved him in all the ways that counted.
He’d been very lucky with that.
“You need to eat,” Beth heard herself say.
“Nah. I’m not hungry.”
As his stomach growled, she shook her head. “You’re coming down with me. L.W. is sleeping, George is with him, and you know damn well this place will light up like a Christmas tree if anybody tries to get in.”
Also, the Lessening Society couldn’t find the mansion. The mhis protected them up on this mountain as it always had, always would.
“That’s an order,” she said with exhaustion.
Tohr stared down at his shitkickers like he was sifting through possible responses and finding that none of them were going to work. “All right.”
“Good decision.”
Heading for the top of the grand staircase, she was careful not to look at the closed doors of the pale blue study Wrath had used so often for meetings with the Brotherhood.
There was never a greater mismatch than all those fighters sitting on all that toothpick-legged French furniture, and that had been part of the charm, at least for her.
No one went in there anymore, though. Part of it was the memories, no doubt.
The other half was the fact that it was where the throne was.
Yet another thing nobody needed to see anytime soon.
After descending the blood red runner, she bottomed out at the imperial foyer’s mosaic depiction of an apple tree in bloom.
As the grandeur registered, she tried not to see anything of the marble and malachite columns, the crystal sconces, the ceiling far, far overhead with its charging warriors and stallions.
She didn’t want to look into the billiard room, either, or stare at the entry into the vestibule, or take note of the beautiful blossoming branches under her feet.
Memories. Everywhere.
And all of them hurt.
The dining room was to the left, and she covered the distance in a daze.
The conversation was even louder down here, and she had a vague thought that there had been much more laughter before.
Now, it was just talk. Still, the chatter was better than the mourning silence that had reigned for the first month, only the sounds of silverware scraping plates breaking the oppressive quiet.
The instant she stepped into the archway of the vast, formal room, a hush crashed through the conversations, snuffing out syllables like candle flames.
All the faces turned to her, forks and knives freezing, eyebrows raising, even Fritz stopping as he came through the flap door in the far corner with a silver platter. The only one who moved was Tohr as he went around to stand behind his chair between his Autumn and her daughter, Xhex.
“May I get you something, my Queen,” the butler asked in a hopeful tone.
Her eyes went down the long table to the vacant armchair at the far end. The seat to the right of it was unoccupied, too. She hadn’t eaten here since the night he died.
“I…” That was as far as she got.
Across the table from her, Tohr’s eyes narrowed like he knew she was about to lose it.
Before the Brother could say anything, she rasped, “I can’t…live here anymore.”
As soon as she heard the words, there was a tearing relief in her chest. She couldn’t change the one thing that really ruined her: She couldn’t bring her hellren back, not even to yell at the dumb sonofabitch for ruining all their lives.
But you know what? She sure as shit could stop looking at the things that reminded her of him.
The ghosts of their stolen moments of privacy haunted her, from the glances they’d shared at this very table to the carpets they’d strode together, the couches they’d shared, the halls they’d walked, the rooms they’d entered and exited…
…that big bed they’d made love in.
It all needed to go.
And since there was no way of stain-removing her aching nostalgia from the mansion, she was the one who had to clear out.
Even though her father’s one wish in building this vast mountaintop palace had been for everybody to live here together, and even though it had taken almost a hundred years and Darius’s own death before that vision came true, she had to leave.
Happy Anniversary.
“You all stay here, though.” Her eyes traced over the couples, the families, the young—and Fritz, whose face was frozen in something close to terror.
“It’s just L.W. and me who are going. I’ll find somewhere safe, maybe we’ll stay out at the new Audience House…
or…I don’t know. But I’m not living here anymore. ”
In the shocked quiet that followed, the assembled looked around at each other, and the room crowded in on her.
From the sideboards ladened with trays and bowls of food, to the polished mahogany table that was like a river that flowed down the space, to the chair backs rising in carved wings behind the shoulders of males and females alike, it was all as it had always been since the first night Wrath and she had come here.
And that was what she couldn’t bear.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out.
Just before she turned away, there was the sound of a chair moving back, and she glanced over at Vishous as the goateed male got to his feet.
Rhage and Butch joined him at the same time, and then Phury and Z were right on their heels. One by one, John Matthew, Qhuinn, and Blay got up, and then it was the entirety of the Band of Bastards. Followed by Rehv. The other fighters. And all the mates and the young.
Everybody rose, their glasses getting set down, their napkins dropped next to half-filled plates, young hipped or held or able to stand on their own. And over in the corner, Fritz placed what he was carrying on the nearest sideboard and then leaned back through the flap door into the kitchen.
As the doggen staff filed in, forming a pool of gray in their uniforms, she knew a crushing defeat. All of them were hurting, too, and yet here she was, making drama—
Tohr’s voice was level, strong and true, like the tolling bell of a cathedral calling the lost to come for solace, and it cut through her chaos with a shaft of kindness.
“We’re going with you.”
Four simple words.
That meant something far deeper: You are not alone.