Phury could just see it. The grand entrance of the mansion would be draped in bolts of brilliant green, the color of Z’s bloodline, and purple, the color of Bella’s. Wreaths of flowers would be hung on every single door in the house, even the closets and cabinets, to symbolize that Nalla had come through to this side. The fireplaces would stay lit for days with sweet logs, those slow-burning, treated pieces of wood whose flames would burn red for the new blood of the darling one.
At the start of the twenty-fourth hour following her birth, every person in the house would bring unto the proud parents a tremendous ribbon bow woven of their family colors. The bows would be tied on the spindles of Nalla’s crib, as pledges to oversee her through her life. By the end of the hour, the place where she laid her precious head would be covered with a cascade of satin bows, their long ends reaching the floor in a river of love.
Nalla would be gifted with priceless jewelry and draped in velvet and held in gentle arms. She would be cherished for the miracle she was, and ever would her birth be rejoiced in the hearts of those who had waited with hope and fear to greet her.
Yeah… Phury didn’t know what got him to the community center. And he didn’t know what helped him through that door and into that basement. And he didn’t know what made him stay.
He did know that when he returned to Rehvenge’s house, he couldn’t go inside.
Instead he sat on the back terrace, in a woven wicker chair, under the stars. There was nothing on his mind. And absolutely everything.
Cormia came out at some point and put her hand on his shoulder, as she always did when she sensed he was deep in his head. He kissed her palm, and then she kissed his mouth and went back inside, likely to get back to work on the plans for Rehv’s new club.
The night was quiet and downright cold. Every once in a while the wind would come and brush through the treetops, the autumnal leaves rustling together with a cooing sound like they enjoyed the attention.
Behind him in the house, he could hear the future. The Chosen were stretching their arms out into this world, learning things about themselves and this side. He was so proud of them, and he supposed he was the Primale of old tradition in that he would kill to protect his females and would do anything for any of them.
But it was a fatherly love. His mated love was for Cormia and her alone.
Phury rubbed the center of his chest and let the hours pass as they would, at their own speed, while the wind gusted as it did, at its own strength. The moon drifted up to its apex in the sky and began its descent. Someone put opera on inside the house. Someone changed it to hip-hop, thank God. Someone started a shower. Someone vacuumed. Again.
Life. In all its mundane majesty.
And you couldn’t take advantage of it if you were sitting on your ass in the shadows…whether that was in actuality, or metaphorically because you were trapped in an addict’s darkness.
Phury reached down and touched the calf of his prosthesis. He’d made it this far with only part of a leg. Living through the rest of his life without his twin and without his brothers… he would do that, too. He had much to be grateful for, and that would make up for a lot.
He wouldn’t always feel this empty.
Someone in the house went back to the opera.
Oh, shit. Puccini this time.
“Che Gelida Manina.”
Of all the choices they had, why pick the one solo guaranteed to make him feel worse? God, he hadn’t listened to La Bohème since… well, forever, it seemed. And the sound of what he had loved so much squeezed his ribs so tightly, he couldn’t breathe.
Phury gripped the arms of the chair and started to stand. He just couldn’t listen to that tenor’s voice. That glorious, soaring tenor reminded him so much of-
Zsadist appeared at the edge of the forest. Singing.
He was singing… It was his tenor in Phury’s ear, not some CD from inside the house.
Z’s voice surfed the aria’s peaks and valleys as he came forward over the grass, moving closer with each perfectly pitched, resonant word. The wind became the brother’s orchestra, blowing the spectacular sounds that breached his mouth out over the lawn and the trees and up into the mountains, up into the heavens, where only such a talent could have been born.
Phury got to his feet as if his twin’s voice, not his own legs, had lifted him from the chair. This was the thanks that had not been spoken. This was the gratitude for the rescue and the appreciation for the life that was lived. This was the wide-open throat of an astounded father, who was lacking the words to express what he felt to his brother and who needed the music to show something of all he wished he could say.
“Ah, hell… Z,” Phury whispered in the midst of the glory.
As the solo reached its zenith, as the tenor of emotions was struck most powerfully, the Brotherhood appeared one by one from out of the darkness, pulling free of the night. Wrath. Rhage. Butch. Vishous. They were all dressed in the white ceremonial robing they would have worn to honor the twenty-fourth hour of Nalla’s birth.
Zsadist sang the last delicate note of the piece right in front of Phury.
As the final line, “Vi piaccia dir!” drifted into the infinite, Z held up his hand.
Waving in the night wind was a tremendous bow made of green-and-gold satin.
Cormia came to stand close at just the right time. As she put her arm around Phury’s waist, she was all that kept him steady.
In the Old Language, Zsadist said, “Wouldst both thou honor my birthed daughter with the colors of thy lineages and the love of thy hearts?”
Z bowed deeply, offering the bow.
Phury’s voice was hoarse as he took the streaming lengths of satin. “It would be the honor of the ages to pledge our colors unto your birthed daughter.”
As Z straightened, it was hard to say who stepped forward first.
Most likely they met in the middle.
Neither said anything while they embraced. Sometimes words didn’t go far enough, the vessels of letters and the ladles of grammar incapable of holding the heart’s sentiments.
The Brotherhood started to clap.
At some point, Phury reached out and took Cormia’s hand, drawing her close.
He pulled back and looked at his twin. “Tell me, does she have yellow eyes?”
Z smiled and nodded. “Yeah, she does. Bella says she looks like me… which means she looks like you. Come meet my little girl, brother mine. Come back and meet your niece. There’s a big empty place on her crib, and we need the two of you to fill it.”
Phury held Cormia close and felt her hand rub the center of his chest. Taking a deep breath, he swiped his eyes. “That’s my favorite opera and my favorite solo.”
"I know.” Z smiled at Cormia and referenced the first two lines, “Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar.” “And now you have a little hand to warm in your own.”
“Same can be said of you, my brother.”
"So true. So blessedly true.” Z grew serious. “Please… come see her-but also, come see us. The brothers miss you. I miss you.”
Phury narrowed his eyes, something sliding into place. “It’s you, isn’t it. You’ve come to the community center. You’ve watched me sit on that swing afterward.”
Z’s voice grew hoarse. “I’m so damned proud of you.”
Cormia spoke up. “Me, too.”
What a perfect moment this was, Phury thought. Such a perfect moment with his twin before him and his shellan beside him and the wizard nowhere in sight.
Such a perfect moment that he knew he was going to remember for the rest of his days as clearly and as poignantly as he lived it now.