Autumn opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
Had she really heard him say all that—
“Halle-fucking-lujah!”
As she let out a cry of alarm and Tohr unsheathed a black dagger, Lassiter stepped out into the middle of the room.
The angel clapped a couple of times, and then held his palms up to the heavens like an evangelist. “Finally!”
“Jesus,” Tohr hissed as he put his weapon away. “I thought you’d quit!”
“Okay, still not that guy who was born in a manger. And believe me, I tried to file my resignation, but the Maker wasn’t interested in what I had to say. As usual.”
“I called for you a couple of times and you didn’t come.”
“Well, first I was flat-out pissed off at you. And then I just didn’t want to get in your way. I knew you were up to something big.” The angel came over and put his hand on Autumn’s shoulder. “You okay?”
She nodded and managed something close to an uh-huh.
“So this is good, yeah?” Lassiter said.
Tohr shook his head. “Don’t force her into anything. She is free to choose her path, as she always has been.”
At that, he turned and went to the door. Just before he opened the way out, he glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes locking on hers. “Wellsie’s Fade ceremony is tomorrow night. I would love you to be there, and will understand completely if you don’t want to come. And, Lassiter, if you’re going to stay with her, and I hope you do, make yourself useful and get her a cup of tea and some toast? She likes the sourdough bread done on both sides, with sweet butter, preferably the whipped kind, and a little strawberry jam. And she’s Earl Grey with a teaspoon of sugar.”
“What—do I look like a butler?”
Tohrment just stared at her for the longest time, as if he were giving her a chance to see just how sure and steady and grounded he was—solid in a way that had nothing to do with his weight, and everything to do with his soul.
He had, in fact, been transformed.
With a final nod, he stepped out into the snowy landscape… and dematerialized into thin air.
“You got a TV in here?” she heard Lassiter ask from the kitchen as cupboards were opened and shut.
“You don’t have to stay,” she mumbled, still shocked down to her shoestrings.
“Just tell me you have a television and I’m a happy guy.”
“We do.”
“Well, what do you know, it’s my lucky day—and don’t worry, I’ll keep us entertained. I’ll bet I can find us a Real Housewives marathon.”
“A what?” she said.
“I’m hoping it’ll be New Jersey. But I’ll take Atlanta. Or B.H.”
Shaking herself, she went to look at him, and could only blink as she was blinded by all the lights he’d turned on.
Oh, wait, that was just him, glowing.
“Whatever are you speaking of?” she asked, finding it incredible that the male would be talking about human TV at a time like this.
From over at the stove, the angel smiled darkly and gave her a wink. “Just think—if you let yourself believe in Tohr and open your heart to him, you can get rid of me forever. All you have to do is give yourself to him, mind, body, and soul, baby girl, and I’m as good as gone—and you won’t have to worry about what a Real Housewife is.”
SEVENTY
The following evening, as soon as night fell, Assail, son of Assail, stalked through his glass house, heading for the garage. As he passed by the mansion’s rear door, he glanced at the glass that had been replaced back in the fall.
The repair was neat as a pin. To the point that one could not tell that anything violent had ever transpired.
The same could not be said about the events that had gone down that horrid night. Even as calendar days churned by, and seasons shifted, and moons rose and fell, there was no repairing what had happened, no way of patching up that mess.
Not that Xcor wanted to, he supposed.
Indeed, tonight he was finally going to get a sense of exactly how much damage had been done.
The glymera were so fucking slow, it was ridiculous.
Initializing the alarm system with his thumbprint, he went into the garage, locked up, and walked around the Jaguar. The Range Rover on the far side had huge tires with clawlike treads—his newest purchase having finally been delivered last week: As much as he loved the XKR, he was tired of feeling as though he were driving a greased pig on ice.
Once inside the heavily modified SUV, he hit the garage door and waited; then he reversed, K-turned, and waited again until the door was down.
Elan, son of Larex, was a right little shit, the kind of aristocrat who truly set Assail’s teeth on edge: too much inbreeding and too much money had insulated him too utterly from the realities of life. The male was no more capable of forging his way without the trappings of his station than a babe out in the cold.
And yet by the exigencies of fate, that male was in a position now to effect more change than he was worthy of: Following the raids, he was the highest-ranking non-Brother on the Council, but for Rehvenge—who was so entangled with the Brotherhood, he might as well have had a black dagger strapped on his chest.
Therefore, Elan was the one calling tonight’s little “unofficial” get-together.
Which would again not be including Rehvenge. And which was going to likely be about an insurrection.
Not that someone as highbrow as Elan would call it such. No, traitors who wore cravats and silk socks tended to couch their reality in much more refined terms—although the wording would change naught…
As Assail sped along, the trip to Elan’s house took a good forty-five minutes even though the highways were all salted and the streets plowed. Naturally, he could have saved himself time by dematerializing, but if things got out of hand, if he were to be injured and unable to disappear himself, he needed to make sure he had effective cover and escape.
He had taken for granted safety only once, and long ago. Never again. And, indeed, the Brotherhood were highly intelligent. There was no telling whether this nascent cabal would be raided tonight or not—especially if Xcor were to make an appearance.
Elan’s retreat was a gracious brick house, Victorian in derivation, with lacelike woodwork marking its every peak and corner. Located in a sleepy little hamlet of only thirty thousand humans, it was set well back from the lane it was on, and had a river snaking down one side of the property.
As he got out, he did not fasten the tortoiseshell buttons on the front of his camel-hair coat or put on gloves. Nor did he do up his double-breasted suit jacket.
His guns were close to his heart, and he wanted access.
Closing in on the front door, his fine black boots clapped over the shoveled walkway and his breath left his mouth in puffs of white. Overhead, the moon was bright as a halogen light and fat as a dinner plate, the lack of clouds and humidity allowing its true power to rain down from the heavens.
The drapes on all the windows had been pulled, so he could not see how many others had arrived, but it would not surprise him if they were already assembled, having dematerialized to the site.
Imbeciles.
Punching the doorbell with his bare hand, the entry was immediately pried wide, a formal doggen butler bowing at the hips.
“Master Assail. Welcome—may I take your coat?”
“No, you may not.”
There was a hesitation—at least until Assail cocked a brow at the servant. “Ah, but of course, my lord—please come this way.”