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.”
Phury turned the page, the heavy parchment making a soft noise. “According to tradition, and in hopes it will be both pleasing to the Mother of the race’s ears, and of solace to the bereaved family, I call upon all who tarry herein to pray with me for the safe carriage of those who have passed unto the Fade.…”
So many voices rose up as Phury commanded sentences and had them repeated, female and male tones mixing together such that the words were lost to Tohr and all he heard was the pattern of somber speech.
He glanced over at John. Lot of blinking going on, but the boy was holding back the tears like the male of worth he was.
Tohr swung his eyes back to the urn, and gave his mind free rein to play through a slide show of images from all different parts of their shared lives.
His reminiscing ended on the very last thing he had done for her before she’d been killed: put those chains on the tires of that SUV. So she’d have traction in the snow.
Okay, now he was blinking like a motherfucker.…
The ceremony became a blur at that point, with him saying things when prompted, and staying silent the rest of the time. He found himself glad that he had waited this long to do it. He didn’t think it would have been possible to get through all this at any other moment.
On that note, he glanced over at Lassiter. The angel was glowing from head to foot, his gold piercings catching the light around and within him and magnifying it back tenfold.
For some reason, the guy didn’t look happy. His brows were squeezed together as if he were trying to crunch numbers in his head and coming up with a sum total he didn’t like—
“I would now ask the Brotherhood to pledge their condolences to the bereaved, starting with His Majesty Wrath, son of Wrath.”
Tohr decided he was seeing things and refocused on his Brothers. As Phury stepped away from the little table, Wrath was discreetly led forward by V so that he was standing over the bowl of salt. Drawing up the sleeve of his robe, the king unholstered one of his black daggers and drew the blade up the inside of his forearm. As bright red blood rushed to the surface of the cut, the male extended his arm and let drops fall.
Each one of the Brothers did the same, their eyes locking on Tohr’s as they reaffirmed without words their shared mourning for all he had lost.
Phury was the last, with Z holding the book as he completed the ritual. Then the Primale picked up the pitcher and spoke sacred words as he poured water from it, turning the pink-stained salt into brine.
“I would now ask Wellesandra’s hellren to disrobe.”
Tohr was careful to take out Nalla’s palm print before untying the Chosen’s sash, and he put both down on top of the robe after he’d removed it.
“I would now ask Wellesandra’s hellren to kneel before her for one last time.”
Tohr did as commanded, falling to his knees in front of the urn. In his peripheral vision, he watched Phury walk over to the marble fireplace on the right. From out of the flames, the brother withdrew a primeval iron brand, one that had been brought over from the Old Country long ago, one that had been made by hands unknown, long before the race had had a collective memory.
The terminal part was about six inches long and at least an inch wide, and the line of Old Language symbols was so hot it glowed yellow, not red.
Tohr assumed the proper position, curling his hands into fists and easing forward so that his knuckles were planted on the heavier white cover that had been laid on the floor. For a split second, all he could think about was the mosaic depiction of the apple tree that was underneath him, that symbol of rebirth that he was beginning to associate only with death.
He had buried Autumn at the foot of one.
And now he was saying good-bye to Wellsie on top of one.
As Phury stopped beside to him, Tohr’s breath began to come in punches of air, his ribs jerking tight and popping open.
When you were mated, and you got your shellan’s name carved in your back, you were supposed to bear the pain in silence—to prove that you were worthy of both her love and the mating.
Breath. Breath. Breath…
Not so with the Fade ceremony.
Breath-breath-breath…
For the Fade ceremony, you were supposed to—
Breathbreathbreath—
“What is the name of your dead?” Phury demanded.
On cue, Tohr dragged in a giant pull of oxygen.
As the brand was laid to the skin where her name had been carved those many years ago, Tohr screamed her name, every ounce of pain in his heart and his mind and his soul coming out on a oner, the sound shattering through the foyer.
The scream was his final good-bye, his pledge to meet her on the flip side, his love made manifest one last time.
It went on forever.
And then he was sagging so badly, his forehead was on the floor, while all across the top of his shoulders, his skin burned as if it was on fire.