When there was no more salt left in the bag, he stayed where he was, out of choice and necessity. The necessity part was that the muscles in his back and shoulders had seized up on him, maybe in solidarity with his female, more likely because he’d been bent over for the last ten—or was it fifteen?—hours straight. And as for the choice part? As much as he hated the rituals because they were like a loud, screaming she’s dead in his head, he didn’t want them to be over.
Each moment that passed, every minute under his belt in this new reality was a step away from her. And these small increments, with enough of them strung together, soon would turn into nights, which would become weeks and months . . . and that passage of time was the measure of his loss.
It was taking him away from her.
While he’d been caretaking her in the final way, part of his mind had been obsessively playing back everything. From that black-robed figure coming and finding him at his club, to him picking Selena up from the bright green grass of that other place, to them fighting for her life that first time she was here. And then the collapse upstairs in iAm’s bedroom.
The first thing he was going to do, after the final part of all this was done, was race upstairs to see exactly where her knees had been on the carpet.
“Tell Fritz not to vacuum,” he blurted.
“What?”
He forced his head level and opened his lids. “Tell Fritz—he can’t vacuum your room.”
“Okay.” The word was said with the kind of calm-down someone would use to a jumper on a ledge. “All right.”
Trez looked down at his chest. There were granules all over him, some white, some pink or red from his blood.
He prayed that the doggen hadn’t been efficient about cleaning tonight. He just needed to remember exactly where it had happened. He needed to . . . remember the trip down to the clinic, and where the chair beside the exam table had been, and what he’d said to her. What the needle with the shots had looked like. How . . . everything had happened.
It wasn’t out of some morbid fascination. It was more the conviction that he didn’t want to lose anything of her.
Not one memory.
Struggling to his feet, he mumbled, “Need to build a—”
“It’s done.”
Trez shook his head and motioned with his hand. “No, no, listen. I need an ax . . . or saw . . .”
“Trez. Listen to me.”
“. . . and some gasoline or kerosene . . .”
“Here, why don’t you give me that.”
“What?” As his right wrist was gently captured by his brother, he frowned and looked down. He still had his dagger in his hand. “Oh.”
He ordered his fist to release.
When nothing moved, he tried harder. “I can’t let go.”
“Turn your hand over.” iAm pried the fingers loose one by one. “There you go.”
As the male tucked the weapon into his belt at an angle, Trez tried to get his brain to work. “But I might need that for—”
“The Brothers and their females have taken care of the pyre.”
Trez blinked. “They have?”
“They’ve been building it for the last three hours. It’s all ready.”
Swaying in his loafers, he closed his eyes and whispered, “How will I ever repay them.”
“Here, put this jacket on, you must be freezing.”
Rhage looked down at his Mary. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”
She held up a parka. “Rhage, it’s thirty-two degrees out here. All you’re wearing is a muscle shirt.”
It wasn’t that he doubted her, but he glanced at his bare arms. “Oh. Guess you’re right.”
“Let me put this on you.”
He was very aware that she was treating him like he was a child, but somehow that was okay. And when she threaded one of his arms through a sleeve, and then wrapped the body of the coat around him, he let her do as she wished.
Coat. No coat.
Didn’t matter to him.
His eyes drifted over to the pyre. It was higher than he’d anticipated, rising up like a small house off the flat section of lawn beyond the gardens and the pool. They’d had to construct a stair-like rise so that the top level could be reached, and after a discussion and following Rehvenge’s advice, they had doused the base in gasoline.
Along with everyone else, he was standing upwind of things.
Quite a crowd, he reflected. Everyone who lived in the house. All of the servants. Also all of the Chosen.
“And I brought you some gloves,” his Mary said.
As she reached for his hand, he shook his head. “I’ll just bleed into the insides of them.”
“It doesn’t matter. You may already have frostbite.”
“Is it that cold?” Wait, hadn’t she already told him what temperature it was?
“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s unseasonably cold.”
“Seems right. I don’t think it should be warm . . . that wouldn’t be . . . I think we should hurt, too.”
Which was why he really would have preferred to be without the parka. But he was incapable of denying his shellan—
From out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of white.
As he twisted around, his breath caught in his throat. Trez had emerged from the same door they had all been using in the library; iAm was behind him.
And so the final walk began.
Carrying that which was so precious to him, the Shadow took step after step down the lawn, closing in on what they had been laboring over. Without any conversation, but through some kind of group-think, everybody who was assembled formed two lines, providing him with an aisle.
Trez was transformed, and not in a good way. Like someone who had been on a monthlong trek with insufficient food and water, he was a shrunken, exhausted echo of himself, his face hollow, his aura that of illness, even though he was not sick in a disease sort of way.
As he passed, Rhage shivered.
The makeshift stairs they’d built creaked as Trez went up them, but Rhage wasn’t worried that the steps were going to fall apart. He and Tohr had tested them together a number of times.
And hold they did.
Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, Trez’s dark shape blocked the stars that had come out for the evening, cutting a swath from the galaxy sure as if some god had taken a pair of scissors to the fabric of the universe.
Bending down, he placed her in the center. Then he stayed up top for a while, and Rhage could imagine he was arranging things. Saying a final good-bye.
It was good that that kind of stuff was out of sight, out of hearing. Some things, even in a supportive environment, were best left to privacy.
The torch they were going to use to light it all had come from the Tomb. V had flashed over to the sanctum sanctorum and taken one from the many that lined the great hall—which was yet another way to honor the Shadow and his loss. Tohr set the thing afire when Trez finally stretched up to his full height and backed down the slats, the flames leaping to life on its head, ready to spread further, undaunted by the cold wind that was blowing.
At the foot of the pyre, Trez accepted the torch and the two males spoke. In the flickering light, it was clear that Trez’s chest had been brutally cut and sealed, and there was salt and blood and wax all down the front of his slacks.
Funny how the passage of time could be noted on something other than a clock or a calendar: The condition of that clothing and that flesh spoke about the hours the male had spent tending to his dead.
And then Tohr was falling back in line beside Autumn.
Trez stared at the pyre. Looked up to its top.
After a long moment, he went around to one of the points of the triangular base, leaned in and—
The fire took off as if it were a wild animal freed from a cage, racing over the gasoline pathways, finding its version of nutrition and commencing its meal.