Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Fritz, the Brotherhood’s most trusted servant, had come on a grim job that he clearly took solemn responsibility for.
Around at the back, he opened the double doors, and subdued lighting came on in the interior. The gurney he pulled out had stainless steel fittings and a black padded plane, and its wheels dropped down and grabbed the ground to form a rolling support.
“Over here,” the Brother Vishous said.
Nate backed away, even though he wasn’t obstructing the path, and he watched as the body, which had been draped in a couple of white sheets, was head-and-footed and lifted off the asphalt. After the male was settled on the gurney, Vishous went around and tucked the sheeting in.
Red stains seeped through at the neck immediately.
And the body wiggled as they rolled things over to the back of the van.
Nate wanted to turn away. He made himself stay right the fuck where he was.
He hadn’t exactly known the victim. Shuli had been casual drinking buddies with the guy, both of them cut from that aristocratic cloth of privilege and wealth, and so Nate had run into Theox in a peripheral capacity.
Had the family been told yet?
A bottomless pit opened in his gut as he imagined what that was going to be like, and he looked at Murhder. The Brother was staring back at him—and it was clear. In spite of everything that was going on, with all the dynamics of dealing with the fallout of the attack, Murhder had one, and only one, true priority: The stupid fucked-up fool he considered his son.
More tears now. Loads.
All Nate wanted was a do-over of the night. But that wasn’t how time worked, was it.
What the hell had he been thinking? About everything?
Vishous closed up the back of the van, then went around to the driver’s side, getting in behind the wheel. After the butler hopped into the passenger seat, the vehicle, with its heartbreaking cargo, started forward on its departure.
Nate braced himself and looked over to the left. Lassiter, the fallen angel, was standing with two other males Nate didn’t recognize, the trio watching the body get driven off.
Funny, he expected to feel hatred that was rooted in jealousy as he stared at the sacred entity with the blond-and-black hair. He didn’t. Maybe he was just too numb at the moment.
Nate jacked up the waistband of his jeans, ducked his head… and went over to the angel.
He couldn’t meet the male’s eye, but his voice was strong and sure. “I overheard through the door what you said to Rahvyn when she was in the hall. You got it all wrong. The slayer was going to shoot Shuli in the face when she pulled the undead off him. She was the one who saved us by stabbing it, not the other way around.”
In the stunned silence that followed, Nate’s stare lifted, and in some distortion of reality, he didn’t see Lassiter up close. He saw the angel across a field of wild flowers that had somehow sprouted in full bloom despite the fact it was April in upstate New York.
And the male was standing with Rahvyn, the pair oblivious to the world around them.
Oblivious to the heart that had been broken on the sidelines.
Earlier in the evening, there would have been a subtle satisfaction in letting the angel get it all wrong, the wedge of misunderstanding driving the happy couple apart. But Nate only had to glance at the blood red taillights of that now-hearse, and he was reminded that there were enough bad things out there waiting for everybody. Creating a false one was just nasty.
“You owe Rahvyn an apology.”
At that, Nate turned away. He didn’t have enough energy in him to care whether he was believed or not. If Lassiter couldn’t recast his cooked-up version of events? That was his problem.
It was as Nate walked back to Murhder that the mobile surgical unit’s engine flared to life, and then the RV also trundled off.
For a split second, all of the Brothers who were left on scene looked at him. Murhder. Zsadist and Phury. Rhage. Sahvage.
He knew them from having been invited into the First Family’s mansion. He had sat with them at Last Meal, shared food with them, listened to them tell stories and laugh, witnessed them looking deeply into the eyes of their mates. He had also seen them with their young, if they had them, and watched them play with the young of their brethren.
“Son,” Murhder said. “What do you want to do?”
From a vast distance, he heard himself say, “I want to learn from you all. I want you to teach me how to fight. I want to be trained properly in the ways of the war so that I can protect people who need protection and so that something like this doesn’t happen again.” He looked at Murhder. “I want… to be like my father.”