And if it came down to that? Well, his life wasn’t really a party right now, was it.
When Qhuinn came back around, he was lying on top of the altar. The skull was right next to his head, as if the first Brother was looking after him as he recouped from the drinking. Blinking his eyes clear, he realized he was staring at a wall of names: Every square inch of the vast marble slab he’d stood against had been etched with names in the Old Language.
Well, except for where the twin pegs were.
As he sat up and swung his legs free, his back cracked loudly and his head swam. Rubbing his face, he jumped off and walked forward…until he could touch the carvings.
“You’re down at the far end,” Zsadist said from behind him.
Qhuinn wheeled around. The Brotherhood was once again standing down below, each of them smiling like a motherfucker.
Butch’s Bostonian accent rang out: “It’s a rush to see your name up there. You gotta check it out.”
Qhuinn turned back around. Sure enough, after heading down to the right, he found the cop’s name…and then his own.
His legs went loose and he lowered himself, going down on his knees before the precise lineup of symbols. Then he looked across the wall, the distinct names disappearing into nothing but a single, cohesive pattern across the marble. Just like the Brotherhood. No individuals in it; the group was the thing.
And he was part of it.
Goddamn it…he was there.
Qhuinn got ready for a transformative experience—like something along the lines of a great ringing bell of “You Belong” getting struck in his chest, or maybe a light-headed joy thing…or shit, a big-ass load of “You th’ Man” singing in his brain.
Didn’t happen. He was glad, yeah. He was proud, fuck, yeah. He was ready to get out there and fight like a mack bastard.
But as he got to his feet, he realized that in spite of that newfound wholeness, part of him remained separate and checked out. Then again, it had been a helluva couple of days—as if Fate had put his life in the pulse blender, and was busy making salsa out of his ass.
Maybe it was more because he’d never been good at the emotion thing? And nothing was going to change that.
At least he wasn’t running, though.
Going down to the Brothers, he got so many slaps on the back and chest bumps, he knew what a lineman felt like after practice.
And then it dawned on him…he was going home to Blay.
Holy Mary Mother of God, to borrow a saying from the cop, he was so ready to lock eyes on that guy. Maybe sneak off and tell him what it was like, even though he probably wasn’t supposed to do that. Maybe go up to his room after the party was over and…um, yeah…for a while.
Okay, now he was pumped.
Rhage threw his black robe at him. “So, welcome to the insane asylum, you sorry son of a bitch. You’re stuck with us for life.”
Qhuinn frowned and thought of John. “What about my ahstrux nohtrum position?”
“Gone,” V said as he robed up as well. “You’re a free man.”
“So John knew?”
“Not that you were getting this kind of promotion, no. But he was told that you couldn’t be his private soldier anymore.” As Qhuinn touched the tattoo under his eyes, V nodded. “Yeah, we’re going to change that—it’s an honorable-discharge thing, though, not a death or firing.”
Oh, cool. Better than a pink slip in the center of the chest and a shallow grave.
As they filed out, Qhuinn spared one last look at the cave. It was so weird; yeah, he was history happening, but this also felt like the culmination of all those nights fighting with the Brothers, an internal logic making this extraordinary event seem…inevitable.
Retracing the trip they’d taken in, Qhuinn soon found himself in a hallway that was lined with shelves from floor to superhigh ceiling.
“Jesus…Christ,” he breathed as he took in all the lesser jars.
Everyone stopped.
“The jars?” Wrath asked.
“Yeah,” Tohr said with a chuckle. “Our boy looks impressed.”
“Should be,” Rhage muttered as he jacked the belt on his robe. “We are awesome.”
Multiple groans at that point. Rolled eyes.
“At least he didn’t pull out the ‘totes amazeballs,’” somebody muttered.
“That’s Lassiter,” came an answer.
“Man, that son of a bitch has got to stop watching Nickel-fucking-odeon.”
“Among other things.”
“Focus, people,” Rhage cut in. “Can we just have a moment here?”
Growls of approval replaced the bitching, the throaty sound rising up and threading through the mementos of their dead enemies.