"What of the babe?"
"We shall care for her, too." Darius stared down into that small face. "By giving her to ones who shall look after her as she deserves."
Indeed, they could not keep her here. They were out all night fighting, and the war did not stop for personal loss. . . . The war did not stop for anything or anybody. Besides, she needed things two males, however well intended, could not provide.
She required a mother's succor.
"Is it night yet?" Darius asked roughly as Tohrment turned for the door.
"Yes," the male said as he unlatched the lock. "And I fear it will be ever so."
The door swung open, blown asunder by the wind, and Darius curled himself around the babe. When the gust was shut off, he looked down at the tiny new life.
Tracing her features with his fingertips, he worried over what the years ahead had in store for her. Would they be kinder than the circumstances of her birth?
He prayed that they would. He prayed that she found a male of worth to protect her and that she bore young and lived as a normal within their world.
And he would do whatever he could to ensure that.
Including . . . giving her away.
SEVENTY-ONE
As night fell the following evening over the Brotherhood's mansion, Tohrment, son of Hharm, strapped on his weapons and got his jacket from his closet.
He was not going out to fight, and yet he felt as if he were facing a kind of enemy. And he was going alone. He'd told Lassiter to chill and get a manipedi or some shit, because there were some things you just needed to do by yourself.
The fallen angel had simply nodded and wished him good luck. Like he knew precisely what ring of fire Tohr was about to walk through.
God, the sense that nothing surprised the guy was almost as annoying as everything else about him.
The thing was, though, John had come in about a half hour ago and shared his joyous news. Personally. The kid had been grinning so wide, there was a good chance his face was going to freeze in that position, and that was a pretty goddamn fantastic thing.
Shit, life was so strange sometimes. And all too often this meant that bad things mowed good folks down. Not in this case, though. Thank God, not this time.
And it was hard to think of two people who deserved it more.
Leaving his room, Tohr strode down the hall of statues. The happy announcement about John and his Xhex getting mated had spread throughout the household, bringing a much- needed shot in the arm to everybody. Especially Fritz and the doggen, who loved to put on a big party.
And man, from the sounds down below, they were in the throes of preparations. Either that or West Coast Choppers was doing a Harley over in the foyer.
Nah. Turned out the buzzing wasn't some pimp job on a cycle, but a fleet of floor buffers going to town.
Pausing, Tohr braced his hands on the balustrade and looked down at the mosaic depiction of the apple tree in full bloom. As he watched the doggen with their whirling machines go over the branches and the trunk, he decided life was right and fair on occasion. It truly was.
And that was the only reason he could summon the strength to do what he had to.
After descending the grand staircase at a jog, he waved at the doggen while dodging in and out of their paths and ducking out through the vestibule. In the courtyard, he took a deep breath and braced himself. He had a good two hours before the ceremony, which was a bene. He wasn't sure how long this was going to take.
Closing his eyes, he sent his atoms scattering and took form . . . on the terrace of his mated home, the place where he and his beloved had lived out a good fifty years.
As he lifted his lids, he didn't look at the house. Instead, he tilted his head back and searched the night sky above the roofline. The stars were out, their shimmering brightness undimmed by the moon which had yet to reach any appreciable height.
Where were his dead? he wondered. Which among the tiny lights were the souls of those whom he'd lost?
Where were his shellan and their young? Where was Darius? Where were all the others who had pared off from the trudging path his boots still strode so that they could take residence in the velvet ever-afterlife of the Fade?
Did they watch what happened down here? Did they see what transpired, both the good and bad?
Did they miss those they'd left behind?
Did they know they were missed?
Tohr slowly brought his head to level and steeled himself.
Yup, he was right . . . hurt like a motherfucker just to look at the place.
And the metaphor was too frickin' obvious: What he was staring at was a huge hole in his house, the glass slider to John's old room blown clean out of its frame, a whole lot of nothing left where there was meant to be something.
As a breeze blew by, the drapes that hung on either side of the casing wafted gently.
So very obvious: House was him. Hole was what remained after he'd lost . . . Wellsie.