On the ground, about ten feet in front of him, was a pile of black robing that had been partially claimed by the snow, the accumulation creeping up the contours of what was under the draping.
Qhuinn took a step forward. And another.
And then he fell to his knees by what appeared to be his brother’s remains.
The cane that Luchas had used was right where he had collapsed. And at the hem of the robe, the foot of the prosthesis stuck out. But there were no scorch marks, no ashes, no evidence of combustion.
Qhuinn’s hand shook as he reached for the hood.
Before he pulled back the fold, he looked up to Blay. “How is this real?”
“I don’t know.”
Images from the past filtered behind Qhuinn’s eyes: Of the dining room at the family house. Of Solange. Of their parents. Of Luchas, the night he had come through his transition and been presented his gold signet ring—
“Oh… God,” Qhuinn moaned as he moved the hood away.
His brother’s eyes were open, the gray gaze fixated on eternity, unblinking, unseeing. And Luchas’s face had frozen into marble, the cast of his hollow cheeks and his too-prominent jaw a death mask of that which had been alive not so long ago, his lips parted and white, his teeth clamped together as if he had been in pain when he had breathed his last.
Qhuinn looked up. Overhead, there were branches, but not enough of a canopy to filter out the sun that had blazed in the wake of the blizzard’s departure.
Unable to comprehend both the enormity of what was before him, and the inexplicable nature of the unburned remains, he obsessed over the mystery of how a vampire’s body could have survived the sunshine. Death was no insulation for incineration.
“Luchas…” he breathed. “Oh, brother mine.”
And then none of that mattered.
Curling over the remains, he wrapped his arms around the snow-dusted folds of the robe
, resting his cheek on the hard bone of the shoulder.
As he closed his eyes, he pictured Luchas as he had so often been, back in his hospital room, sitting in his reading chair, a leather-bound book held in his ruined hands.
“I’m sorry,” Qhuinn mumbled. “I’m so sorry… Luchas, why wasn’t I there when you needed me? Why…”
* * *
Blay took a handkerchief out of the back pocket of his slacks and pressed it into his eyes. As tears continued to sting, he struggled to draw air into his lungs.
There was no greater suffering than seeing your true love in pain.
Sniffling, he wiped his face. Down at his feet, Qhuinn was draped over his brother like a shroud, that huge warrior’s body covering the other male’s broken one, a shield that was too late in its protective endeavor. The words being spoken were so soft, Blay couldn’t hear them properly, but he didn’t need to know the precise syllables. The tone was resonantly mournful, and that was the only translation required.
Unable to hang back anymore—even if that was what Qhuinn might have wanted—Blay went forward and knelt down beside his mate. Placing his hand on that back, he made slow circles—
Oh… God. The face.
Luchas’s face.
The features were exactly as they had recently been, but as if death would have rearranged them?
Qhuinn straightened some and sniffled. As Blay offered the handkerchief, it was accepted and there was a quick mop-up.
“We need to call—” Qhuinn cleared his throat and returned the handkerchief. “I need help. To move him.”
“May I call the Brothers?”
“Yeah. Maybe they can bring those snowmobiles.” Qhuinn glanced around. “How will they know where we are?”