The Savior (Black Dagger Brotherhood 17)
He thought of Nate, with her now.
He thought of what he hoped for the future.
For no particular reason, he glanced over at the angel who was far off to the side. The male was watching him, and the smile that came at Murhder was full of love and acceptance, as if the angel had had a hand in all this.
In everything.
The angel’s hand lifted and swept through the air—and Murhder jumped as he felt a stroke on his cheek, a tear being wiped away. Then the angel made a fist and opened his palm. Something caught the light, sending out a sparkle.
Shaking himself, Murhder refocused and turned back to the skull. “My flesh.”
The pain as he opened his vein was sharp and sweet, and his blood glowed red in the candlelight as it dropped in to join Wrath and Tohr’s. Licking the wound closed, he went up to the inductee. As he approached John, his eyes went to the list of names … and as he found his own, he felt a flush of pride.
“Your flesh.”
He didn’t have to tilt John’s head to the side. The male did it by himself.
The bite marks on John’s throat were bleeding, leaving a trail of blood down his collarbone and his chest, the side of his torso and his hip. The male was unwavering in the pain, his face composed and his body strong, even as his jaw spasmed from the agony he was in and his arms trembled from how hard he was gripping the pegs.
Murhder curled up a fist in the glove and spared none of his strength. To do so would have been disrespectful to John.
John took all of the bites and all of the strikes, adrenaline running through him, keeping him upright even as the pain magnified and threatened his vision and hearing.
When it was Qhuinn’s turn, his best friend seemed to tear up as their eyes met. John did the same.
And then Zsadist was the last one to approach him from the lineup. John stared into the male’s yellow eyes as a pair of massive fangs dug deep into a wrist still marked with a slave band. And then came the impact on John’s chest, all breath knocked out of him, his upper body going limp such that he nearly lost his hold on the grips.
But he remained standing.
His hollow belly pumped in and out as he refused to lose consciousness. And when next he was fully aware again, he saw with clarity the lineup of males that had gathered around the altar, proud warriors, all with the same mark on their pec as he had.
Wrath picked up the skull and held the ancient relic high. “This is the first of us. Hail to him, the warrior who birthed the Brotherhood.”
A roar of triumph and respect echoed around the candlelit cave, and then the King turned to John and was brought over by Tohr.
“Drink and join us,” Wrath said.
John released the pegs and went for it, taking the skull and putting the silver rim of the reservoir to his mouth. Opening his throat, he drank it all down, the blood blazing a trail to his gut, scorching him.
The King took the skull back, and said softly, “Better hold on to those grips, son—”
The firebrand of power that came unto him was like nothing John had ever experienced before. It was a rush of incalculable dimension, sure to blow him apart—and yet in the midst of it, he recognized each of the Brothers within it, their individual characteristics entering him, nourishing him … strengthening him.
Teeth chattering, muscles jerking, heart pounding, he hung on … until he could no longer. Falling … he was … falling …
… John opened his eyes and blinked … blinked again …
He was on the marble floor, facing the wall of names, his body spent as if it had been used to run a hundred marathons. His head was like a balloon, his spinal cord the string that tethered it to his torso, his legs useless—
Abruptly, everything became focused.
Below the inscription of his best friend Qhuinn’s name … was his own. John Matthew. In the symbols of the Old Language.
Pushing up against the marble floor, he started to smile as he reached out and traced the deep carving.
Clapping brought his head around.
The Brotherhood was standing behind him, re-robed, their hoods down. All of the fierce males were smiling as they cheered for him.
Tohr extended his dagger hand. “Let me help you up, my brother.”
John looked into the male’s face and was reminded of the first time he’d seen the one he would call “father.” As tears threatened, Tohr’s eyes became misty, too.
John stood up on his own, and the two embraced, holding each other tightly.
It had been a long road from that bus station where he’d been born and left for dead, so much of it full of terrible losses. But there had been amazing surprises, too, and blessings that had been both prayed for and unexpected. There had been laughs and sobs, illness and health, confusion and clarity.
Throughout all of it, John had questioned his path so many times. Had felt for sure he would never recover from countless problems. Had worried he would be alone for his days and nights.
But that was not how things had ended up, had they.
If he’d only known to put a little more faith in Fate.
Just before he broke away from the only father he had ever known, he caught Lassiter’s strange silver gaze. The fallen angel smiled at him.
And then pulled a Taylor Swift move, making a heart of his forefingers and thumbs over his pec.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, did anyone bring a tissue?” someone muttered.
As multiple brothers started to sniffle, somebody else said, “Use your robe. I did.”
“Goddamn it, I hate crying.”
“So why do you watch Grey’s Anatomy?”
“It’s the angel’s fault. Fucker is a glutton for punishment …”
As the Brotherhood talked and laughed, John and Tohr separated and then he was hugging Qhuinn. Murhder. Everyone.
John could not stop smiling. He was one of them for reals.
And wasn’t that awesome?
Sarah got out of the Mercedes slowly, rising from the warm interior without noticing the cold. At all.
The structure before her was more castle than house, a monolithic stone construction with gargoyles on its roofline, a thousand diamond-pane windows, and multi-story’d wings that went on forever. The magnificent expanse was anchored by a courtyard with a fountain that was shut down for winter, and there was also a carriage house off to one side and a lineup of very different cars and trucks across the way.
“So this is where we live.”
Sarah jumped as Xhex came around from the driver’s side. “You know … this is the kind of place I assumed the King of all vampires would live in.”
“Wait’ll you see the inside,” the female murmured. “You ready?”
Sarah nodded, but didn’t walk forward. She couldn’t seem to move.
Xhex took her arm. “Come on, they don’t bite—okay, maybe that’s not the best choice of words.”
Together, they started up a shoveled set of stone stairs toward an entrance that belonged on a cathedral. Overhead, the moon was full in a clear sky, and the night was still. Sarah’s breath left her lips in puffs of white, and she had to put her hands in the pockets of her parka because she didn’t have gloves.
Xhex opened a heavy door into a vestibule and looked down into a camera mounted next to a computer monitor. “Hey all, it’s us—” ought of Nate, with her now.
He thought of what he hoped for the future.
For no particular reason, he glanced over at the angel who was far off to the side. The male was watching him, and the smile that came at Murhder was full of love and acceptance, as if the angel had had a hand in all this.
In everything.
The angel’s hand lifted and swept through the air—and Murhder jumped as he felt a stroke on his cheek, a tear being wiped away. Then the angel made a fist and opened his palm. Something caught the light, sending out a sparkle.
Shaking himself, Murhder refocused and turned back to the skull. “My flesh.”
The pain as he opened his vein was sharp and sweet, and his blood glowed red in the candlelight as it dropped in to join Wrath and Tohr’s. Licking the wound closed, he went up to the inductee. As he approached John, his eyes went to the list of names … and as he found his own, he felt a flush of pride.
“Your flesh.”
He didn’t have to tilt John’s head to the side. The male did it by himself.
The bite marks on John’s throat were bleeding, leaving a trail of blood down his collarbone and his chest, the side of his torso and his hip. The male was unwavering in the pain, his face composed and his body strong, even as his jaw spasmed from the agony he was in and his arms trembled from how hard he was gripping the pegs.
Murhder curled up a fist in the glove and spared none of his strength. To do so would have been disrespectful to John.
John took all of the bites and all of the strikes, adrenaline running through him, keeping him upright even as the pain magnified and threatened his vision and hearing.
When it was Qhuinn’s turn, his best friend seemed to tear up as their eyes met. John did the same.
And then Zsadist was the last one to approach him from the lineup. John stared into the male’s yellow eyes as a pair of massive fangs dug deep into a wrist still marked with a slave band. And then came the impact on John’s chest, all breath knocked out of him, his upper body going limp such that he nearly lost his hold on the grips.
But he remained standing.
His hollow belly pumped in and out as he refused to lose consciousness. And when next he was fully aware again, he saw with clarity the lineup of males that had gathered around the altar, proud warriors, all with the same mark on their pec as he had.
Wrath picked up the skull and held the ancient relic high. “This is the first of us. Hail to him, the warrior who birthed the Brotherhood.”
A roar of triumph and respect echoed around the candlelit cave, and then the King turned to John and was brought over by Tohr.
“Drink and join us,” Wrath said.
John released the pegs and went for it, taking the skull and putting the silver rim of the reservoir to his mouth. Opening his throat, he drank it all down, the blood blazing a trail to his gut, scorching him.
The King took the skull back, and said softly, “Better hold on to those grips, son—”
The firebrand of power that came unto him was like nothing John had ever experienced before. It was a rush of incalculable dimension, sure to blow him apart—and yet in the midst of it, he recognized each of the Brothers within it, their individual characteristics entering him, nourishing him … strengthening him.
Teeth chattering, muscles jerking, heart pounding, he hung on … until he could no longer. Falling … he was … falling …
… John opened his eyes and blinked … blinked again …
He was on the marble floor, facing the wall of names, his body spent as if it had been used to run a hundred marathons. His head was like a balloon, his spinal cord the string that tethered it to his torso, his legs useless—
Abruptly, everything became focused.
Below the inscription of his best friend Qhuinn’s name … was his own. John Matthew. In the symbols of the Old Language.
Pushing up against the marble floor, he started to smile as he reached out and traced the deep carving.
Clapping brought his head around.
The Brotherhood was standing behind him, re-robed, their hoods down. All of the fierce males were smiling as they cheered for him.
Tohr extended his dagger hand. “Let me help you up, my brother.”
John looked into the male’s face and was reminded of the first time he’d seen the one he would call “father.” As tears threatened, Tohr’s eyes became misty, too.
John stood up on his own, and the two embraced, holding each other tightly.
It had been a long road from that bus station where he’d been born and left for dead, so much of it full of terrible losses. But there had been amazing surprises, too, and blessings that had been both prayed for and unexpected. There had been laughs and sobs, illness and health, confusion and clarity.
Throughout all of it, John had questioned his path so many times. Had felt for sure he would never recover from countless problems. Had worried he would be alone for his days and nights.
But that was not how things had ended up, had they.
If he’d only known to put a little more faith in Fate.
Just before he broke away from the only father he had ever known, he caught Lassiter’s strange silver gaze. The fallen angel smiled at him.
And then pulled a Taylor Swift move, making a heart of his forefingers and thumbs over his pec.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, did anyone bring a tissue?” someone muttered.
As multiple brothers started to sniffle, somebody else said, “Use your robe. I did.”
“Goddamn it, I hate crying.”
“So why do you watch Grey’s Anatomy?”
“It’s the angel’s fault. Fucker is a glutton for punishment …”
As the Brotherhood talked and laughed, John and Tohr separated and then he was hugging Qhuinn. Murhder. Everyone.
John could not stop smiling. He was one of them for reals.
And wasn’t that awesome?
Sarah got out of the Mercedes slowly, rising from the warm interior without noticing the cold. At all.
The structure before her was more castle than house, a monolithic stone construction with gargoyles on its roofline, a thousand diamond-pane windows, and multi-story’d wings that went on forever. The magnificent expanse was anchored by a courtyard with a fountain that was shut down for winter, and there was also a carriage house off to one side and a lineup of very different cars and trucks across the way.
“So this is where we live.”
Sarah jumped as Xhex came around from the driver’s side. “You know … this is the kind of place I assumed the King of all vampires would live in.”
“Wait’ll you see the inside,” the female murmured. “You ready?”
Sarah nodded, but didn’t walk forward. She couldn’t seem to move.
Xhex took her arm. “Come on, they don’t bite—okay, maybe that’s not the best choice of words.”
Together, they started up a shoveled set of stone stairs toward an entrance that belonged on a cathedral. Overhead, the moon was full in a clear sky, and the night was still. Sarah’s breath left her lips in puffs of white, and she had to put her hands in the pockets of her parka because she didn’t have gloves.
Xhex opened a heavy door into a vestibule and looked down into a camera mounted next to a computer monitor. “Hey all, it’s us—”