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But he’d had free will, so he’d gone to the Golden Arches first.
After all, what did you bring as a gift of greetingto a male who had nothing? Tohr had fucked off the world and been living on the blood of forest animals—and as the brother’s savior, of course Lassiter had decided on food. Plus, he’d managed to mostly not eat the fries on the way in.
Which had made him a saint as well as an angel.
And his plan, such as it had been, had worked. The fighter had eventually emerged from the mourning of his murderedshellan, and found a new life, and was now back in his old role as the King’s second-in-command. The calm, levelheaded one remained scarred at the soul level, but he had carried on, as survivors had to, as the living must do.
The Creator had been impressed by the figural resurrection—and sometime after Lassiter had set the fighter on his feet, a second promotion had been conferred from up on high. He hadn’t had any interest in the job. But when the Scribe Virgin told you she was turning the vampire species over to you and good luck with all those souls and their bright ideas? Well, there you had it. Your time card was punched for infinity, or whenever you gave the job up, whichever came first.
As he counted the number of nights he had served in the role, he stared out over the valley below. He’d assumed he’d last a little longer than this. Like, at least five years. Ten. Fifty. A century.
But here was the problem. When he’d arrived onthe scene in Caldwell, he hadn’t been particularly bothered about the people under his charge.
But after a while… he had cared too much.
Like a case of the flu, the feelings had crept up on him, a contagion caught from the loyalty and courage around him. Before he knew it, the mortals in that old stone mansion had started to matter, and to help them, he had blurred lines, bent rules… broken the contract with the Creator.
And then sacrificed himself in a way that had ruined him.
Except that was the job of a savior, right? You did whatever was required in service to others. It was just that some costs were higher than you thought they’d be—
No, that was a lie. Going into that last round with the demon Devina, he’d known exactly what he was going to pay and in what currency. And what he was sacrificing.
Rahvyn.
Closing his eyes, he pictured hair that had the gleam of polished sterling silver. Then he saw eyes that were wide with happiness, and a face that tilted up at him… as all around the female’s feet, wildflowers bloomed in a swirl even though it was not the season.
Why bring your girl a bouquet when you could give her a meadow full of blooms? he’d thought at the time. When he’d said goodbye to her.
He could still picture her delight as she had twirled in a little dance of wonder, and in this, he had every single detail. He saw with pristine clarity her hair spooling out into the moonlight, her body lithe in her civilian clothes, her smile not shy, but a revelation. She had been in his heart before that moment. Seeing her that night? She had entered his immortal soul.
Then again, maybe that had been less about his gift and her reaction to it… and more that he had known they were parting. Forever. Because even if they were in the same room after that evening? He was still going to be farther away from her than the outer bounds of the heavens.
Out of the two of them, only he’d known what he was about to do. Only he had known… that he was turning his body over to the demon, to do with it what she wished.
And after Devina had finished using him? The pain and shame had been a shock, even though he thought he’d prepared himself.
So the irony he felt now was of an alpha and omega variety: As he was exiting this world of Caldwell, New York, he was where he had begun, in a way. He was where Tohr had been, out in the woods alone, mourning a female he’d bonded with because he couldn’t have her. Of course, in his case, his female was still alive, but that didn’t mean anything. Not when he couldn’t be with her.
Lassiter looked down at his corporeal form and had to shake his head. The part of it that he didn’t understand was how something that didn’t exist could affect him so much. This image of a body, which he chose to inhabit when it suited his purposes, was nothim. He was an entity, rather than anything mortal.
Yet what had been done to him, what had been taken from him, lingered, transmitted through that which was an illusion into that which was real.
His soul was stained now.
All he wanted to do was return to the great ether, just disappear into a flash of energy that had no consciousness whatsoever. And the only reason he hadn’t followed through already?
He thought of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the King… their families anddoggen. The civilians. The Chosen who had been liberated.
Devina, the demon, who he knew was being pulled into a role that would make all vampires a target once more.
For the species’ benefit, he needed to rally. He needed to get in gear. He needed to pull up his bootstraps, get motivated, get back in the game, address the ball, find his stance, assume the position.
The pep talk didn’t work. It hadn’t worked.
Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes refocused on the glow. There was almost none of thesunset’s illumination left, and he found the parallel apt. There was not much of him left, either.
At least overhead, in the gathering darkness, the stars began to show, and he told himself he really needed to go. Enough of this self-imposed purgatory—
