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The first warrior.
How was this happening, he thought as he watched the crowd gather below the stage in a semicircle—just like it had been at his and Rahvyn’s ceremony.
As a fresh wave of agony swamped him, the last of the mourners trickled in, and then there was a dense silence broken only by sniffling and the occasional cough.
When he heard a soft shuffling sound, he glanced over and closed his eyes briefly.
It was Beth, dressed in a white robe. L.W. was in her arms, George by her side.
She was positively gray, her eyes sunken in her head, her aura one of such profound anguish, she was a dark shadow that lived and breathed.
Tohr followed her, holding a bundle of something with reverence.
The pair of them walked down together, and when they mounted the stage, the brothers joined them, lining up with the widow and the young. With his head lowered, Tohr stepped forward to the altar.
Next to the skull, he placed a leather jacket and a pair of wraparounds.
And then beneath, he set a pair of black boots that had been shined so perfectly, they might as well have been floodlights.
Tohr stepped back and began chanting. On his cue, the brothers picked up the mourning cadence, swaying from side to side. And when Beth looked like she was about to faint, Zsadist stepped up and put his arm around her to hold her steady.
Lassiter could only stand in the back and try to breathe. As he attempted to contain his emotions, he had the thought that he’d finally gotten the job description right: He wasn’t getting involved in this. He was going to stay back.
For the moment, at least. There was no way in hell he wasn’t fighting that goddamn Lash again. No way—
Down in front, as the cadence rose to a deafening level, the King’s dog broke out of the lineup and slinked forward, its head lowered, its ears drooping.
George went right to the boots his master had worn and lay down beside them, placing his boxy blond head across the steel toes.
Lassiter lowered his eyes, and decided he had to leave. He just couldn’t take any more pain.
Just as he was about to turn away, he heard another soft sound of folds of cloth next to him, and he wondered who the straggler was—
As he looked over, he froze.
And it was clearly the same for Rahvyn, as the hooded black robe she was wearing did a double take.
Staring across at the female, he tried to see her face, but there was nothing showing because she had not revealed herself as everyone else had. She was looking at him, though. He could feel her eyes, even though he couldn’t see them.
And he had a thought. Over the past couple of nights, the loss of her had solidified in his chest, in his mind, in his life, the absence of her like a construction that was built in a hardy fashion because it was going to be permanent.
He had to accept the god-awful reality because he had no choice, as there was nothing to fight for, no opportunity to argue. Over. Done with. His fate sealed because Rahvyn had gotten half the story right, and been disinclined to listen to the rest of the truth.
Glancing back down to the altar, he stared at that leather jacket. Then shifted his eyes to Beth.
Abruptly, he decided, fuck it. Life was short and violent, and destiny was a cunt, and he was very sure, if Wrath had been in his shoes, the King would have busted out of a funeral to try to save his relationship with his Queen.
Or, at the very least, explain himself.
Lassiter leaned over to her and said in a low voice, “I need to talk to you. Right now.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
It was all so overwhelming. All of it.
Everything.
So in a way, as Rahvyn showed up late to the great Blind King’s funeral, she really should not have been surprised that Lassiter happened to be standing way in the back, right at the entry to the cave’s torchlit amphitheater.
And naturally, he was now demanding to be heard. In a way that suggested he was prepared to start the conversation right here.
With a shout, if he had to.
For so many reasons, she was not up to any kind of talking with anyone. But she also did not have the strength to argue with him at a whisper about how not only was it inappropriate for them to deal with their personal issues at a time like this, she was truly not interested in hearing anything he had to say.
In the end, she merely shrugged and backed out through the archway she had just put to good use.
Lassiter marched off, going all the way back to the start of the hall of empty shelves, and when he finally halted, and she tilted her hood up to regard him, she felt like she was looking at a stranger in the light of the torches that hissed and seethed from the mountings.
