Lover Reborn

Realtor during the day, and the price they had set was aggressive, but not crazy. If Tohr had to carry the costs of the place for another couple of months, or even through the spring, that was fine.

Meanwhile, the furniture and rugs had been moved into the mansion’s garage; the paintings and etchings and ink drawings were up in the climate-controlled part of the attic; and the jewelry box was in Tohr’s closet above the mating dress.

So it was… done.

At the bottom of the stairs, he and John set off at a resolute pace that took them through a cavernous room and by the massive boiler that not only kicked out enough heat to keep the main part of the house warm, but threatened to fry his face and body as he strode into its orbit.

Continuing onward, their footsteps were loud, the air cooling fast as they left the boiler’s range and hit the second half of the basement. This part was cut up into storage rooms, one of which would soon hold the balance of his and Wellsie’s furniture, another of which was V’s private workspace.

No, not that kind of work.

He used his penthouse for that shit.

Vishous’s forge was down here.

The sound of the Brother’s fire-breathing monster started off as a low hum; by the time they turned the final corner, the dull roar was loud enough to drown out the sound of their shitkickers. In fact, the only thing that cut through the din was the tink-tink-tink of V pounding a hammer on red-hot black metal.

As they stepped into the doorway of the cramped stone room, V was hard at work, his bare chest and shoulders gleaming in the orange light of the flames, his muscled arm rising up to strike again and again. His concentration was fierce—and it should be. The blade that strip of metal was becoming would be responsible for keeping its owner alive, as well as getting the enemy good and dead.

The Brother looked up as they appeared, and nodded. After two more strikes, he put down his hammer and cut the oxygen feed to the fire pit.

“What’s doing?” he said as the great growl settled into a purr.

Tohr glanced over at John Matthew. The kid had been a star throughout the whole process, never faltering in the grim work of dismantling a lifetime’s worth of keepsakes, mementos, and collections.

So hard, this was. On the both of them.

After a moment, Tohr looked back at his brother… and found himself at a loss for words—except V was already nodding and getting to his feet. Removing the heavy leather gloves that went up to his elbows, he stepped free of his station.

“Yeah, I’ve got them,” the brother said. “Back at the Pit. Come on.”

Tohr nodded, because that was all he had to share with anyone. Still, as the three of them filed out and walked in sad silence back for the stairs, he clapped his hand on John’s nape and kept it there.

The contact comforted them both.

When they emerged into the kitchen, there was too much Last Meal chaos for any of the staff to really notice them—so fortunately there were no questions, no kind inquiries, no guesses about why they were all looking so serious.

Out the butler’s pantry. Hop across to the hidden door beneath the staircase. Down into the tunnel to avoid the cold of the winter.

As they hung a right and headed in the opposite direction from the training center, he couldn’t believe on some level that this was happening. His shitkickers even faltered a couple of times, like maybe they were trying to pull him away from this last piece.

He was resolved, however.

At the door that led into the Pit, V punched in the code and opened the way up, indicating that they should go first.

The place where Butch and V bunked in with their shellans was the same as always—except neater now that there were females cohabitating there: The Sports Illustrateds were in an orderly pile on the coffee table; the kitchen didn’t have empty bottles of Lag and Goose all over the counters; and there were no more gym bags or biker jackets hanging off of everything.

V’s Four Toys still took up one whole corner, however, and the massive plasma-screen TV remained the biggest thing in the place.

Some things would never change.

“She’s in my room.”

Tohr wouldn’t ordinarily follow the guy into his private space, but this was not ordinary.

V and Doc Jane’s room was small and had more books than bed in it, stacks of physics tomes and chemistry volumes crowding the rug until you could barely walk on it. The good doctor made sure the place wasn’t a total pigsty, however, with the duvet all pulled up nice and neat, and the pillows angled carefully against the headboard.

Over in the corner, Vishous opened the closet and reached up to the top shelf, straining even with his height for…

The black velvet–wrapped bundle he brought out was big enough and heavy enough to require both hands, and he grunted as he eased back and carried it over to the bed.

As he put the thing down, Tohr had to force himself to keep breathing.

There she was. His Wellsie. Everything that was left of her on earth.

Lowering onto his knees before her, he reached forward and undid the satin bow at the top. With hands that shook, he pried the velvet bag open and pushed it down, revealing a sterling silver urn that had art deco etchings on its four sides.

“Where did you get this?” he said, running a forefinger down the bright, shiny metal.

“Darius had it in a back room. I think it’s Tiffany, from the thirties. Fritz polished it up.”

The urn was not part of their tradition.

Ashes were not meant to be kept.

They were supposed to be set free.

“It’s beautiful.” He glanced up at John. The kid’s face was pale, his lips tight… and in a quick, slashing movement, he brushed under his left eye. “We’re ready to do her Fade ceremony, aren’t we, son.”

John nodded.

“When?” V asked.

“Tomorrow night, I think.” As John nodded again, Tohr said, “Yeah, tomorrow.”

“You want I talk to Fritz and set it up?” V asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll take care of it. John and I are going to do it.” Tohr refocused on the lovely urn. “He and I are going to let her go… together.”

Standing over Tohr, John was having a difficult time keeping it together. Hard to know what was getting to him more: the fact that Wellsie was actually in the room with them again, or that Tohr was kneeling before that urn as if his legs weren’t working right.

The past couple of nights had been a brutal exercise in reorientation. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known Wellsie was gone; it was just… dismantling everything in that house had made that fact so loud, there was a constant screaming in his head.

Goddamn it, she was never going to know that he’d made it through his transition, or that he was a halfway decent fighter, or that he’d gotten mated. If he ever had a child of his own, she’d never hold it in her arms, or see a first birthday, or get to witness first steps or first words.

Her absence made his own life seem less full, and he had the awful feeling that that was always going to be true.

As Tohr bent his head, John went over and put his palm on the guy’s heavy shoulder, reminding himself that however hard this was for him, what Tohr was going through was a thousand times worse. Shit, though, the Brother had been strong, making all those out and safe decisions about everything from pairs of jeans to pots and pans, working steadily in spite of the fact that he had to be raw on the inside.

If John hadn’t respected the fuck out of the Brother before, he sure as hell did now—