Tore up from the floor up. Followed by a big outtie.
Over his shoulder, John looked at the pale face of the male who had been his savior, his mentor... the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. Tohr had gained weight but his face was still hollow and maybe that would never change, no matter how many meals he ate.
As their stares locked, John had the sense that the pair of them had been through so much more than just the sum of years they’d known each other.
John put the basket down at his feet.
“Yeah?”
Tohr swallowed hard. “You want the keys to my house?”
John recoiled. He’d meant just to include the guy in what was doing with him, kind of a toe-in-the-pool thing to mending shit between them.
“Go. It would be good for you to check it out. The
John caught the keys and made a fist around them, shame constricting his chest. He’d been busy shitting on the guy lately and, even still, the Brother manned up and offered what had to be a killer for him?
“I’m glad you and Xhex have found each other. It makes cosmic sense, it truly does.”
John shoved the keys in his pocket to free up his hand.
The smile that briefly showed on the guy’s face seemed ancient. “Yeah, you are. You two are
Jesus, John thought, guess his bonding scent was obvious. Still, there was no reason to go into all the why- nots that were surrounding the pair of them.
“So, you going to Our Lady?” When John nodded, Tohr reached down to the floor and picked up a Hefty bag. “Take this with you. It’s drug money confiscated from that brownstone. Blay brought it back. Figure they could use it.”
As Tohr got to his feet, he left the loot on the desk and picked up the sandwich, peeling back the Saran Wrap, and taking a bite.
“Good work with the mayo,” he murmured. “Not too much. Not too little. Thanks.”
Tohr headed for the closet.
John whistled softly and the Brother stopped, but didn’t turn around. “It’s okay, John. You don’t have to say anything. Just be safe out there tonight, ’kay?”
With that Tohr ducked out of the office, leaving John alone in the wake of a kindness and dignity he could only hope to live up to someday.
As the closet door closed, he thought... he wanted to be like Tohr.
Heading out into the corridor, it was funny to have that running through his brain again, and its return kind of righted the world: Ever since he’d first met the guy, whether it was the Brother’s size, or his intelligence, or the way he treated his female, or how he fought, or even the deep sound of his voice... John had wanted to be like Tohr.
This was good.
This was... right.
As he walked down to the recovery room, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to tonight. After all, the past was oftentimes better left buried... especially his, because it stank.
But the thing was, he had a better chance at keeping Xhex from tearing off after Lash this way. She was going to need another night, maybe two, before she was at her full strength. And she should feed again at least one more time.
This way, he would know where she was and keep her by his side for the evening.
No matter what Tohr believed, John wasn’t fooling himself. Sooner or later, she was going to bolt and he wasn’t going to be able to stop her.
On the Far Side, Payne strolled around the Sanctuary, her bare feet tickled by the springy green grass, her nose filled with the scents of honeysuckle and hyacinth.
She hadn’t slept for even an hour since her mother had reanimated her, and though at first that had seemed odd, she didn’t give it much thought anymore. It just was.
More than likely her body had had enough repose to last a lifetime.
As she went by the Primale Temple, she didn’t go inside. Same with the entrance to her mother’s courtyard —it was too early for Wrath to arrive and her sparring with him was the only reason she ever went therein.
When she came to the sequestering temple, however, she did breach the door, although she couldn’t have said what drew her to turn the knob and step o’er the threshold.
The bowls of water the Chosen had long used to stare into and thereby bear witness to the events that transpired on the Other Side were lined up in perfect order on the many desks, the rolls of parchment and quill pens likewise laid out, ready for use.
A glint of light caught her eye and she walked over to its source. The water in one of the crystal basins was moving in ever-slowing circles, as if the thing had been used just now.
She looked around. “Hello?”
There was no answer, just the sweet smell of lemon, which suggested No’One had been by recently with her cleaning cloth. Which was a bit of a waste of time, really. There was no dust, no grime, no dirt to be dealt with here, but then No’One was a part of the great Chosen tradition, wasn’t she.
Nothing to do but make-work that served no great purpose.
As Payne turned to leave and passed by all the vacant chairs, the sense of her mother’s failure was as prevalent as the silence that abounded.
She didn’t like the female, for truth. But there was a sad reality to all the plans that had been made that had come to naught: Design a breeding program to weed out defects so that the race was strong. Face the enemy on the field on earth and win. Have her many children serve her with love, obedience, and joy.
Where was the Scribe Virgin now? Alone. Unworshiped. Unliked.
And the coming generations were even less likely to follow her ways, given the manner in which so many parents had strayed from tradition.
Leaving the empty room, Payne stepped out into the pervasive milky light and—
Down by the reflecting pool, a brilliant yellow shape shifted and danced like a tulip in a breeze.
Payne strode toward the figure and as she got closer, she decided Layla had evidently lost her mind.
The Chosen was singing a song that had no words, her body moving to a rhythm that had no fiddle, her hair swinging around like a flag.
It was the first and only time the female had not worn a chignon in the fashion of all Chosen—at least that Payne had seen.
“My sister!” Layla said, coming to a halt. “Forgive me.”
Her brilliant smile was brighter than the yellow of her robing and her scent was louder than it had ever been, the fragrance of cinnamon ringing in the air as sure as her lovely voice had.
Payne shrugged. “There’s nothing to forgive. Verily, your song is pleasing to the ear.”
Layla’s arms resumed their elegant swinging. “’Tis a lovely day, is it not?”
“Indeed.” From out of nowhere, Payne felt a bolt of fear. “Your mood is much improved.”
“’Tis, ’tis.” The Chosen pirouetted around, pointing her foot in a lovely arch before springing up into the air. “Verily, ’tis a lovely day.”
“Whatever has pleased you so?” Although Payne knew the answer. Transformations of disposition, after all, were rarely spontaneous—most required a trigger.
Layla slowed her dance, her arms and hair drifting downward and coming to a rest. As her elegant fingers lifted to her mouth, she seemed at a loss for words.
She has been of proper service, Payne thought. No longer was her experience as an
