The Savior

Murhder pointed to himself and John nodded. Then he held up one finger … two …

On three, John swung around, kicked open the door, and Murhder went in first with his gun up—

“What the fuck,” he muttered as he hauled up short.

The window across the bedroom suite was wide open, the winter night barreling in on a stiff wind, the drapes billowing. And everywhere else, the antique furniture was in disarray, the bureau, the bed, the side tables … all crammed in a circle around an old writing desk with a burn mark on it.

John went across and punched open the door to a walk-in closet. When he shook his head indicating it was clear, Murhder proceeded further into the room, zeroing in on that desk as John checked out the bathroom.

Murhder lowered his weapon. The burn mark on the leather blotter was perfectly square, about two foot by one foot.

The size of a book—

A high-pitched whistle sounded out down the hall, and John sent three short bursts in reply. Moments later, Tohr came in with his guns up.

“What happened in here?” the brother said.

“No clue.” Murhder looked around again, searching for … fuck knew what. “Did you find Throe—”

Three gunshots went off directly below them on the first floor.

“Shit!” Murhder lunged for the way out. “The shadows are back—”

Tohr caught him and prevented him from leaving. “No. That’s … the male who died and did not stay that way.”

“What are you talking about?”

Tohr didn’t reply to that—verbally. Instead, the bald look in the brother’s eye stated plainly that nightmares could come true—and suddenly, Murhder knew without a doubt where John’s injury had come from.

“Shit,” he breathed.

 

After John had cleared a second closet, he came over to Tohr and Murhder and signed, How many injured downstairs?

“Xcor got shot, but at least it was just through the thigh,” Tohr answered. “I had to hold him back from going after Throe. We’ve also got a female who probably has a dislocated ankle. And then there’s you.”

John looked down at himself in a panic, his brain going a thousand miles an hour into the brick wall of another wound like the one he’d had.

Except then Murhder said, “Huh. What do you know. I got hit.”

The Brother poked at his shoulder, and that was when John started to smell the blood in the air. Sure enough, there was a round bullet hole in Murhder’s leather jacket—and John breathed deeply in relief. Conventional wound. Totally treatable—

Headlights flared across the walls of the room, the beams flashing through the open window.

“Surgical unit is on-site,” Tohr said to Murhder. “Let’s get you down there. You coming John?”

John pointed at the open window and then went over to close it. As the other two left, he gripped the sash and …

Leaning out, he looked down to the snow in the side yard. In the otherwise perfectly undisturbed blanket of white, there was a set of tracks that went from just below the window across the property. At the tree line that separated the estate from its splendiferous neighbor, the prints seemed to disappear, but it was hard to know if that was because whoever had made them had dematerialized or just walked into the evergreens.

All of that was odd, for sure. First of all, if Throe had wanted to leave the scene, he could have just ghosted out. Why open the window? There was no steel mesh. And if the male were injured and therefore couldn’t dematerialize? There would be blood—or the prints would have been messy, indicating a shuffle.

But none of that was what really got John’s attention.

The true weirdness made him rub his eyes and refocus, just to make sure he was seeing things properly.

The footsteps appeared to glow like phosphorus.

John shut the window and strode out of the room. Downstairs, he entered the secured area in what turned out to be a library. Rhage, V, Blay, and Qhuinn were guarding the assembled civilians, all of whom appeared shaken in their formal evening clothes. Doc Jane was assessing each of the guests with Manny no doubt doing procedures as necessary in the mobile surgical unit.

Tohr was talking on his phone, and John waited for the Brother to end the call. “Hey, son, what’s up.”

John indicated the front door with a nod of his head, and the pair of them went out and around to the side yard. There was no reason to point at the tracks. They were still glowing.

“What the hell is this?” Tohr muttered.

The Brother strode forward, getting down on his haunches as he checked out the start of the prints under the second-story window. Then he and John followed them to the tree line, ducking under the pine boughs and looking for signs that they continued through the undergrowth.

Nope.

They ended.

Back out from under, they watched as the glow dimmed. And then disappeared altogether.

“This makes no damn sense.” Tohr got out his phone again and triggered the flashlight. Lowering himself down, he shook his head. “On too many levels to count.”

John bent over and stared at the prints, also.

WTF?

Up close, it was clear they weren’t made by loafers or boots, but what they seemed to be from … well, it was a case of no damned sense, as Tohr said.

The print had a triangular front pad and a point for the back.

As if whoever had made them had been wearing stilettos.

 

 

Back in Ithaca, Sarah was wide awake and busy, busy, busy. Then again, a whole lot of her life was off course from the path she’d set for herself, her ship blown into unfamiliar waters, her map lost overboard, her compass broken.

So yes, she was packing up her house at—what time was it? Ah, one thirty a.m.

She’d tried the whole sleeping thing. First upstairs in her bed with Murhder’s plaited hair underneath her pillow; then two hours later, down on the couch in front of the TV. Neither had worked in the slightest. Eventually, she hadn’t been able to stand herself for one more minute longer.

She was in so much emotional pain, she couldn’t stay still, her body moving, jerking, shifting in whatever position she stretched out in. She missed Murhder so badly it hurt, and she was struck by the fact that it was all so much more painful than the aftermath of Gerry’s death.

By an incalculable degree.

Thus, a Mr. Clean kind of thing had struck her as a productive use of her insomnia. And initially, she’d decided to start with Spic n’ Span’ing the kitchen, on her hands and knees, going all Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest.

Helga, when you polish the floor, you have to move the tree.

God, she couldn’t believe she still remembered that quote.

But when she’d opened the cupboard under the sink for the Bona, she saw a clutter of containers, and steel wool packages, and paper towels. Getting to her feet, she’d ended up going through every drawer, every shelf, each nook and cranny.

Only to become overwhelmed by the amount of stuff she was going to have to organize to move out. And in a way, it was a relief to have a big job, even though compared to most people, she probably didn’t have a ton of extra things. Not like, if she’d had a child—

She’d thought of Nate at that point.

Which was how she’d ended up here on the second floor: She’d tried to leave the mourning for that young male in the kitchen where it had kicked off. Besides, start at the top, work your way down, right?