The Savior

They were hellaciously effective, too. He had staged a number of attacks downtown, the targets chosen with care: sons of the glymera in their prime. With the aristocrats already enraged by Wrath’s disbanding of the Council, the upper class was disaffected and unstable. Add to that simmering discord the fact that the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the King could not protect their precious male progeny?

It was the perfect social unrest, a kettle about to o’erboil—and Throe was in the best position to seize upon the fear and anger, and leverage them into a claim on the throne.

His first foray unto that goal had failed. This time? With his shadows? With his Book?

He was going to get what he wanted, rising above the ridicule and the shame from the centuries before, reclaiming his rightful place in the glymera.

And the idea that the Band of Bastards, now aligned with Wrath, would suffer? Well, that just gave him additional satisfaction. Granted, overtime, he had fallen in with them, believing those males to be his family. But that had been a ruse created by circumstance. Forced proximity to their brutish ways did not equate with true kinship.

All he needed was the Book and his shadows, and his future was secure.

Opening up to a random page, he stroked the symbols of the Old Language that had been inked into the parchment, and in response, they shifted ever so slightly as his fingers passed over them—

In the back of his mind, he was aware that that was not right.

Images imbedded through an inking’s permanent stain should not move, and people in their right minds did not talk to inanimate objects as if they were in a relationship with them.

In a foggy, rambly series of recollections, he remembered going to that psychic’s shop and having the Book materialize unto him, its seductive power calling him forth and deeming him worthy of its many gifts. He recalled opening the cover and being unable to translate the runes upon its pages—except then, before his very eyes, the ink had rearranged itself into the Old Language which he could read.

In a series of vivid snapshots, he remembered coming back here, and conjuring his first shadow …

All at once a flush went through him, the heat reaching his brain and unscrambling his thoughts.

No, it is fine, he told himself. All is well. All is as it should be.

“I have my faith and my faith has me,” he whispered. “I have my faith and my faith has me …”

As the mantra came out of his mouth, over and over again, he focused on the desktop. On it was a seating plan for twenty-four in the formal dining room. The guests had been chosen with deliberation, each one of the couples not just from the glymera, but with hellrens who had been members of the Council that Wrath had seen fit to do away with.

As if aristocrats didn’t know best.

Everything was set for the party. The hors d’oeuvres, the menu, the wine pairings—and most especially the entertainment.

Following all those targeted deaths downtown, it was now time for him and his shadows to take it up a notch. At the appointed moment, the party was going to be “infiltrated” with the terrifying new enemy of the species, the scourge of downtown, the mystical killer of the glymera’s young.

And there would be no Brotherhood, no Wrath, to save them. Just as there had been no Brotherhood, no Wrath, to save their sons.

Instead, Throe would be the one who vanquished the threat. Protected them and their shellans. Placed himself voluntarily in grave bodily danger in order to ensure their safety and survival.

All of which were no big deal when you were actually in control of the attack.

All of which positioned him nicely as a one-of-them leadership alternative to Wrath’s throne.

Throe stroked the Book as he imagined himself in a position of true power, no longer the fallen-from-grace also-ran of a fairly good family.

Instead, the King.

Without the Book, none of this would be possible, he told himself. So whatever oddities occurred with respect to its pages, whatever things he could not explain about how it had come to him—or him to it, as it were—whatever concerns he might have about sometimes not feeling as if he were in control of himself, none of these mattered as long as he dethroned Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath—

No, his inner voice insisted. None of this was right, none of this made sense—

The Book cover flipped open, casting his palm away. Pages turned at a frenetic pace, the blur faster than the eye could track, continuing longer than there were folios set within the binding.

“Now, darling,” he said. “Let us not do this.”

The pages slowed.

“Forgive me my wayward thoughts.” Slower the sheaths turned. “It is never my intent to offend.”

Finally the Book stilled.

“I do not want to quarrel—”

Leaning over, he frowned at the pages facing up at him. The characters of the Old Language upon them were beginning to swirl around a fulcrum in the center of the open binding. Faster and faster they turned, a galaxy forming and then tightening into a black hole so resonant and intense, Throe could have sworn a three-dimensional sinkhole had been created, one that was so vast, there was no comprehending its terminal—or perhaps it had no terminal at all.

He leaned closer.

Staring into the void, his eyes adjusted to the dense blackness … and that was when he recognized a contouring around its edges. The pattern that was uneven and yet predictable.

Stones, he thought. It seemed as though stones had been mortared together in a circle that plunged into the earth.

A well.

Throe …

At the sound of his name echoing up to him, a surge of fear had him pushing back against the desk, and for a split second, the pull of that voice, of whatever was at the base of the void, latched onto him and held him in place.

Sucking him in—the vortex was sucking him in—

The seduction snapped like a tether that had reached its limit, and he was suddenly free and falling back into the chair with a slam that nearly toppled him backward onto the carpet. As he threw out his hands to steady himself, his heart pounded and his head swam, sure as if he’d just caught himself from a deadly fall, his life saved by a split second and a stroke of luck.

When he looked up, all four of his shadows were in front of the desk.

“What are you doing here?” he asked roughly.

It was the first time they had moved of their own volition.

 

 

As Sarah sat in the back of a van with blacked-out windows and bench seats, she was aware she needed to go to the authorities about BioMed and the secret lab. But every time that impulse went through her head, a ringing pain cut her thoughts off. She had proof, however. Proof that had to be given over to some kind of official someone.

She wasn’t exactly sure whom to go to. The New York State police? Or maybe the FBI. Yes, the FBI—

As the sharpshooter in her frontal lobe returned, she distracted herself from the discomfort by looking around the inside of the van. It was the boy, the commando, and the doctor sitting with her on padded seats that ringed, not row’d, the rear compartment. Early on in the trip, she decided it was like the inside of a cargo plane and they were all going to parachute out of the rear doors when they reached ten thousand feet.

She didn’t know who was driving. Where they were going. Or what exactly was going to happen when they reached their destination.