The Savior

“Sure.”

She put her backpack down. Unzipped it. Took the photographs out. She found it impossible to look too closely at the images of her with Gerry. The fact that they were all from their uni days had never struck her as significant—until now.

No pictures of them together after they’d moved to Ithaca.

“So how’d you like to tell me about Sunday here.” Manfred hopped up on one of the bare desks. “And be creative, why don’t you. I like a challenge.”

Sarah frowned and looked over her shoulder at the man. It was hard to read his expression, but professional implacability was no doubt part of his training. And yet …

He didn’t know about the raid, did he. Somehow, the vampires had in fact managed to disappear all evidence of the infiltration and extraction—including Sarah’s role in it.

“All I did was check on some work and the order of a new microscope. That’s it.” As Manfred looked away, there was a hint of frustration on his face. “You said Kraiten shut the company down? What do you mean, exactly?”

“He dissolved it. Legally, RSK BioMed no longer exists.”

“What about all the patents? The research? The people who worked here?”

“Let’s refocus. After you finished your work, how did you get home if you left your car in the lot?”

“Look, you already know I didn’t kill Kraiten, right. He was one of the most paranoid people on the planet. Do not tell me you don’t have security feed of how he died.”

“As a matter of fact, we do. But what I’m wondering about right now is why you think you’re a suspect.”

She thought long and hard about what to say. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

“Great way to start. I commend you.”

She took a deep breath. “I think Robert Kraiten murdered my fiancé two years ago. And I think he killed Gerry’s boss, too, but I don’t know why exactly on either account. Gerry was very private about his work. He didn’t talk to me about what he was doing, ever. I have no idea what the Infectious Disease division was working on or why Gerry would be a threat to Kraiten or this business. But I know that Gerry had managed his diabetes well, and I don’t believe for a second that he died of natural causes.”

Manfred’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you really here Sunday night?”

“I told you. I was just checking up on a couple of my protocols. I’ve been working on tumor markers in renal cell carcinoma. Sometimes I can’t turn my brain off for a whole two days.”

“When did you leave?”

“Around eleven. My car didn’t start in the cold.”

“So who’d you catch a ride with?”

Sarah paused. “Kraiten. I rode home with Kraiten.”

 

 

After night fell over Caldwell, John Matthew did cartwheels down the grand staircase of the Brotherhood mansion. Like, literally. Hand hand, down—feet in the air. Land, shitkicker shitkicker. Hands in the air. Land, hand hand. Feet in the air. On the red carpeted steps.

He was doing very well, calibrating the stairs perfectly, balancing like a boss—except then he slipped up and bowling-ball’d it, banging and crashing all the way to the bottom. Whereupon he sprawled on the mosaic floor like a crash-test dummy.

Laughing his ass off.

Silently, but still.

Tohr’s face entered his field of vision from above, blocking the lofty painted ceiling of fighters on warhorses. “You okay there, big guy?”

John shoved two thumbs up so high that the Brother had to jerk out of range or get his nose plugged.

Then again, John had made love to his shellan for about seven hours straight—Xhex was still in bed, sleeping the marathon session off—and he’d followed that with a tray brought up from the kitchen by Fritz himself.

Four cheeseburgers. Double set of homemade fries. A gallon of organic milk.

And three frozen Hershey chocolate bars. The one-pounder size.

John leaped up, landing solidly on his shitkickers. Pulling his dagger holsters back into place, he saluted Tohr and then stomped his foot.

Tohr smiled. Pulled him in for a quick, hard hug. Pushed him back. “Okay, okay. I heard from Doc Jane that you’re cleared to fight, so yes, you can go out into the field.” As John pumped a fist, the Brother frowned. “Actually, why don’t you come with me to the Audience House? We had a strange voicemail during the day, and we’re following up on it. A lot of the guys are already there. I’m just running a little late.”

John nodded. Like, a hundred times.

Then he nearly skipped his way to the door out into the vestibule, all full of the joys of spring in spite of it being January. And he would have Easter Bunny’d it out of the mansion—except the sense that he was being watched made him quit the fun-and-games. Just as Tohr opened things for them to leave, John glanced into the billiard room.

Past the pool tables, over by one of the leather sofas, a tall figure stood in the shadows. Staring his way.

A shiver went through him.

“John?” As he jumped, Tohr said, “Is there something wrong?”

John shook his head and walked through the vestibule, doing the duty on the heavy outer door. As he and Tohr emerged into the night, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate to dematerialize. The fact that Tohr ghosted out first was not a surprise.

Why had Lassiter been looking at him like that?

The blond-and-black fallen angel was rarely serious. And certainly never in the shadows.

Casting off an eerie sense of foreboding, he forced himself to calm down …

… and soon enough was flying through the cold air in a scatter of molecules, zeroing in on the gracious old house that Wrath held his meetings with civilians in. Tohr was waiting for him around back as John re-formed, and they both went into the kitchen.

“Oh, yeah, danish,” the Brother said as he headed over to a silver tray set on the counter. “I need some danish right now.”

As Tohr helped himself to four of the cherry ones intended for the waiting room, John had to smile. He had a feeling that the Brother had missed First Meal and was “a little late” for exactly the same reason John had been.

Sometimes, a male just needed alone time with his female. And after all the ridiculous stress lately?

John reached across his chest and massaged his shoulder. There was some residual stiffness where the wound had been, but the infection was gone, as far as Doc Jane and Manny were concerned. No more discoloration. And the puckering that had appeared as the retreat had intensified had cleared as well.

All thanks to Murhder. And Sarah.

A piercing sadness went through him. It still seemed wrong that they couldn’t stay. But like so much in the Brotherhood world? Not his call.

“You want any?” Tohr asked as he held out his dinner plate full of danish.

When John shook his head, the Brother took one more, thanked the doggen pastry chefs, and together they went down to the dining room. As they approached, deep voices rolled out of the open doors, filling the foyer sure as if the males were actually standing by the front doors.

Tohr went in first.

And then John entered—

Everyone stopped talking and looked over at him. When no one moved, he glanced at Tohr, thinking maybe the Brother had been wrong about the meeting? Maybe it was only for—