Lover Mine (75 page)

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Authors: J.R. Ward

BOOK: Lover Mine
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The household even had a
doggen,
as Darius had learned the previous evening when he had come to reach out to this modest but prosperous family. Of course, he had not been introduced to the female of the manse at that time. She had not been receiving and he and her male had spoken of the private matter on the front stoop.
As he and Tohrment pulled up on their reins, the horses clattered to a halt and refused to stay still. Indeed, the massive stallions were bred for fighting, not patience, and after Darius dismounted, his protégé managed to subdue both animals only by sheer strength of shoulder.
Every mile they had covered on the way to this end, Darius had second- guessed the choice, but now that they had arrived, he knew this was where the infant needed to be.
He approached the door with his precious cargo, and it was the master of the house who opened the stout portal. The male’s eyes were shining in the moonlight, but it was not joy that made them so. Indeed, an all too familiar loss had struck this household of virtue—which was how Darius had found them.
Vampires kept in contact o’er hill and dale in the same manner as humans did: by sharing stories and commiserating.
Darius bowed to the gentlemale in spite of his own higher station. “Greetings on this cold night.”
“Greetings, sire.” The male bowed very low, and as he rose, his kind stare went to the tiny bundle. “ ’Tis getting warmer anon, however.”
“Indeed.” Darius unfolded the top of the swaddling blanket and looked once more upon the tiny face. Those eyes, those arresting iron gray eyes, stared back at him. “Do you care to . . . inspect her first?”
His voice broke, for he wanted no judgment upon the young, now or ever—and indeed he had done his best to ensure that. Verily, he had not shared the circumstances of her conception with the male. How could he? Who would then take her? And as she lacked the conspicuous traits of her other half, no one would ever know.
“I shall need no inspection.” The gentlemale shook his head. “She is a blessing to fill my
shellan
’s empty arms. You have said she is healthy; that is all that we care about.”
Darius exhaled a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and continued to stare down upon the babe.
“Are you sure you wish to give her up?” the gentlemale said softly.
Darius glanced back at Tohrment. The male’s eyes burned as he looked over from upon his mincing stallion, his warrior’s body clad in black leather hides, his weapons strapped upon his chest and saddle, his appearance a harbinger of war and death and blood spilled.
Darius was aware he presented a similar picture as he turned back to the gentlemale and cleared his throat. “Would you permit me one license?”
“Yes, sire. Please take any you shall require.”
“I . . . I should wish to impart her nomenclature.”
The gentlemale bowed low once again. “That would be a most kind and welcome gesture.”
Darius looked over the shoulder of the civilian to the cottage door that had been closed against the chill. Inside, somewhere, there was a female in mourning, one who had lost her young upon the birthing bed.
For truth, he knew something of that dark void’s vast shadow as he prepared to give what was in his arms to another. He would ever be missing a part of his heart when he rode off from this wooded glen and this broken family who would now be made whole—but the young deserved the love that awaited her herein.
Darius’s voice rang out, pronouncing, “She shall be called Xhexania.”
The gentlemale bowed anew. “ ‘Blessed one.’ Yes, that suits her beautifully.”
There was a long pause during which Darius resumed his regard of that angelic face. He knew not when he would see her again. This family was her own now; she needed not two warriors o’erseeing her—and better that they not intrude. Two fighters visiting this quiet locale regularly? Questions might well be raised as to why and perhaps endanger the secret that had to surround her conception and birth.
To protect her, he must disappear from her life to ensure she was raised as a normal.
“Sire?” the gentlemale asked meekly. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”
“I’m sorry. But of course . . . I am very sure.” Darius felt his chest burn as he leaned forward and placed the young in the arms of a stranger.
Her father.
“Thank you . . .” The male’s voice cracked as he accepted the small weight. “Thank you for the light you have presented us in our darkness. Verily, though, is there naught we may do for you?”
“Be . . . be good to her.”
“We shall.” The male went to turn away and paused. “You are never coming back, are you.”
As he shook his head, Darius could not take his eyes off the swaddling cloth the young’s mother had made. “She is yours sure as if your bloodline had borne her. We shall leave her here in your fine care and trust you shall treat her well.”
The gentlemale came forward and took Darius’s upper arm. With a squeeze, he offered commiseration and reassurance. “You have put your faith in us wisely. And know that you are always welcome here to see her.”
Darius inclined his head. “Thank you. May the blessed Virgin Scribe look with favor upon you and yours.”
“And the same for you.”
With that, the gentlemale walked through his door and entered his mated home. On a final lifted palm by way of good-bye, he shut himself in with the wee one.
As the stallions snorted and stamped their hooves, Darius walked around and glanced through wavy leaded glass, hoping to see—
O’er by a fire, upon a bed of clean linens, a female lay with her face turned toward the flaming warmth. She was pale as that which covered her, and her empty eyes reminded him of the tragic female who had passed unto the Fade before his own hearth.
The gentlemale’s
shellan
did not sit up or look over as her
hellren
entered the bedchamber, and for a moment, Darius worried that he had made a mistake.
But the young must have let out a sound, because the female’s head suddenly snapped around.
As she beheld the bundle that was presented to her, her mouth fell open, confusion and then awe filtering through her lovely features. Abruptly, she cast the coverlet from her arms and reached for the babe. Her hands were shaking so badly, her
hellren
had to place the young against her heart . . . but she held her newborn daughter in place all by herself.
’Twas the wind which made Darius’s eyes water. Verily, ’twas but the wind.
As he brushed over his face with his palm, he told himself that all was well and how it should be. . . . even if he felt a mourning within his breast.
Behind him, his charger let out a roar and reared up against the hold on his reins, his massive hooves pounding against the earth. At the sound, the female in the bedchamber looked up with alarm and cradled her precious gift closely, as if she needed to protect the babe.
Darius wheeled away and blindly jogged over to his steed. With a leap, he was up on the back of the great beast, taking control of the animal, harnessing the power and rage that had been bred into its every muscle and bone.
“We shall go unto Devon,” Darius said, needing a purpose more than he needed breath or heartbeat. “There are reports of
lessers
.”
“Aye.” Tohrment looked back at the house. “But are you . . . of a proper spirit to fight now?”
“ The war waits for no male to be of sound mind.” Indeed, at times ’twas better to be in lunacy.
Tohrment nodded. “Onward to Devon, then.”
Darius gave his stallion all the head it wanted and the warhorse burst forth from its enforced halt, galloping off into the woods, tearing o’er the ground. The wind in Darius’s face cast his tears away, but did naught to cure the ache in his chest.
He wondered as he rode off back to the war whether he would see the babe again—but he knew the answer. There was no way their paths would cross. How could they? In what manner of life’s twists and turns could they find themselves united once more?
Verily, it defied destiny, did it not.
Oh, the wee one. Ill begotten. Ne’er to be forgotten.
E’er to have a piece of his heart.
SEVENTY - THREE
L
ater Xhex would reflect that good things, like bad, came in threes.
She’d just never had that particular experience before . . . not with the three thing, but with the “good” part.
Thanks to John Matthew’s blood and Doc Jane’s handiwork, she was up and around the night after the rollout with Lash, and she knew she was back to her normal self because she’d put her cilices on again. And trimmed her hair. And been to her house on the Hudson River to get clothes and weapons.
And spent about . . . four hours making love with John.
She’d also met with Wrath and it looked like she had a new job: The great Blind King had invited her to come fight with the Brotherhood. In the wake of her initial shock, he’d maintained that her skills were much needed and welcome in the war—and gee, yeah, kill some
lessers
?
Great. Idea. She was so on board with that.
And speaking of on board, she’d moved into John’s room properly. In his closet, her leathers and her muscle shirts were hanging next to his, and their shitkickers were lined up together, and all her knives and her guns and her little toys were now locked up in his fireproof cabinet.
Their ammo was even stacked together.
Too frickin’ romantic.
So, yup, business as usual.
Except . . . well, except for the fact that she’d been reduced to sitting on this big bed, rubbing her sweaty palms on her leathers for, like, the last half hour. John was having a workout down in the training center before their ceremony and she was glad he was busy elsewhere.
She didn’t want him to see her nervous like this.
Because it turned out, in addition to a phobia about medical crap, there was another little glitch in her hardwiring: The idea of standing up in front of a ton of people and being the focus of attention during their mating made her want to vomit. Guess it shouldn’t have been a total surprise, though. After all, in her job as an assassin, the whole point was to remain unseen. And she’d long been an introvert by both circumstance and character.
Pushing herself back to the pillows, she leaned against the headboard, crossed her feet at the ankles, and grabbed the remote. The little black Sony number discharged its duties with admirable flair, the thing firing up the flat-screen and switching the channels until they flicked by quick as the beat of her heart.
It wasn’t just the fact that there were going to be so many witnesses to her and John’s ceremony. It was because getting hitched made her think of the way things should have been if she’d had a normal life. On nights like this, most females were getting dressed in gowns made just for the occasion and being strewn with family jewels. They were looking forward to being presented to their intended by their proud fathers, and their mothers were supposed to be sniffling now as well as when the vows were exchanged.
Xhex, on the other hand, was walking down the aisle by herself. Wearing leathers and a muscle shirt, because that was all she’d ever owned for clothes.
As the TV stations flipped before her eyes, the distance between herself and “normal” seemed as great a divide as that of history itself: There would be no recasting of the past, no editing the peaks and valleys of her story. Everything from her mixed blood, to the kindly mated couple who had raised a nightmare, to everything that had happened to her since she’d left that cottage . . . all of it was written in the cold stone of the past.
Never to be changed.
At least she knew that the wonderful male and female who had tried to raise her as their own had finally had a babe of their bloodline, a son who had grown up strong and mated well and given them a next generation.
All that had made the leaving of them so much easier.
But everything else in her life, save for John, had not had a happy resolution. God, maybe that was the cause of her nerves as well. This mating stuff with John was such a revelation, almost too good to be true—
She frowned and jacked upright. Then rubbed her eyes.
She couldn’t be seeing what was on the screen correctly.
It wasn’t possible . . . was it?
Scrambling for the right button on the remote, she turned up the volume. “. .
.
Rathboone’s ghost haunting the halls of his Civil War mansion. What secrets await our
Paranormal Investigators
team as they seek to uncover . . .”
The narrator’s voice faded from hearing as the camera drew closer and closer upon a portrait of a male with dark hair and eyes that were haunted.
Murhder.
She’d know that face anywhere.
Leaping up, she rushed at the TV—but like that was going to help?
The camera panned back to show a beautiful parlor and then shots of the grounds of a white plantation house. They were talking about some kind of live special . . . during which they were going to try to flush out the ghost of a Civil War abolitionist who so many maintained still roamed the halls and the grounds of where he’d once lived.
Tuning in to the commentary again, she desperately tried to catch where the mansion was located. Maybe she could . . .
Just outside Charleston, South Carolina. That’s where it was.
Stepping back, she hit the bed with her calves and sat down. Her first thought was to flash there and see for herself whether it was her former lover or a real live ghost or just some talented television producers making a lot of noise.

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