Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(191)

J. R.Ward

doggen with their whirling machines go over the branches and the trunk, he decided life was right and fair on occasion. It truly was.

And that was the only reason he could summon the strength to do

what he had to.

After descending the grand staircase at a jog, he waved at the doggen while dodging in and out of their paths and ducking out through the

vestibule. In the courtyard, he took a deep breath and braced himself. He had a good two hours before the ceremony, which was a bene. He wasn't sure how long this was going to take.

Closing his eyes, he sent his atoms scattering and took form . . . on the terrace of his mated home, the place where he and his beloved had lived out a good fifty years.

As he lifted his lids, he didn't look at the house. Instead, he tilted his head back and searched the night sky above the roofline. The stars were out, their shimmering brightness undimmed by the moon which had yet to reach any appreciable height.

Where were his dead? he wondered. Which among the tiny lights

were the souls of those whom he'd lost?

Where were his shellan and their young? Where was Darius? Where were all the others who had pared off from the trudging path his boots still strode so that they could take residence in the velvet ever-afterlife of the Fade?

Did they watch what happened down here? Did they see what

transpired, both the good and bad?

Did they miss those they'd left behind?

Did they know they were missed?

Tohr slowly brought his head to level and steeled himself.

Yup, he was right . . . hurt like a motherf*cker just to look at the

place.

And the metaphor was too frickin' obvious: What he was staring at

was a huge hole in his house, the glass slider to John's old room blown clean out of its frame, a whole lot of nothing left where there was meant to be something.

As a breeze blew by, the drapes that hung on either side of the casing wafted gently.

So very obvious: House was him. Hole was what remained after he'd

lost . . . Wellsie.

Still difficult to think her name. Much less say it.

Over to the side, there were half a dozen sheets of plywood along with a box of nails and a hammer. Fritz had brought them over as soon as Tohr 485

J. R.Ward

had learned about the accident, but the doggen had been under strict orders not to fix the problem himself.

Tohr fixed his own house. Always.

As he walked forward, the soles of his shitkickers crushed the glass

shards into flagstone, the crackling sound following him as he got to the door's threshold. Taking a key fob out of his pocket, he pointed it into the house and pressed the disarm button on the remote. There was a distant beep-beep, which meant the security system had registered the signal and was now off.

He was free to go in: Motion detectors were deactivated and he could

open any exterior door or window in the place.

Free to go in.

Yup.

Instead of taking that first step, he went over to the plywood, picked up one of the four-by-eight sheets, and muscled it over to the busted slider.

Leaning the thing against the house, he returned for the nails and the hammer.

It took him about a half hour to cover the hole, and when he stepped

back to inspect the effort, he thought it looked like shit. The rest of the place was pristine in spite of the fact that it hadn't been lived in since . . . Wellsie's murder: Everything was battened down, and his former staff were good enough to look after the landscaping and to check the indoors once a

month--even though they'd moved on to serve another family out of town.

Funny, he'd tried to pay them for what they still did here now that he was back in the land of the living, but they'd refused the money. Just returned it with a kindly note.

Guess everyone mourned in their own way.

Tohr put the hammer and remaining nails on top of the one sheet of

board he hadn't used and then he forced himself to walk around the outside of the house. As he went along, from time to time he peered into the

windows. The drapes had all been pulled, but nonetheless, his vision

penetrated through the folds of cloth to readily view all the ghosts that lived within the walls.

In the back, he saw himself sitting at the kitchen table, with Wellsie cooking at the stove, the two of them arguing over the fact that he'd left his weapons out the night before. Again.

God, she'd turned him on when she handed him his own ass.

And when he came around to the living room, he remembered taking

her into his arms and making her dance with him as he hummed a waltz in her ear. Badly.

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She'd always been so fluid against him, her body built for him and his for her.

And at the front door . . . he recalled walking in with flowers. Every anniversary.

Her favorite had been white roses.

As he got to the driveway and faced the garage, he focused on the one on the left, the one closest to the house.

The one Wellsie had backed that Range Rover out of for the last time.

After the shooting, the Brotherhood had taken the SUV and disposed

of it, and Tohr didn't even want to know what had become of the thing.

Never had asked. Never would.

The scent of both her perfume and her blood was too much for him to

handle even in the hypothetical.