A Warm Heart in Winter(93)

Wrath beamed. “I know I speak for all of us when I say this is a blessed occasion. We’re happy to do it your way, and I understand there is one tradition that you all feel very strongly about.”

On that note, Lassiter stepped out from the crowd. For once, he wasn’t in some costume, just a black silk shirt and black slacks, his blond-and-black hair braided into a rope that hung over his shoulder, his gold removed, everything toned down.

Wrath leaned to Tohr and hissed, “Is he in the Elvis suit again?”

“No. He looks normal.”

“Great,” the King muttered. “They get ‘normal,’ but I get the Elvis suit . . .”

Lassiter came forward and stood between Blay and Qhuinn, taking their hands. Then the angel closed his eyes—and that illumination rained down on them all, the warmth and grace levitating both them and the young off the depiction of that apple tree in full bloom.

As everyone in the foyer gasped, they were resettled back upon the earth.

“This is a very good mating, indeed,” Lassiter pronounced. “Very good.”

The Brotherhood let out a mighty yell of agreement. And then the ancient ceremony commenced, sacred words spoken in the Old Language by the great Blind King—none of which registered for Qhuinn at all. He was just standing in front of Blay, looking into those blue eyes as they held their young—in front of everyone they cared about.

Which he supposed, at the end of the night, was all that really mattered. The tradition was great and everything, but what really mattered was the communal acknowledgment of his commitment to his beloved, and his beloved’s commitment to him.

The rest was just vocabulary—and a little fun and games with some daggers and salt.

Well, and also, thanks to Bitty and the fallen angel, what looked like some really good frickin’ cake.

It was a blur, a total blur—

“Qhuinn?” Blay whispered. “You there?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” With a much louder voice, he said, “I do!”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Blay leaned in again. “We already did that.”

“We did?” Qhuinn flushed. “Then let’s get to it with the blades!”

They passed the young back to Xcor and Layla, and then they went to the two black mats that had been laid out in front of the table.

“You have chosen two to assist you,” Wrath said in the Old Language. “I would ask them to step forward at this time.”

John Matthew and Zsadist broke ranks and walked around the table. Both were smiling as they each picked up one of the black daggers.

Qhuinn and Blay sank down onto their knees. As they planted their palms on the mats, they were facing each other.

And yup, Qhuinn was very aware of the shit-eating grin on his face. God, he wanted this so badly.

“Blaylock, son of Rocke, I ask you, what is the name of your hellren?” Wrath said.

Blay’s eyes were so beautiful as he spoke. “He is Qhuinn. My beloved . . . is Qhuinn.”

“And Qhuinn, blooded sire of Rhampage and Lyric, what is the name of your hellren?”

Qhuinn had to clear a sudden lump in his throat. “He is Blaylock. My one and only love is Blaylock.”

John Matthew stepped up to Blay. Z did the same for Qhuinn.

Qhuinn and Blay held each other’s stare without wincing as the carving happened, the letters of their names inscribed in the flesh across the tops of their shoulders. And then Tohrment poured the salt, first on Blay and then on Qhuinn.

Not once, for even a moment, did either of them look away.

As their names became permanent in their skin.

And their hearts, already paired forever, swelled with love.



“Oh, thank you, Father,” Blay said as he embraced his dad. “And Mahmen, I’m so glad you’re here!”

As Lyric threw her arms around him, she squeezed the air out of his lungs. “As if we would ever have missed this! Finally! Now, where are my grand-babies?”

“Over there, by the Christmas tree in the library.”

Lyric hooked her hellren’s elbow. “Let’s go! I have to hold my young. And I think I want one of those.”

Rocke blanched. “A young?”

“No, silly. A Christmas tree. They’re awfully pretty, and when the kids come, I want them to feel at home.”

As Rocke rolled his eyes and kissed his mate, he winked at Blay. “Whatever you want, darling.”

“That’s the right answer, my love,” Lyric said as they walked off through the crowd. “You are such a smart male.”

All around the foyer, people were talking with animation, drinking spirits, eating— “Bitty!” Blay called out. “Hey, Bitty—”

The girl came skipping over in her bright yellow party dress, all flounces and smiles. “You’re mated!” she exclaimed as she threw herself at him. “I’m so happy!”

Blay hugged the young and set her back down on her patent leather Mary Janes. “I just wanted you to know, I think you did a great job with the planning of all this.”

“And Uncle Blay, we have a wedding cake!” She pointed to where the five-layer, chocolate-and vanilla-frosted creation had been set on a platform. “This is your wedding, and that’s the cake, so that’s a wedding cake!”