When he looked down to the courtyard, he had absolutely no impulse to pitch himself off. He had to stay alive; he had a purpose now. He lived for his and Anne’s young.
He had done so many wrongs to his female, and as she had said, the only way he could make up for any part of it was to do exactly as she’d asked. The fact that watching over their daughter was a sacred duty he would have performed anyway didn’t matter.
He was going to do this for his Anne.
“I promise you,” he said to the Milky Way overhead. “I will keep her safe.”
Regarding the twinkling stars in their curtain of velvet night, he thought about how cold and vast space was, and how, in the scheme of things, his little plot of suffering wasn’t even a blip on the universe’s radar. But the truth was, as every snowflake that fell in winter was a precious miracle, so, too, was each mortal’s minute galaxy of existence.
We are our own suns, he thought, drawing life out of darkness in the form of emotions and meaning out of randomness by virtue of our connections.
And so, when loss came—and it always did—and the center of that world lost its light, the tragedy was of unfathomable, universal impact.
Even when it only impacted one person.
Or… vampire.
Unscrewing the lid, Darius’s heart was in his throat. “I’m not going to let you down, Anne. I promise.”
Hitching a breath, he wept openly as he tipped the brass urn over—
The wind caught the ashes and carried them off, to the beautiful view of the mountains, to the moon… to the stars. As he watched them go, he pictured his mate’s beautiful face as she smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling, her hair flowing.
So alive that he’d felt like they’d had forever. Just because he loved her that much.
When all was empty, he screwed the lid back on and tucked the urn into a crevice behind the peak.
“I love you,” he said to the sky.
Because as far as he was concerned, his shellan was out there somewhere in the cosmos, witnessing him do the right thing. At least he hoped she was. Surely the Scribe Virgin would welcome her into the Fade.
But who knew.
He stayed a moment longer. And then another. And another. Like he was waiting for something… a response, or maybe a sign. Meanwhile, beneath him, the mansion he had built with such hope, and which he sustained with such disappointment, slept in the manner of the inanimate that was unclaimed, empty as always.
Though the vacancy had always struck him as a waste, now he couldn’t imagine anybody living there, ever.
Then again, it was no longer a potential home. It was a mausoleum.
And the living part of him had just been buried on its rooftop.
Forevermore.
EPILOGUE
Present Day
Elizabeth, née Randall—beloved shellan of Wrath, son of Wrath, revered mahmen of Wrath, son of Wrath—entered the Audience House via the back door with her son on her hip. As soon as she stepped inside, she smelled fresh pastries, and Little Wrath, or L.W., as he was known, clearly approved of them as well.
Normally composed in a way that could at times freak her out, he extended his arms and made grabby motions—and naturally, the uniformed doggen who was baking the delicacies dropped everything she was doing and rushed over with a porcelain plate.
“Sire,” she said to the young, “it is my pleasure.”
The female bowed low, presenting the Danishes as if they were gifts, as if L.W. were fully grown and sitting on the throne that his father occupied.
“And for you as well, my Queen,” the pastry chef added shyly. “May they please your palate.”
When the female straightened, her eyes locked on the Saturnine Ruby that Beth always wore—even though the thing weighed a ton and she was constantly worried about knocking it on something and she’d never been a jewelry person. The citizens and the staff wanted to see it, though. Needed to. It was history that reached forward into the present, and she and her family were an intrinsic part of that continuity.
“Thank you,” Beth said. “You know I love the cherry ones.”
“Indeed, I do, and it is my pleasure to make them with mine own hand.”
As Beth took the plate with her to the front of the house, L.W. snagged one of the pair, and she had to admit, he was already a precise eater, just like his father.
“Mama?” he said as he held it out to her.
“Mmm.” She paused and took a bite. “Thank you.”
“Mmmmmmm.”
Sticky fingers. Sticky mouth. Sticky face.
Who cared. The kid was adorable, and you couldn’t cheat him of his happiness—especially because he was so serious most of the time. If there was one thing she worried about, it was the gravity that blanketed him. It was as if he already carried on his shoulders the weight of the species, as if he knew what his future would entail. Sure, the King was democratically elected now, but maybe L.W. was seeing into the decades or centuries ahead somehow. Maybe he was destined to be as his father was, revered by his subjects.
Responsible for them, too.
She wasn’t sure she wanted that for her son. But it wasn’t up to her, was it.
“It’s up to you, big man,” she said as she resumed walking out to the front of the house.
After centuries of refusing to lead, Wrath, the sire, finally decided to assume his legacy and take the throne. And that was why this house, which was far away from the mansion on the mountain where they all lived, had been called into service for the civilians who sought out audiences with their King.
“Hi, Miha,” Beth said to the receptionist in what had once been the ladies’ parlor.
The female looked up from the schedule book. “Mistress! And the sire!”
The way Miha’s face lit up as she looked at L.W. was a reminder of how much the species needed hope for the future. And how much they loved their leader—and his son and shellan.
At first, the reverence had been hard to get used to. Then again, when she had finally learned the truth about what she was—and the fact that she wasn’t human—there had been so much to recast and reset that she’d had a lot of experience with awkwardness. And really, was it that bad to be loved?
Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, as the saying went.
“We’re just here to see Dad.” Beth hiked L.W. up a little higher and tried to keep the plate steady. “And for the grub.”
As L.W. waved his gooey treasure around, she tried to move her hair out of range—
“Would you like me to take that porcelain for a minute?” Miha asked.
“You know, that would be great. I’ll be back for it.”
“Also, how about a napkin?” Miha took one out of her desk. “I don’t have wet wipes, I’m afraid.”
“That’s awesome. Thanks.”
Accepting the precisely ironed damask square—because Fritz only ever did everything in his houses correctly—and turning over the sweets, Beth smiled a goodbye and wiped her son’s face as she walked across the foyer. When she came up to the set of closed double doors, she wondered if it wouldn’t be better if she held off interrupting—
The panels whipped open.
What was on the other side was not a surprise, yet it wasn’t easy to see, either. As usual, there were a number of Brothers and fighters standing around, all fully armed, and also as usual, they looked over at her with brotherly respect and love. But the vibe in what had once been the formal dining room was tense. Which was par for the course as well and nothing she was ever going to get used to.