The containers had been from every century, from ancient pottery ones that had been handmade all the way up to cheapo, mass-produced stuff from Target.
The collection had existed for so long, and been added to for so many years, that it had, in the manner of all things frequently seen, been taken to be permanent. The Omega had fixed that. Like a late-summer wasp on its last throes, the evil had come in to sting one final time, reclaiming the hearts he had removed during inductions to bolster his lagging strength.
The evil had ultimately been defeated, however.
And now? A new enemy had come to Caldwell.
Lassiter could only pray to himself that what they needed to fight the Book was still in that coffin.
Down about forty yards, Butch and Vishous were doing the brooming thing, the pair of them dressed in long black robes, some kind of conversation back-and-forthing between them.
No doubt the cop was trying to chill his roommate out about something.
How that former human managed to live with a Molotov cocktail like V was a shining example of forbearance.
“Speak of the devil,” Lassiter said to Vishous. “And how’re ya, Butch?”
“Don’t you ever knock?” V bent over to corral a wedge of debris into a handheld dustpan with a Joe Rogan Experience sticker on it.
“Nice to see you, too.” Lassiter sauntered by. “And jeez, you boys are handy with the tidy-up. If I had a car, I’d ask you to detail it.”
“Why are you here again?” V said as he sloughed the dust off Rogan’s face and into a Rubbermaid trash roller.
“Oh, same ol’, same ol’.” Lassiter shrugged. “I haven’t seen you for almost twenty-two minutes and I just wanted to be in your presence. You know, to recharge myself with all the warmth you put out into the world.”
As V straightened and glared across the narrow corridor, Butch clapped his roommate on the shoulder. “No, you can’t hit him with your broom. Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m going to start calling him your zookeeper, V.” Lassiter winked and kept going. Then, over his shoulder, he added, “See you at the altar, boys.”
“I wouldn’t cross the road to piss a fire out on your dead body,” Vishous announced.
Lassiter pointed to the top of his head without turning around. “Immortal, remember?”
The sanctum sanctorum of the Black Dagger Brotherhood was deep inside the mountain, the vast subterranean cavern having once served as the reservoir for an underground river. And down at the terminal point of the gradual descent was the focus of it all: A raised dais, lit by black candles on stanchions, on which a stone altar had been set so that the ancient skull of the first brother could be properly displayed. Behind that precious artifact? An enormous wall of marble that was inscribed with the name of every member of the Brotherhood, from the first . . . to the most recent, John Matthew.
There would be others. Not that he could share that.
Fate was, after all, a need-to-know kind of jam.
Lassiter stopped before the skull, meeting the black voids of the eye sockets as if he were trading gazes with a living thing.
“I wish I could reassure them,” he murmured.
It turned out, when you were in charge, there were things that the rank and file were not permitted to know. And of all the surprises that had come since he’d accepted this job from the Scribe Virgin, the biggest shocker was the amount of information he was not able to share with the people who would be most affected by it.
Evidently, knowing the outcome sometimes changed the “free” part of the will thing.
So as much as he hated it, he had to zip it a lot of the time—
Voices, deep and far off, percolated down to him, and before the Brotherhood arrived, he took a final look around at the stalactites, the black candles, the torches . . . the altar, the wall.
Stepping away from the skull, he went off to stand at the side. Moments later, the voices dried up and were replaced by the approaching sounds of heavy boots and the shifting of heavy fabric.
The first of the black robes entered alone. And even though the ceremonial garb’s hood was up and shielding most of the facial features, it was obvious that it was Wrath—and not because of the white cane sweeping side to side, either. He was just bigger than the others, in ways that had nothing to do with physical size.
The next in line was Tohr, a spot of honor earned by virtue of him being the first lieutenant of the Brotherhood. And as the fighter’s presence registered, Lassiter had a memory of finding the male in the forest and bringing him some McDonald’s. The grief-stricken widower had been surviving off the blood of deer, waiting impatiently to die so he could join his shellan and unborn son in the Fade.
Destiny had had other plans for him, however.
Behind Tohr, the rest of them filed in, and the four in the middle were not empty-handed. Or empty-shouldered, as was the case. Rhage, Vishous, Phury, and Zsadist had the old coffin up on their shoulders, and they bore the responsibility with solemn honor.
The Black Dagger Brother Sahvage was back in the house, so to speak.
The coffin’s wood had darkened nearly to black, the paneling run with age-created cracks and spotted with wormholes. But the carvings were still evident. Symbols in the Old Language detailed warnings on all sides, and woven among the dire missives was the brother’s name.
At the altar, Tohr bowed before the skull. Then he picked it up and gave the relic to Wrath, the King’s black diamond flashing as he accepted the sacred symbol of all that had gone before.
The coffin was placed upon the slab, taking up all of the flat surface.
The brothers tightened their circle around it, standing shoulder to shoulder, and as Wrath held the skull over his head, a low chanting started up, the voices of the males blending together to become one tone, one sound, that was amplified by the acoustics of the cave.
Tohr stepped forward, taking out of the folds of his black robe a silver wedge and an old hammer with a wooden handle. Finding the seam of the coffin lid, he drove the tool’s sharp cleave in with a series of bam-bambams, and then repeated the process all around, teasing loose the single plane of wood that sealed the mortality box. The air that was released hissed out, and the sense that something imminent was closing in on the group made Lassiter’s nape prickle in warning.
If he’d been Catholic, he’d have made the sign of the cross. Fortunately, Butch O’Neal did that for them all.
Hey, it never hurt to belt-and-suspenders with the God thing.
The coffin nails were long and rectangular, having been forged by hand centuries before, and there seemed to be a hundred of them. With every turn of the wedge, they protested against the separation they had been called into duty to prevent, the squeaks a reminder that not only were they good at their job, they had been doing it for a very, very long time.
Putting the tools back into his robe, Tohr nodded at the lineup of brothers, and Rhage and Vishous joined him, one at the head, one at the foot.
The chanting got louder as the three brothers squeezed their fingers in between the lid and the body of the coffin—and Lassiter had a thought that he was glad this wasn’t a John Carpenter movie.
The nails came free in a series of pops and then the interior was revealed.
With a synchronized tilt, the Brotherhood leaned in as if they had linked arms, and Lassiter did the same off to the side. As his heart started to pound, he told himself that he had given them the right advice.
The solution to all of this was in there—
Everyone froze, including the three who were holding the lid.
“What the fuck,” V breathed.
While Sahvage was up on the cottage’s second floor listening for the boogeyman, Mae was down in the basement, staring into the darkness of Tallah’s bedroom. The light from the cellar stairs was enough to let her see the old female lying on the chaise lounge by her antique writing desk. She’d cast her fragile body out on the silk cushions, one arm over her head, the other across her midriff. Her feet in those slippers were extended into arched points, like she was a ballerina about to come down for landing.
If she had been back in her youth, her recline would have been sensual. In her dotage, her pose seemed as sad as all her fancy furniture stuffed into this run-down little house: Evidence that the best of her life had come before, and what was left was only remnants of glory and youth, both faded to the point of no return.
“I lied to him,” she whispered. “I couldn’t tell him about—”
A creak up above in the kitchen made her shoulders tighten with anxiety.
Turning away, she tugged the hem of her fleece down and went over to the base of the wooden steps. Looking up at Sahvage as he stood at the top, he was nothing but a looming mass, faceless yet not shapeless, his muscles carving his presence out of the illumination streaming from behind him.
“Did you leave already?” she asked quietly.
“Yes. I’m back now.”
Wow, that was fast. “She’s sound asleep.”
“Everything’s secure up here. And I have . . . what we need.”
Mae was careful on the ascension, making sure to sidestep the creakers in the planks. As she closed in on where he was, Sahvage backed up to give her some room.
Closing the basement door behind herself, she glanced around. “So . . . yeah.”
“No, there still aren’t any errant books. Anywhere.”
“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Yes, it was.”
Mae crossed her arms over her chest. “I refuse to argue about what’s going through my head with a disinterested third party.”
Sahvage’s lids lowered. “Oh, I’m hardly disinterested.”
Mae leaned back against the cellar door. There was the temptation—nearly irresistible—to go back and forth with him, but instead she rotated her sore shoulder and stayed quiet.
“What are we going to do now?” she said.
“Sit and wait.”
“For what.”
“What’s up with that shoulder of yours?”
“Huh? Oh.” She rubbed the knot in the muscle with her opposite hand. “I was in a car accident a couple of years ago. The seat belt saved my life, but it caught me right across here—and ever since, it gets to talking to me.”
“Sit down,” he said as he spun one of the seats at the table around. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not looking for help.”
“No, really?” He clasped his hands to his chest. “What a reversal. I’m reeling over here. You, turning down aid?”
Mae smiled a little. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe, but I know what I’m doing with shoulder injuries.” He patted the chair. “Come on, what are you worried about? That I’m going to kiss you?”
Mae blinked. And thought, No, I’m worried that if you do, I’m going to ask you to do it again. And again. And again—
“No.” To prove the point, she went over and planted her butt in front of him. “Do whatever you like.”
Just as she was about to qualify that with a “shoulder only” chaser, she felt his broad, warm hand slide over the spot in question. Bracing herself, she got ready for him to pull some chiropractic move and snap her in half—
“Ohhhhhh . . .” she groaned as he massaged the top of her arm.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, that’s amazing.”
He was gentle but firm as he worked the tension-filled cords that ran across the side of her neck . . . and God, the way the warmth from his palms translated into her skin, her muscles, her bones. And that weave of heat wasn’t contained to just where he was touching. The connection between him and her body flowed everywhere, from her head to her feet.
The next thing she knew, she wasn’t just sitting in the chair, she was relaxing into it. And after that, she noticed that her breathing was slowing and the persistent ache she’d had behind her right eye was also getting up and leaving—its presence registering because of its sudden absence.