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.”