rather than weight."
It was so hard to be unwanted. Harder still to hold one's head up after such an affront.
"What is your name," Darius asked.
"Tohrment. I am Tohrment, son of . . ." The throat was cleared. "I am Tohrment."
Darius stepped in beside the young male and put his palm on a shoulder that had yet to fill out to its fullest potential.
"Come with me."
The boy followed with pur pose . . . out of the audience of the Brotherhood . . . out of the sanctuary . . . out of the cave . . . into the night. The shift within Darius's chest happened sometime between that initial footstep forward and the moment they dematerialized together. Verily he felt for the first time as if he had a family of his own . . . because even though the boy wasn't his by blood, he had assumed care of him.
Accordingly, he would go before a blade intended for the younger if it came down to that, sacrificing himself. Such was the code of the Brotherhood--but only toward one's brothers. Tohrment was not yet among that number; he was but an initiate by virtue of his bloodline, which gained him access into the Tomb, and nothing further. If he failed to prove himself, he would be barred forever therein.
Indeed, for all the code required, the boy could well be slain on the field and left for dead.
But Darius would not permit that.
He'd always wanted a son of his own.
78
NINE
TWENTY MILES OUTSIDE OF CHARLESTON,
SOUTH CAROLINA
"Holy . . . shit. They got some kind of trees here." Well, yeah, that summed it up. As the Paranormal Investigators satellite-link van eased off Rural Route SC 124, Gregg Winn braked and leaned forward over the steering wheel.
Fucking . . . perfect.
The plantation house's entrance was marked on both sides by live oaks the size of RVs and Spanish moss hung off all those massive branches, swaying in the soft breeze. Down at the end of the framing alley, about half a mile away, the columned mansion sat pretty as a lady in a chair, the noontime sun painting her face in lemon yellow light. From the back, PI's "host," Holly Fleet, leaned in. "Are you sure about this?"
"It's a Band B, right?" Gregg hit the gas. "Open to the public."
"You called four times."
"They didn't say no."
"They didn't get back to you."
"Whatever." He needed to make this happen. PI's prime-time specials were on the verge of breaking through to the next advertising-dollar level at the network. They weren't in American Idol territory, true, but they'd kicked the shit out of the most recent Magic Exposed episode, and if that trend continued, the money was going to get thicker than blood. The long drive up to the house was like a trail that led not just deeper into the property, but backward in time. For God's sake, as he glanced around the grass-covered grounds, he expected to see Civil War soldiers and antebellum Vivien Leighs strolling beneath the scarved trees. The gravel lane took visitors directly to the formal front enterance and Gregg parked off to the side in case any other cars needed to pass by.
"You two stay here. I'm going in."
As he stepped out from behind the wheel, he covered up his Ed Hardy shirt with a black windbreaker and pulled the cuff down over his gold Rolex. The van with its PI logo of a magnifying glass over a black, shadowy ghost 79
was flashy enough, and no doubt the house was owned by a local. Thing was, Hollywood style wasn't necessarily a value-add outside of L.A.--and this gracious place was about as far from plastic surgery and spray tans as you could get.
His Prada loafers shifted through the stone confetti of the driveway as he walked over to the entry. The white house was a simple three-story box with porches on the first and second floors and a hip roof with dormers, but the elegance of the proportions and the sheer size of the damn thing were what put it so solidly in mansion territory. And to top off the grande dame routine, all the windows were framed on the inside by jewel-toned drapes, and through the leaded glass, he could see the chandeliers hanging from high ceilings.
Hell of a bed-and-breakfast.
The front door was big enough to belong on a cathedral and the knocker was a brass lion's head that seemed nearly life-size. Lifting the weight, he let it fall back into