Lover Reborn (Black Dagger Brotherhood #10) - J. R. Ward Page 0,58

beside the Brother’s pretzel of a body, he was feeling a little nauseous himself, and he took a moment to cup what hung between his legs—just to reassure the boys downstairs that however much of an iconoclast he was, some things were sacred.

“Tell me!”

Impressive that the guy could still summon the energy to yell. And, yeah, there was no maybe-later-after-you-recover option with a son of a bitch who could punch himself like that.

No reason to pad shit, either. Natch.

“The In Between is not really the jurisdiction of the Scribe Virgin or the Omega. It’s the Maker’s territory—and before you ask, that would be the creator of all things. Your Scribe Virgin, the Omega, all of it. There’s a couple ways of ending up there, but mostly it’s because you won’t let go or because someone won’t let go of you.”

When Tohr was silent, Lassiter recognized the signs of brain-fry and took pity on the poor son of a bitch.

Placing a hand on the Brother’s shoulder, he said gently, “Breathe with me. Come on, we’ll do it together. Let’s just breathe shit out for a minute.…”

They stayed there for the longest time, Tohr bowed around the front of his hips, Lassiter feeling like a plank.

In his long life, he had seen suffering in all its forms. Disease. Dismemberment. Disenchantment on epic scales.

Staring at his outstretched hand, he realized he had become detached from it all. Hardened by overexposure and personal experience. Separated from any compassion.

Man, he was the wrong angel for the job.

Helluva situation the pair of them were in.

Tohr’s eyes lifted, and they were so dilated, if Lassiter hadn’t known they were blue, he would have said they were black.

“What can I do … ?” the Brother moaned.

Oh, man, he couldn’t stand it.

Abruptly, he got up and went to the window. Outside, the landscape was discreetly lit, the gardens far from resplendent in their nascent state. Indeed, spring was a cold, cruel incubator, summer’s wallowing warmth months off.

A lifetime away.

“Help me help her,” Tohr said hoarsely. “That’s what you told me.”

In the silence that followed, he had nothing. No voice. No thoughts, even. And this was in spite of the fact that unless he pulled something out of his ass, he was headed back to a hell custom-made for him, with no hope of escape. And Wellsie and that young were stuck in theirs. And Tohr was stuck in his.

He’d been so arrogant.

It had never dawned on him this wasn’t going to work. When he’d been approached, he’d been flippant, confident, and ready for the aftermath—which had been all about freedom for himself.

A struggle had never occurred to him. The concept of failure had not been anywhere near his radar screen.

And he’d never expected to give two shits about what happened to Wellsie and Tohr.

“You said you were here to help me, help her.” When there was no reply, Tohr’s voice lowered. “Lassiter, I’m on my knees here.”

“That’s because your balls are in your diaphragm.”

“You told me—”

“You don’t believe me, remember.”

“I saw. In the books on the Far Side. She is not in the Fade.”

Lassiter stared out at the gardens and marveled at how close to life they were—in spite of how shriveled and decrepit they appeared, they were about to burst forth and sing for spring.

“She is not in the Fade!”

Something grabbed him, spinning him around and slamming him ass-first into the wall so hard, if he’d had his wings on, they would have been snapped off.

“She is not there!”

Tohr’s face was twisted into a facsimile of its features, and as a hand clamped on his throat, Lassiter had a moment of clarity. The Brother could kill him, right here, right now.

Maybe that was how he ended up in the In Between again. Couple of head shots, then maybe a snapped neck, and poof ! You failed. Hello, infinite nothingness.

Funny, he’d never even considered going back. Probably should have.

“You’d better open your fucking mouth, angel,” Tohr growled.

Lassiter traced that face again, measured the power in that body, took the temperature of the rage. “You love her too much.”

“She is my shellan—”

“Was. Goddamn you, was.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then a crack, and a light show, and a lot of pain. As well as a little wobble of the knees—not that he’d have admitted that.

The bastard had coldcocked him.

Lassiter shoved the guy off him, spit blood out on the carpet, and thought about hitting back. Fuck the fighting, though. If the Maker was going to reclaim him, then the