His features were a veritable death mask.
Putting out his palm, Darius said, "Greetings, son. I am Darius, and I shall function as your fighting whard . "
The young's eyes blinked once.
"Son? We shall go anon to the cliffs. "
Abruptly, Darius was subjected to a sharp regard; the boy was clearly searching for signs of obligation and pity. He would find none, however. Darius knew with precision the dry, hard earth upon which the boy's boots stood, and therefore he was well aware that any kind of softness offered would only result in further disgrace.
"Why," came a hoarse question.
"We go anon to the cliffs to find that female," Darius said with calm. "That is why. "
The boy's eyes bored into Darius's. Then the young placed his hand upon his breast. With a bow, he said, "I shall endeavor to be of service 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 de
ad.
But Darius would not permit that.
He'd always wanted a son of his own.
Chapter 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. "