Requiem for the Dead

Chapter Twenty-four

Tybalt's memorial service at the Watchtower was held the day before, giving friends and coworkers a chance to celebrate his life and mourn his passing. We held a private funeral for him on Thursday, at Kismet's request. She arranged for him to be interred in St. Matthew's cemetery, right next to Lucas Moore, and she paid for it all herself. Memorials for two men she'd loved deeply, and in very different ways. One of them a lover, the other as a brother.

"I owe Tybalt nothing less," she'd told me yesterday.

A handful of us gathered around the freshly turned earth to pay our respects to our fallen comrade. Astrid and Kismet stood together, finding solace in each other's company. Kismet had aged these last few days, the stress of it all adding a weight to her shoulders and lines around her eyes. Green eyes that had gone cold.

Milo had been allowed to come, under strict instructions from Dr. Vansis that he keep his butt in a wheelchair and not over-exert himself. Marcus stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, ever the protective warrior. They both looked beaten, exhausted. They'd each lost a brother.

I'd lost one too, and I didn't know what to do with my emotions. Tybalt had joined the Triads only a few weeks before I did. He'd been one of the Mercy's Lot Hunters. We hadn't always been friends. I'd punched him in the face once, years ago, when tensions were high between his Triad and mine. Hell, he'd even tried to kill me under orders from the Triad brass.

None of that mattered, because we'd fought side-by-side for months, and I'd seen his heart. And now he was gone. One more friend I'd outlived.

Wyatt's arm slipped around my waist, and I leaned into the heat of him, grateful for the support. The Lupa pups, healing and nervous as ever, were waiting in the car just down the hill, near the cemetery entrance. He didn't like leaving them alone for an extended period of time, and the Assembly hadn't made a ruling on them yet. Until he knew something for certain, he was keeping them close.

I didn't mind it as much as I thought I would. They were good kids. John was especially sweet and eager to please, and they knew the stakes were high. Good behavior was their best chance of not living as fugitives from all Therians everywhere, forever. Wyatt would never let them be executed. He'd take them and leave.

And I'd go with him.

No one read Bible verses or sang hymns or recited poetry. There was no need. We'd planned a very simple service.

Kismet picked up a small box from the ground. From the box, she handed each of us a shot glass. She kept one for herself, then placed the seventh on the small stone marker that simply said "Tybalt Monahan, Brother and Protector." She produced a bottle of whiskey from a paper bag and carefully poured a shot into each glass, including the seventh.

With the whiskey poured, we six raised our glasses.

"To Tybalt," Kismet said.

"To Tybalt," we said in unison.

The whiskey burned its way down my throat to warm my stomach.

We left the seventh glass behind, untouched.

Wyatt didn't lead me straight back to the car, which surprised me. We detoured into another part of the cemetery, and he stopped in front of a simple headstone with the word Petros on it. I studied it, not comprehending, until I looked down at the other words engraved in the marble. Delius. Corissa. Dates of death exactly the same, almost twelve years ago.

"My parents," he said. He pointed to two smaller headstones on the left. Salena. His sister, who died with their parents. Nicandro. His brother, who died almost a year later.

"I don't come here often," he said when I didn't speak. I had no idea what to say. "The past is the past, and I need to let it go. Andreas Petros died a long time ago. Even Wyatt Truman, the person I became after, died with the Lupa infection."

Hearing him say that hurt something deep inside of me, even though I knew more than anyone how true it was. How death wasn't always physical or permanent. Sometimes it left you changed and all you could do was adapt.

"I want to let go of everything, but I can't. Not yet."

"Why can't you?" I asked.

"Because I still don't have one answer that I've wanted since my family was murdered."

Oh God. "The second bounty hunter."

"Yes."

Twelve years ago, a group of Halfies had stormed a Greek restaurant and begun killing and torturing the occupants, including Wyatt's parents and sister. A pair of bounty hunters who'd been tracking the Halfies found them, killed the Halfies, and then made the awful decision to burn the place down—survivors included. The knowledge of vampires couldn't get out, and no one would be able to forget what they'd seen. That was how the bounty hunter in charge justified murder.

Ten months later, Andreas and Nicandro Petros had found the lead bounty hunter, and he paid with his life. The second bounty hunter had never been identified.

At least, not until a few months ago, when Rufus St. James told me in confidence that he had been the second bounty hunter. Young, inexperienced, deferring to the guy who'd taken him in and was teaching him the ropes, he'd gone along with the slaughter of innocents. Rufus had kept that secret from Wyatt for a decade. Now both of us were keeping it from him.

"How do you know he's still alive?"

"I don't. I also don't know that he's dead." He took my hand. "Evy, I want to let the past go. I want to focus on now. On you and the boys and keeping a lid on the pressure cooker that this city has become."

"But you need to know first."

"Yeah, I do. Does it make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense. You know I'd give you the name if I could." So damned true. Rufus hadn't sworn me to secrecy. Sometimes I thought he'd told me so I would tell Wyatt, and then it would be out. But this wasn't my secret to tell, and if Rufus wanted absolution, he needed to see the priest himself.

"I wish I'd been able to know your family," I said.

"You'd have loved them. We were a very stereotypically boisterous, food-loving Greek family. My mother was an excellent cook. Her stuffed grape leaves were the best in the country." His voice cracked under the weight of so many memories, so much loss.

I wrapped my arms around him, and we held each other for a while. Enjoyed this brief moment away from the rest of the world and the dangerous lives we led. For a few minutes, we were the only people who existed. The only people who mattered.

Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I pulled back, startled that someone had approached and gotten so close without either of us noticing. My heart jumped at the familiar blue eyes staring back at me.

"Phineas?"

He smiled. Phineas el Chimal looked exactly the same as when he'd left five weeks ago and seemed none the worse for wear. He wore casual clothes and didn't look tense or worried. Only relieved.

"You're home," I said and launched myself at him. He caught me in a tight hug, and I inhaled the mountain stream smell of him, the scent of flying and freedom.

"I'm home," Phineas said. He pulled out of the hug, probably because of the warning growl from my overprotective boyfriend. "I heard about Tybalt, Evy. My sincere condolences."

"Thank you. Not that I don't like you being back, but why did you come home? Did you find more Coni?"

His expression shuttered. "No. I had no luck in that search. I did, however, find something that will help in our struggles with the Fey."

"What is it?"

"Allow me to show you?"

Wyatt and I followed him down a gravel path toward an older section of the cemetery. A handful of garden crypts stood here, aged and mossy, beneath the shade of an ancient weeping willow. Phineas paused next to one of the crypts.

"If you pull a dead body out, Phin, I swear—" I began.

"My surprise is very much alive," Phineas said. "I need you both to keep an open mind. I believe my companion holds the key to defeating Amalie."

I glanced at Wyatt, whose nose was wrinkled in a way that suggested he smelled fresh dog shit. He looked more suspicious than alarmed though.

"Okay, I trust you," I said to Phin. "What's the surprise?"

"Brevin," he said.

I didn't know the word, which turned out to be a name. A small figure walked out from behind the crypt. About four feet tall, his body inhumanly thin, like he'd been pulled and stretched. Silver hair. Pointed ears and sharp, angular eyebrows.

I'd seen a creature like this once, many months ago. It had sought to destroy me, to destroy everyone I loved, and to stick a demon in my body when it could no longer have Wyatt's. This wasn't Tovin, because Tovin was long dead.

"An elf," Wyatt said, a dangerous growl in his voice. "A fucking elf holds the key to defeating the Fey? Are you serious?"

"Perfectly," Phineas said. "And I believe that once you hear Brevin's story, you'll agree."

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. My first death had been machinated by an elf, his entire purpose to bring a demon over from the other side of the Break where they'd long ago been banished. Everything I am today is thanks to that fucking elf.

This was one story I couldn't wait to hear.