Tarra watched the dark male in the small half-silvered mirror the Scribe Virgin had assigned her for this purpose. It was large enough to see detail but small enough to hide when not used. Watching and recording were essential since her deity had instructed her to do it in utmost secrecy.
The one she watched, Night, sat at his massive desk, the light from the banker's lamp the only illumination in the room save for the harsh glow of the computer's screen and the soft gleam from the frame-mounted light on the portrait of the red-headed Victorian woman. He scowled at the screen and muttered about death and taxes under his breath. He sat back, sinking into the office chair, and rubbed his eyes. She could tell that he was, again, frustrated by the accounting side of his business.
Her heart ached for him when he looked up and gazed at the woman in the portrait. As he always did, he rubbed his chest when he remembered anything of meaning from his past. She was Fleur, his bonded mate, his shellan, for centuries until her death in the late 1980s. He studied her image for several heartbeats until he closed his eyes and sighed.
He heaved his muscular bulk out of the chair, pulling the chain on the lamp to turn it off. He descended the stairs, boots quieter than one might expect. He donned his heavy coat and slipped out the back door to the deck. Soon, his son would come down the stairs and begin to make coffee for them.
"Tarra! Quick!" Jardine called from the hall outside of Tarra's chambers.
Tarra started and quickly slipped the scrying mirror and the book she had been writing in under the pillow next to her. She scrambled across the bed and swiftly stepped to throw open the door. "What has happened? Is something wrong?"
"Lassiter has summoned you! The Directrix sent me to fetch you."
A hand flew to Tarra's mouth as she gasped. "But I have done nothing!"
Jardine rolled her eyes as she pushed her way into the room past her friend. "Do not be silly. Of course you have done nothing."
Tarra closed the door and hurried to her closet to peruse the robes there as Jardine began searching through her vanity's drawers for the items needed to do her hair. She would need her best to visit with the Scribe Virgin's successor. "Then why has he sent for me?"
"How would I know that? Now, come here and sit!"
Tarra had a moment's indecision and thought to try the one that was soft peach simply because she knew it would look good against her dark skin. But, she wasn't presenting herself for service, only answering a summons. She shrugged out of her old cotton robe, grand by most standards, to change into a better one, pulling the flowing white linen over her head. She pulled on matching slippers to complete the simple outfit.
When Tarra sat at the vanity, Jardine pulled out the pins holding her black hair in place. Her friend finger-teased it out of shape deftly, then regathered it with the carved wooden styling brush. With a few quick twists of her hands, she created the elegant chignon updo, a popular style amongst the Chosen. She set it in place with a lovely comb adorned with a multitude of tiny delicate pearls and white porcelain flowers. It was one of Tarra's favorites.
As Jardine coifed her hair, Tarra added a light sheen of pink gloss to her lips. The Chosen didn't wear a lot of makeup, but many, including herself, were beginning to experiment now that the Primale had opened the Sanctuary and allowed them to leave as they wished, chaperoned. Jardine had brought back the shade for her the last time she had visited the Chosen Cormia, now mated to Phury, the Primale.
She changed her earrings to pearls to match the comb, donned a single dropped pearl necklace on a delicate gold chain, and checked her reflection. She smoothed the robe one last time before she turned to her friend.
"I am nervous! I cannot imagine what Lassiter could want of me."
Jardine kissed her cheek. "Well, you will never know unless you report to the Directrix. Go! I will take your shift watching the Brother Butch in the crystal bowl should you not return in time."
Tarra hugged her friend. Watching Butch was important as he was an active member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. Archiving their history was one of the sacred jobs of the Chosen. "Thank you! I will tell you all about it when she dismisses me." She hurried out into the courtyard, making her way across the garden to the Directrix's office.
The stately woman was behind her desk, writing, when Tarra entered.
"You sent for me, Directrix?" she asked, clasping her hand and bowing slightly.
Unlike the former Directrix, who sported a sour look at all times, Amalya smiled in greeting. "Yes! Lassiter has asked for you. I will escort you."
Tarra's excitement bubbled, and she rocked on her feet. "Do you know what Lassiter wants?"
"I do not. He only asked for you to be brought. But," she said conspiritously as she passed by, "I delivered a letter from the Scribe Virgin herself to him this afternoon. Mayhap there is a connection?" They walked down the path, exiting one garden and entering another. Tarra was too nervous to admire the flora, even though she was one of the caretakers of the many flowers and plants found in them.
"A letter? From the Mother?"
"Yes. She gave it to me shortly before she... well, before her time with us was done. I was not to deliver it to him until this date."
"How strange." Tarra became lost in thought, so much so that, when they arrived, Amalya had to touch her arm to get her attention. She bid Tarra knock on the door of Lassiter's residence before taking her leave.
Tarra, now alone, hesitated. The Not-So-Fallen Angel had come to live in the Sanctuary when he took over the role of the Scribe Virgin. While she, if she were honest, didn't feel the reverence toward Lassiter that she had felt toward their Creator, her stomach still fluttered at the prospect of being called into his presence.
She knocked softly, and her eyes widened when Lassiter himself flung open the door rather than a Chosen attendant. Before she could stop herself, she scanned him head to toe. His blond-and-black-streaked hair reached his hips and stood out dramatically against his pale skin. He sported piercings on his face and ears and would have iridescent wings if and when he chose to show them. He wore his favorite outlandish attire, snung over a fit body: a fuzzy pink cropped hoodie, animal print leggings, and... Dearest Scribe Virgin! Are those crocs?
So many things were different for the Chosen since the mantle of deity had settled on his shoulders; life had become much more... relaxed. In addition, the Primale had ended the breeding program between the Chosen and Black Dagger Brotherhood, allowing the Chosen to leave the Sanctuary entirely if they wished, with the agreement they would spend their first years at the cabin with him and Cormia.
Tarra had no such need, though it wouldn't have mattered if she did. She couldn't leave. She was among those who watched and recorded the Brothers' lives, tasked with studying Butch, the Dehstroyer. She had also been specially tasked with monitoring the Forgotten Brother, Night. However, this she did in secret as so ordered by the Scribe Virgin centuries ago. Night, the only Brother to ever beg to be Forgotten, was destined to be just that: if no one of the vampire race witnessed his life, he would fade from all memory, literally. While the Scribe Virgin had granted his request, she had put a safeguard in place. Tarra was that safeguard. Of all the Chosen, only she remembered Night as the Brother he was, or at all.
Lassiter gave her a curt nod. "Oh good, you're here. I need to talk to you." He left the door open as he retreated into the room. "Come on in."
Tarra glanced back at the Directrix, who had stopped just before she was to turn the corner and disappear. Amalya smiled at her and gestured, shooing her through the door.
Blinking, Tarra entered the room. It was... she didn't know the appropriate words. '1960s chic' was the best she could do without being disrespectful. The only modern-era items were the plush leather sofa in front of a ginormous flat-screen TV playing the Golden Girls. At least the shag carpet was soft.
Lassiter plopped down on one end of the couch, reached down beside it, and released the footrest. He pushed back and settled in, grabbing his beer from the side table. Tarra trailed behind him, not entirely sure where to sit.
"You want a beer? Wine? Something else?"
"Umm... thank you, yes, tea would be lovely... umm... I—" Tarra stammered, blushed, and bowed her head. "I do not know what to call you to show proper deference."
He dismissed her awkwardness with a wave of his hand. "Lassiter is just fine. I'm not big on ceremony." He pointed to the other end of the couch. "Sit down. I'm hoping you can answer a question for me."
She swallowed and lowered herself to the couch as he hunted for the remote. She tried to perch on the edge, as her mentors had taught her was appropriate when formal. But the soft cushion's edge collapsed under her, and she slid off the slick leather onto the floor, wedging herself between the couch and coffee table with a squeak.
Lassiter grinned when she flushed and held out a hand to her. She took it, and he hauled her up easily. "Casual is the only way to sit on the couch. Give it a try," he chuckled.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her robes before making a second attempt This time, she tucked a foot under her in a more comfortable pose.
He nodded his approval, then hit the mute button. He snapped his fingers, and a bright yellow mug of tea, tag hanging out, appeared on the table. He indicated she should take it with a tilt of his head.
The mug had a picture of a llama in sunglasses painted on it, with the caption, "No drama llama!" She couldn't help but smile, despite her nerves, before she sipped. It was perfect.
"So, I need you to tell me about Night," he began.
Tarra coughed, nearly choking. No one, not even the Scribe Virgin, had ever mentioned him since the fateful day she was assigned to observe and record. "Yes, of course, Lassiter. What would you like to know?"
"I'm not sure. I only have a note from the Scribe Virgin in a letter brought to me by the Directrix that says to ask you about 'Night.'" A small, fragrant letter appeared in his hand, the delicate script of the Mother spelling out his name on the envelope as he gazed at it. "Apparently, she wrote it some time ago and gave orders for it to be delivered today. So, what is it?"
Tarra felt a pang of longing; she missed the Scribe Virgin. Not that she would disobey Lassiter, of course, but the small, demure woman had had such an aura about her that Lassiter... didn't. Still, he was impressive in his own cray-cray way.
She took a calming breath, drew her knee up, and settled in for a chat. "He's a 'who,' not a 'what.'"
"I don't recognize the name," Lassiter said, disappearing the letter with a flick of his wrist.
"I am not surprised. No one but the Scribe Virgin and myself would. He is the Forgotten Brother of the Black Dagger Brotherhood."
Lassiter scowled, an action that made his face look even more fierce than the piercings alone, and took a swig of his beer. "Forgotten? What does that mean?"
"Officially, the Directrix had his books removed from the library and ordered the Chosen to stop recording his life. Night's name was removed from the Wall of Brothers, too. Unofficially, the Scribe Virgin tasked me with continuing to watch him and record his story; I keep the books in a cubby-hole in the back of my closet. Overall, I suppose the best way to describe his fate is that she cursed him but felt some sort of regret about it."
Lassiter cocked an eyebrow, the diamond in the piercing there glinting in the light. "Cursed how? I thought the only one she cursed was Rhage."
She sipped. "You see, Night is destined to always slip from someone's memory unless they are with him, or if they scry him as I do, regularly. It brings a whole new meaning to 'out of sight, out of mind.' Right now, the only members of the race who remember the male are his son, Mehnace, and myself."
Lassiter contemplated. "Hmm. I don't understand why he has been allowed to remain away as long as he has. We need warriors."
Tarra's heart skipped a beat, hope blooming in her chest. She'd been watching Night for centuries and knew every detail... and she was glad of it. Even if Night didn't see it, he was a male of worth. If he had the chance to come back? Maybe, just maybe, they could meet. The idea thrilled her more than she wanted to admit, and she pushed it aside. Focus! This is about Night, not my infatuation.
Even so, she couldn't help herself. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She shifted, leaning forward, "Will you remove his curse? Can you allow him to be remembered?" The male had suffered long enough. This could be his chance to find happiness again. Surely, we could convince him to return?
A sigh escaped from the angel as he dropped his head on the recliner's headrest. "It's not that simple. I can't undo anything the Scribe Virgin did. But..."
Tarra grinned, guessing his thought. "But that does not mean you cannot bring him home!"
He chuckled and lifted his beer in salute. "Exactly."
"You," she said, settling back and sipping again, "are going to need my help."