Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 21

I will remember the first moment I laid eyes upon Bartholomew Garrick for as long as I am on this earth and, quite possibly, in whatever life awaits me after my death.

Out of all the crazy, wonderful, terrible things I have experienced - and let's face it, there's been many - meeting Garrick was definitely a pivotal moment, one of those memories that should flash in front of your eyes, right before you take your last breath. I'll never rid myself of that image of him, sat in one of the chairs in Harper's digs, glowering at his blood-brother with a dark, menacing expression that belied such a young handsome face. I'll never forget that sense of power he emanated, that cocky arrogant veneer that seemed to pervade all the Garrick family. I'll never forget the shocking revelation that Garrick wasn't just sitting at the head of the table of the most important vampire family in London, but that he was connected to Harper by blood, and essentially, to me also.

Of course, it wasn't long before I realised that for all his similarities to Harper, he was also very different. He had a way with words that Harper could rarely match. He was accessible with his emotions in a way Harper found exceedingly difficult. Long before Garrick's death, I had come to realise that I had needed him far more than I could ever have foreseen. He had been the calm, Harper had been the storm, a perfect balance provided by the two people who had bulldozed into my life in a way that still shook the ground beneath my feet whenever I thought about them.

After my first meeting with Lucifer, when I had blindly followed a trail I thought to be Garrick and discovered it wasn't him at all, I had almost given up hope that I would ever see him again.

Almost.

He'd always had faith in me, you see, so I couldn't lose faith in him. Even in death I believed in him. I believed that he would do everything in his power to find me. I believed he would swim against the tide of Purgatory, battle the demons that lurked in the shallows and even challenge the Devil himself if need be.

And now here he was. Here. And this was no apparition. He was real. He was as solid as I was. He was flesh and bone and I held him against me, gripping him tight in my arms, afraid that if I let go - if I relinquished my hold even just a little - he would disappear and I would lose him all over again.

I think he must have felt the same because I could feel the muscles of his arms flexing across my back as he crushed me in a desperate embrace, his breath heavy and rasping against my skin as if he had run a marathon to reach me. We remained locked together for a few moments and finally, reluctantly, I had to pull back, I had to look at him.

He was sickly pale, still wearing that grey-ish death pallor from the last time I had seen him at Oxleas Wood and his skin was slick with a thin sheen of sweat as if he was fighting a fever and yet he felt so cold to the touch. His long outgrown Mohawk lay lank and tousled down one side of his face and it felt slightly damp under my fingers as I began to examine him, almost as if I was checking a child for cuts and bruises after a fall. My trembling hands travelled over his face, searching for wounds and lesions that were not there. Further they went, trailing down his throat, his chest, down to his stomach where I couldn't help but pull on his t-shirt, desperately seeking out the terrible gaping wound made by Vanagandr. I frowned when I found nothing. Not one ravaged welt. Not one mark. Not one scar. It was as if the Great Wolf's claws had never dealt that fateful blow.

I don't know why it bothered me. I hadn't wanted to see it again. Of course I hadn't. Once had been more than enough. In fact, on the night of his death, as soon as I looked, I had wished I had heeded Garrick's warning not to, because after that I never once forgot the sight of it. Even when I closed my eyes, I could still see the raw flesh, I could still see how deep those claws had gouged and I could still see the blood pumping sluggishly from his body. And yet, after bearing witness to the death-wounds sported by so many of the souls in Purgatory, I had expected to see Garrick's and now I was torn between feeling relieved to find his skin unmarked and feeling strangely unsettled that it was practically blemish-free.