The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  The patient’s eyes slid over to her and ran up and down her body as if he was checking that she was unharmed. Then he looked at the food she hadn’t touched and frowned like he disapproved.

  “Didn’t we just do this?” Red Sox murmured to the patient. “’Cept I was the guy in the bed? How about we call it even now and not pull this wounded shit anymore.”

  Those icy bright eyes left her and shifted to his buddy. The frown didn’t leave his face. “You look like hell.”

  “And you’re Miss America.”

  The patient brought his other arm out of the sheets like the thing weighed as much as a piano. “Help me get my glove off—”

  “Forget it. You’re not ready.”

  “You’re getting worse.”

  “Tomorrow—”

  “Now. We do it now.” The patient’s voice lowered to a whisper. “In another day you won’t be able to stand. You know what happens.”

  Red Sox dropped his head until it hung like a bag of flour off his neck. Then he cursed softly and reached for the patient’s gloved hand.

  Jane backed away until she hit the chair she’d been passed out in. That hand had put her nurse flat on the floor with a seizure, and yet the two men were both going about their business like contact with that thing was no big deal.

  Red Sox gently worked the black leather free, revealing a hand covered with tattoos. Good God, the skin seemed to glow.

  “Come here,” the patient said, opening his arms wide to the other man. “Lay with me.”

  Jane’s breath stopped in her chest.

  Cormia walked the halls of the adytum, her bare feet silent, her white robe making no sound, her very breath passing in and out of her lungs with nary a sigh to note its travels. It was thus that she ambulated as a Chosen should, casting no shadow to eye nor whisper to ear.

  Except she had a personal purpose, and that was wrong. As a Chosen you were to serve the Scribe Virgin at all times, your intentions always for Her.

  Cormia’s own need was such as to be undeniable, however.

  The Temple of Books was at the end of a long colonnade, and its double doors were always open. Of all the sanctuary’s buildings, even the one that contained the gems, this held the most prized lot: Herein rested the Scribe Virgin’s records of the race, a diary that was of incomprehensible scope, spanning thousands of years. Dictated by Her Holiness to specially trained Chosen, the labor of love was a testament of both history and faith.

  Inside the ivory walls, in the glow of white candles Cormia padded over the marble floor, passing countless stacks, walking faster and faster as she got more anxious. The diary’s volumes were arranged chronologically, and within each year by social class, but what she was after wouldn’t be in this general section.

  Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she ducked down a corridor and came up to a glossy red door. In the middle of the panels was a depiction of two black daggers crossed at the blade, handles down. Around the hilts in gold leaf was a sacred motto in the Old Language:

  THE BLACK DAGGER BROTHERHOOD

  TO DEFEND AND PROTECT

  OUR MOTHER, OUR RACE, OUR BROTHERS

  Her hand shook as she put it on the golden handle. This area was restricted, and if she was caught she would be punished, but she cared naught. Even as she feared the quest she was on, she could no longer bear her lack of knowledge.

  The room was of stately size and proportion, its high ceiling gold leafed, its stacks not white but shiny black. The books lining the walls were bound in black leather, their spines marked in gold that reflected the light from candles the color of shadows. The carpet on the floor was bloodred and soft as a pelt.

  The air had a smell here that was not usual, the scent recalling certain spices. She had a feeling it was because the Brothers had actually come to this room on occasion and had lingered among their history, taking books out, perhaps about themselves, perhaps about their forebears. She tried to imagine them here and couldn’t, as she’d never seen one of them. She had never seen a male in person, actually.

  Cormia worked fast to discover the order of the volumes. It appeared that they were arranged by year—Oh, wait. There was a biography section, as well.

  She knelt down. Each set of these volumes was marked with a number and the name of the Brother, along with his paternal lineage. The first of them was an ancient tome bearing symbols with an archaic variation she recalled from some of the oldest parts of the Scribe Virgin’s diary. This initial warrior had several books to his name and number, and the next two Brothers bore him as their sire.

  Farther down the line, she randomly took out a book and opened it. The title page was resplendent, a painted portrait of the Brother surrounded by script detailing his name and birth date and induction into the Brotherhood as well as his prowess on the field by weapon and tactic. The next page was the warrior’s lineage for generations, followed by a listing of the females he’d mated and the young he’d sired. Then chapter by chapter his life was detailed, both on the field and off.

  This Brother, Tohrture, had evidently lived long and fought well. There were three books on him, and one of the last notations was the male’s joy when his one surviving son, Rhage, joined the Brotherhood.

  Cormia put the book back and kept going, trailing her forefinger over the bindings, touching the names. These males had fought to keep her safe; they were the ones who had come when the Chosen were attacked those decades ago. They were also the ones who kept civilians protected from the lessers. Mayhap this Primale arrangement would be well after all. Surely one whose mission was to shield the innocent would not hurt her?

  As she had no idea how old her promised was or when he had joined the Brotherhood, she looked at each book. There were so many of them, whole stacks….

  Her finger stopped on a spine of a thick volume, one of four.

  THE BLOODLETTER

  356

  The name of the Primale’s sire made her go cold. She had read about him as part of the history of the race, and dear Virgin, perhaps she was wrong. If the stories about that male were true, even those who fought nobly could be cruel.

  Odd that his paternal line wasn’t listed.

  She kept going, tracing over more spines and more names.

  VISHOUS

  SON OF THE BLOODLETTER

  428

  There was only one volume, and it was thinner than her finger. As she slid it free, she smoothed her palm over the cover, her heart pounding. The binding was stiff as she opened it, as if the book had been rarely breached. Which indeed it had not been. There was no portrait nor carefully penned tribute to his fighting skills, only a birth date that indicated he’d be three hundred and three years old soon, and a notation of when he was inducted into the Brotherhood. She turned the page. There was no mention of his lineage save for the Bloodletter, and the rest of the book was blank.

  Replacing it, she returned to the father’s volumes and pulled out the third in the set. She read about the sire in hopes of learning something about the son that might allay her fears, but what she found was a level of cruelty that made her pray the Primale took after his mother, whoever that might be. The Bloodletter was indeed the right name for the warrior, for he was brutal on vampires and lessers alike.

  Flipping to the back, she found on the last page a recording of his death date, though no mention of the manner. She took out the first volume and opened it to see the portrait. The father had had jet-black hair and a full beard and eyes that made her want to put the book away and never open it again.

  After replacing the tome, she sat down on the floor. At the conclusion of the Scribe Virgin’s sequester the Bloodletter’s son would come for Cormia, and he would take her body as his rightful possession. She couldn’t imagine what the act entailed or what the male did, and dreaded the sexual lessons.

  At least as Primale he would lay with others, she told herself. Many others, some of whom who had been trained to pleasure males. No doubt he w
ould prefer them. If she had any luck at all, she would be rarely visited.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Butch stretched out on Vishous’s bed, V was ashamed to admit it, but he’d spent a lot of days wondering what this would be like. Feel like. Smell like. Now that it was reality, he was glad he had to concentrate on healing Butch. Otherwise he had a feeling it would be too intense and he’d have to pull away.

  As his chest brushed against Butch’s, he tried to tell himself he didn’t need this. He tried to pretend that he didn’t need this feel of someone beside him, that he wasn’t eased as he lay head-to-toe with another person, that he didn’t care about the warmth and the weight against his body.

  That the healing of the cop didn’t heal him.

  But that was, of course, all bullshit. As V wrapped his arms around Butch and opened himself up to take in the Omega’s evil, he needed it all. With the visit from his mother and the shooting, he craved the closeness of another, needed to feel arms that returned his embrace. He had to have the beat of a heart against his own.

  He spent so much time keeping his hand away from others, keeping himself apart from others. To let down his guard with the one person he truly trusted made his eyes sting.

  Good thing he never cried or his cheeks would be wet as stones in a river.

  As Butch shuddered in relief, Vishous felt the trembling in the male’s shoulders and hips. Knowing it was illicit, but unable to stop himself, V took his tattooed hand and buried it deep into Butch’s nape. While the cop let out another groan and moved closer, V shifted his eyes over to his surgeon.

  She was over by the chair, watching them, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly.

  The only reason V didn’t feel awkward as hell was because he knew that when she left she would have no memories of this private moment. Otherwise he couldn’t have handled it. Shit like this didn’t happen often in his life—mostly because he didn’t let it. And he was damned if he’d have some stranger remembering his private biz.

  Except…she didn’t really feel like a stranger.

  His surgeon’s hand went to her throat, and she sank down into the seat of the chair. As time stretched out languidly, uncurling like a lazy dog on a hazy summer night, her eyes never left his, and he didn’t look away either.

  That word came back to him: Mine.

  Except which one was he thinking of? Butch or her?

  Her, he realized. It was the female across the room who was bringing that word out of him.

  Butch shifted, his legs brushing against V’s through the blankets. With a stab of guilt, V recalled the times he’d imagined himself with Butch, imagined the two of them lying as they were now, imagined them…well, healing wasn’t the half of it. Strange, though. Now that it was happening, V wasn’t thinking anything sexual toward Butch. No…the sexual drive and the bonding word were directed toward the silent human woman across the room, the one who was clearly shocked.

  Maybe she couldn’t handle two men being together? Not that he and Butch were ever going to be.

  For some ridiculous fucking reason, V said to her, “He is my best friend.”

  She seemed surprised that he’d offered any explanation. Which made two of them.

  Jane couldn’t take her eyes off the bed. The patient and Red Sox were glowing together, a soft light emanating from their bodies, and something was happening between them, some kind of exchange. Jesus, that sweet smell was fading, wasn’t it.

  And best friends? She looked at the patient’s hand buried in Red Sox’s hair and the way those heavy arms held the man close. Sure they were buddies, but how much further than that did it go?

  After God only knew how long, Red Sox let out a long sigh and lifted his head. With their faces separated by a mere matter of inches, Jane braced herself. She had no problem with men being together, but for some insane reason she didn’t want to see her patient kiss his friend. Or anybody else.

  “Are you okay?” Red Sox asked.

  The patient’s voice was low and soft. “Yeah. Tired.”

  “I’ll bet.” Red Sox got up off the bed in a lithe move. Holy hell, he looked as if he’d spent a month at a spa. His color was back to normal, and his eyes were unclouded and alert. And that air of malevolence was gone.

  The patient repositioned himself on his back. Then rolled to his side with a wince. Then tried his back again. His legs scissored under the covers the whole time, as if he were trying to outrun whatever feeling was in his body.

  “You in pain?” Red Sox asked. When there was no response, the guy looked over his shoulder at her. “Can you help him, Doc?”

  She wanted to say no. She wanted to throw out a couple of curse words and demand to be released again. And she wanted kick this member of the Red Sox Nation in the balls for making her patient sicker by whatever just happened.

  The Hippocratic oath got her up and moving to the duffels. “Depends on what you brought me.”

  She dug around and found a Walgreens-load of just about every pain med available. And all of it was straight out of Big Pharma packages, so they clearly had sources on the inside of a hospital: The drugs were sealed up in such a way that they hadn’t passed very far through the black market. Hell, these guys probably were the black market.

  To make sure she hadn’t missed any options, she looked in the second bag…and found her favorite pair of yoga sweats…and the rest of the things she’d packed to go down to Manhattan for the Columbia interview.

  They’d been to her home. These bastards had been in her home.

  “We had to take your car back,” Red Sox explained. “And figured you’d appreciate some fresh clothes. These were ready to go.”

  They’d driven her Audi, walked through her rooms, been through her shit.

  Jane stood up and kicked the duffel across the room. As her clothes spilled out onto the floor, she shoved her hand into her pocket and gripped the razor, ready to go for Red Sox’s throat.

  The patient’s voice was strong. “Apologize.”

  She wheeled around and glared at the bed. “For what? You take me against my w—”

  “Not you. Him.”

  Red Sox’s voice was contrite as he spoke up fast. “I’m sorry we went through your house. Just trying to make this easier on you.”

  “Easier? No offense, but fuck off with your apology. You know, people are going to miss me. The police will be looking for me.”

  “We took care of all that, even the appointment in Manhattan. We found the train tickets and the interview itinerary. They no longer expect you.”

  Rage made her lose her voice for a moment. “How dare you.”

  “They were quite content to reschedule when they heard you were sick.” As if this was supposed to make it right.

  Jane opened her mouth, ready to have at him, when it dawned on her that she was wholly at their mercy. So antagonizing her captors was probably not a smart move.

  With a curse, she looked at the patient. “When are you going to let me go?”

  “As soon as I’m on my feet.”

  She studied his face, from the goatee to the diamond eyes to the tats at his temple. On instinct she said, “Give me your word. Swear on the life I gave back to you. You will let me go unharmed.”

  He didn’t hesitate. Not even to take a breath. “On my honor and the blood in my veins, you’ll be free as soon as I’m well.”

  Berating herself and them, she took her hand from her pocket, bent down, and grabbed a vial of Demerol out of the bigger duffel. “There aren’t any syringes.”

  “I’ve got some.” Red Sox came over and held a sterile pack out. When she tried to take it from him, he kept a grip on the thing. “I know you’ll use this wisely.”

  “Wisely?” She snapped the syringe out of his hand. “No, I’m going to poke him in the eye with it. Because that’s what they trained me to do in medical school.”

  Bending down again, she fished around in the duffel and found a pair of latex gloves, an alcohol towelette pac
ket, and some gauze and packing to change the chest dressing.

  Although she’d given the patient prophylactic antibiotics through his IV before surgery, so his risk of infection was low, she asked, “Can you get antibiotics as well?”

  “Anything you need.”

  Yeah, they were definitely hooked up with a hospital. “I might want some ciprofloxacin or maybe some amoxicillin. Depends on what’s going on under that surgical packing.”

  She put the needle and the vial and the other supplies on the bedside table, snapped on the gloves, and tore open the foiled square.

  “Hold up for a second, Doc,” Red Sox said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Red Sox’s eyes fixed on her like a pair of gun sights. “With all due respect, I need to stress that if you harm him intentionally, I will kill you with my bare hands. In spite of the fact that you’re a woman.”

  As a shot of terror stiffened her spine, a growling sound filled the bedroom, the kind a mastiff made before it attacked.

  They both looked down at the patient in shock.

  His upper lip was peeled back and those sharp front teeth were twice the size they’d been before. “No one touches her. I don’t care what she does or to whom.”

  Red Sox frowned as if his buddy had lost his marbles. “You know our agreement, roommate. I keep you safe until you can do it yourself. You don’t like it? Get your ass healed up and then you can worry about her.”

  “No one.”

  There was a moment of silence; then Red Sox looked back and forth between Jane and the patient like he was recalibrating a law of physics—and having trouble with the math.

  Jane jumped in, feeling the need to calm them down to a rolling boil. “Okay, okay. Let’s cut the macho-shithead posturing, shall we?” The two of them looked at her in surprise and seemed even more astounded as she elbowed Red Sox out of the way. “If you’re going to be here, unplug the aggression. You’re not helping him.” She glared at the patient. “And you—you just relax.”