The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Handling her with care was like breathing…an automatic function of his body and brain that he didn’t have to think about.

  He shut off the water, toweled her dry, then picked her up and carried her back to the bed. She sprawled out on his black duvet, arms over her head, legs slightly parted, nothing but flushed female skin and muscle.

  She stared at him from underneath lowered lids. “Your pajamas are wet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re hard.”

  “I am.”

  She arched on the bed, the undulation riding up her torso from her hips to her breasts. “You going to do anything about it?”

  He bared his fangs and hissed. “If you’ll let me.”

  She moved one of her legs to the side, and his corneas nearly started bleeding. She was glistening at her core, and not from the shower.

  “Does this look like a no to you?” she said.

  He ripped off his bottoms and was on her in a heartbeat, kissing her deep and long, lifting his hips, positioning himself, sinking in. She was so much better like this, in reality, not a dream state. As she came for him once, twice…more…his heart broke.

  For the first time he was having sex with someone he loved.

  He felt a momentary blind panic at his exposure. How the fuck had this happened?

  But, then, this was his last—well, only—shot at the love thing, wasn’t it. And she wasn’t going to remember a thing, so it was safe: Her heart wasn’t going to be broken at the end.

  Plus…well, her lack of memory made it safe for him, too, didn’t it. Kind of like that night he and Wrath had gotten shit-faced and V had talked about his mother.

  The less people knew about him, the better.

  Except damn, why the hell did the thought of cleaning out Jane’s mind make his chest hurt?

  God, she was going so soon.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  On the Other Side, Cormia stepped out of the Primale’s temple and waited as the Directrix shut the enormous gold doors. The temple was on top of a raised knoll, a gilded crown on the head of a small hill, and from here the whole of the Chosen’s compound was visible: the white buildings and the temples, the amphitheater, the covered walkways. The stretches between landmarks were carpeted with cropped white grass that never grew, never changed, and as always, the vista offered little in the way of horizon, just a diffused blurring of the distant white forest boundary. The only color to the composition was the pale blue of the sky, and even that faded at the edges.

  “Thus ends your lesson,” the Directrix said as she divested her neck of her graceful chain of keys and locked the doors. “In accordance with tradition you shall present yourself for the first of the cleansing rituals when we come for you. Until then you shall ponder the grace you have been given and the service you will provide for the benefit of us all.”

  The words were spoken in the same hard tone the Directrix had used to describe what the Primale would do to Cormia’s body. Over and over again. Anytime he wished.

  The Directrix’s eyes held a calculating light as she put her necklace back on, a chiming sound rising up as the keys settled between her breasts. “Fare thee well, sister.”

  As the Directrix walked down off the hill, her white robe was indistinguishable from both ground and buildings, another splash of white differentiated solely because it was in motion.

  Cormia put her hands to her face. The Directrix had told her—no, vowed to her—that what would transpire beneath the Primale would be painful, and Cormia believed it. The graphic details had been shocking, and she feared there was no way she could get through the mating ceremony without breaking down—to the disgrace of the whole of the Chosen. As the representative of them all, Cormia had to perform as expected and with dignity, or she would tarnish the venerable tradition she was in service to, contaminating it in its entirety.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the temple and put her hand on her lower belly. She was fertile, as all Chosen were at all times on this side. She could beget a young of the Primale from her very first time with him.

  Dear Virgin in the Fade, why had she been chosen?

  When she turned back around, the Directrix was down at the bottom of the hill, so small in comparison to the towering buildings, so tremendous in practicality. More than anyone or anything else, she defined the landscape: The Scribe Virgin was whom they all served, but it was the Directrix who ran their lives. At least until the Primale arrived.

  The Directrix did not want that male in her world, Cormia thought.

  And that was why Cormia had been the one nominated to the Scribe Virgin for choosing. Of all the females who might have been picked and would have been thrilled, she was the least welcoming, the least accommodating. A passive-aggressive declaration against the change in supremacy.

  Cormia started down the knoll, the white grass texture without temperature under her bare feet. Nothing save food and drink possessed heat or coldness.

  For a moment she thought of escaping. Better to be gone from all she knew than to endure the picture the Directrix had painted. Except she had no knowledge of how to get to the far side. She knew you had to pass through into the Scribe Virgin’s private space, but what then? And what if she were caught by Her Holiness?

  Unthinkable. More frightening than being with the Primale.

  Deep in her private, sinful thoughts, Cormia ambled without purpose through the landscape she’d known all her life. It was so easy to be lost here in the compound, because everything looked the same and felt the same and smelled the same. With no contrast, reality’s edges were too smooth to grab onto for purchase, either mentally or physically. You were never grounded. You were air.

  As she passed by the Treasury, she stopped on its regal steps and thought of the gems inside, the only true color she’d ever seen. Beyond the locked doors there were whole baskets full of precious stones, and though she had seen them only once or twice, she remembered the colors so clearly. Her eyes had been shocked by the vivid blue of the sapphires and the dense green of the emeralds and the blood strength of the rubies’ red. The aquamarines had been the color of the sky, so they had fascinated her less.

  Her favorites had been the citrines, the lovely yellow citrines. She’d sneaked in a touch of those. It had been only a quick push of her hand into the basket when no one had been looking, but oh, how glorious to see the light flicker in their cheerful facets. The feel of them shifting against her palm had been a lively chatter to her hand’s great content, a fanciful, tactile rush made all the more exciting by its illicit nature.

  They had warmed her, though they were in fact no warmer than anything else.

  And the gems weren’t the only reason that entry to the Treasury was an extraordinary treat. There were objects from the other side kept there in glass cases, things that had been collected either because they played a pivotal role in the history of the race or because they had ended up in the keeping of the Chosen. Even if Cormia hadn’t always known what she was looking at, it had been such a revelation. Colors. Textures. Foreign things from a foreign place.

  Ironically, though, the thing she’d been most drawn to had been an ancient book. On the battered front, in faded embossed letters, it had read: DARIUS, SON OF MARKLON.

  Cormia frowned and realized she’d seen that name before…in the Black Dagger Brotherhood room in the library.

  A diary of a Brother. So that was why it had been preserved.

  As she stared at the locked doors, she wished she had been around in the olden days, when the building had been kept open and one could go inside as freely as one could enter the library. But that had been before the attack.

  The attack had changed everything. It seemed inconceivable that rogue members of the race had come over from the far side bearing weapons and looking to loot. But they had entered through a portal that was now closed and had rushed the Treasury. The previous Primale had died protecting his females, besting the three civilians but dying thereaft
er.

  She supposed he’d been her father, hadn’t he.

  After that horrible interlude, the Scribe Virgin had closed that portal of entry and routed through her private courtyard all who sought to come. And as a precaution, the Treasury had always been locked, except for when the jewels were needed for the Scribe Virgin’s sequester or for certain ceremonies. The Directrix held the key.

  She heard a shuffling and looked toward a colonnaded walkway. A fully draped figure limped along, one leg dragging behind a black robe, covered hands holding a stack of towelings.

  Cormia looked away quickly and hurried along, wanting both distance from that particular female as well as the Primale’s Temple. She ended up as far away from both as one could go, all the way at the reflection pool.

  The water was clear and perfectly still, a mirror that showed the sky. She wanted to put her foot in, but that was not allowed—

  Her ears picked up on something.

  At first she wasn’t sure what she heard, if anything at all. There was no one nearby that she could see, nothing but the Tomb of the Youngs and the white-treed woods that marked the edges of the sanctuary. She waited. When the sound did not come again, she dismissed it as her imagination and continued on.

  Though she was afeared, she was drawn toward the tomb where infants who did not survive birth were enshrined.

  Anxiety rode up her spine. This was the one place she never visited, and it was the same for rest of the Chosen. All avoided this solitary square building with its white fencing. Sorrow hung ’round therein, sure as the black satin ribbons that were tied upon the door’s handles.

  Dear Virgin in the Fade, she thought, her destiny would soon be entombed here, as even Chosen had a high rate of infant deaths. Verily, parts of her would rest here, little chips of her being deposited until there was nothing but a husk left. The fact that she could not choose the pregnancies, that no was not a word or even a thought she was permitted, that her offspring were trapped in the same role she was made her visualize herself inside this solitary tomb, locked among the littlest dead.

  She pulled the lapels of her robe closer to her neck and shivered as she stared through the gates. Before now, she had found this place disconcerting, feeling as if the tender ones were lonely even though they were in the Fade and should have been happy and at peace.

  Now the temple was a horror.

  The sound she’d heard came again, and she jumped back, ready to run from the woeful spirits who dwelled herein.

  Except, no, that wasn’t the spectral young. It was a catching of breath. Not at all ghostly, but very real.

  She went around the corner silently.

  Layla was sitting on the grass with her knees to her chest and her arms around herself. Her head was tucked in, her shoulders shaking, her robe and hair wet.

  “My sister?” Cormia whispered. “How fare thee?”

  Layla’s head shot upright, and she quickly scrubbed her cheeks until they were free of tears. “Leave. Please.”

  Cormia went over and knelt down. “Tell me. What has happened?”

  “Nothing of which you need be—”

  “Layla, speak unto me.” She wanted to reach out but you were not permitted to do so and she did not want to add to the upset. Instead of touch, she used gentle words and tone. “My sister, I would ease you. Please talk to me. Please.”

  The Chosen’s blond head went back and forth, her ruined chignon falling further apart. “I failed.”

  “How?”

  “I…failed. This night I failed to please. I was turned away.”

  “From what?”

  “The male whose transition I saw through. He was ready to mate, and I touched him and he lost his impulse.” Layla’s breath went in on a sob. “And I…I shall have to report unto the king what transpired, as is tradition. I should have done so before I left, but I was so horrified. How will I tell His Majesty? And the Directrix?” Her head dropped down again, as if she hadn’t the will to hold it up. “I was trained by the great ones to please. And I failed us all.”

  Cormia took a chance and laid her hand on Layla’s shoulder, thinking it was always thus. The burden of the whole Chosen fell upon each sole female when she acted in an official capacity. There was, therefore, no private and personal disgrace, only the great weight of monumental failure.

  “My sister—”

  “I shall go into reflection after I speak to the king and the Directrix.”

  Oh, no… Reflection was seven cycles of no food, no light, no contact with others, meant for atonement of infractions of the highest order. The worst of it, or so Cormia had heard, was the lack of illumination, as Chosen craved light.

  “Sister, are you sure he did not desire you?”

  “Males’ bodies lie not in that regard. Merciful Virgin…perhaps it is for the best. I may well have not pleased him.” Pale green eyes shifted over. “It is well and good I was not your instructor. I am trained in theory, not practice, so I could have imparted no visceral knowledge unto you.”

  “I would rather have had you.”

  “Then you are unwise.” The Chosen’s face abruptly grew old. Ancient. “And I have learned my lesson. I shall take myself out of the pool of ehros, as I am clearly incapable of upholding their sensual tradition.”

  Cormia didn’t like the dead shadows in Layla’s eyes. “Perhaps it was he who was at fault?”

  “There is no issue of fault on his side. He was not pleased by me. My burden, not his.” She wiped a tear away. “I shall say unto you, there is no failure such as the sexual one. Nothing cuts so deep as the denial of your nakedness and your instinct for communion by one you would wish to mate…. To be shunned in your skin is the worst sort of refusal. So I should leave the ehros, not just for their fine tradition, but for me. I would not go through this again. Ever. Now please go, and say nothing. I must collect myself.”

  Cormia wanted to stay, but arguing didn’t seem right. She stood and removed her outer robe, draping it around her sister.

  Layla looked up in surprise. “Verily, I am not cold.”

  This was said as she drew the cloth tight to her neck.

  “Fare thee well, my sister.” Cormia turned and walked up past the reflecting pool.

  As she looked up at the milky blue sky she wanted to scream.

  Vishous rolled off Jane’s body and positioned her so she was tucked into his chest. He liked her up close on his left side, with his fighting hand free to kill for her. Lying here now, he’d never felt more focused, never had his life’s purpose so clear: His one and only priority was keeping her alive and healthy and safe, and the strength with which he held that directive made him feel whole.

  He was who he was because of her.

  In the short time they’d known each other, Jane had barged into that secret chamber in his chest, shoved Butch out of the way, and slammed herself in good and tight. And it felt right. The fit felt right.

  She made a little murmuring noise and wheedled her way in even closer to him. As he stroked her back, he found himself thinking, for no good reason, about the first fight he’d had, a face-off that was closely followed by the first time he’d had sex.

  In the war camp, males just through their transitions were given a limited amount of time to find their strength. And yet as Vishous’s father stood before him and pronounced that he was to fight, V was surprised. Surely he should have had a day to recover.

  The Bloodletter smiled, showing fangs that were always distended. “And you shall pair off with Grodht.”

  The soldier V had stolen the deer leg from. The fat one whose prowess was of the hammer.

  With exhaustion weighing upon him, and his pride all that kept him on his feet, V proceeded over to the fighting ring that was set back from where the soldiers slept. The ring was an uneven circular sinkhole in the cave’s floor, like a giant had pounded its fist into the earth out of frustration. Waist deep, with its sides and bottom dark brown from blood having been spilled, you were expec
ted to fight until you couldn’t stand. No conduct was barred, and the only rule pertained to the loser and what he had to present himself for to address his deficiency in combat.

  Vishous knew he wasn’t ready to fight. Virgin in the Fade, he could barely get down into the ring without falling over. But then, that was the purpose in this, was it not? His father had engineered the perfect power maneuver. There was only one way V could hope to win, and if he used his hand, the whole camp would see for themselves what they had only heard in rumor and shun him completely. And if he lost? Then he would not be perceived as any threat to his father’s dominion. So either way the Bloodletter’s supremacy would remain intact and unchallenged by his son’s new maturity.

  As the fat soldier jumped in with a lusty shout and the swing of a hammer, the Bloodletter loomed at the lip of the ring. “What weapon shall I give my son?” he asked the assembled crowd. “I think perhaps…” He looked over at one of the kitchen females, who was leaning on a broom. “Give me.”

  The female fumbled to comply and dropped the thing at the Bloodletter’s feet. As she bent over to pick it up, he kicked her aside as one would a tree branch that was in one’s path. “Take this, my son. And pray to the Virgin it is not what is used in you when you lose.”

  As the throng of witnesses laughed, V caught the wooden handle.

  “Engage!” the Bloodletter barked.

  The crowd cheered, and someone threw the dregs of their ale at Vishous, the warm splash hitting his bare back and dripping down his naked arse. The fat soldier opposite him smiled, revealing fangs that had extended out of his upper jaw. As the male began to circle V, the hammer swung on the end of its chain, a low whistle rising up.

  V was clumsy while he tracked his opponent, finding it difficult to control his legs. He focused primarily on the male’s right shoulder, the one that would tense before the hammer was thrown out, while with his peripheral vision he kept track of the crowd. Mead would be the least of what they might pitch at him.