The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Z put the weights down on the mats and wiped his face. His bare chest gleamed, his nipple rings rising and falling as he breathed.

  His yellow eyes shifted over.

  Here we go, John thought.

  “So about your transition.”

  Okaaaay…so they were going to ease into the lesser thing. What about it? he signed.

  “How you feeling?”

  Good. Wobbly. Different. He shrugged. You know when you, like, clip your nails, and your fingertips are weird for a day, all supersensitive? It’s like that all over me.

  Oh, what the hell was he going on about? Z had been through the change. He knew what was doing afterward.

  Zsadist dropped the towel and picked up the weights for his second set of reps. “You got any physical problems?”

  Not that I know of.

  Z’s eyes locked on the mats as he alternated lifting his left forearm, then his right. Left. Right. Left. It seemed strange that such heavy weights could make that gentle sound.

  “So, Layla reported in.”

  Oh…shit.

  What did she say?

  Please…not the shower…

  “She said you two didn’t have sex. Even though it appeared that you wanted to at one point.”

  As John’s brain shut down, he mindlessly kept track of Z’s reps. Right. Left. Right. Left. Who knows this?

  “Wrath and me. That’s it. And it’s no one else’s biz. But I’m bringing it up in case there’s something physical going on that you need to get checked out.”

  John stood up and paced around in his gangly way, nothing but sloppy arms and legs and a drunk’s sense of balance.

  “Why did you stop, John?”

  He glanced over at the Brother, about to give some kind of blow-off, no-big-deal answer, when he realized to his horror that he wouldn’t be able to do that.

  Z’s yellow eyes glowed with knowledge.

  Holy fuck. Havers had spilled, hadn’t he. That therapist session at the clinic when John had talked about what had happened to him in that stairwell had gotten out.

  You know, John signed with fury. You fucking know, don’t you?

  “Yeah, I do.”

  That cocksucking therapist told me it was confidential—

  “A copy of your medical records was sent over here when you started the program. It’s standard procedure for all trainees in case something happens in the gym, or in the event the transition starts while you’re on-site.”

  Who’s read my file?

  “Just me. And no one else will, not even Wrath. I locked it up, and I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

  John sagged. At least there was consolation in that. When did you read it?

  “About a week ago, when I figured your change was going to hit any day now.”

  What…what did it say?

  “Pretty much everything.”

  Fuck.

  “That’s why you won’t go to Havers, right?” Z put the weights down again. “You figure the guy’s going to snatch and drag you into another therapy hour.”

  I don’t like to talk about it.

  “I don’t blame you. And I’m not asking you to.”

  John cracked a little smile. You’re not going to hit me with all kinds of talk-is-good-for-you shit?

  “Nah. I’m not a talker myself. Can’t recommend it to others.” Z put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “Here’s the deal, John. I want you to have absolute faith that that shit’s going nowhere, okay? If someone wants to see your record, I’m going to make it so they don’t, even if I have to burn the fucker to ash.”

  John swallowed through a sudden lump in his throat. With stiff hands, he signed, Thank you.

  “Wrath wanted me to talk to you about the Layla thing because he was worried there might be something wrong with your post-transition plumbing. I’m going to tell him that you were nervous and that was the why of it, deal?”

  John nodded.

  “Have you jerked off yet?”

  John blushed from eyebrow to ankle and considered passing out. As he measured the distance to the ground, which seemed like a hundred yards, he figured this was not a bad place to keel over. Plenty of mats to land on.

  “Have you?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Do it once to make sure nothing is wrong.” Z got up, toweled his torso off, and pulled on his shirt. “I’m going to assume you’ll take care of it in the next twenty-four hours. I will not ask you what happens. If you say nothing, I’ll take it that everything’s cool. If it isn’t, you come to me and we’ll deal with it. We solid?”

  Um, not really. What if he couldn’t do it? I guess.

  “Last thing. About the gun and the lessers?”

  Fuck, his head was already spinning, and now he had to deal with the shit about that nine? He lifted his hands to make excuses—

  “I don’t care that you were packing. In fact, I want you armed if you go to ZeroSum.”

  John stared at the Brother, stunned. That’s against the rules.

  “Do I look like the kind of guy who worries about that shit?”

  John smiled a little. Not really.

  “If you get in the crosshairs of one of those slayers again, you do him just like you did. From what I understand, that was some impressive shit you pulled, and I’m proud of you for taking up for your boys.”

  John flushed, his heart singing in his chest: Nothing on the face of the planet, except Tohrment’s safe return, could have made him happier.

  “By now I’m guessing you know what I hooked Blaylock up with? About your papers and ID and only going to ZeroSum?”

  John nodded.

  “I want you to keep hitting that club if you hang downtown, at least for the next month or so, until you’re strong. And though I’m willing to stroke you on what went down last night, I don’t want you out hunting for lessers. I hear that’s going on, I’m going to ground your ass like a twelve-year-old. You have a lot of training ahead of you, and you’ve got no idea how to work that body of yours. You fuck around and get yourself killed, I’m going to be really pissed off. I want you to give me your word, John. Right now. No going after those bastards until I say you’re ready. We down?”

  John took a deep breath and tried to think of the most solid vow he could offer. Everything seemed flimsy so he just signed, I swear I will not hunt them.

  “Good. Okay, we’re done tonight. Go hit the sack.” As Z turned away, John whistled to get his attention. The Brother looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  John had to force his hands to sign what was in his mind…because he doubted he’d have the courage to do it again.

  Do you think less of me? Because of what happened back then…you know, in the stairwell? And be honest.

  Z blinked once. Twice. A third time. And then in a voice that was curiously thin, he said, “Never. It was not your fault, and you did not deserve it. You heard me? It was not your fault.”

  John winced as tears stung his eyes, and he had to look away, glancing down his big body at the mats. For some reason, though he was far from the ground, he felt shorter than ever.

  “John,” Z demanded, “you heard me on that? Not your fault. Did not deserve it.”

  John didn’t really have a reply, so he shrugged. Then he signed, Thanks again for not telling. And for not making me talk about it.

  When Z didn’t say anything, he glanced up. Only to take a step back.

  Zsadist’s whole face had changed, and not just because his eyes had gone black. His bones seemed more prominent, his skin tighter, his scar shockingly evident. A cold blast emanated from his body, chilling the air, turning the locker room into a freezer.

  “No one should have their innocence raped from them. But if they do? They get to pick how they deal with it, because it’s no one else’s biz. You never want to say another fucking word on the subject, you’re getting no lip from me.”

  Z stalked off, the drop in temperature easing off as t
he door shut behind him.

  John took a deep breath. He never would have guessed that Z would end up being the Brother he was closest to. After all, the two of them had nothing in common.

  But he sure as hell was going to take his friends where he found them.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A couple of hours later, Phury leaned back into the sofa in Wrath’s pansy-ass study and crossed his legs at the knee. The Brotherhood meeting was the first they’d had since V had gotten shot, and so far everything had been stilted. Then again, there was a big frickin’ pink elephant in the room that hadn’t been addressed yet.

  He glanced over at Vishous. The brother was against the double doors and staring straight ahead, his blank fixation the kind of thing you caught on someone’s face when they watched old Westerns on TV. Or a Lifetime movie.

  The living-dead affect was easy to recognize because it had made an appearance in this room before. Rhage had sported the breathing-corpse routine when he thought he’d lost Mary forever. So had Z when he’d been determined to let Bella go.

  Yeah…bonded male vampires without their females were empty vessels, nothing but muscle and bone held in by a thin skin. And though you had to mourn for anyone who was like that, given the load of shit V was carrying with the Primale thing, the loss of Jane seemed especially cruel. Except how the hell could it have possibly worked long-term between those two? Human doctor. Warrior vampire. No middle ground.

  Wrath’s voice rang out. “V? Yo, Vishous?”

  V’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “You’re going to the Scribe Virgin this afternoon, right?”

  V’s mouth barely moved: “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to need a rep from the Brotherhood to go with you. I’m assuming Butch, right?”

  V glanced over at the cop, who was sitting in a pale blue love seat. “You mind?”

  Butch, who was clearly worried about V, immediately manned up. “Of course not. What do I need to do?”

  When V said nothing, Wrath filled the void. “Human equiv’s probably best man at a wedding. You’ll go for the viewing today and then the ceremony, which’ll be tomorrow.”

  “Viewing? Like this woman is a painting or some shit?” Butch grimaced. “I’m so not feeling this whole Chosen thing, I gotta be honest.”

  “Old rules. Old traditions.” Wrath rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. “Lot needs to change, but it’s the Scribe Virgin’s territory, not mine. All right…so…rotation. Phury, I want you sitting out tonight. Yeah, I know you’re tight after being hurt, but I just noticed you missed your last two scheduled breaks.”

  When Phury just nodded, Wrath cocked a smirk. “No fight on that?”

  “Nope.”

  Actually, he had something he had to do. So it was fucking perfect.

  On the Other Side, in the sacred marble bathing chamber, Cormia wished she could leave her own skin. Which was a bit ironic, as it had been so carefully prepared for the Primale. One would think she would wish to stay within it now that it was so purified. She had been steeped in a dozen different ritual baths…had her hair cleansed and recleansed…had her face put in masks of rose-smelling unguents, then ones that smelled of lavender, then still others of sage and hyacinth. Oil had been rubbed all over her, while incense had burned in honor of the Primale and prayers were chanted. The process had made her feel like something in a ceremonial buffet. A piece of meat, seasoned and prepared for consumption.

  “He will be here on the hour,” the Directrix said. “Waste not the time.”

  Cormia’s heart stopped in her chest. Then pounded. The numb state induced by all the steam and the warm waters retreated, leaving her painfully and horribly aware that her last moments of life as she had always known it were about to be over.

  “Ah, the robing is here,” one of the Chosen said with excitement.

  Cormia looked over her shoulder. Across the vast marble floor a pair of Chosen came through gold doors with a white hooded robe hanging between them. The garment was embroidered with diamonds and gold, and it shimmered in the candlelight, alive with color. Behind them another Chosen held a stretch of translucent cloth in her arms.

  “Bring the veil forward,” the Directrix commanded. “And put it on her.”

  The diaphanous sheath was draped over Cormia’s head, and it landed upon her with the weight of a thousand stones. As it fell before her eyes, the world around her fogged.

  “Stand,” she was told.

  She got to her feet and had to steady herself, her heart beating hard behind her ribs, her palms growing sweaty. The panic grew worse as the heavy robing was borne forward by the two Chosen. As the ceremonial dress was laid upon her from behind, it clamped onto her shoulders, not so much settling onto her frame as locking onto her body. She felt as though some giant stood at her back with his massive, pawlike hands pressing her down.

  The hood was lifted over her head and everything went black.

  The front of the robe was buttoned in place over the tail end of the hood, and Cormia tried not to think about when and in what manner those fastenings were going to be freed again. She tried to take slow, deep breaths. Fresh air came in through some vents at her neck, but it wasn’t enough. Not by a measure and a half.

  Under her dressings all sound was muffled, and it would be difficult for anyone to hear her speak. But then, she had no personal role in either the presentation ceremony or the mating ritual that was to come. She was a symbol, not a female, so her individual response was not required or encouraged. The traditions reined supreme.

  “Perfect,” one of her sisters said.

  “Resplendent.”

  “Worthy of us.”

  Cormia opened her mouth and whispered to herself, “I am me. I am me. I am me….”

  Tears welled and fell, but she couldn’t reach her face to wipe them off, so they ran down her cheeks and her throat, getting lost in the robing.

  With no warning, her panic suddenly got away from her, a wild animal set loose. She wheeled around, hobbled by the heavy robes, but driven by a need to flee that she could not harness. She took off in the direction she thought was the door, dragging the weight with her. Dimly she heard shrieks of surprise echoing in the bathing chamber, along with crashing sounds as bottles and bowls and jars were knocked asunder.

  She flailed around, trying to strip off the robing, desperate for relief.

  Desperate to be free of her destiny.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  In downtown Caldwell, in the northeast corner of the St. Francis hospital complex, Manuel Manello, M.D., hung up the phone on his desk without having dialed anything on it or having answered a call that had come through to him. He stared at the NEC console. The thing was jacked up with buttons, right out of a Circuit City junkie’s wet dreams with all its bells and whistles.

  He wanted to throw it across the room.

  He wanted to, but he didn’t. He’d given up throwing tennis rackets, TV remotes, scalpels, and books when he decided to become the youngest chief of surgery in St. Francis hospital history. Since then, his palm punting involved only empty bottles and vending machine wrappers snapped into trash cans. And that was just to keep his aim up.

  Shifting back in his leather chair, he pivoted himself around and stared out the window of his office. It was a nice office. Big, fancy as shit, all mahogany-paneled and Oriental-rugged up, the Throne Room, as it was known, had served as the head surgeon’s landing pad for fifty years. He’d been sitting pretty in the digs for about three years now, and if he ever got a break in the action he was going to give the place a makeover. All the Establishment gloss made him scratch.

  He thought of the damn phone and knew he was going to make a call he shouldn’t. It was just so fucking weak, and it was going to come across that way, even if he was all his usual macho arrogance.

  Still, he was going to end up letting his fingers do the walking.

  To put off the inevitable, he blew some time staring out the windo
w. From his vantage point he could see the front of St. Francis’s landscaped entrance, as well as the city beyond. Hands down this was the best view on hospital grounds. In the spring cherry trees and tulips bloomed in the median of the entrance’s drive. And in the summer, on either side of the two lanes maples leafed up green as emeralds until they faded to peach and yellow in the fall.

  Usually he didn’t spend a lot of time enjoying the scenery, but he did appreciate knowing it was there. Sometimes a man needed to corral his thoughts.

  He was having one of those moments now.

  Last night he’d called Jane’s cell phone, figuring she’d be home from that damn interview. No answer. He’d called her this morning. No answer.

  Fine. If she didn’t want to spill about that fucking interview at Columbia, he was going to go directly to the source. He’d call the chief of surgery down there himself. Egos being what they were, his former mentor wouldn’t hesitate to share some details, but, man, this was going to be an ass burner of a fishing expedition.

  Manny twisted around, punched out ten digits, and waited, tapping a Montblanc pen on his blotter.

  When the ringing was answered, he didn’t wait for a hello. “Falcheck, you raiding dickhead.”

  Ken Falcheck laughed. “Manello, you have such a way with words. And me being your elder, I’m especially shocked.”

  “So how’s life in the slow lane, old man?”

  “Good, good. Now tell me, baby boy, they letting you eat solid foods yet or are you still on the Gerber?”

  “I’m up to oatmeal. Which means I’ll be well fortified to do your hip replacement anytime you get bored with that walker.”

  This was all utter bullshit, of course. At sixty-two Ken Falcheck was in great shape, and a ballbuster right up Manny’s lane. The two had gotten along ever since Manny had gone through the guy’s training program fifteen years ago.

  “So, with all deference to the elderly,” Manny drawled, “why are you macking on my trauma surgeon? And what did you think of her?”