The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  As she was rolled forward, it became clear that she was in fact fixed on something. There were bands around her upper arms, ones that were camouflaged with jewels to match her robes, ones that appeared to be holding her up.

  Must be part of the ceremony. Because what was under that robe was not only prepared for this presentation and the mating ritual that would follow, but no doubt was psyched as hell to be the number one female: The Primale’s first Chosen had special rights, and he could only imagine what a rocking good time that would be for her.

  Even though it might not be fair, he resented the hell out of what was under that splendor.

  The Scribe Virgin nodded, and the Chosen to the left and the right of his intended started to undo the robing. As they went to work, a rush of energy rippled through the stillness of the amphitheater, the culmination of decades of the Chosen waiting for the old ways to start up again.

  V watched with no care whatsoever as the jeweled robes were pulled back to reveal a stunningly beautiful female form draped in a gossamer-thin sheath. His intended’s face was kept hooded, according to tradition, for it was not her that was being given but all of the Chosen.

  “Is she to your liking?” the Scribe Virgin asked dryly, as if she knew that the female was utter perfection.

  “Whatever.”

  A murmur of disquiet went through the Chosen, a chilly breeze through stiff reeds.

  “Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?” the Scribe Virgin snapped.

  “She’ll do.”

  After an awkward pause, a Chosen came forward with an incense burner and a white feather. As she chanted, she wafted smoke over the female from hooded head to bare feet, going around once for the past, once for the present, once for the future.

  As the ritual progressed, V frowned and leaned forward. The front of his intended’s gossamer-thin sheath was wet.

  Probably oils from when she’d been prepared for him.

  He eased back in the throne. Shit, he hated the ancient ways. Hated this whole fucking thing.

  Underneath the hood, Cormia was in a state of desperation. The air she breathed was hot and wet and smothering, worse in that regard than having nothing at all to inhale. Her knees were loose as blades of grass, her palms wringing wet. If not for the restraints, she would have crumpled.

  Following her panicked bid for escape in the baths, and her eventual capture, a bitter drink had been forced down her throat at the Directrix’s command. It had calmed her for a time, but the elixir was now wearing weak, and her fear was spiking once again.

  As was the degradation. When she’d felt hands going down the front of the robing to free the golden toggles, she’d wept for the violation of a stranger’s gaze upon her private skin. Then the two heavy halves of the robe had been pulled apart from her body and she’d felt coolness on her skin, something that was in no way a relief from the weight of what had been draped all over her.

  The Primale’s eyes had been upon her as the Scribe Virgin’s voice had called out: “Is she to your liking?”

  Cormia had waited for the Brother’s response, praying for some warmth within it.

  There was absolutely none: “Whatever.”

  “Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?”

  “She’ll do.”

  Upon hearing the reply, Cormia’s heart stopped beating, fear replaced by terror. Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, had a cold voice, one that suggested proclivities far worse than even his father’s reputation had detailed.

  How would she survive the mating, much less represent well the venerable Chosen during the course of it? In the bath, the Directrix had been brutal in her wording of all that Cormia would disgrace if she did not comport herself with appropriate dignity. If she didn’t carry out her responsibility. If she was not the proper representative of the whole.

  How could she bear this all?

  Cormia heard the Scribe Virgin speak again: “Vishous, your stead has not tendered his gaze. Phury, son of Ahgony, you must view the Chosen that is offered as the Primale’s witness.”

  Cormia trembled, afeared of yet another set of unknown male eyes upon her form. She felt unclean, though she had been so carefully washed; dirty, though no filth dripped from her. Under the hood she wished she were small, so small she would shame the head of a pin.

  For if she were small, their eyes wouldn’t find her. If she were tiny, she could hide amongst larger things…disappear from all of this.

  Phury’s eyes were glued to the back of the golden throne, and he really didn’t want them anywhere else. This whole thing was wrong. All wrong.

  “Phury, son of Ahgony?” The Scribe Virgin pronounced his father’s name as if the weight of the family’s entire lineage rested on whether Phury got with the program.

  He flipped his lids up to the female—

  Every one of his mental processes ground to a halt.

  His body was what responded. Instantly. He thickened in his silk pants, his erection popping up fast as a breath even as he was utterly ashamed of himself. How could he be so cruel? He dropped his lids, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to figure out how he could manage to kick his own ass and still remain standing.

  “How find you her, warrior?”

  “Resplendent.” The word came out of his mouth from nowhere. Then he added, “Worthy of the fairest tradition of the Chosen.”

  “Ah, now, that is the proper response. As acceptance has been made, I pronounce this female as the Primale’s selection. Complete the incense bathing.”

  In his peripheral vision, Phury was aware of two Chosen coming out with staffs that had smoky white trails drifting from them. As they began to sing in high, crystal voices, he breathed in deep, sifting through a garden’s bloom of female scents.

  He found the intended’s. Had to be hers, because it was the only one in the whole place that was spelling out pure terror—

  “Stop the ceremony,” V said in a hard voice.

  The Scribe Virgin’s head twisted over to him. “They shall finish it.”

  “The hell they will.” The brother got up out of his throne and marched onto the stage, having obviously caught the scent as well. As he came forward, the Chosen let out squeaks of alarm and broke ranks. While the females scattered and their white robes whipped around, Phury thought of a stack of paper napkins at a picnic, blowing away all willy-nilly, skipping along the grass.

  Except this was no Sunday in the park.

  Vishous yanked the intended’s jeweled robing back together, then tore free the binds. As she sagged, he caught her by the arm and held her up. “Phury, I’ll meet you back home.”

  Wind began to rip around, emanating from the Scribe Virgin, but V held his own, facing off with his…well, his mother, apparently.

  Mother. Christ, never saw that one coming.

  V had a death grip on the poor female and a face full of hatred as he stared at the Scribe Virgin. “Phury, get the fuck out of here.”

  Even though Phury was a peacekeeper at heart, he knew better than to intercede in this kind of family squabble. The best he could to was pray his brother didn’t come back in an urn.

  Before he took off, he had one last look at the female’s hooded form. V was now holding her with both hands, as she appeared to have passed out. Jesus Christ… What a mess.

  Phury turned and beat feet back down the white silk runner toward the Scribe Virgin’s Courtyard. First stop? Wrath’s study. The king was going to have to know what went down. Even though clearly the biggest part of the story had yet to play out.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  When Cormia came to, she was stretched out flat on her back, the robing still on, the hood in place. She didn’t think she was on that board she’d been strapped to, however. No…she wasn’t on—

  It all came back to her: The Primale stopping the ceremony and freeing her. A vast wind blowing through the amphitheater. The Brother and the Scribe Virgin starting to argue.

  Cormia had passed out at
that point, missing what ensued. What had happened to the Primale? Surely he had not survived, as no one defied the Scribe Virgin.

  “You want any of that off?” a hard male voice said.

  Fear shot up her spine. Merciful Virgin, he remained herein.

  Instinctively she curled into a ball to protect herself.

  “Relax. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

  Going by his harsh tone of voice, she could not trust the words: Anger marked the syllables he spoke, turning them into verbal blades, and though she could not see his form, she could sense the awesome power in him. He was indeed the warrior son of the Bloodletter.

  “Look, I’m going to take the hood off so you can breathe, okay?”

  She tried to get away from him, tried to crawl from wherever she lay, but the robing tangled and trapped her.

  “Hold up, female. I’m just trying to give you a break here.”

  She went dead still as his hands fell upon her, sure she would be beaten. Instead he merely loosened the top two fastenings and lifted the hood.

  Sweet, clean air swept onto her face through the thin veil, a luxury like food to the hungry, but she couldn’t draw much in. She was tight all over, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth drawn in a grimace as she braced herself for only the Virgin knew what.

  Except nothing happened. He was with her still…she could catch his fearsome scent…and yet he touched her not, spoke no other words.

  She heard a rasping sound and an inhale. Then she smelled something tangy and smoky. Like incense.

  “Open your eyes.” His voice was all command as it came from behind her.

  She lifted her lids and blinked a number of times. She was on the stage at the amphitheater, facing outward toward an empty golden throne and a white silk runner that led up the hilly rise.

  Heavy footsteps came around.

  And there he was. Towering over her, bigger than anything she’d seen that breathed, his pale eyes and hard face so cold she recoiled.

  He brought a thin white roll to his lips and inhaled. As he spoke, smoke came out of his mouth. “Told you. I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”

  Through a tight throat, she rasped, “Chosen.”

  “That’s what you are,” he snapped. “I want your name. I want to know your name.”

  Was he allowed to ask her that? Was he—What was she thinking? He could do anything he wanted. He was the Primale. “C-C-Cormia.”

  “Cormia.” He inhaled on the white thing again, the orange tip flaring up brightly. “Listen to me. Don’t be scared, Cormia, okay?”

  “Are you—” Her voice cracked. She wasn’t sure whether she could question him, but she had to know. “Are you a god?”

  His black eyebrows came down low over his white eyes. “Hell, no.”

  “But then how did you—”

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

  She tried to make her voice stronger. “How then did you intercede with the Scribe Virgin?” As he glowered, she rushed to apologize. “Please, I mean not to offend—”

  “Whatever. Look, Cormia, you’re not into this mating thing with me, are you?” When she said nothing, his mouth compressed with impatience. “Come on, talk to me.”

  She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

  “Oh, for the love of God.” He pushed a gloved hand through his dark hair and started pacing.

  Surely he was a deity of some kind. He looked so fierce she wouldn’t have been surprised if he called lightning from the sky.

  He stopped and loomed over her. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. Goddamn, what do you think I am? A monster?”

  “I have never seen a male before,” she blurted. “I know not what you are.”

  That stopped him cold.

  Jane woke up only because she heard a garage door squeaking, the high-pitched whine coming from the condo to the left of hers. Rolling over, she looked at the clock. Five in the afternoon. She’d slept most of the day.

  Well, kind of slept. For the most part, she’d been trapped in a bizarre dreamscape, one in which images that were half-formed and hazy tormented her. A man was involved somehow, a big man who felt at once a part of her and yet utterly alien. She’d been unable to see his face, but she knew his smell: dark spices, up close, in her nose, all around her, all over her—

  That bone crusher of a headache flared up, and she dropped what she was thinking of like it was a hot poker and she was holding the wrong end. Fortunately, the pain behind her eyes eased off.

  At the sound of a car engine, she lifted her head off the pillow. Through the window next to the bed she saw a minivan back down the driveway beside hers. Someone had moved in next door, and God, she hoped it wasn’t a family. The walls between units were not as thin as an apartment building’s, but they weren’t bank-safe solid by a long shot. And screaming kids she could do without.

  Sitting up, she felt beyond wretched and into a whole new category of dreck. Her chest was aching something fierce, and she didn’t think it was muscular. Shifting around from side to side, she had some inclination that she’d felt like this once before, but she couldn’t place when or where.

  Showering was an ordeal. Hell, just making it into the bathroom was a chore. The good news was that the soap-and-rinse routine revived her a little, and her stomach seemed open to the idea of some food. Leaving her hair to air-dry, she went downstairs and fired up some coffee. The plan was to get her head into first gear, then return some phone calls. Come hell or high water she was going to work tomorrow, so she wanted to clear the decks as best she could before she went into the hospital.

  With mug in hand, she headed into the living room and sat down on the couch, cradling her coffee between her palms, hoping Captain Caffeine would come to her rescue and help her feel human. As she glanced down at the silk cushions, she winced. These were the ones her mother had smoothed out so often, the ones that had served as a barometric meter of whether All Was Well or not, and Jane wondered when she’d sat on the damn things last. God, she supposed that would be never. For all she knew, the last butt that had taken a load off here might well have been one of her parents’.

  No, probably a guest’s. Her parents had sat only on the matching chairs in the library, her father on the right with his pipe and his newspaper, her mother on the left with a square of petit point on her lap. The two had been like something out of Madame Tussands wax museum, part of an exhibit on affluent husbands and wives who never spoke to each other.

  Jane thought of the parties they’d thrown, all those people milling around that big Colonial house with uniformed waiters passing crepes and things stuffed with mushroom paste. It had been the same crowd and the same conversation and the same kind of little black dresses and Brooks Brothers suits every time. The only difference had been the seasons, and the only break in the rhythm occurred after Hannah’s death. Following her burial, the soirees had stopped for about six months on her father’s orders, but then it was right back on the bandwagon. Ready or not, those parties started up again, and even though her mother had seemed brittle enough to crack, she’d put on her makeup and her little black dress and stood by the front door, all fake-smiled-and-pearled-up.

  God, Hannah had loved those parties.

  Jane frowned and put a hand over her heart, realizing when she’d felt this kind of chest pain before. Not having Hannah anymore had created the same kind of achy pressure.

  Odd that she would wake up out of the blue and be in mourning. She hadn’t lost anyone.

  Taking a sip of the coffee, she wished she’d made hot chocolate—

  A blurry image of a man holding out a mug came to her. There was hot cocoa in the thing, and he’d made it for her because he was…he was leaving her. Oh…God, he was leaving—

  A sharp pain shot through her head, cutting off the tumbling vision—just as her doorbell went off. As she rubbed the bridge of her nose, she shot a glare down the hall. She was so not feeling social right now.

>   The thing went off again.

  Forcing herself to her feet, she shuffled to the front door. As she flipped the lock free, she thought, man, if this was a missionary, she was going to give them a communion with—

  “Manello?”

  Her chief of surgery was standing on her front stoop with his typical bravado, like he belonged on her welcome mat just because he said so. Dressed in surgical scrubs and crocs, he was also sporting a fine suede coat that was the rich brown color of his eyes. His Porsche took up half of her driveway.

  “I came to see if you were dead.”

  Jane had to smile. “Jesus, Manello, don’t be such a romantic.”

  “You look like shit.”

  “And now with the compliments. Stop. You’re making me blush.”

  “I’m coming in now.”

  “Of course you are,” she muttered, stepping aside.

  He looked around while he shucked his coat. “You know, every time I come in here, I always think this place is so not you.”

  “You expect something pink and frilly then?” She shut the door. Locked it.

  “No, when I first came in, I expected it to be empty. Like my place.”

  Manello lived over in the Commodore, that ritzy high-rise of condos, but his home was just an expensive locker, really, decor by Nike. He had his sports equipment, a bed, and a coffeepot.

  “True,” she said. “You’re not exactly House Beautiful material.”

  “So tell me how you are, Whitcomb.” As Manello stared at her, his face showed no emotion, but his eyes burned, and she thought back to the last conversation she’d had with him, the one where he’d told her he felt something for her. The details of what had been said were kind of hazy and she had some vague impression it had been up in a SICU room over a patient—

  Her head started to hurt again, and as she winced Manello said, “Sit down. Now.”

  Maybe that was a good idea. She headed back for the couch. “You want coffee?”