The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  He knew his mother was in her bed in the basement of the house, because that was where she lived. He also knew she wouldn’t look at him as he entered. She never did, and he hadn’t blamed her for that. He was the exact replica of the one that had been stolen, the walking, talking, breathing reminder of the tragedy. That he was an individual and separate from Zsadist, that he mourned the loss as she did because he’d been missing half of himself ever since his twin had been taken, that he needed nurturing and caring, was beyond her because of her own pain.

  His mother had never touched him. Not once, even to bathe him when he had been young.

  After knocking on her door, Phury had been careful to tell her who it was before he entered so she could brace herself accordingly. When she didn’t answer, he opened the door and stood in her doorway, filling the jamb with his newly transitioned body. As he’d told her about what he was going to do, he wasn’t sure what exactly he expected from her, but he got nothing. Not a single word. She didn’t even lift her head from her tattered pillow.

  He’d closed the door and gone across the way to his father ’s quarters.

  The male had been out cold, dead drunk among the bottles of cheap ale that kept him, if not sane, then at least non compos mentis enough not to think too much. After trying to rouse him, Phury had scribbled a note, left it on his father’s chest, then gone upstairs and out of the house.

  Standing on the pitted, leaf-strewn terrace of the family’s once-grand house, he had listened to the night. He knew there was a good possibility he would never see his parents again, and he was worried that the one doggen who remained would either die or get injured. And then what would they do?

  Staring out over the majesty that had once been, he sensed his twin was somewhere in the night, waiting to be found.

  As a streak of milky clouds drifted free of the moon’s face, Phury had searched deep in himself for some kind of strength.

  Verily, a low voice had said inside of his skull, you could search until a thousand morns arrive, and even find the breathing body of your twin, yet it is certain you shall not save what cannot be rescued. You are not up to this task, and moreover, your destiny decrees that you shall fail no matter the goal, as you bring with you the curse of the exhile dhoble.

  It was the wizard speaking for the first time.

  And as the words sunk into him, with him feeling far too weak for the journey ahead, he took his vow of celibacy. Looking up to the great shining disk in the blue-black sky, he’d sworn to the Scribe Virgin that he would keep himself apart from all distractions. He would be the clean and focused savior. He would be the hero who brought his twin back. He would be the healer who resurrected the sad, tangled mess of his family and returned them to their former state of health and beauty.

  He would be the gardener.

  Phury came back to the present as the wizard spoke up. But I was right, was I not? Your parents both died early and in misery, your twin was used like a whore, and you’re a head case.

  I was right, wasn’t I, mate.

  Phury refocused on the eerie white expanse of the Other Side. It was so perfect, everything in order, nothing out of bounds. The white tulips with their white stems stayed within their beds around the buildings. The trees didn’t breach the forest’s edge. There wasn’t a weed to be seen.

  He wondered who mowed their lawn, and had a feeling the grass, like all the rest of it, just grew that way.

  Must be nice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back at the brotherhood’s mansion, Cormia checked the clock on her bureau again. John Matthew had been due to come for her an hour ago to watch a thew had been due to come for her an hour ago to watch a movie, and she hoped nothing had gone wrong.

  Pacing around a little more, she found that her room seemed way too small tonight, way too crowded, even though it had no new furniture and she was all alone.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, she had too much energy.

  It was the Primale’s blood.

  That and a crushing, unsatisfied urgency.

  She stopped by the window, put her fingertips to her lips, and remembered the taste of him, the feel of him. What a mad rush, what a glorious ecstasy. But why had he stopped? That question had been swirling in her head. Why had he gone no further? Yes, the medallion had summoned him, but as Primale everything was on his terms. He was the strength of the race, the ruler of the Chosen, free to ignore any and all at his will.

  The only answer she had made her sick to her stomach. Had it been his feelings for Bella? Had he believed that he was betraying the one he loved?

  It was hard to know what was worse: him being with her and all her sisters, or him being with none of them because his heart was held by another.

  Looking out at the night, she was sure she was going to go crazy if she stayed in her room, and the pool with its undulating surface caught her eye. The gentle waving motion reminded her of the deep baths on the other side, promising a peaceful respite from all that was on her mind.

  Cormia was at her door and out in the hall before she knew she’d left her bedroom. Moving quickly and silently in her bare feet, she took the grand staircase down to the foyer and crossed the mosaic floor. In the billiards room, she used the door John had let them out of the night before and stepped free of the house.

  Standing on the cool stones of the terrace, she let her senses reach into the darkness and ran her eyes down what she could see of the massive wall at the edge of the property. There seemed to be no danger. Nothing moved among the flowers and trees of the garden except the thick night air.

  She glanced back up at the massive house. Lights glowed in leaded windows, and she could see doggen moving around. There were plenty of folks close by should she need help.

  She closed the door most of the way, picked up the skirting of her robes, and jogged across the terrace to the water.

  The pool was rectangular and ringed with the same flat black stones that covered the terrace. Long chairs made up of woven strips and tables with glass tops. Off to one side, there was a black contraption with a white tank. Flowers in pots added color.

  Kneeling down, she measured the water, its surface appearing oily in the moonlight, probably because the pool’s belly was lined in more of the black stone. The way it was set up was not like the baths at home; there was no gradual wading in, and she suspected the depths were substantial. You would not get trapped, however. At regular intervals on the sides, there were curving handles that you could use to help yourself free of the water.

  Her toe went in first and then her whole foot, the pool’s surface rippling out from the penetration, as if the water were clapping in encouragement.

  There were stairs over to the left, shallow steps that were clearly the way you went in. She went to them, took off her robe, and walked naked into the pool.

  Her heart was pounding, but oh, the luxury of the water’s soft buffer. She kept going forward until she was clothed in a gentle, moving embrace from breast to heel.

  How lovely it was.

  Instinct told her to push off with her feet, and she did, her body slipping forward in a weightless slice. Sending her arms up and out and then drawing them back in, she discovered she could make her way around, going wherever she chose—first to the right, then to the left, then down, down, down to the end, where a thin board overhung the water.

  Finished with exploring, Cormia rolled onto her back and floated along and looked at the sky. The twinkling lights above made her think of her place in the Chosen and of her duty to be one among many, a molecule that was part of a whole. She and her sisters were indistinguishable within the grand tradition they served: just like this water, seamless and fluid, with no boundaries; just like the stars above, all the same.

  Looking up at earth’s heaven, she had another one of those random, heretical thoughts, only this one wasn’t about house design or what someone wore or whether she liked a bit of food or didn’t.

  This one went straight to the
core of her and marked her as a sinner and a heretic:

  She did not want to be one of many.

  Not with the Primale. Not to him.

  And not to herself.

  Across town, Qhuinn sat on his bed and stared down at the cell phone in his palm. He’d typed out a text that was addressed to both Blay and John, and was just waiting to send the fucker.

  He’d been sitting here for what seemed like hours, but had probably just been one at the most. After he’d taken a shower to wash Lash’s blood off, he’d planted his ass down and braced himself for what was coming.

  For some reason, he kept thinking about the one nice thing he could remember his parents ever doing for him. It had been back about three years ago. He’d been bugging them to be allowed to go to his cousin Sax’s in Connecticut for, like, months. Saxton had already gone through his transition and was a little wild, so naturally he was Qhuinn’s hero. And naturally, the ’rents didn’t approve of Sax or his parents—who were not all that interested in the glymera’s self-imposed social wedgies.

  Qhuinn had begged and pleaded and whined and gotten a whole lot of nothing for his efforts. And then out of the blue his father had informed him that he was getting his way and going south for the weekend.

  Joy. Total fucking joy. He’d packed up three days early, and when he’d gotten in the back of the car after dark and been driven over the border into Connecticut, he’d felt like he was king of the world.

  Yeah, it had been nice of his parents.

  Course, then he’d learned why they’d done it.

  The adventure at Sax’s hadn’t worked out all that well. He’d ended up drinking up a storm with his cuz during Saturday ’s daylight hours and had gotten so sick off a lethal combo of Jägermeister and vodka Jell-O shots that Sax’s parents had insisted he head home to recover.

  Being driven back by one of their doggen had been such the ride of shame, and what was worse, he kept having to ask the chauffeur to stop so he could throw up some more. The only saving grace was that Sax’s folks had agreed not to tell his parents—on the condition that he make a full confession when he was dropped at his front door. Clearly, they didn’t want to deal with his mother and father, either.

  As the doggen had pulled up in front of the house, Qhuinn had figured he was just going to say he felt ill, which was true, and that he’d asked to come back home, which was not true and never would be true.

  Except things didn’t go down like that.

  Every light in the place had been on, and music had been streaming in the air, coming from a tent set up out back. Candles were lit in every window; people were moving around in every room.

  “ ’Tis a good thing we got you back in time,” the doggen at the wheel had said in his happy doggen voice. “Would be a shame for you to miss this.”

  Qhuinn had gotten out of the car with his bag and not noticed as the servant drove off.

  Of course, he’d thought. His father was stepping down as leahdyre of the glymera after a distinguished term of service heading the Princeps Council. This was the party to celebrate his work and to mark the passing of the position to Lash’s father.

  And this was what the staff had been bustling around about for the last couple weeks. He’d just figured his mother was going through another one of her anal, clean-everything periods, but no. All the spic-n-span had been in anticipation of this night.

  Qhuinn had headed around to the back of the house, sticking to the shadows thrown by the hedges, his backpack dragging on the ground. It had been so lovely in the tent. Twinkling lights hung from chandeliers and flickered on tables with arrangements of beautiful flowers and candles. Each and every chair had been trimmed out in satin bows, and there were runners down the aisles between the seating arrangements. He’d imagined the color scheme of everything was turquoise and yellow, reflecting his family’s two sides.

  He stared at the faces of the partygoers, recognizing each and every one of them. The whole of his bloodline was there, along with the leading families of the glymera, and all of the guests were dressed formally, the females in gowns, the males in tuxedoes with tails. There were young darting between the grown-ups like fireflies and the advanced aged sitting on the sidelines smiling.

  He had stood there in the darkness and felt like part of the clutter in the house that had gotten shut away before company had come, another useless, ugly object to be stashed in a cupboard so no one saw. And not for the first time had he wanted to take his fingers and press them into his eye sockets and ruin what had ruined him.

  Abruptly, the band had gone quiet, and his father had stepped up to the microphone at the head of the parquet dance floor. As all the guests assembled, Qhuinn’s mother and brother and sister came up to stand behind his father, the four of them glowing in a way that had nothing to do with all the twinkling lights.

  “If I may have your attention,” his father had said in the Old Language. “I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the founding families who are here tonight.” Round of applause. “The other members of the Council.” Round of applause. “And the rest of you who form the core of the glymera, as well as fill out mine bloodline.” Round of applause. “These past ten years as leahdyre have been challenging, but we’ve made good progress, and I know that my successor will take the reins with a firm hand. With the king’s recent ascension, it is even more paramount that our concerns be marshaled and brought forward with appropriate care. Through the Council’s continuing work, we shall see our vision carried outward to the race . . . without regard to meritless dissention from those who do not understand the issues as fully as we do. . . .”

  There was resounding approval at this point, followed by a toast to Lash’s father. Then Qhuinn’s dad had cleared his throat and glanced at the three people behind him. In a slightly hoarse voice, he’d said, “It has been an honor to serve the glymera . . . and though I will miss my station, I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that having more time for my family pleases me to no end. Verily, they are the seat of my life, and I must needs thank them for the lightness and warmth they bring unto my heart each day.”

  Qhuinn’s mother had blown a kiss and blinked rapidly. His brother had gone all robin-breasted-proud, with hero worship filling his eyes. His sister had clapped and jumped up and down, her ringlets bouncing with joy.

  In that moment, the rejection of him as a son and a brother and a family member had been so complete that no words spoken to him or about him could have added to his cringing sadness.

  Qhuinn came out of the memories when his father’s knock landed sharply on his door, the rap of the knuckles breaking the past’s hold, snapping the scene free from his mind.

  He hit send on the text, put the phone in the pocket of his shirt, and said, “Come in.”

  It wasn’t his father who opened the door.

  It was a doggen, the same butler who had told him he wasn’t to go to the glymera’s ball this year.

  When the servant bowed, it wasn’t intended as a gesture of specific respect, and Qhuinn didn’t take it that way. Doggen bowed to everyone. Hell, if they interrupted a raccoon raiding the garbage, their first move before getting into all the shooing would be the old bend-at-the-waist routine.

  “Guess I’m leaving,” Qhuinn said as the butler quickly ran through the hand motions to ward off the evil eye.

  “With all due respect,” the doggen said, with his forehead still pointed to his feet, “your father has requested your departure from the premises.”

  “Cool.” Qhuinn stood up with the duffel bag into which he’d packed his collection of T-shirts and his four pairs of jeans.

  As he slung the strap on his shoulder, he wondered how long his cell phone service would be paid for. He’d been waiting for it to get cut off for the past couple months— ever since his allowance had suddenly disappeared.

  He had a feeling T-Mobile, like him, was SOL.

  “Your father asked that I should give you this.” The doggen didn’t straighte
n as he extended his hand and held out a thick, business-sized envelope.

  The urge to tell the servant to take the damn thing and airmail it up his father’s ass was close to irresistible.

  Qhuinn took the envelope and opened it. After looking at the papers, he calmly folded them up and put them back inside. Stuffing the thing into the back of his waistband, he said, “I’ll just go wait for my ride.”

  The doggen lifted himself up. “At the end of the drive, if you would.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Fine.” Whatever. "You need blood from me, don’t you.”

  “If you would be so kind.” The doggen held out a brass goblet, the belly of which was lined in black glass.

  Qhuinn used his Swiss Army knife, because his hunting one had been confiscated. Streaking the blade across his palm, he made a fist to squeeze some red drops out into the cup.

  They were going to burn the stuff when he was out of the house as part of a cleansing ritual.

  They weren’t just jettisoning the defective; they were getting rid of the evil.

  Qhuinn left his room without looking back and headed down the hall. He didn’t say good-bye to his sister, even though he heard her practicing her flute, and he left his brother alone to continue reciting Latin verses. He didn’t stop by his mother’s drawing room when he heard her talking on the phone, either. And he sure as fuck kept going right by his father’s study.

  They were all in on his evac. The proof was in the envelope.

  Down on the first floor, he didn’t shut the grand front door loudly. No reason to make a show. They all knew he was leaving, which was why they were all so studiously busy instead of having tea in the family room.

  He bet they convened as soon as the doggen told them he was out of the house. Bet they had some Earl Grey and sucked back a couple of scones. Bet they breathed a deep, deep sigh of relief, then lamented about how hard it was going to be to hold up their heads after what he’d done to Lash.

  Qhuinn wandered down the long, winding drive. When he got to the big iron gates, they were open. After he walked through them, they closed with a clang like they’d booted him in the ass.