The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Cormia looked up. “Another exam? You mean after last evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell her I will be there right away.”

  Fritz’s head dipped reverently. “Thank you, madam. Now, I must needs perform a pickup, but I shall be back and shall cook for you. I shan’t be gone long.”

  Cormia took a quick shower, dried and coiled her hair, and changed into a freshly pressed robe. As she came out of her room, she heard the sounds of boots on the foyer and looked over the balcony. The Primale was down below, striding across the mosaic apple tree on the floor. He was dressed in black leathers and a black shirt, and his hair, that wonderful, soft profusion of color, was bright in the lights and against the dark width of his shoulders.

  As if he sensed her, he stopped and glanced up. His eyes flashed like citrines, sparkling, captivating her.

  And she watched the glow in them dim.

  Cormia was the one who pivoted away, because she’d quite had it with being the one who was left. Just as she turned, she saw Zsadist coming around the corner of the hall of statues. His eyes were black as they shifted to her, and she didn’t have to ask how Bella was. Words weren’t necessary, given his dark expression.

  “I was going to stay with her,” she said to the Brother. “She asked for me.”

  “I know. I’m glad. And thank you.”

  In the beat of silence, she measured the daggers crisscrossing over the warrior’s chest. And there were other weapons on him, she thought, though she couldn’t see them.

  The Primale had had none. No daggers, no bulges under his clothes.

  She wondered where he was going. Not the Other Side, as he was dressed for this world. Where then? And for what?

  “Is he down there waiting for me?” Zsadist asked.

  “The Primale?” When the Brother nodded, she said, “Er . . . yes, yes, he is.”

  Odd to be the one who knew where he was . . . and the one to be asked.

  She thought of his lack of weapons.

  “Take care of him,” she demanded without apology.

  “Please.”

  Something tightened Zsadist’s face, then he inclined his head once. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  As Cormia bowed and turned to the hall of statues, Zsadist ’s low voice stopped her dead: “The baby’s not moving very much. Not since whatever happened last night.”

  Cormia looked over her shoulder and wished there were more she could do. “I’ll purify the room. That is what we do on the Other Side when . . . I’ll purify the room.”

  “Don’t tell her you know.”

  “I won’t.” Cormia wanted to reach out to the male. Instead, she said, “I’ll take care of her. Go and do your business with him.”

  The Brother bowed his head and took off down the stairs.

  Below in the foyer, Phury rubbed his chest and then stretched, trying to get rid of the ache between his pecs. He was surprised at how difficult it was to see Cormia turn away from him.

  Curiously brutal, as a matter of fact.

  He thought of the Chosen he’d met at dawn. The difference between her and Cormia was obvious. Selena was eager to be First Mate, her eyes shining as she looked him over as if he were a prize bull. It had taken all the manners he had just to stay in the same room with her.

  She wasn’t a bad female and was more than beautiful enough, but her affect . . . man, it was like she wanted to crawl into his lap right then and there and get down to it. Especially as she’d assured him that she was more than ready to serve him and her tradition . . . and that “every bone in her body wanted this.”

  This clearly meaning his sex.

  And there was another coming at the end of tonight.

  Sweet. Jesus.

  Zsadist appeared at the head of the stairwell and came down quickly, his windbreaker in his hand. “Let’s go.”

  As he measured his twin’s tight brow, Phury thought, Bella wasn’t doing well.

  “Is Bella—”

  “Not going there with you.” Z marched across the foyer, passing by without so much as a glance. “We’re just about business, you and me.”

  As Phury frowned and then followed behind, their footsteps echoed up as if one person, not two, were walking along. Even with Phury having the prosthesis, he and Z had always had the same long stride, the same way of going heel to toe, the same swing in their arms.

  Twins.

  But the similarities ended with biology, didn’t they. In life, they’d gone in two separate directions.

  Both of which had sucked.

  With a sudden shift in logic, Phury saw things in a different light.

  Shit, all along he’d tortured himself about Z’s fate . . . all along he’d lived in the cold, pervasive shadow of their family’s tragedy. He had suffered, goddamn it . . . he had suffered, too, and suffered still. And while he respected the sanctity of his twin’s mating with Bella, something popped in his head at getting closed out as if he were an absolute stranger. And a hostile one at that.

  When he stepped out into the pebbled courtyard, he stopped dead. “Zsadist.”

  Z kept on walking toward the Escalade.

  “Zsadist.”

  His twin paused, put his hands on his hips, and didn’t turn around. “If this is about you and the lesser shit, don’t try to apologize again.”

  Phury reached up and loosened the collar on his shirt. “It’s not.”

  “I don’t want to hear about the red smoke, either. Or your getting kicked the fuck out of the Brotherhood.”

  “Turn around, Z.”

  “Why.”

  There was a long pause. Then he gritted out in a hard voice, “You never said thank-you.”

  Z’s head shot over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “You. Never. Thanked. Me.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving you. Goddamn it, I saved you from that whore Mistress of yours and what she did to you. And you never thanked me.” Phury walked up to his twin, his voice getting louder and louder. “I searched for you for a fucking century, and then I got your ass out of there and saved your fucking life—”

  Zsadist leaned forward on his shitkickers, pointing his finger out like a gun. “You want credit for rescuing me? Don’t hold your breath. I never asked you for the fucking favor. That was all about your Good Samaritan complex.”

  “If I hadn’t gotten you out, you wouldn’t have Bella!”

  “And if you hadn’t, she wouldn’t be in danger of dying right now! You want gratitude? Better pat yourself on the back, because I’m not feeling it at the moment.”

  The words drifted off into the night as if looking for other ears to fill.

  Phury blinked, then found words coming out of his mouth, words he’d wanted to say for a long time. “I buried our parents by myself. I was the only one who took care of their bodies, who smelled the smoke of the burning—”

  “And I never knew them. They were strangers to me, and so were you when you showed up—”

  “They loved you!”

  “Enough to stop looking for me! Fuck them! You think I didn’t know he stopped? I went back and traced the trail from that house you burned down. I know how far our father went before he gave up. You think I give a shit about him? He let me go!”

  “You were more real to them than I was! You were everywhere in that house, you were everything to them!”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo, Phury,” Z snapped. “Don’t you dare poor-me it with me. Do you have any idea what my life was like?”

  “I lost my fucking leg for you!”

  “You chose to come after me! If you don’t like the way things worked out, don’t bitch to me about it!”

  Phury exhaled hard, absolutely stunned. “You ungrateful bastard. You ungrateful motherfucker . . . You mean to tell me you would rather have stayed with the Mistress?” When there was nothing but silence, he shook his head. “I’d always thought the sacrifices I’d made were worth it. The celibacy. The panic. The physica
l costs.” Anger resurged. “Not to mention the royal head fuck I got from the number of the times you asked me to beat the living shit out of you. And now you tell me you would rather have stayed a blood slave?”

  “Is that what all this is about? You want me to justify this self-destructive savior streak you got going on by being grateful?” Z laughed low and hard. “Whatever. You think I’m having a party watching you smoke and drink yourself into an early grave? You think I like what I saw the other night in that alley?” Z cursed. “Fuck it, I’m so not playing this. Wake up, Phury. You’re killing yourself. Quit searching for crutches and spouting lies, and take a good long look at yourself.”

  On some dim inner level Phury realized that this collision between the two of them had been overdue. And that his twin had a point.

  But so did he.

  He shook his head again. “I don’t think I’m wrong to ask for some acknowledgment. I’ve been invisible in this family all my life.”

  There was a stretch of silence.

  Then Z spat, “For fuck’s sake, get off the cross. Someone else needs the wood.”

  The dismissive tone sparked the anger again, and Phury’s arm swung of its own volition, his fist catching Z on the thick of the jaw, the crack like a homer hit off a wooden bat.

  Z went on a flying spin and landed on Rhage’s GTO like a tarp.

  As the brother righted himself, Phury fell into a fighting stance and shook out his knuckles. In another second and a half, they were going to be locked in a vicious bodily argument, fists instead of nasty words being traded back and forth until one or both of them collapsed.

  And exactly where the hell was that going to get them?

  Phury slowly lowered his arms.

  At that moment, Fritz’s Mercedes came through the courtyard’s gates.

  In its headlights, Zsadist rearranged his jacket and calmly walked over to the driver’s-side door of the Escalade. “If it weren’t for what I just promised Cormia, I’d bust your mouth open.”

  “What?”

  “Get in the fucking car.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  As Z got behind the wheel, his black eyes cut through the night like knives. “Your girlfriend is worried about you, so she made me promise I’d take care of you. And unlike some people, I keep my word.”

  Ouch.

  "Now get in.” Z slammed the SUV’s door shut.

  Phury cursed and went over to the passenger side while the Merc came to a halt and Qhuinn got out of the backseat. The kid’s eyes went saucer as he looked up at the mansion.

  Clearly he was here for his trial, Phury thought as he slid into shotgun next to his deathly silent twin.

  “You know where Lash’s parents’ house is, right?” Phury said.

  “Of course I do.”

  The shut up went unsaid.

  As the Escalade headed for the gates, the wizard’s voice was dead serious as it banged around in Phury’s head: You have to be a hero to earn gratitude, and you are not one of the knight-in-shining-armor types. You just want to be.

  Phury looked out the window, the angry words he and Z had just exchanged echoing like gunshots in an alley.

  Do them all a favor and walk away, the wizard said. Just walk away, mate.

  You want to be a hero? Make it so they don’t have to deal with you ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Qhuinn was absolutely sure his nuts were on Wrath’s menu tonight, but even so, he was amazed at the sight of the Brotherhood’s training center. The thing was the size of a small city, made up of blocks of stone that were big as a male’s torso, with windows that looked like they were reinforced with titanium or some shit. The gargoyles around the roof and all the shadows were perfect. Exactly what you’d expect.

  “Sire?” the butler said as he indicated the cathedral-worthy front door. “Shall we go in? I must needs get to my cooking.”

  “Cooking?”

  The doggen slowed his speech down as if he were addressing a moron. “I cook for the Brotherhood as well as tend to this, their home.”

  Holy shit . . .This wasn’t the training center; this was the Brotherhood’s digs.

  Well, duh. Check out the security. There were cameras mounted over the doors and under the roof, and the retaining wall of the courtyard was like something out of a movie about Alcatraz. Hell, he expected a fleet of Dobermans to come trucking around the corner with their chompers showing.

  Then again, the dogs were probably still gnawing on the bones of the last guest they’d turned into pulled pork.

  “Sire?” the butler repeated. “Shall we?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, sure.” Qhuinn swallowed hard and walked forward, prepared to face the music with the king. “Ah, listen, I’m just going to leave my stuff in the car.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  Man, thank God Blay didn’t have to see what was about to go down—

  One side of the mammoth double doors opened and a familiar friend lifted a hand.

  Oh. Great. Blay would miss the show, but John was having a front-row seat, evidently.

  The guy was dressed in the blue jeans and one of the deconstructed button-downs they’d gotten at Abercrombie. His bare feet were pale on the black stone stairs, and he seemed relatively calm, which was kind of irritating. The bastard could at least have had the grace to sport a cold sweat or a case of the sympathy shits.

  Hey, John signed.

  “Hey.”

  John stepped back, clearing the way. How are you doing?

  “I wish I were a smoker.” Because then he could put this off for the duration of a cig.

  No, you don’t. You hate smoking.

  “When I face the firing squad, I may rethink that hard line.”

  Shut up.

  Qhuinn walked through a vestibule that made him feel totally underdressed, what with its black-and-white marble floor and its chandelier—was that made of real gold? Probably—

  Holy fuck, he thought as he stopped dead.

  The foyer in front of him was palatial. Total Russian royalty, with its brilliant colors and its incredible gold-leafed everything and its mosaic floor and its painted ceiling . . . or, shit, maybe it was more like something out of a Danielle Steel novel, with all its romantic marble columns and arching expanse.

  Not that he’d read any of her books.

  Well, okay, there had been that one, but he’d been twelve and sick and had focused just on the sex parts.

  “Up here,” a deep, echoing voice said.

  Qhuinn looked to the top of an ornate staircase. Standing with shitkickers planted like he owned the world, dressed in black leathers and a black T-shirt, was the king.

  “Come on, let’s do this,” Wrath commanded.

  Swallowing hard, Qhuinn followed John to the second floor.

  As they got to the top, Wrath said, “I just want Qhuinn. John, you stay here.”

  John started to sign, I want to be his witness—

  Wrath turned away. “Nope. There’s going to be none of that.”

  Shit, Qhuinn thought. He wasn’t going to be allowed any defense testimony?

  I’ll be waiting, John signed.

  “Thanks, man.”

  Qhuinn stared beyond the open doors the king had gone through. The room before him was . . . well, it looked like the kind of place his mother would have liked: pale blue, with spindly, girly furniture and drippy crystal light fixtures that looked like earrings.

  Not exactly what you’d expect Wrath to hang out in.

  As the king went in and planted it behind a delicate desk, Qhuinn stepped inside, shut the doors, and linked his hands in front of himself. As he waited, the whole thing struck him as surreal. He could not possibly fathom how his life had come down to this.

  “Did you mean to kill Lash?” Wrath asked.

  So much for opening statements. “Ah . . .”

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  In quick succession Qhuinn reviewed his answer
s: No, of course not, the knife was acting of its own volition, I was actually trying to stop it. . . . No, I only meant to give him a shave. . . . No, I didn’t realize that slicing open someone’s jugular was going to lead to death. . . .

  Qhuinn cleared his throat once. Twice. “Yeah. I did.”

  The king crossed his arms over his chest. “If Lash hadn’t gone for John’s pants, would you have done the same thing?”

  Qhuinn’s lungs stopped working for a moment. He shouldn’t have been surprised the king knew exactly what had gone down, but shit, hearing the words was kind of shocking. Plus, talking about the whole thing was hard, given what Lash had said and done. It was, after all, John.

  “Well?” came the demand over the desk. “If Lash hadn’t gone for his pants, would you have throated him?”

  Qhuinn gathered his thoughts. “Look, John told me and Blay to stay out of it, and as long as it was a fair fight I was prepared to let it ride. But . . .” He shook his head. “Nah. That shit Lash pulled wasn’t fair. It was like using a concealed weapon.”

  “But you didn’t have to kill him, did you. You could have peeled him off John. Clocked him a couple of times. Rolled him out.”

  “True.”

  Wrath stretched his arm to the side as if to loosen it, and his shoulder let out a crack. “You’re going to be totally fucking honest with me now. If you lie, I’ll know it, because I’ll smell it.” Wrath’s eyes burned behind his wraparounds. “I’m well aware you hated your cousin. Are you sure you didn’t use deadly force for your own agenda?”

  Qhuinn dragged his hand through his hair and remembered all that he could about what had gone down. There were holes in his memory, blanks spaces carved by the tangle of emotions that had had him palming the knife and lunging forward, but he remembered enough.

  “To be honest . . . shit, I couldn’t let John get hurt and humiliated like that. See, he froze. When Lash went for his pants, he froze. The two of them were in the shower and John was up against the tile and all of a sudden he went dead still. I don’t know whether Lash would have followed through with . . . well, you know . . . because I wasn’t in his head, but he was just the type who would try it.” Qhuinn swallowed hard. “I saw it happen, saw that John couldn’t do anything and . . . it was like everything went blank . . . I just—fuck—the knife was in my hand and then I was on Lash and the slice was quick. For real? Sure, I hated Lash, but I don’t give a fuck who pulled that shit on John. I would have gone gunning for them. And before you ask it, I know what your next question is going to be.”