The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  A coffee mug was shoved under his nose. “Drink this.”

  Reaching for the thing, he said, “Thanks—”

  “Oh, shit, check you out.”

  Rehv quickly switched hands, tucking his bad forearm back under the blankets. “Like I said, thank you.”

  “So that’s why Xhex made you go to the clinic, huh.” Trez parked it in an oxblood club chair. “And, no, I won’t be holding my breath for a confirm on that. I’ll just take it as self-evident.”

  As Trez crossed his legs, he looked like a perfect gentleman, a real example of royalty: In spite of the fact that he was wearing black cargo pants, combat boots, and a muscle shirt—and was fully capable of tearing a male’s head off and using it as a soccer ball—you’d have sworn he was just one visit to the closet away from ermine robes and a crown.

  Which, actually, just happened to be true.

  “Good coffee,” Rehv murmured.

  “Just don’t ask me to bake. How’s the antivenom doing?”

  “Jim-dandy.”

  “So your stomach’s still off.”

  “You should be a symphath.”

  “I work with two of them. That’s close enough, fuck you very much.”

  Rehv smiled and took another monster drag from the mug’s lip. The lining of his mouth was probably getting burned given how much steam was rising from what was inside, but he didn’t feel a thing.

  On the other hand, he was all too conscious of Trez’s unwavering black stare. Which meant the Moor was about to say something Rehv wasn’t going to like. As opposed to most people, when the guy told you what you didn’t want to hear, he looked right into you.

  Rehv rolled his eyes. “Just get it over with, why don’t you.”

  “You’re worse each time you’re with her.”

  True. Back when it started, he could be with the Princess and go back to work right away. After a couple years had passed, he’d needed a quick lie-down. Then a nap for a couple of hours. Now he was on his ass for a good twenty-four hours. Thing was, he was developing an allergic reaction to the venom. Sure, the antivenom serum Trez pumped into him afterward kept him from going into shock, but he wasn’t recovering well anymore.

  Maybe one day he wouldn’t recover at all.

  As he considered the number of medications he needed to have regularly, he thought, Shit, better living through chemistry. Kind of.

  Trez was still looking at him, so he took another drink and said, “Quitting with her is not an option.”

  “You could blow out of Caldwell, though. Find another place to live. If she doesn’t know how to find you, she can’t turn you in.”

  “If I leave town, she’d just go after my mother. Who won’t relocate because of Bella and the young.”

  “This is going to kill you.”

  “She’s too addicted to risk that, though.”

  “Then you need to tell her to cut the shit with that scorpion rubdown she gives herself. I understand your wanting to look strong, but she’s going to be fucking a cadaver if she doesn’t give that up.”

  “Knowing her, necrophilia would be a turn-on.”

  Behind Trez, a lovely glow pierced the horizon.

  “Oh, shit, is it that late,” Rehv said, diving for the remote that closed the steel shutters on the house.

  Except it wasn’t the sun. At least, not the sun that pin-wheeled in the sky.

  A figure of light was coming up the lawn toward the house, walking with a saunter.

  There was only one thing that Rehv could think of that could get that effect.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” he muttered, sitting up. “Man, is this night over yet?”

  Trez was already on his feet. “You want me to let him in?”

  “Might as well. He’d just walk through the glass anyway. ”

  The Moor slid one of the doors back and stood to the side as Lassiter came into the den. The guy’s gliding walk was the physical manifestation of a drawl, all smooth and slow and insolent.

  “Long time, no see,” the angel said.

  “Not long enough.”

  “Always with the hospitality.”

  “Listen, GE,” Rehv blinked hard. “Mind if you dim your disco ball?”

  The brillant glow drifted away until Lassiter appeared normal. Well, normal for someone with a serious-ass piercing fetish and aspirations for being some country’s gold currency standard.

  Trez shut the door and stood behind it, a wall of youfuck -with-my-boy-and-angel-or-not-ima-show-your-ass-a-beatdown.

  “What brings you onto my property?” Rehv said, cradling his mug with both hands and trying to absorb its warmth.

  “Got a problem.”

  “I can’t fix your personality, sorry.”

  Lassiter laughed, the sound ringing through the house like church bells. “No. I like myself just as I am, thank you.”

  “Can’t help your delusional nature, either.”

  “I need to find an address.”

  “Do I look like the phone book?”

  “You look like shit, as a matter of fact.”

  “And you with the compliments.” Rehv finished his coffee. “What makes you think I’d help you?”

  “Because.”

  “You want to toss in a couple of nouns and verbs there? I’m lost.”

  Lassiter grew serious, his ethereal beauty losing its SOP fuck-yourself smirk. “I’m here on official business.”

  Rehv frowned. “No offense, but I thought your boss pink-slipped your ass.”

  “I’ve got one last shot at being a good boy.” The angel looked hard at the coffee mug between Rehv’s hands. “If you help me, I can pay you back.”

  “Can you.”

  When Lassiter tried to take a step forward, Trez was on him like paint. “No, you don’t.”

  “I’ll heal him. If you let me touch him, I’ll heal him.”

  Trez’s brows came down, and he opened his mouth like he was about to tell the angel to heal himself right out of the goddamn house.

  “Hold up,” Rehv said.

  Shit, he was so tired and achy and miserable, it was hard not to imagine himself feeling like this when night fell. A week from tomorrow.

  “Just what kind of address is it.”

  “The Brotherhood’s.”

  "Ha. Even if I knew it—and I don’t—I couldn’t tell you that.”

  “I have something they’ve lost.”

  Rehv was about to laugh again when his symphath side fired up. The angel was an asshole, but he was totally serious. And, shit . . . could it be true? Could he have found—

  “Yes, I have,” Lassiter said. “Now, are you going to help me help them? And in return, ’cause I’m a stand-up guy, I’ll take care of your little problem.”

  “And what problem would that be?”

  “The MRSA infection in your forearm. And the fact that, at the moment, you’re about two more exposures away from anaphylaxis with that scorpion venom.” Lassiter shook his head. “I’m not going to ask any questions. On either account.”

  “You feeling okay? Usually you’re nosier than that.”

  “Hey, if you want to share—”

  “Whatever. Rock out if you want.” Rehv extended his gutted forearm. “I’ll do what I can for you, but I can’t make any promises.”

  Lassiter shot Trez a smile. “So, big guy, you going to take a breather and step aside? Because your boss has consented—”

  “He’s not my boss.”

  “I’m not his boss.”

  Lassiter inclined his head. “Your colleague, then. Now, you mind getting out of my way?”

  Trez bared his fangs and clapped his jaws together twice, the Shadow way of telling someone they were walking a thin trail on the edge of a very tall cliff. But he did step back.

  Lassiter came forward, his glow resurfacing.

  Rehv met the guy’s sterling-silver, pupil-less eyes. “You fuck with me, and Trez will damage you till your packaging can’t even be taped back together. You
know what he is.”

  “I know, but he’s wasting his hard-on. I can do no harm to the righteous, so you’re safe.”

  Rehv barked a laugh. “He should still be worried, then.”

  When Lassiter reached out and made contact, current licked into Rehv’s arm, making him gasp. As a wondrous healing started to pour into him, he shuddered and lay back in his nest of blankets. Oh, God . . . His exhaustion was lifting. Which meant the pain he didn’t feel was backing off.

  In that gorgeous voice of his, Lassiter murmured, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. The righteous do not always do right, but their souls remain pure. You are untainted at your core. Now close your eyes, numb nuts, I’m about to light up like a bonfire.”

  Rehv squinted and had to look away as a blast of pure energy slammed through his body. It was like an orgasm on steroids, a huge rush that carried him away, splintering him apart until he drifted down in a shower of stars.

  When he came back into his body, he sighed long and hard.

  Lassiter let go and rubbed his hand on the low-slung jeans he wore. “And now for what I need from you.”

  “It’s not going to be easy to get to them.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to have to verify what you have first.”

  “He’s not in his happy place.”

  “Well, of course not, he’s hanging with you. But I don’t fly the flag until I see the sights.”

  There was a pause. And then Lassiter inclined his head. “Fine. I’ll come back at nightfall and take you to him.”

  “Fair enough, angel, fair enough.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  On the cusp of dawn, Phury went to his bedroom and packed an L.L. Bean bag with workout supplies, such as a towel, his iPod, and his water bottle . . . and drug paraphernalia that included a spoon, a lighter, a syringe, a belt, and his stash of red smoke.

  He left his crib and headed down to the hall of statues, walking like he was all about healthy purpose. He didn’t want to be too close to Bella and Z, so he chose one of the empty guest rooms that was nearer to the grand staircase. Slipping in through the door, he almost went back out to pick another: The color of the walls was a dusty lavender, just like the roses Cormia had enjoyed.

  Voices of doggen passing by outside in the hall made him stay put.

  He went into the bath, shut that door as well, and dimmed the lights until they glowed like a banked fire. As the shutters came down for the day, he sat on the marble floor with his back against the Jacuzzi and got out the things he was going to use on himself.

  The reality of what he was about to do didn’t seem like any big deal.

  It was kind of like immersing yourself in cold water. Once the shock was over, you got used to where you were.

  And he was encouraged by the quiet in his head. Since he’d started down this road, the wizard hadn’t said a goddamned thing.

  Phury’s hands didn’t shake at all as he tapped out some white powder into the belly of a sterling-silver spoon and added a little water from his bottle. Flipping open the top of his lighter, he struck up a flame and brought it under the mix.

  For no apparent reason, he noted that the silver spoon’s pattern was Gorham’s Lily of the Valley. From the late nineteenth century.

  After the sauce had boiled, he put the spoon down on the marble floor, loaded up the syringe, and reached for his Hermès belt. Extending his left arm, he looped the leather through its shiny gold buckle, pulled the thing tight, and tucked the end under his arm so he could hold it in place.

  His veins popped at the crook of his elbow and he prodded them. He chose the thickest one, then frowned.

  The shit in the needle’s belly was brown.

  For a moment, panic flickered. Brown was a bad color.

  He shook his head to clear it, then pierced his vein with the needle and drew up the plunger to make sure he was in properly. When he saw a flash of red, he pushed his thumb down, emptied the syringe’s load, and let the belt go loose.

  The effect was so much faster than he’d imagined. One second he was letting his arm fall lax, and the next he was viciously sick to his stomach and crawling for the toilet in a bizarre, rushing slow motion.

  This shit was definitely not red smoke. There was no mellow easing, no polite knock on the door before the drug stepped into his brain. This was an all-guns-blazing assault with a battering ram, and as he threw up, he reminded himself that what he’d gotten was what he’d wanted.

  Dimly, in the far background of his consciousness, he heard the wizard start laughing . . . heard his addiction’s cackling satisfaction get rolling, even as the heroin took over the rest of his mind and body.

  As he passed out while throwing up, he realized he’d been cheated. Instead of killing the wizard, he was left only with the wasteland and its master.

  Good job, mate . . . excellent job.

  Shit, those bones in the wasteland were the leftovers of the addicts the wizard had worded to death. And Phury’s skull was front and center, the newest casualty. But certainly not the last.

  “Of course,” the Chosen Amalya said. “Of course you may be sequestered . . . if you are sure that is what you wish?”

  Cormia nodded, then reminded herself that, as she was in the Sanctuary, she was back in the land of the bowing. Lowering her upper body, she murmured, “Thank you.”

  As she straightened, she looked around the Directrix’s private quarters. The two rooms were decorated in the tradition of the Chosen, which was to say that they had no decor at all. Everything was simple, sparse, and white, with the only difference from the other Chosen quarters being that Amalya had a seating arrangement for audiences with the sisters.

  Everything was so white, Cormia thought. So . . . white. And the chairs they were both sitting on were stiff backed and without cushions.

  “I suppose this is timely,” the Directrix said. “The last remaining sequestered scribe, Selena, stepped down with the advent of the Primale’s ascension. The Scribe Virgin was pleased to have her relinquish the duty, given our change in circumstance. No one, however, has come forward to replace her.”

  “I’d like to suggest that I function as a primary recording scribe as well.”

  “That would be very generous of you. It would free up the others for the Primale.” There was a stretch of silence. “Shall we proceed?”

  When Cormia nodded and knelt on the floor, the Directrix lit some incense, and performed the ceremony of sequestering.

  When it was through, Cormia stood and walked over on the far side to an open expanse in the wall that she would have called a window.

  Across the white expanse of the Sanctuary, she saw the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes. It was annexed to the entry into the Scribe Virgin’s private quarters and had no windows. Inside its white confines, there would be no one else but herself. Herself and licks of parchment scrolls and pints of sanguinary ink and the unfolding history of the race, hers to record as a viewer, not a participant.

  “I can’t do this,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, what did you—”

  There was a knock on the jamb. “Enter,” Amayla called out.

  One of their sisters came in and bowed low. “The Chosen Layla is readied from the baths for His Majesty, the Primale.”

  “Ah, good.” Amalya reached for an incense burner. “Let us install her at his temple, and then I shall summon him.”

  “As you wish.” While the Chosen bowed her head and backed out of the room, Cormia caught the smile of anticipation on the female’s face.

  She probably hoped to be next in line for a trip to the temple.

  “Will you excuse me?” Cormia said, heart beating erratically, an instrument that couldn’t find its beat. “I’m going to retire to the Scribes’ Temple.”

  “Of course.” Abruptly, Amayla’s eyes grew shrewd. “Are you sure about this, my sister?”

  “Yes. And this is a glorious day for all of us. I
’ll be sure to record it properly.”

  “I shall have meals delivered unto you.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Cormia . . . I am here for you should you need counsel. In a private capacity.”

  Cormia bowed and left in a hurry, going directly to the solid white temple that was now her home.

  When she shut the door behind herself, she was enveloped by a dense pitch-black darkness. At her will, candles positioned at the four corners of the high-ceilinged room lit, and, in their glow, she looked at the six white desks with their white quill pens standing at attention and their pots of sanguinary ink and their crystal bowls of seeing water. In baskets on the floor, sheaves of parchment were rolled and tied with white ribbon, ready to accept the symbols of the Old Language that would preserve the race’s progress.

  Against the far wall, there were three double-layered bunks, each set with a single pristine pillow and made up with sheets that were precisely folded. No blankets were bundled at the feet of the beds, as the temperature was too perfect for extra covers to be required. Off to one side, there was a curtain that led into the private bath.

  Over to the right there was an ornate silver door that led into the Scribe Virgin’s private library. The sequestered scribes were the only ones to whom Her Holiness dictated her private diary, and when they were summoned, they used that door to take the audience they were granted.

  The slot in the center of the portal was used to slip parchments generated by both recording and sequestured scribes back and forth during the editing process. The Scribe Virgin read and approved or edited all history until she found it appropriate. Once accepted, a scroll was either cut to size and bound with other pages to become one of the volumes in the library, or it was rolled and placed in the Scribe Virgin ’s sacred archives.

  Cormia went over to one of the desks and sat down on the backless stool.

  The silence and the isolation were as agitating as a teeming crowd, and she had no idea how long she sat there, struggling to get control of herself.