The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  "She’s done a lot. But right now, with the way the pregnancy’s going . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish. There were no words adequate to describe the horrible what-ifs. And Z had made up his mind he was going to lose her, Phury realized. He’d decided that the love of his life was going to die.

  No wonder he didn’t want to throw around the thankyous for being rescued.

  Z went on, “I kept the Mistress’s skull with me all those years not out of some sick attachment. I needed it for when I had nightmares that she was coming back for me. See, I’d wake up, and the first thing I’d do is check and make sure she was still dead.”

  “I can understand that—”

  “You want to know what I’ve been doing for the last month or two?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “I wake up and panic whether you’re still alive.” Z shook his head. “See, I can reach out through the sheets for Bella and feel her warm body. But you, I can’t do that with you . . . and I think my subconscious has figured out that both of you are probably not going to be around a year from now.”

  “I’m sorry . . . shit . . .” Phury put his hands to his face. “I’m sorry.”

  “I think you should go. Like, to the Sanctuary. You’re going to be safer there. If you stay here, you may not even make it for a year. You need to go.”

  “I don’t know whether that’s neccessary—”

  “Let me be a little clearer. We had a meeting.”

  Phury dropped his hands. “What kind of a meeting.”

  “The closed-door kind. Me and Wrath and the Brotherhood. The only way you stay here is if you quit using and become a friend of Bill W’s. And no one thinks you’re going to do that.”

  Phury frowned. “I didn’t know there were vampire NA meetings.”

  “There aren’t, but there are human ones at night. I looked it up on the Web. But that doesn’t matter, does it. Because even if you said you’d go, no one believes you would, and I don’t think . . . I don’t think you believe you would, either.”

  That was hard to argue, considering what he’d brought into the house and put into his arm.

  As he thought about quitting, Phury’s palms grew sweaty. “You told Rehv not to sell red smoke to me anymore, didn’t you.” Which was why Xhex had gone after him when he’d dropped in for that last buy.

  “Yeah, I did. And I know it wasn’t him who sold you the H. There was an eagle on the package. He marks his with a red star.”

  “If I go to the Sanctuary, how do you know I won’t keep using?”

  “I don’t.” Z stood up. “But I won’t have to watch it. And neither will the rest of us.”

  “You’re so damn calm,” Phury murmured, almost as an afterthought.

  “I saw you dead next to a toilet, and I’ve had the last eight hours to watch over you and wonder how in the fuck to turn this all around. I’m exhausted and my nerves are shot, and if you haven’t tweaked to it, we’re all washing our hands of you.”

  Zsadist turned away and slowly went to the door.

  “Zsadist.” Z stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I’m not going to thank you for this. So I guess we’re even.”

  “Fair enough.”

  As the door shut, Phury had a strange, disassociative thought that considering all that had just been said was arguably inappropriate.

  With Zsadist no longer singing, the world had lost a treasure.

  Chapter Forty-five

  At the other end of the Brotherhood’s compound, about forty feet underground, John sat at the desk in the training center’s office and stared at the computer in front of him. He felt like he should be doing something to earn his money, but with classes on hiatus inde finitely, there wasn’t a lot of paper pushing to do.

  He liked paperwork, so he liked his job. Usually he spent his time recording grades, updating files with training injury reports, and keeping track of the curriculum’s progress. It was nice to make order out of chaos, to have everything where it needed to be.

  He checked his watch. Blay and Qhuinn were working out in the weight room and they’d be in there for another half hour, minimum.

  What to do . . . what to do . . .

  On a random impulse, he went through the computer directory and found the folder marked, Incident Reports. Opening it, he called up the one Phury had filed about the attack on Lash’s house.

  Jesus . . . Christ. The dead bodies of the parents had been seated around the dining room table, moved there from the sitting room where they had been killed. Nothing else was touched in the house, except for a drawer up in Lash’s room, and Phury had jotted down a side note: personal effect? but of what value as jewelry remained?

  John called up the other reports from the houses that had been attacked. Qhuinn’s. Blay’s. Three other classmates’. Five other aristocrats’. Total death toll: twenty-nine, including doggen. And the looting had been extensive.

  Evidently it had been the most successful series of raids since the sacking of Wrath’s family’s estate back in the Old Country.

  John tried to imagine what Lash had been put through to have those addresses come out of his mouth. He’d been a shit, but he’d had no love for the lessers.

  Tortured. He had to be dead.

  For no particular reason, John went into the guy’s computer file. Phury, or someone, had already filled out the death certificate. Name: Lash, son of Ibix, son of Ibixes, son of Thornsrae. DOB: March 3, 1983. Date of death: approx. August 2008. Age at time of death: 25. Cause of demise: Uncon firmed; assumption torture. Location of body: Unknown, assumption—Lessening Society disposed. Remains released to: N/A.

  The rest of the file was extensive. Lash had had a lot of disciplinary issues, not just at the training program, but at glymera retreats. It was a surprise to see them in the record at all, given how secretive the aristocracy was with imperfections, but then again, the Brotherhood had required full disclosure of all trainees’ histories before you could enter the program.

  The guy’s birth certificate had been scanned in as well. Name: Lash, son of Ibix, son of Ibixes, son of Thornsrae. DOB: March 3, 1983, 1:14 a.m. Mother: Rayelle, blooded daughter of the soldier Nellshon. Certification of live birth signed by: Havers, son of Havers, MD. Young released from clinic: March 3, 1983.

  Too weird that the guy was gone.

  The phone rang, making him jump. When John picked up the call, he whistled, and V’s voice said, “Ten minutes, Wrath’s study. We’re meeting. You three be there.”

  The line went dead.

  After a moment of holy shitting, John ran into the weight room and got Qhuinn and Blay. The two of them pulled the same kind of whoa pause, and then they all raced for Wrath’s study, even though his buddies were still in their workout sweats.

  Up in the king’s pale blue digs, all the Brotherhood was there, filling out the room until everything dainty and proper about it was overpowered: Rhage was unwrapping a Tootsie Pop over by the mantel, a grape one going by the purple wrapper. Vishous and Butch were together on an antique couch, the spindly legs of which you had to worry about. Wrath was behind the desk. Z was in the far corner, arms crossed over his chest, eyes staring straight ahead into the middle of the room.

  John shut the door and stayed put. Qhuinn and Blay followed his lead, the three of them barely in the room.

  “Here’s what we got,” Wrath said, putting his shitkickers up on the paper-covered desk. “The heads of five of the founding families are dead. Most of what’s left of the glymera is scattered around the eastern seaboard and in safe houses. Finally. Total losses of life are in the high twenties. Although there’s been a massacre or two throughout our history, this is a hit of unprecedented gravity.”

  “They should have moved faster,” V muttered. “Damn fools didn’t listen.”

  “True, but did we really expect anything different? So here’s where we are. We should expect some kind of negative response from the Princeps Council in the form of a proclamation against
me. My guess is they’re going to try to marshal up a civil war. Granted, as long as I’m breathing no one else can be king, but they could make it damn hard for me to rule properly and keep things together.” As the Brothers muttered all kinds of nasty things, Wrath held up his hand to stop the chatter. “Good news is, they’ve got organizational problems, which will give us some time. The Princeps Council’s charter says that it must be physically seated in Caldwell and convene its meetings here. They created the rule a couple of centuries ago to make sure the power base didn’t go elsewhere. As none of them are in town, and—hello—conference calling didn’t exist in 1790 when they drafted the current charter, they can’t convene a meeting to change their bylaws or elect a new leahdyre until they drag their asses back here, at least for an evening. Given the deaths, that’ll be a while, but we’re talking weeks, not months.”

  Rhage bit down on his Tootsie Pop, the crack ricocheting around the room. “Do we have an idea of what hasn’t been hit yet?”

  Wrath pointed to the far edge of his desk. “I made copies for everyone.”

  Rhage went over, picked up the stack of papers, and handed them out . . . even to Qhuinn and John and Blay.

  John looked at the columns. First was a name. Second was an address. Third was an estimate of the number of folks and doggen in the household. Fourth was an approximate value of what was in the place based on the tax roll. Final was whether or not the family had vacated the premises and how much looting had or had not occurred.

  “I want you to divvy up the list of the ones we haven’t heard from,” Wrath said. “If there’s anyone still in those houses, I want you to get them out, even if you have to drag them by the hair. John, you and Qhuinn go with Z. Blay, you’re going with Rhage. Any questions?”

  For no good reason John found himself looking over at the ugly-ass avocado green chair that was behind Wrath’s desk. It was Tohr’s.

  Or had been.

  He would have liked Tohr to see him with the list in his hand, ready to go out and defend the race.

  “Good,” Wrath said. “Now get the fuck out of here and do what I need you to do.”

  On the other side, in the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes, Cormia rolled up the parchment she had been sketching houses and buildings on and placed it on the floor next to her stool. She had no idea what to do with the thing. Maybe burn it? Wastepaper baskets didn’t exist in the Sanctuary.

  As she moved a crystal bowl that was full of water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain in front of her, she thought of the ones Fritz had brought her with her peas in them. She missed that hobby of hers already. Missed the butler. Missed . . .

  The Primale.

  Palming the bowl, she began to rub the crystal, creating ripples in the surface of the water that caught the light of the candles. The warmth of her hands and the subtle movement created a swirling effect, and from out of the gentle waves came the vision of exactly who she wanted to see. Once the image appeared, she stopped agitating the water and let the surface smooth out so she could watch and then describe what she saw.

  It was the Primale, and he was dressed the way he’d been that night he’d met her at the top of the stairs and looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her for a week. But he wasn’t in the Brotherhood’s mansion. He was racing down a corridor that was marked with streaks of blood and black heel prints. Bodies were crumpled on the floor on either side, the remains of vampires who had been living just moments before.

  She watched as the Primale gathered a small group of terrified males and females and put them into a supply closet. She saw his face as he locked them in, saw the dread and the sadness and the anger in his features.

  He’d scrambled to save them, to find a way to safety, to take care of them.

  When the vision dimmed, she palmed the bowl once more. Now that she had seen what had transpired, she could call it up again, and she watched his actions once more. Then again.

  It was as the movie had been back on the far side, only this was real; this was past that had transpired, not a constructed fictional present.

  And then there were other things she saw, scenes tied to the Primale and the Brotherhood and the race. Oh, the horror of the killings, of those dead bodies in luxurious houses . . .the corpses too numerous for her to comprehend. One by one, she saw the faces of those who had been killed by the lessers. Then she saw the Brothers out fighting, their numbers so small that John and Blay and Qhuinn were being forced too early into the war.

  If this continued, she thought, the lessers would win. . . .

  She frowned and bent down closer to the bowl.

  On the surface of the water, she saw a blond lesser, which was not unusual . . . but it had fangs.

  There was a knock, and as she jumped from being startled, the image disappeared.

  A muffled voice came from the other side of the temple door. “My sister?”

  It was Selena, the previous sequestered scribe.

  “Greetings,” Cormia called out.

  “Your meal, my sister,” the Chosen said. There was a scraping sound as a tray was slid through a trapdoor. “May it please you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you any inquiries of me?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “I shall come back for the tray.” The excitement in the Chosen’s voice lifted it nearly an octave. “After his arrival.”

  Cormia inclined her head, then remembered that her sister couldn’t see her. “As you wish.”

  The Chosen left, no doubt to prepare herself for the Primale.

  Cormia leaned back over the desk and looked at the bowl, instead of into it. Such a fragile thing, so thin, except at its base, where it was heavy and solid. The lip of the crystal was sharp as a knife.

  She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that. But eventually she shook herself out of her numb trance and forced her palms back onto the bowl.

  When the Primale came to the surface again, she wasn’t surprised—

  She was horrified.

  He lay sprawled out on a marble floor, unconscious by a toilet. Just as she was about to leap up to do only the Virgin knew what, the image changed. He was in a bed, a pale lavender bed.

  Turning his head, he looked straight out of the water at her and said, “Cormia?”

  Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, the sound made her want to weep.

  “Cormia?”

  She shot to her feet. The Primale was standing in the temple’s doorway, dressed in whites, the medallion of his station around his neck.

  “Verily . . .” She could go no further. She wanted to rush forward and put her arms around him and hold on. She’d seen him dead. She’d seen him . . .

  “Why are you here?” he asked, looking around the barren room. “All by yourself.”

  “I’m sequestered.” She cleared her throat. “As I said I would be.”

  “So I’m not supposed to be here?”

  “You’re the Primale. You can be anywhere.”

  As he walked around the room, she had so many questions, none of which she had any right to ask.

  He looked over at her. “No one else is allowed in here?”

  “Not unless one of my sisters joins me as a sequestered scribe. Although the Directrix may come in if she is granted leave by me.”

  “Why is the sequestering necessary?”

  “In addition to recording the races’s general history, we . . . I see the things the Scribe Virgin wishes to keep . . . private.” As the Primale’s yellow eyes narrowed, she knew what he was thinking. “Yes, I’ve seen what you did. In that bathroom.”

  The curse he let out echoed up to the white ceiling.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to be okay here? All by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He stared at her. Long and hard. The sorrow was in his face, in its deep grooves of pain and regret.

  “You di
dn’t hurt me,” she said. “When we were together, you didn’t hurt me. I know you think you did, but you didn’t.”

  “I wish . . . things were different.”

  Cormia laughed sadly, and on a whim murmured, “You’re the Primale. Change them.”

  “Your grace?” the Directrix appeared in the open doorway, looking confused. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “Seeing Cormia.”

  “Oh, but . . .” Amalya seemed to shake herself, as if remembering that the Primale could go wherever he chose and see whomever he wished, as sequestered was a term that restricted all but him. “But of course, your grace. Ah . . . the Chosen Layla is prepared for you and in your temple?”

  Cormia looked down at the bowl in front of her. As Chosen had very short fertility cycles here on this side, it was very likely Layla was either fertile or about to become fertile. No doubt there would be words of the pregnancy to record very soon.

  “Time for you to go,” she said, glancing up at the Primale.

  His eyes positively bored into hers. “Cormia—”

  “Your grace?” the Directrix cut in.

  In a hard voice, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll be there when I’m good and damned ready.”

  “Oh, please forgive me, your grace, I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s all right,” he said wearily. “Just tell her . . . I’ll be there.”

  The Directrix quickly ducked out, and the door shut.

  The Primale’s eyes refocused on Cormia, locking in. And then he came across the room with a grave expression on his face.

  As he sank down on his knees in front of her, she was shocked. “Your grace, you shouldn’t—”

  “Phury. You call me Phury. Never ‘your grace’ or ‘Primale. ’ Starting now, I don’t want to hear anything but my real name from you.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.”

  Cormia shook her head. “All right, except you shouldn’t be on your knees. Ever.”

  “In front of you, I should only be on my knees.” He put his hands lightly on her arms. “In front of you . . . I always should be bowed.” He looked over her face and her hair. “Listen, Cormia, I need you to know something.”