The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  The human looked at Lash and frowned. “Hey…I know you. From jail.”

  “Yeah, you do.” Lash stayed seated and smiled a little. “So you want to know what the good and bad thing is about this meeting?”

  The human swallowed and went back to focusing on Mr. D’s muzzle. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “You were easy to find. All my men had to do was go to Screamer’s and stand around and…there you were.” Lash eased back in his chair, the cane seat creaking. As the human’s stare flicked over, there was a temptation to tell the guy to forget about the sound and worry about the forty under the table that was aimed at his family jewels. “You been staying out of trouble since I saw you in jail?”

  The human shook his head and said, “Yes.”

  Lash laughed. “You want to try that again? You’re not in sync.”

  “I mean, I’m still keeping up my business, but I haven’t been cuffed.”

  “Well, good.” As the guy’s eyes flipped back to Mr. D, Lash laughed. “If I were you, I’d want to know why I was brought here.”

  “Ah…yeah. That would be cool.”

  “My troops have been watching you.”

  “Troops?”

  “You do steady business downtown.”

  “I make paper okay.”

  “How’d you like to make more?”

  Now the human stared at Lash, a smarmy, greedy look narrowing his eyes. “How much more.”

  Money really was the great motivator, wasn’t it.

  “You do okay for a retailer, but you’re small-time right now. Fortunately for you, I’m in the mood to make an investment in someone like yourself, someone who needs backing to take him to the next level. I want to make you not just a retailer, but a middleman with the big boys.”

  The human brought a hand up to his chin and ran it down his neck as if he had to jump-start his brain by massaging his throat. In the quiet, Lash frowned. The guy’s knuckles were skinned and his cheapo Caldwell High School ring was missing the stone.

  “That sounds interesting,” the human murmured. “But…I need to chill a little.”

  “How so.” Man, if this was a negotiating tactic, Lash was more than ready to point out that there were a hundred other dime-bagger dealers who’d jump at this kind of deal.

  Then he was going to nod at Mr. D and the slayer was going to cap Eagle Jacket right under that receding hairline.

  “I, ah, I need to lie low in Caldie. For a little bit.”

  “Why.”

  “It’s not related to the drug dealing.”

  “Have anything to do with your roughed-up knuckles?” The human quickly tucked his arm behind his back. “Thought so. Question. If you need to keep on the DL, what the hell were you doing in Screamer’s tonight?”

  “Let’s just say I wanted to make a purchase of my own.”

  “You’re an idiot if you do what you sell.” And not a good candidate for what Lash had in mind. He didn’t want to try to do business with a junkie.

  “Wasn’t drugs.”

  “Was it a new ID?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you get what you were looking for? At the club?”

  “No.”

  “I can help you with that.” The Society had its own laminating machine, for fuck’s sake. “And here’s what I propose. My men, the ones to your left and behind you, will work with you. If you can’t be the front man on the street, you can get the merchandise and they can move it after you show them the ropes.” Lash glanced over at Mr. D. “My breakfast?”

  Mr. D put his gun down next to the cowboy hat he took off only when indoors and then he popped up a flame under a pan on the little stove.

  “What kind of money are we talking about?” the human asked.

  “Hundred grand for the first investment.”

  The guy’s eyes made like slot machines, all ding-ding-ding excited. “Well…shit, that’s enough to play ball. But what’s in it for me?”

  “Profit sharing. Seventy for me. Thirty for you. Of all sales.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t.”

  As Mr. D laid some bacon out on the heat, the sizzle and hiss filled the room and Lash smiled at the sound.

  The human looked around, and you could practically read his thoughts: cabin out in the middle of nowhere, four guys facing off at him, at least one of whom had a gun capable of blowing a cow into hamburger patties.

  “Okay. Yeah. All right.”

  Which was, of course, the only answer.

  Lash put the safety back on his weapon, and when he put his autoloader on the table, the human’s eyes bugged. “Come on, like you didn’t think I had you covered? Please.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Right.”

  Lash stood up and came around to the guy. As he stuck his hand out, he said, “What’s your name, Eagle Jacket?”

  “Nick Carter.”

  Lash laughed hard. “Try again, dickhead. I want your real one.”

  “Bob Grady. They call me Bobby G.”

  They shook and Lash squeezed hard, crunching those bruised knuckles together. “Glad to do business with you, Bobby. I’m Lash. But you can call me God.”

  John Matthew scanned the people in ZeroSum’s VIP section not because he was looking for tail, as Qhuinn was, and not because he was wondering who Qhuinn was going to want to get with, as Blay was.

  No, John had his own fixations.

  Xhex usually came around every half hour, but after her bouncer had approached her and she’d left in a hurry a while ago, she’d been missing.

  As a redhead eased on by, Qhuinn shifted in the banquette, his combat boot tapping it out under the table. The human woman was about five-ten and had the legs of a gazelle, long and fragile and lovely. And she wasn’t a professional—she was on the arm of a business-type guy.

  Didn’t mean she wasn’t giving it up for money, but it was in a more legal fashion called a relationship.

  “Shit,” Qhuinn muttered, his mismatched eyes predatory.

  John tapped his buddy on the leg and in American Sign Language said, Look, why don’t you just go back with someone. You’re driving me crazy with the twitching.

  Qhuinn pointed to the tear that was tattooed under his eye. “I’m not supposed to leave you. Ever. That’s the point of having an ahstrux nohstrum.”

  And if you don’t have some sex soon, you’re going to be useless.

  Qhuinn watched as the redhead arranged her short skirt so she could sit down without flashing what was no doubt nothing but a Brazilian wax.

  The woman looked around without interest…until she got to Qhuinn. The moment she saw him, her eyes lit up like she’d found a good deal at Neiman Marcus. This was not a surprise. Most women and females did the same, and it was understandable. Qhuinn dressed simply, but with plenty of the hard-core: black button-down tucked into dark blue Z-Brands. Those black combat boots. Black metal studs running all the way up one ear. Hair set in black spikes. And he’d recently pierced his lower lip in the center with a black hoop.

  Qhuinn looked like the kind of guy who kept his leather jacket in his lap because he carried his guns in it.

  Which he did.

  “Nah, I’m cool,” Qhuinn muttered before finishing off his Corona. “I’m not into redheads.”

  Blay looked away sharply, taking an abrupt, feigned interest in a brunette woman. Truth was, he was into only one person, and that person had shut him down as kindly and solidly as a best friend could.

  Qhuinn evidently really, truly didn’t do redheads.

  When was the last time you were with anyone? John signed.

  “I dunno.” Qhuinn signaled for another round of beers. “A while.”

  John tried to think back and realized it hadn’t been since…Christ, back in the summer, with that chick at Abercrombie & Fitch. Considering Qhuinn was usually good for at least three people a night, it was a hell of a dry spell, and it was hard to imagine that a steady diet of one-handed get-offs was goin
g to hold the guy. Shit, even when he fed from the Chosen, he’d been keeping his hands to himself, in spite of the fact that his erections strained until he cold-sweated it. Then again, the three of them fed from the same female at the same time, and as much as Qhuinn had no problem whatsoever with an audience, his pants stayed on in deference to Blay and John.

  Seriously, Qhuinn, what the hell is going to happen to me? Blay’s here.

  “Wrath said always with you. So I need to be. Always. With. You.”

  I think you’re taking that too seriously. Like, way too seriously.

  Across the VIP section, the redheaded gazelle moved around in her seat so that her below-the-waist assets were on full display, her smooth legs out from under the table and in full view of Qhuinn.

  This time when the guy shifted, it was pretty obvious he was rearranging something hard in his lap. And it wasn’t one of his weapons.

  For fuck’s sake, Qhuinn, I’m not saying it should be her. But we have to get you taken care of—

  “He said he’s tight,” Blay interjected. “Just leave him be.”

  “There is one way.” Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes shifted over to John. “You could come with me. Not that we would do anything, ’cuz I know you don’t fly like that. But you could have someone, too. If you wanted. We could do it in one of the private bathrooms, and you could have the stall so I wouldn’t be able to see you. You just say the word, ’kay? I won’t bring it up again.”

  As Qhuinn looked away all casual and shit, it was hard not to like the guy. Consideration, like rudeness, came in a lot of different variations, and the gentle offer of a cozy double sex session was a sort of kindness: Qhuinn and Blay both knew why, even eight months past John’s transition, he hadn’t been with a female. Knew why and still wanted to hang with him.

  Dropping the bomb John had been hiding had been Lash’s final fuck-you before he died.

  Had been the reason Qhuinn had killed the guy.

  When the waitress brought freshies, John glanced over at the redhead and, to his surprise, she smiled at him when she caught him looking.

  Qhuinn laughed quietly. “Maybe I’m not the only one she likes.”

  John brought his Corona up to his mouth and took a drink to hide his blush. Thing was, he wanted sex and, like Blay, wanted it with someone in particular. But having already lost an erection in front of a naked, willing female, he was in no hurry to do that again, especially not with the person he was interested in.

  Hell. No. Xhex wasn’t the kind of female you wanted to choke on a hot wing around. Going limp because you were chicken to do the deed? His ego would never be the same—

  Unrest in the crowd had him ditching the poor-mes and straightening in the banquette.

  A wild-eyed guy was being escorted through the VIP section by two enormous Moors, each with a hand on his upper arm. He was tap-dancing with his expensive shoes, his feet barely touching the ground, and his mouth was likewise pulling some kind of Fred Astaire, although John couldn’t hear what he was saying over the music.

  The trio went into the private office in the back.

  John tipped his Corona and stared at the door as it closed. Bad things happened to people who were taken in there. Especially if they were being hover-crafted by that pair of private guards.

  Abruptly, a hush dimmed all the talk in the VIP section, making the music seem very loud.

  John knew who it was before he turned his head.

  Rehvenge walked in through a side door, his entrance quiet but as obvious as a grenade going off: In the midst of all the sharp-dressed patrons with their arm candy and the working girls with their assets out for hire and the waitresses hustling trays, the guy shrank the size of the space, not just because he was a huge male dressed in a sable duster, but because of the way he looked around.

  His glowing amethyst eyes saw everyone and cared about no one.

  Rehv—or the Reverend, as the human clientele called him—was a drug lord and a pimp who didn’t give a shit about the vast majority of people. Which meant he was capable of, and frequently did, anything the fuck he wanted to.

  Especially to types like that tap dancer.

  Man, the night was going to end badly for that guy.

  As Rehv passed by, he nodded to John and the boys, and they all nodded back, raising their Coronas in deference. Thing was, Rehv was an ally of sorts with the Brotherhood, having been made leahdyre of the glymera’s council after the raids—because he was the only one of those aristocrats with the balls to stand his ground in Caldwell.

  So the guy who cared about very little was in charge of a hell of a lot.

  John turned toward the velvet rope, not even bothering to be smooth about it. Surely this meant Xhex had to be…

  She appeared at the head of the VIP section, looking like a billion bucks, as far as he was concerned: As she leaned into one of her bouncers so the guy could whisper in her ear, her body was so tight her stomach muscles showed through the second skin of her muscle shirt.

  Talk about shifting in the seat. Now he was the one with the rearrangement issues.

  As she marched through to Rehv’s private office, though, his libido went on ice. She was never the type who smiled much, but as she went by, she was grim. Just as Rehv had been.

  Clearly, something was doing, and John couldn’t help the knight-in-shining-armor impulse that lit up in his chest. But come on, Xhex didn’t need a savior. If anything, she was the type who would be on the horse, fighting the dragon.

  “You look a little tight there,” Qhuinn said quietly as Xhex went into the office. “Keep my offer in mind, John. I’m not the only one hurting, am I.”

  “Will you excuse me,” Blay said, getting to his feet and taking out his red Dunhills and his gold lighter. “I need some fresh air.”

  The male had started smoking recently, a habit Qhuinn despised in spite of the fact that vampires didn’t get cancer. John understood it, though. Frustration had to be worked out, and there was only so much you could do alone in your bedroom or with your boys in the weight room.

  Hell, they’d all gained muscle weight over the last three months, their shoulders and arms and thighs outpacing their clothes. Made a guy think fighters had a point about no sex before matches. They kept adding hard pounds like this, they were going to look like a pack of pro wrestlers.

  Qhuinn stared down into his Corona. “You want to get out of here? Please tell me you want to get out of here.”

  John glanced at the door to Rehv’s office.

  “Stay it is,” Qhuinn muttered as he signaled to a waitress, who came right over. “I’m going to need another of these. Or maybe a case.”

  TEN

  Rehvenge shut the door to his office and smiled tightly, to keep his fangs from making an appearance. Even without the show of canines, though, the bookie hanging between Trez and iAm was smart enough to know he was in deep shit.

  “Reverend, what’s this all about? Why you calling me in like this?” the guy said in a staccato rush. “I was just working my business for you and suddenly these two—”

  “I heard something interesting about you,” Rehv said, going around behind his desk.

  As he sat down, Xhex came into the office, her gray eyes sharp. After she closed the door, she leaned back against it, better than any Master Lock when it came to keeping cheating sports bookies inside and prying eyes outside.

  “It was a lie, a total lie—”

  “You don’t like to sing?” Rehv leaned back in his chair, his numbed-out body finding a familiar position behind his black desk. “That wasn’t you popping a little Tony B for the crowd at Sal’s the other night?”

  The bookie frowned. “Well, yeah…I got me some pipes.”

  Rehv nodded at iAm, who was, as always, stone-faced. Guy never showed emotion, except when it came to a perfect cappuccino. Then you got a little bit of the bliss out of him. “My partner over here…he said you sang real well. Real crowd-pleaser. What did he sing, iAm.” iAm’s voice
was all James Earl Jones, low and gorgeous. “‘Three Coins in the Fountain.’”

  The bookie did a well-you-know jack-up of his slacks. “I got range. I got rhythm.”

  “So you’re a tenor like good ol’ Mr. Bennett, huh?” Rehv shrugged out of his sable. “Tenors are my favorite.”

  “Yeah.” The bookie glanced at the Moors. “Look, you mind telling me what this is about?”

  “I want you to sing for me.”

  “You mean, like, for a party? ’Cuz I’d do anything for you, you know that, boss. All you had to do was ask…I mean, this weren’t necessary.”

  “Not for a party, although all four of us will enjoy hearing the performance. It’s to repay me for what you skinned off last month.”

  The bookie’s face drooped. “I didn’t skin—”

  “Yeah, you did. See, iAm is a fantastic accountant. Every week, you give him your reports. How much in on what teams and which spreads. Do you think no one does the math? Based on the games last month, you should have paid in—what was the figure, iAm?”

  “One hundred seventy-eight thousand four hundred eighty-two.”

  “What he said.” Rehv nodded a quick thanks to iAm. “But instead you came in at…What was it?”

  “One hundred thirty thousand nine eighty-two,” iAm shot back.

  The bookie started in immediately. “He’s wrong. He’s added—”

  Rehv shook his head. “Guess what the difference is—not that you don’t already know. iAm?”

  “Forty-seven thousand five hundred.”

  “Which happens to be twenty-five grand on a ninety percent vig. Isn’t that right, iAm?” As the Moor nodded once, Rehv punched his cane into the floor and got to his feet. “Which in turn is the courtesy rate charged by the Caldie mob. Trez then went and did a little digging, and what did you find?”

  “My boy Mike says he loaned twenty-five large to this guy right before the Rose Bowl.”

  Rehv left his cane on the chair and came around the desk, keeping one hand on the surface to steady himself. The Moors stepped back into position, crowding the bookie, holding his upper arms again.