The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “I’m outtie then.”

  Hollywood stalked from the room, and Z was right behind him, two more casualties of the bomb Wrath had dropped.

  “So how’d Beth take it?” V asked.

  “How do you think.” Wrath got to his feet and followed the example set by the pair who had left.

  Time to go find Doc Jane and get stitched up, assuming the slices hadn’t already closed.

  He needed to be ready to go out and fight again tomorrow.

  In the cold, bright morning light, Xhex dematerialized past a high wall and into the bare branches of a stout maple tree. The mansion beyond rested in its landscaped acreage like a gray pearl in a filigree setting, wiry winter-stripped specimen trees rising up around the old stone manse, anchoring it to its rolling lawn, holding it to the earth.

  The weak December sun poured down, making what would have been dour at night seem merely venerable and distinguished.

  Her sunglasses were nearly black, the one concession she needed to make to her vampire side if she went out during the day. Behind the lenses, her vision remained acute, and she saw every motion detector and every security light and every leaded-glass window that was covered by a shutter.

  Getting in was going to be a challenge. The panes of those fuckers were no doubt reinforced with steel, which meant dematerializing in even if the shutters were up was a no-go. And with her symphath side, she sensed there were a lot of people inside: The staff in the kitchen. The ones sleeping upstairs. The others moving around. It was not a happy house, the emotional grids left by the people inside full of dark, heavy feelings.

  Xhex dematerialized to the roof of the main section of the mansion, throwing out a symphath version of mhis. It wasn’t a complete erase, more like she became a shadow among the shadows thrown by the chimneys and the HVAC shit, but it was enough to buy her a pass of the motion detectors.

  Approaching a ventilation duct, she found a steel mesh plate thick as a ruler that was bolted into the metal sidewalls. Chimney was the same. Capped with stout steel.

  Not a shocker. They had very good security here.

  Her best shot at penetration was going to be at night, using a small, battery-operated Sawzall against one of the windows. The servants’ quarters in the back would be a good place for entry, given that the staff would be on duty and that part of the house would be quieter.

  Get in. Find the target. Eliminate.

  The instructions from Rehv were to leave a loud corpse, so she wouldn’t bother hiding or disposing of the body.

  As she walked across the small pebbles that covered the roof, the cilices around her thighs bit into her muscles with each step, the pain draining her of a measure of energy and providing a necessary focus—both of which helped keep her symphath urges chained in her brain’s backyard.

  The barbed strips would not be on when she went out to do the job.

  Xhex paused and looked up at the sky. The dry, slicing wind promised snow, and soon. Winter’s deep freeze was coming to Caldwell.

  But had been in her heart for ages.

  Down beneath her, under her feet, she sensed the people again, reading their emotions, feeling them. She would kill them all if she was asked to. Slaughter them without thought or hesitation as they lay in their beds or went about their staff duties or copped a midday snack or rose for a quick piss before going back to sleep.

  The messy, sloppy residue of demise, all that blood, didn’t bother her, either, any more than an H&K or a Glock would give a shit about carpet stains or smudges on tile or leaking arteries. The color red was the only thing she saw when she went about her work, and besides, after a while all bulging, horrified eyes and mouths that choked on last breaths looked the same anyway.

  That was the great irony. In life, everyone was a snowflake of separate and beautiful proportion, but when death came in and grabbed hold, you were left with anonymous skin and muscle and bone, all of which cooled and decayed at predictable rates.

  She was the gun attached to her boss’s forefinger. He pulled her trigger, she shot, the body dropped, and in spite of the fact that some lives were forever changed, the sun still came up and went down the next day for everyone else on the planet, including her.

  Such was the course of her jobligation, as she thought of it: half employment, half obligation for what Rehv did to protect them both.

  When she returned to this place at nightfall, she would do what she was there to do and leave with a conscience as intact and secure as a bank vault.

  In and out and never to be thought of again.

  Such was the way and the life of an assassin.

  FIFTEEN

  Allies were the third prong in the wheel of war.

  Resources and recruits gave you the tactical engine that allowed you to meet, engage, and reduce the size and strength of your enemies’ forces. Allies were your strategic advantage, people whose interests were aligned with your own, even if your philosophies and ultimate goals might not intersect. They were just as important as the first two if you wanted to win, but they were a little less controllable.

  Unless you knew how to negotiate.

  “We been drivin’ for a while,” Mr. D said from behind the wheel of Lash’s adoptive dead father’s Mercedes.

  “And we’re going to drive a little longer.” Lash glanced at his watch.

  “You ain’t told me where we’re going.”

  “Nope. I haven’t, have I.”

  Lash stared out the sedan’s window. The trees at the side of the Northway looked like pencil drawings before the leafy bits had been sketched in, nothing but barren oaks and spindly maples and twiggy birches. The only thing with any green were the stumpy coniferous stalwarts, the numbers of which had been increasing as they went farther into the Adirondack Park.

  Gray sky. Gray highway. Gray trees. It was like New York State’s landscape had come down with the flu or some shit, looking about as healthy as someone who hadn’t had his pneumonia shot in time.

  There were two reasons Lash hadn’t been up-front about where he and his second in command were headed. The first was straight-up pussy, and he could barely admit it to himself: He wasn’t sure whether he was going to go through with the meeting he’d set up.

  The issue was that this ally was complicated, and Lash knew he was poking a hornets’ nest with a stick by even approaching them. Yes, there was potential for a great alliance, but if loyalty was a good attribute in a soldier, it was mission critical in an ally, and where they were headed, loyalty was as unknown a concept as fear. So he was kind of fucked on both ends and that was why he wasn’t talking. If the meeting didn’t go well, or his sniff test didn’t work, he wasn’t going to proceed, and in that case, Mr. D didn’t have to know the ins and outs of who they were dealing with.

  The other reason Lash was tight-lipped was because he wasn’t certain whether the other party was going to show. In which case, he again didn’t want a record of what he’d been contemplating.

  At the side of the road, a small green sign with white reflective print read: U.S. BORDER 38.

  Yup, thirty-eight miles and you were out of the country…and that was why the symphath colony had been located all the way up here. The goal had been to get those psychotic motherfuckers as far away from the civilian vampire population as you could, and goal accomplished. Any closer to Canada and you’d have to say fuck off and die to them in French.

  Lash had made contact thanks to his adoptive father’s old Rolodex, which, like the male’s car, had proven very useful. As a former leahdyre of the council, Ibix had had a way of contacting the symphaths in the event that one was found hiding in the general population and needed to be deported. Of course, diplomacy between the species had never been in the cards. That would have been like offering a serial killer not only your own exposed throat, but the Henckels to cut it with.

  Lash’s e-mail to the king of the symphaths had been short and sweet, and in the brief rundown,
he identified himself as who he really was, not who he’d been raised to think himself to be: He was Lash, head of the Lessening Society. Lash, son of the Omega. And he was seeking an alliance against the vampires that had discriminated against and shunned the symphaths.

  Surely the king wanted to avenge the disrespect showed to his people?

  The response he’d received had been so gracious he’d nearly hurled, but then he recalled from his training days that symphaths treated everything like a chess match—right down to the moment they captured your king, turned your queen into a whore, and burned down your castles. The reply from the colony’s leader had indicated that a collegial discussion of mutual interest would be welcome, and would Lash be so kind as to come up north, as the exiled king’s travel options, by definition, were limited.

  Lash had taken the car because he’d imposed a condition of his own, and that was Mr. D’s attendance. Truth was, he put out the requirement for no other reason than equity of demands. They wanted him to come to them; fine, he was bringing one of his men. And as the lesser couldn’t dematerialize, the drive was necessary.

  Five minutes later, Mr. D took an exit off the highway and eased through an urban center the size of just one of Caldwell’s seven city parks. Here there were no skyscrapers, just four-and five-story brick buildings, such that it seemed as if the harsh winter months had stunted the growth not only of the trees, but the architecture as well.

  At Lash’s direction, they headed west, passing leafless apple orchards and fenced-in cow farms.

  As he had on the highway, he ate up the scenery. It was still amazing to him to be witness to milky December sunlight throwing shadows on sidewalks or house roofs or over the brown ground beneath barren tree limbs. Upon his rebirth, he had been given purpose anew from his true father, along with this gift of daylight, and he enjoyed both immensely.

  The Mercedes’ GPS conked out a couple minutes later, the reading going all-over wonky. He figured this meant they were getting close to the colony, and sure enough the road they were looking for presented itself. Ilene Avenue was marked by only a tiny street sign. And avenue, his ass; it was nothing but a dirt lane that intersected cornfields.

  The sedan did its best over the uneven trail, its shocks absorbing the craters created by puddles, but the trip would have been easier in a fucking four-wheeler. Eventually, though, a thick collar of trees appeared in the distance, and the farmhouse that formed the head around which they were crowded was in pristine condition, all brilliant white with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. Like something off a human’s Christmas card, smoke eased from two of its four chimneys, and the porch was set with rocking chairs and evergreen topiaries.

  As they drew closer, they passed a discreet sign in white and dark green that read: TAOIST MONASTICAL ORDER, EST. 1982.

  Mr. D brought the Mercedes to a halt, killed the engine, and made the sign of the cross over his chest. Which was so fucking dumb. “This don’t feel right.”

  The thing was, the little Texan had a point. In spite of the fact that the front door was open with sunlight spilling onto warm cherry floorboards, something wrong lurked behind the homey facade. It was just too perfect, too calculated to set a person at ease and thus weaken his defensive instincts.

  This was a pretty girl with an STD, Lash thought.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They both got out, and whereas Mr. D palmed his Magnum, Lash didn’t bother to reach for his gun. His father had given him many tricks, and unlike those instances when he dealt with humans, he had no problem bringing out his special skills in front of a symphath. If anything, putting on a show might help them see him in his proper light.

  Mr. D positioned his cowboy hat. “This really don’t feel right.”

  Lash narrowed his eyes. Lace curtains hung in front of every one of the windows, but as Clorox bright as the fabric was, the shit was creepy…. Whoa, was it moving?

  At that moment, he realized it wasn’t lace, but spiderwebs. Populated by white arachnids.

  “Them’s…spiders?”

  “Yup.” Wouldn’t be Lash’s decor choice, for real, but he didn’t have to live here.

  The two of them paused at the first of the three steps up onto the front porch. Man, some open doors were not welcoming, and that was so the case here—less hi-how’re-ya, more come-in-so-your-skin-can-be-used-to-make-a-super-hero-cape-for-one-of-Hannibal-Lecter’s-patients.

  Lash grinned. Whoever was in this house was so his peeps.

  “You be wantin’ me to go up and ring the doorbell?” Mr. D said. “If there is one?”

  “Nope. We wait. They will come to us.”

  And what do you know, someone appeared at the far end of the front hall.

  What came down toward them had enough robes hanging from its head and shoulders to give a Broadway stage a run for its money. The fabric was an odd, shimmering white, one that caught the light and refracted it in the thick folds, and the weight of it all was captured by a stout brocaded white belt.

  Very impressive. If you were into the monarch-as-priest thing.

  “Greetings, friend,” came a low, seductive voice. “I am the one whom you seek, the leader of those cast away.”

  The Ss were strung out until they were almost their own words, the accent sounding a lot like the warning tremble of a rattler’s tail.

  A thrill went through Lash, tingling down into his cock. Power was, after all, better than Ecstasy as a turn-on, and this thing that came to stand between the jambs of the front door was all about authority.

  Long, elegant hands reached up to the hood and eased the white folds back. The face of the symphaths’ anointed leader was as smooth as his spectacular robing, the planes of the cheeks and chin cast in elegant, soft angles. The gene pool that had spawned this gorgeous, effete killer was so refined that the sexes were almost as one, male and female characteristics blending, with a preference toward the female.

  The smile was stone-cold, though. And the flashing red eyes were shrewd to the point of malevolence.

  “Won’t you please come in?”

  The snake’s lovely voice blended those words into one another, and Lash found himself liking the sound.

  “Yeah,” he said, making his mind up on the spot. “We will.”

  As he stepped forward, the king raised his palm.

  “One moment, if you will. Please tell your associate to fear not. Nothing will harm you here.” The statements were kind enough on the surface, but the tone was hard—which Lash took to mean that they weren’t welcome in the house if Mr. D’s heat was in his hand.

  “Put the gun away,” Lash said softly. “I’ve got us covered.”

  Mr. D holstered the .357, his y’sir unspoken, and the symphath moved out of the way of the door.

  As they went up the steps, Lash frowned and looked down. Their heavy combat boots made no sound on the wood, and the same happened on the porch slats as they approached the doorway.

  “We prefer things quiet.” The symphath smiled, revealing even teeth, which was a surprise. Evidently, the fangs of these creatures, who had once been closely related to vampires, had been bred right out of their mouths. If they did still feed, it couldn’t be very often, not unless they liked knives.

  The king swept his arm out to the left. “Shall we adjourn to the sitting room?”

  The “sitting room” could more accurately have been described as the “bowling alley with rocking chairs.” The expanse was nothing but glossy floorboards, and walls hung only with white paint. Across the way, four Shaker chairs were clustered in a semicircle around the lit fireplace like they were afraid of all the emptiness and had huddled together for support.

  “Won’t you sit down,” the king said as he swept his robing up and out and took a seat in one of the spindly chairs.

  “You stay standing,” Lash said to Mr. D, who obligingly took up res behind where Lash parked it.

  The flames made no cheery crackle as they ate at the logs that
birthed and sustained them. The rockers made no creak as the king and Lash settled their weight. The spiders were silent as each fell into the center of its web, as if they were prepared to be witnesses.

  “You and I have a common cause,” Lash said.

  “So you seem to believe.”

  “I thought your kind would find vengeance attractive.”

  As the king smiled, that odd thrill shot down into Lash’s sex. “You would be misinformed. Vengeance is but a crude, emotional defense against a given slight.”

  “And you’re telling me that’s beneath you?” Lash leaned back and set his chair in motion, going back and forth. “Hmm…I may have misjudged your kind.”

  “We are more sophisticated than that, yes.”

  “Or maybe you’re just a bunch of dress-wearing pussies.”

  That smile disappeared. “We are far superior to those who believed they imprisoned us. In truth, our preference is for our own company. Do you think we did not engineer this outcome? Foolish of you. Vampires are the crass basis of where we evolved from, chimps to our higher reasoning. Would you care to remain among animals if you could live in civility with your own kind? Of course not. Like finds like. Like requires like. Those of common and superior minds shall be fed only by those of commensurate status.” The king’s lips lifted. “You know this to be true. You have not remained where you began, either, have you.”

  “No, I have not.” Lash flashed his fangs, thinking his brand of evil hadn’t fit in among the vampires any better than the sin-eaters’ did. “I am where I need to be now.”

  “So you see, had we not desired the very end result we obtained in this colony, we might have taken not vengeance, but corrective action such that our destiny was favorable to our interests.”

  Lash stopped rocking. “If you weren’t interested in an alliance, you could have just told me in a fucking e-mail.”

  An odd light flashed in the king’s eyes, one that made Lash even hotter, but also disgusted him. He didn’t fly with the homosexual shit, and yet…well, hell, his father liked the males; maybe some of that was in him, too.