The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Rehv smiled a little, thinking it wasn’t cannibalism, because on a genetic level Shadows had as much in common with sympaths as humans did with chickens.

  “Hannibal Lecter motherfucker,” he murmured.

  “You know how we do.” Trez shook the water off his hand. “Symphaths… it’s what’s for dinner.”

  “You going to bust out the fava beans?”

  “Nah, but I might have a nice Chianti with her, and some pommes frites. I gotta have some tater with my meat. Come on, let’s get you under the water and wash that bitch’s stank off.”

  Trez walked over and got Rehv up off the counter.

  “Thank you,” Rehv said quietly as they limped toward the shower.

  Trez shrugged, knowing damn well they weren’t talking about the visit to the bathroom. “You’d do the same for me.”

  “I would.”

  Under the spray, Rehv worked the Dial over himself until his skin was red as a raspberry, and got out of the shower only after he’d done his three-times-over wash. When he stepped free of the water, Trez handed him a towel, and he dried off as fast as he could without losing his balance.

  “Speaking of favors…” he said, “I need your phone. Your phone and some privacy.”

  “Okay.” Trez helped him back to bed and covered him up. “Man, good thing this duvet didn’t land in the fire.”

  “So can I have your phone?”

  “You going to play soccer with it?”

  “Not as long as you leave my door closed.”

  Trez handed him a Nokia. “Take care of her. She’s brand-new.”

  When he was alone, Rehv dialed carefully and hit send on a wing and a prayer, having no clue whether or not he got the number right.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Ehlena, I’m so sorry—”

  “Ehlena?” the female voice said. “Sorry, there isn’t any Ehlena at this number.”

  Ehlena sat in the ambulance holding in her tears out of habit. It wasn’t like anyone could see her, but the anonymity didn’t matter. As her latte cooled in its double cup, double sleeve, and the heater ran intermittently, she kept herself together because that’s what she always did.

  Until the CB radio went off with a squawk and scared her out of her numb colds.

  “Base to four,” Catya said. “Come in, four.”

  As Ehlena reached for the handset, she thought, See, this was exactly why she could never let her guard down. If she’d been a wilted mess and had to answer? Not where she needed to be.

  She hit the talk button with her thumb. “This is four.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Ah, yes. I just needed…I’m coming back right now.”

  “There’s no hurry. Take your time. I only wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Ehlena glanced at the clock. God, it was nearly two a.m. She’d been sitting out here, gassing herself by running the engine and the heater, for almost two hours.

  “I’m so sorry, I had no idea what time it was. Do you need the ambulance for a pickup?”

  “No, we were just worried about you. I know you assisted Havers on that body and—”

  “I’m fine.” She rolled down the window to let some air in and put the ambulance in gear. “I’m coming back right away.”

  “Don’t rush, and listen, why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”

  “That’s okay—”

  “It’s not a request. And I’ve switched the schedule around so you have tomorrow free as well. You need a break after tonight.”

  Ehlena wanted to argue, but she knew that would just come across as defensive, and besides, with the decision made, there was nothing to fight for.

  “All right.”

  “Take your time coming back.”

  “I will. Over and out.”

  She hung up the handset and headed for the bridge that would take her across the river. Just as she was accelerating on the ramp, her phone went off.

  So Rehv was calling her back, huh. Not a surprise.

  She took out the phone only to confirm that it was him, not because she was intending to answer his call.

  Unknown number?

  She hit send and brought her cell to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Is this you?”

  Rehv’s deep voice still managed to shoot through her on a warm thrill, even though she was pissed off at him. And herself. Basically at the whole situation.

  “Yes,” she said. “This isn’t your phone number, though.”

  “No, it’s not. My cell had an accident.”

  She rushed ahead before he got to any sorrys. “Look, it’s none of my business. Whatever’s going on with you. You’re right, I can’t save you—”

  “Why do you even want to try?”

  She frowned. If the question had been self-pitying or accusatory, she would have just ended the call and changed her number. But there was nothing but sincere confusion coming through in his voice. That and utter exhaustion.

  “I just don’t understand…the why,” he murmured.

  Her answer was simple and from the soul. “How can I not.”

  “What if I don’t deserve it.”

  She thought of Stephan lying on that stainless steel, his body cold and bruised. “Everyone with a beating heart deserves to be saved.”

  “Is that why you got into nursing?”

  “No. I got into nursing because I want to be a doctor someday. The saving thing is just the way I see the world.”

  The silence between them lasted forever.

  “Are you in a car?” he said eventually.

  “An ambulance, actually. I’m going back to the clinic.”

  “You’re out alone?” he growled.

  “Yes, and you can cut the he-man crap. I’ve got a gun under the seat and I know how to use it.”

  A subtle laugh came through the phone. “Okay, that’s a turn-on. I’m sorry, but it is.”

  She had to smile a little. “You drive me nuts, you know that. Even though you’re all but a stranger to me, you drive me up the frickin’ wall.”

  “And somehow I’m complimented.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve had a bad night.”

  “Yeah, well, me too. On both the sorry part and the bad night.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s too much to go into. How about you?”

  “Ditto.”

  As he shifted, a sheet rustled. “Are you in bed again?”

  “Yes. And yes, you still don’t want to know.”

  She smiled widely. “You’re telling me I shouldn’t ask what you’re wearing again.”

  “You got it.”

  “We’re so falling into a rut, you know that?” She grew serious. “You sound really sick to me. Your voice is hoarse.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Look, I can bring you what you need. If you can’t make it to the clinic, I can bring the medicine to you.” The silence on the other end was so dense, and went on for so long, she said, “Hello? You there?”

  “Tomorrow night…can you meet me?”

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Yes.”

  “I’m on the top floor of the Commodore. Do you know the building.”

  “I do.”

  “Can you be there at midnight? East side.”

  “Yes.”

  His exhale seemed one of resignation. “I’ll be waiting for you. Drive safely, okay?”

  “I will. And don’t throw your phone anymore.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because if I’d had an open space in front of me instead of the dashboard of an ambulance, I would have done the same thing.”

  His laugh made her smile, but she lost the expression as she hit end and put the phone back in her purse.

  Even though she was driving at a steady sixty-five and the road ahead of her was straight and free of debris, she felt as if she were totally out of control, careening from guar
drail to guardrail, leaving a trail of sparks as she ground off parts of the clinic’s vehicle.

  Meeting him tomorrow night, being alone with him somewhere private, was exactly the wrong thing to do.

  And she was going to do it anyway.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Montrag, son of Rehm, hung up the phone and stared out the French doors of his father’s study. The gardens and the trees and the rolling lawn, like the great mansion and everything in it, were his now, no longer a legacy he would one day inherit.

  As he took in the grounds, he enjoyed the sense of ownership singing in his blood, but he was less than satisfied with the view. Everything was battened down for winter, the flower beds emptied, the blooming fruit trees blanketed with mesh, the maples and oaks without their leaves. As a result, one could see the retaining wall, and that was just not attractive. Better for those ugly security sorts of things to be covered.

  Montrag turned away and walked over to a more pleasing vista, albeit one that was mounted on the wall. With a flush of reverence, he regarded his favorite painting in the manner he always had, for indeed Turner deserved veneration for both his artistry and his choices of subject. Especially in this work: The depiction of the sun setting over the sea was a masterpiece on so many levels, the shades of gold and peach and deep burning red a feast for eyes robbed by biology of the actual glowing furnace that sustained and inspired and warmed the world.

  Such a painting would be the pride of any collection.

  He had three Turners in this house alone.

  With a hand that twitched in anticipation, he took hold of the lower right-hand corner of the gilt frame and pulled the seascape from the wall. The safe behind it fit the precise dimensions of the painting and was inset into the lath and plaster. After twisting the combination on the dial, there was a subtle shifting that was barely audible, giving no hint that each of the six retracting pins was thick as a forearm.

  The safe opened without a sound and an interior light came on, illuminating a twelve-cubic-foot space stacked with thin leather jewelry cases, bound bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and documents in folders.

  Montrag brought over a needlepointed stepping stool and got up on its flowered back. Reaching far into the safe, going behind all the real estate deeds and stock certificates, he took out a strongbox and then put the safe and the painting back as they had been. With a feeling of excitement and possibility, he carried the metal box over to the desk and got the key from the lower left-hand drawer’s secret compartment.

  His father had taught him the combination of the safe and shown him the location of the hiding place, and when Montrag had sons, he would pass down the knowledge to them. That was how one made sure things of value were not lost. Father to son.

  The lid of the strongbox did not open with the same well-calibrated, well-lubricated slide the safe did. This one came wide with a squeak, the hinges protesting the disturbance of their rest and reluctantly revealing what lay within its metal belly.

  They were still there. Thank the Virgin Scribe they were still there.

  As Montrag reached inside, he thought, So relatively worthless, these pages, valued by themselves at a fraction of a penny. The ink held within their fibers was worth but a penny, as well. And yet for what they spelled out, they were invaluable.

  Without them he was at mortal risk.

  He took out one of the two documents and it didn’t matter which he removed, as they were identical. Between careful fingers, he held the vampire equivalent of an affidavit, a three-page, handwritten, signed-in-blood dissertation concerning an event that had happened twenty-four years ago. The notarized signature on the third page was sloppy, a scrawl in brown that was barely legible.

  But then, it had been made by a dying man.

  Rehvenge’s “father,” Rempoon.

  The documents laid the ugly truth all out in the Old Language: Rehvenge’s mother’s abduction by the symphaths, his conception and birth, her escape and later marriage to Rempoon, an aristocrat. The last paragraph was as damning as everything else:

  Upon my honor, and the honor of mine blooded ancestors and decedents, verily on this night did mine stepson, Rehvenge, fall upon me and cause to be rendered unto my body mortal wounds through the application of his bare hands upon my flesh. He did so with malice aforethought, having lured me into my study with the object of provoking an argument. I was unarmed. Following my injuries, he did go about the study and prepare the room for to appear to have been invaded by intruders from without. Verily, he did leave me upon the floor for death’s cold hand to capture my corporeal form, and he did depart from the premises. I was roused briefly by my dear friend Rehm, who had come to visit for the purpose of business discussions.

  I am not expected to live. My stepson has killed me. This is my final confession on earth as an embodied spirit. May the Scribe Virgin carry me unto the Fade with her grace and all alacrity.

  As Montrag’s father had later explained it, Rempoon had gotten it mostly right. Rehm had come on business and found not only an empty house, but the bloody body of his partner—and had done what any reasonable male would have: He’d rifled through the study himself. Operating under the assumption Rempoon was dead, he’d set about trying to find the papers on the business so that Rempoon’s fractional interest would stay out of his estate and Rehm would own the going concern outright.

  Having succeeded in his quest, Rehm had been on his way to the door when Rempoon had shown a sign of life, a name leaving his cracked lips.

  Rehm had been comfortable being an opportunist, but falling into the roll of accomplice to murder went too far. He’d called for the doctor, and in the time it took Havers to arrive, the mumblings of a dying male had spelled out a shocking tale, one worth even more than the company. Thinking quickly, Rehm had documented the story and the stunning confession about Rehvenge’s true nature and had Rempoon sign the pages—thus turning them into a legal document.

  The male had then lapsed into unconsciousness and been dead when Havers had arrived.

  Rehm had taken both the business papers and the affidavits with him when he’d left and been touted as a valiant hero for trying to rescue the dying male.

  In the aftermath, the utility of the confession had been obvious, but the wisdom of putting such information in play was less clear. Tangling with a symphath was dangerous, as Rempoon’s spilled blood had attested. Ever the intellectual, Rehm had sat on the information and sat on it…until it was too late to do anything with it.

  By law, you had to turn a symphath in, and Rehm had the kind of proof that met the threshold for reporting someone. However, in considering his options for so long, he found himself in the dicey position of arguably protecting Rehvenge’s identity. If he’d come forward twenty-four or forty-eight hours later? Fine. But one week? Two weeks? A month…?

  Too late. Rather than squander the asset completely, Rehm had told Montrag about the affidavits, and the son had understood the father’s mistake. There had been nothing that could be done in the short run, and only one scenario where it was still worth anything—and that had come to pass over the summer. Rehm had been killed in the raids and the son had inherited everything, including the documents.

  Montrag couldn’t be blamed for his father’s choice not to reveal what was known. All he had to do was state that he’d stumbled upon the papers in his father’s things, and in turning them and Rehv in, he was just doing what he was supposed to.

  It would never come out that he’d known about them all along.

  And nobody would ever believe that Rehv hadn’t been the one who’d decided to kill Wrath. He was, after all, a symphath, and nothing they said could be trusted. More to the point, his hand was either going to be on the trigger, or if he just ordered the murder of the king, he was the leahdyre of the council and in the position to profit from the death the most. Which was precisely why Montrag had had the male elevated into the role.

  Rehvenge would do the deed with the king, and then
Montrag would go to the council and prostrate himself before his colleagues. He would say that he didn’t find the papers until he had properly moved into the Connecticut house a month after both the raids and after Rehv had been made leahdyre. He would swear that as soon as he found them he reached out to the king and revealed the nature of the issue over the phone—but Wrath had forced his silence because of the compromising position it put the Brother Zsadist in: After all, the Brother was mated to Rehvenge’s sister, and that would make her related to a symphath.

  Wrath, of course, could say nothing to the contrary after he was dead, and more to the point, the king was disliked already for the way he had ignored the glymera’s constructive criticism. The council was primed to embrace another fault of his, real or manufactured.

  It was intricate maneuvering, but it was going to work, because with the king gone, the remnants of the council would be the first place the race would go looking for the murderer, and Rehv, a symphath, was the perfect scapegoat: Of course a symphath would do such a thing! And Montrag would help the motive assumption along by testifying that Rehv had come to see him before the murder and talked with bizarre conviction about change of an unprecedented variety. In addition, crime scenes were never completely clean. Undoubtedly, there would be things left behind that would tie Rehv to the death, whether because it was actually there or because everyone would be looking for exactly that kind of evidence.

  When Rehv fingered Montrag? No one would believe him, primarily because he was a symphath, but also because, in the tradition of his father, Montrag had always cultivated a reputation for thoughtfulness and trustworthiness in his business dealings and social conduct. As far as his fellow members of the council knew, he was above reproach, incapable of deception, a male of worth from impeccable bloodlines. None of them had a clue that he and his father had double-crossed many a partner or associate or blood relation—because they had been careful to choose the ones they preyed upon so that appearances were maintained.

  The result? Rehv would be brought up on charges of treason, arrested, and either put to death according to vampire law or deported to the symphath colony, where he would be killed for being a half-breed.