The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Trez barked out a laugh. “Well . . . there you go. And I can’t fault logic like that.”

  So I need your help. Help me help her.

  The two Shadows looked at each other and there was a long stretch of quiet. Which John took to mean they were having a conversation gray matter-to-gray matter.

  After a moment, they glanced back to him, and as usual Trez did the talking. “Well, now . . . since you’ve done us the courtesy of cutting the shit, we’ll do the same. Talking to you like this puts us in a difficult position. Our relationship with Rehv is tight, as you know, and he’s as personally invested in this as you are.” Just as John was trying to figure out a way around all that, Trez murmured, “But we will tell you . . . neither one of us is picking up on her. Anywhere.”

  John swallowed hard, thinking that was not good news.

  “No, it isn’t. She’s either dead . . . or she’s being held somewhere with a block.” Trez cursed. “I think Lash has her, too. And I totally buy the idea that he’s working the streets for cash, and that’s the only way to find him. If I had to guess, he’s trying out human dealers first before converting them to the Lessening Society—and mark my balls, he’s going to start inducting them ASAP. He’ll want to have total control over his retail team and the only way he’s going to get that is by turning them. As for hotbeds of dealing, the malls are always jumping. So is the high school, although that’s going to be tough because of daylight problems for you. Municipal construction zones, too—the vendors in those catering trucks always used to buy from us. Also, that Xtreme skating park. Lotta shit goes down there. And under the bridges—although that’s mostly homeless, bottom-feeder real estate, so the crank ratio for cash will probably be too low for Lash to get a hard-on over.”

  John nodded, thinking this was precisely the info he’d been hoping to get. What about the suppliers, he wrote. If Lash stepped into Rehv’s shoes, wouldn’t he need relationships with them?

  “Yup. The big one in town, Ricardo Benloise, is pretty fucking insulated, though.” Trez glanced at his brother and there was another silence. When iAm nodded, Trez turned back. “Okay. We’ll see if we can get you some intel on Benloise—at least enough so you can trail his ass in the event he meets with Lash.”

  John signed without thinking, Thank you so much.

  Both of them nodded, and then Trez said, “Two caveats.”

  With his hands, John urged the guy to continue.

  “One, my brother and I don’t keep anything from Rehv. So we’re going to tell him you came to see us.” As John frowned, Trez shook his head. “Sorry. That’s the way it is.”

  iAm interjected, “It’s cool with us that you’re digging deep. Not that the Brothers aren’t, it’s just the more hands on deck, the better her chances are.”

  John could see that, but he still wanted to keep shit private. Before he could get scribbling, Trez kept going.

  “And two, you must fully inform us of any information you get. Rehvenge, that fucking control-freak bastard, has commanded us to stay out of it. Your turning up here? Well, isn’t that just a convenient way for us to get involved.”

  As John wondered why in the hell Rehv would tie the hands of the two warriors, iAm said, “He figures we’ll get ourselves killed.”

  “And because of our . . .” Trez paused, as if looking for the right word. “. . . ‘relationship’ with him, we’re locked in.”

  “He might as well have chained us to the cocksucking wall.”

  Trez shrugged. “Which was why we agreed to meet with you. The moment you texted, we knew—”

  “—here was the opening we—”

  “—were looking for.”

  As the Shadows completed each other’s sentences, John took a deep breath. At least they understood where he was coming from.

  “We totally do.” Trez put his knuckles out and, as John gave them a pound, the guy nodded. “And let’s just keep this little backroom convo to ourselves.”

  John leaned over the pad. Wait, I thought you said you were going to tell Rehv I was here?

  Trez read over the handwriting and laughed again. “Oh, we’re going to tell him you came to visit and have a meal.”

  iAm smiled darkly. “But he doesn’t need to know the rest of it.”

  After Trez and John went into the back, Blay finished off his Coke and tracked Qhuinn with his peripheral vision. The guy was pacing around the bar area like he’d had his wings clipped and didn’t appreciate the trim.

  He just couldn’t stand getting shut out of shit. Whether it was a dinner or a meeting or a fight, he preferred an all-access pass to life.

  His kinetic silence was worse than cursing, frankly.

  Blay got up and went behind the bar with his empty glass. As he refilled his Coke and watched the frothing dark rush hit the ice, he wondered why he was so attracted to the guy. He was a please-and-thank-you kind of male. Qhuinn was more of a fuck-off-and-die type.

  Guess opposites attracted. At least on his side—

  iAm came back in and had with him what could only be described as a male of worth: The guy was dressed impeccably, from the cut of his dark gray overcoat to the shine on his wingtips, and instead of a tie, he was wearing a cravat. Thick blond hair was cut short in the back and left long in the front and his eyes were the color of pearls.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell are you doing here?” Qhuinn’s voice boomed out as iAm disappeared into the back. “You slick bastard.”

  Blay’s first response was to tighten up all over. Last thing he needed was another ride on the spectator merry-go-round, assuming Qhuinn was attracted to the guy.

  Except then he frowned. Could it be . . . ?

  The male who’d just arrived laughed as he embraced Qhuinn. “You have such a way with words, cousin. I would say . . . trucker meets sailor crossed with a twelve-year-old.”

  Saxton. It was Saxton, son of Tyhm. Blay could remember meeting him once or twice before.

  Qhuinn pulled back. “Fuck is actually a comma. Or didn’t they teach that shit to you at Harvard?”

  “They were more concerned with contract law. Property. Torts—which covers actionable wrongs against others, by the way. I’m surprised you weren’t on the final exam.”

  Qhuinn’s fangs flashed bright and white as he truly smiled. “That’s human law. They can’t handle me.”

  “Who can.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “Property transactions for the Shadow brothers. Lest you think I just learned all that human jurisprudence for my health.” Saxton’s eyes shifted over and met Blay’s. Instantly, the guy’s expression changed to something serious and speculative. “Well, hello.”

  Saxton turned his back on Qhuinn and came over with a focus that made Blay check behind himself.

  “Blaylock, is it not?” The male extended his elegant arm across the bar. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

  Blay had always felt a little tongue-tied in Saxton’s presence because the “slick bastard” always had a comeback. And a vibe like he not only knew the right answers to everything but might not choose to let you in on the secrets if you weren’t up to his standards.

  “How do you do?” Blay said as their palms met.

  Saxton smelled really good and had a handshake that was firm. “You’ve grown up a lot.”

  Blay found himself flushing as he took his hand back. “You’re just the same.”

  “Am I?” Those pearl eyes flashed. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Oh . . . good. I didn’t mean—”

  “So tell me how you’ve been. Are you mated to some nice female your parents set you up with?”

  Blay’s laugh was sharp and hard. “God, no. There’s no one for me.”

  Qhuinn inserted himself in the conversation, all but putting his body between them. “So, how you been, Sax?”

  “Rather well.” Saxton didn’t even glance over at Qhuinn as he answered, his attention staying on Blay. “Although my pa
rents want me out of Caldwell. I am not inclined to leave, however.”

  Needing somewhere else to look, Blay got busy drinking his soda and counting the ice cubes that floated in it.

  “And what are you doing here?” Saxton asked.

  There was a long pause and eventually, Blay swung his eyes back up as he wondered why Qhuinn hadn’t replied.

  Oh. Right. Saxton wasn’t addressing his cousin.

  “You going to speak up there, Blay,” Qhuinn prompted with a frown.

  For the first time in . . . God, forever, it seemed . . . he went to fully meet his best friend’s stare. Although it wasn’t like he needed to brace himself. As always, those mismatched eyes were trained on someone else: Saxton was getting a once-over that would have rendered lesser males several inches shorter. But Qhuinn’s cousin was either unaware of it or possibly didn’t care.

  “Do answer me, Blaylock,” the male murmured.

  Blay cleared his throat. “We’re here to help a friend.”

  “Admirable.” Saxton smiled, flashing a set of fangs that gleamed. “You know, I think we should go out sometime.”

  Qhuinn’s voice was mostly edge. “Sure. Sounds great. Here’s my number.”

  Just as he recited his digits, John, Trez, and iAm came back in. There were some introductions and conversating, but Blay stayed out of it, polishing off the Coke and putting his glass in the washer.

  As he came around the bar and passed the guy, Saxton reached out. “Good to see you again.”

  On reflex, Blay clasped the palm that was offered . . . and after the shake, he realized there was a business card in his hand. As he covered his surprise, Saxton just smiled.

  While Blay tucked the card into his pocket, Saxton turned his head and glanced at Qhuinn. “I’ll be giving you a call, cousin.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  The good-bye-ing was considerably less friendly on Qhuinn’s side, but again Saxton didn’t seem to give a damn or didn’t notice—the latter being hard to believe.

  “Will you excuse me,” Blay said, to no one in particular.

  He left the restaurant by himself, and when he stepped out under the porte cochere, he lit up a cigarette and leaned back against the cool brick, bracing the sole of one boot on the building.

  He took the card out as he smoked. Thick, creamy stock. Engraved, not embossed—naturally. Black, old-school font. As he lifted the thing to his nose, he could smell that cologne.

  Nice. Very nice. Qhuinn didn’t believe in the stuff . . . so he just smelled like leather and sex most of the time.

  As he tucked the card inside his jacket, he took another drag and exhaled long and slow. He wasn’t used to being looked at. Or approached. He was always the one doing the focusing and Qhuinn had been the target for as long as he could remember.

  The doors burst open and his boys walked out.

  “Man, I hate cigarette smoke,” Qhuinn muttered, waving away the cloud that had just been exhaled.

  Blay extinguished his Dunhill on his boot heel and tucked the half-finished length into his pocket. “Where we off to?”

  The Xtreme Park, John signed. The one close to the river. And they’ve given us another lead, which is going to take a couple of days to set up.

  “Isn’t that park in gang territory?” Blay asked. “Aren’t there a lot of police around?”

  “Why worry about the cops?” Qhuinn laughed in a hard burst. “If we get into trouble with the CPD, Saxton can always come bail us out. Right?”

  Blay glanced over, and this time, he should have braced himself. Qhuinn’s blue-and-green stare was boring into him and, as it registered, that old, familiar thrill licked into his chest.

  God . . . this was who he loved, he thought. And always would.

  It was the thrust of that stubborn jaw, and the dark, slashing eyebrows, and those piercings up his ear and in his full lower lip. It was that thick, glossy black hair and the golden skin and that heavily muscled body. It was the way he laughed and the fact that he never, ever cried. It was the scars on his inside no one knew about and the conviction that he would always be the first to run into a burning building or a bloody fight or a car wreck.

  It was all the things Qhuinn had been and was ever going to be.

  But things were never going to change.

  “What’s not going to change?” Qhuinn said with a frown.

  Oh, shit. He’d spoken aloud. “Nothing. Are we going, John?”

  John glanced back and forth between them. Then nodded. We’ve only got three hours before daylight. Let’s hustle.

  SIX

  “I love the way you look at me.”

  From over in the opposite corner of the bedroom, Xhex made no reply to the words Lash spoke. From the way he was collapsed in front of the bureau, with one of his shoulders higher than the other, she thought it was entirely possible she had dislocated his upper arm. And that wasn’t his only injury. Black blood dripped off his chin from the split lip she’d given him and he was going to walk with a limp after she’d bitten him in the thigh.

  His eyes roamed over her and she didn’t bother to cover herself with her hands. If he was up for round two, she needed every ounce of strength she had left. And besides, modesty mattered only if you gave a shit about your body and she’d long ago lost that connection.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asked. With a grunt, he pushed himself up off the floor, and he needed the edge of the dresser for support as he did some experimentation with that arm of his.

  “Do you?” he prompted.

  “No.”

  “Cynical.” He gimped over to the archway that led into the bathroom. Standing in between the jambs, he braced one hand against the wall, faced off to the left, and took a deep breath.

  With a slam, he put his upper arm back into its socket and the crack and curse were loud. As he sagged afterward, his breath coming in hard draws, the cuts on his face left black smudges of lesser blood on the white molding. Turning toward her, he smiled.

  “Care for a shower with me?” When she stayed silent, he shook his head. “No? Pity.”

  He disappeared into the marble expanse and after a moment, water came on.

  It was only after she could hear him washing himself and smelled the fragrance of that milled soap that she carefully rearranged her legs and arms.

  No weakness. She showed him no weakness. And it wasn’t just about wanting to appear strong so he would think twice about tangoing with her again. Her nature refused to relent to him or anyone else. She would die fighting.

  It was just how she was hardwired: She was invincible—and that wasn’t her ego talking. The sum of her experience was, no matter what was done to her, she could handle it.

  But dear Lord, she hated fighting him. Hated this whole fucking thing.

  When he came out a little later, he was clean and already healing up, the bruises fading, the scrapes disappearing, the bones reknitting like magic.

  Just her luck. The goddamn Energizer Bunny.

  “I’m off to see my father.” As he came over to her, she bared her fangs and he seemed momentarily complimented. “I love your smile.”

  “Not a smile, asshole.”

  “Whatever you call it, I like it. And someday I’ll introduce you to dear old Dad. I have plans for us.”

  Lash went to lean down, no doubt to try to kiss her, but as she hissed deep in her throat, he paused and reconsidered.

  “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “My love.”

  He knew she hated the “love” crap, so she was careful to swallow her reaction. She also didn’t taunt him as he turned and left.

  The more she refused to play into the situation, the more tangled he became and the clearer her head was.

  Listening to him moving around in the room next door, she pictured him getting dressed. He kept his clothes in the other room, having moved them out after it became clear how things were going to roll between them: He hated messes and was fastidious about his thread
s.

  When things quieted down and she heard him descend the stairs, she took a deep breath and dragged herself up off the floor. The bathroom was still steamy and tropical from his shower, and though she hated using the same soap he did, she disliked what was on her skin even more.

  The moment she stepped under the hot spray, the marble at her feet turned both red and black as two kinds of blood washed off of her body and disappeared down the drain. She was quick with the suds and rinse, because Lash had left only moments before and you could never tell with him. Sometimes he came right back. Other times he didn’t show again for a whole day.

  The fragrance of the fancy-ass French shit Lash insisted on stocking his bathroom with made her gag, even though she supposed most females would have enjoyed the blend of lavender and jasmine. Man, she wished she had a dose of Rehv’s good ol’ Dial. Although no doubt that would sting like a bitch on the cuts, she was okay with agony, and the idea of scrubbing herself raw was appealing.

  Each sweep up the arm or down the leg was marked with aches as she bent to the side or leaned forward, and for no reason at all, she thought of the cilices she’d always worn to control her symphath nature. With all the fighting out in that bedroom, she’d had enough pain in her body to dampen her evil inclinations—not that it mattered, really. She wasn’t around “normals,” and that dark part of her helped her deal with this situation.

  Still, after two decades of wearing the barbs, it was odd not to have them with her. She’d left the pair of spiked chains behind at the Brotherhood mansion . . . on the bureau in the room she’d stayed in that day before they’d gone up to the colony. She’d had every intention of returning at the end of the night, showering, and putting them back on . . . but now they were no doubt gathering dust as they waited for her return.

  She was losing faith that there was going to be a happy reunion with those fuckers.

  Funny how your life could be interrupted: You left a house expecting to come back, but then the path you were on took you left instead of around again to the right.