The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  “Yes. We would greatly appreciate some victuals and ale.”

  “Oh, sire, but of course!” The doggen bowed his way out of the room. “I should have so offered, forgive me.”

  When they were alone, Tohrment said, “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Do what?” Darius drawled, running his fingertips over the table’s pitted surface.

  “Get food for me.”

  Darius glanced over his shoulder. “My dear boy, it was a request calculated to put the butler at ease. Our presence in this room is a source of great discomfort for him as is the request to question anew his staff. The request for food shall be a relief for him. Now please sit, and when the victuals and libations arrive, you must consume them. I have had my fill prior.”

  There was the scraping sound of a chair being dragged back and then a creak as Tohrment’s weight settled on the seat.

  The steward arrived momentarily.

  Which was awkward, as Darius didn’t really have anything to ask him. Where was the food—

  “Sires,” the butler said with pride as he opened the door with a flourish.

  Staff filed in with all manner of trays and tankards and provisions, and as the feast was laid out, Darius cocked a brow at Tohrment and then pointedly stared down at the various foodstuffs.

  Tohrment, ever the polite male, helped himself.

  Darius nodded at the butler. “This is a repast worthy of such a house. Verily your master should be most proud.”

  After the butler and the others left, the steward waited patiently and so did Darius until Tohrment had taken all he could. And then Darius got to his feet.

  “Verily, may I inquire of you a favor, Steward Fritzgelder?”

  “But of course, sire.”

  “Will you be so kind as to store my colleague’s bag for us during the eve? We shall return after we have made our surveillance.”

  “Oh, yes, sires.” Fritzgelder bowed low. “I shall take the best of care of his things.”

  “Thank you. Come, Tohrment, we are off.”

  As they went outside, he could feel the ire of the boy and was not at all surprised when his arm was caught.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Darius stared over his shoulder. “Of that there is no doubt. However, I do not need a partner who is weakened by an empty gut and—”

  “But—”

  “—if you think this family of great means would begrudge a meal to aid in the search of their daughter, you are vastly mistaken.”

  Tohrment dropped his hand. “I shall find lodging. Food.”

  “Yes, you will.” Darius nodded to the ring of trees around the neighboring estate. “Now may we proceed?”

  When Tohrment nodded, the pair of them dematerialized into the forest and then stalked their way onto the property of the other mansion.

  With each forward stride toward their destination, Darius felt upon him a sense of crushing dread which increased until he found it hard to breathe: Time was working against them.

  Every night that passed and they didn’t find her was another step closer to her death.

  And they had so very little to go on.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Caldwell Greyhound terminal was on the far side of down-town, on the edge of the industrial park that stretched south of the city. The old flat-roofed building was ringed by a corral of chain-link fence, as if the buses were flight risks, and its porte cochere had a sag in the middle.

  As John took form in the lee of a parked bus, he waited for Xhex and Qhuinn. Xhex was the first to arrive, and man, she was looking much better; the second attempt at eating had stayed down just fine and her color was really good. She was still in the scrub bottoms Doc Jane had given her, but on top she had on one of his black hoodies, and one of his windbreakers.

  He loved the outfit. Loved that she was in his threads. Loved that they were too big on her.

  Loved that she looked like a girl.

  Not that he didn’t totally get off on her leathers and her muscle shirts and her I’ll-crack-your-balls-if-you-step-out-of-line routine. That was a complete turn-on, too. It was just . . . the way she looked now seemed private, for some reason. Probably because he was damned sure she didn’t let herself get seen like this very often.

  “Why are we here?” she asked, looking around. Her voice wasn’t disappointed or annoyed, thank God. She was just curious.

  Qhuinn took form about ten yards away and crossed his arms over his chest like he didn’t trust himself not to hit something. The guy was in a vicious mood. Absolutely vile. He hadn’t had two civil words to say in the foyer as John had told him the order of places they were going, and the cause hadn’t been clear.

  Well . . . at least not until Blay had walked by the group looking like a million bucks in a gray pin-striped suit. The guy had paused only to say goodbye to John and Xhex; he hadn’t spared even a glance for Qhuinn as he’d gone out the vestibule and into the night.

  He’d had fresh cologne on.

  Clearly he was going on a date. But with who?

  On a hiss and roar, a bus trundled out of the lot, the diesel fumes making John’s nose threaten a sneeze.

  Come on, he mouthed to Xhex, switching his backpack to his other shoulder and drawing her forward.

  The two of them walked across the damp pavement toward the glowing fluorescent light of the terminal. Even though it was chilly, John kept his leather jacket open in case he needed to get to his daggers or his gun, and Xhex was packing as well.

  Lessers could be anywhere and humans could be idiots.

  He held the door open for her and was relieved to see that aside from the ticket taker who was behind bulletproof Plexiglas, there was only an old man sleeping upright on one of the plastic benches and a woman with a suitcase.

  Xhex’s voice was low. “This place . . . you’re saddened by it.”

  Shit, he supposed he was. But not from what he’d experienced here . . . more what his mother must have felt, being alone and in pain while she struggled through labor.

  Whistling in a loud burst, he held up his palm as the three humans looked over. Dialing down their consciousness, he put them each in a light trance and then walked over to the metal door that had a sign screwed into it: WOMEN.

  Planting his hand on the cold panel, he pushed his way in a little and listened. No sounds. Place was empty.

  Xhex walked past him, her eyes going around the cinder-block walls and the stainless-steel sinks and the three stalls. The place smelled like Clorox and damp, sweaty stone and the mirrors weren’t made of glass, but of polished sheets of metal. Everything was bolted down, from the drooling soap dispensers to the No Smoking sign to the rubbish bin.

  Xhex stopped in front of the handicapped stall, her eyes sharp. As she nudged open the flapping door, she recoiled and seemed confused.

  “Here . . .” She pointed down to the floor in the corner. “Here was where you were . . . where you landed.”

  When she glanced back at him, he shrugged. He didn’t know which stall precisely, but it made sense that if you were having a baby, you’d want to be in the one with the most space.

  Xhex stared at him as if she were seeing through him and he briefly shifted around and checked to see if someone had joined them. Nope. Just her and him, together in the women’s bathroom.

  What, he mouthed as she let the stall door shut.

  “Who found you?” When he made like he was mopping the floor, she murmured, “A janitor.”

  As he nodded, he felt ashamed of this place, of his history.

  “Don’t be.” She came over to him. “Believe me, I’m not one to judge. My circumstances aren’t any better. Hell, they’re arguably worse.”

  Being a half-breed symphath, he could only imagine. After all the two breeds didn’t mix willingly for the most part.

  “Where did you go from here?”

  He led her out of the bathroom and glanced around. Qhuinn was standing in the far corner, glaring at
the doors of the terminal like he was hoping something that smelled like baby powder would walk in. When the guy looked over, John nodded; then he untranced and scrubbed the minds of the humans, and the three of them dematerialized.

  When they took form again, it was in the backyard of Our Lady’s orphanage, next to the slide and the sandbox. A bitter March wind swept over the grounds of the church’s sanctuary for the unwanted, the links of the swings creaking and the bare branches of the trees offering no protection. Up ahead, the rows of four-paned windows that marked the dormitory were dark . . . and so were all the ones in the cafeteria and the chapel.

  “Humans?” Xhex breathed as Qhuinn wandered over and sat his ass on one of the swings. “You were raised by humans? God . . . damn.”

  John walked toward the building, thinking maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. She seemed horrified—

  “You and I have more in common than I thought.”

  He stopped dead and she must have read his expression . . . or his emotions: “I was raised around people I wasn’t like, too. Although considering what my other half is, that could have been a blessing.”

  Stepping in beside him, she stared up at his face. “You were braver than you thought.” She nodded toward the orphanage. “When you were in here, you were braver than you thought.”

  He didn’t agree, but he wasn’t about to argue her faith in him. After a moment, he held out his hand toward her, and when she took it, they walked together to the back entrance. A quick disappear and they were on the inside.

  Oh, shit, they used the same floor cleaner. Acid lemon.

  And the layout of the place hadn’t changed, either. Which meant the headmaster’s office was still down the hall, in the front of the building.

  Leading the way, he went over to that old wooden door, slipped off the backpack and hung it on the brass doorknob.

  “What’s in there anyway?”

  He held up his hand and rubbed his fingers against his thumb.

  “Money. From the raid on . . .”

  He nodded.

  “Good place for it.”

  John turned around and stared down the hall to where the dormitory was. As memories bubbled up, his feet started in that direction before he had a conscious thought to go over to where he’d once laid his head. It was so strange being here again, remembering the loneliness and the fear and the nagging sense that he was totally different—especially when he was with other boys his own age.

  That had always made it worse. Being around that which he should have been essentially identical to had alienated him the most.

  Xhex followed John through the hallway, staying a little behind him.

  He was walking silently, toe-heel in his shitkickers, and she took his example to heart, doing the same so that they were nothing but ghosts in the quiet corridor. As they went, she noted that although the physical plant of the building was old, everything was spotless, from the high-polish linoleum, to the much-painted beige walls, to the windows with the chicken wire embedded in the glass. There was no dust, no cobwebs, no chips or cracks in the plaster.

  It gave her hope that the nuns and the administrators looked after the kids with similar attention to detail.

  As she and John came up to a pair of doors, she could feel the dreams of the boys on the far side, the tremors of emotion that bubbled up through their REM sleep tickling her symphath receptors.

  John ducked his head in, and as he stared in at those who were where he had been, she found herself frowning again.

  His emotional grid had . . . a shadow to it. A parallel but separate construct that she had picked up on before, but now found screamingly obvious.

  She’d never sensed anything like it in anybody else and she couldn’t explain it . . . and didn’t think John was consciously aware of what he was doing. For some reason, though, this trip into his past was exposing the fault line in his psyche.

  As well as other stuff. He’d been just like her, lost and apart, cared for by others out of obligation, not blooded love.

  On some level, she thought that she should tell him to stop this whole thing, because she could sense how much it was taking out of him—and how much farther they had yet to go. But she was captivated by what he was showing her.

  And not just because as a symphath she fed off the emotions of others.

  No, she wanted to know more about this male.

  While he studied the sleeping boys and got pulled into his past, she focused on his strong profile as it was lit by the security light over the door.

  When she lifted her palm up and laid it on his shoulder, he jumped a little.

  She wanted to say something smart and kind, put togther some combination of words to reach him where he’d reached her with this. But the thing was, there was more courage in these revelations of his than she had ever shown anyone, and in a world that was full of taking and cruelty, he was fucking breaking her heart with what he was giving her.

  He’d been so lonely here and the echoes of the grieving were killing him. And yet he was going to soldier on because he’d told her he would do so.

  John’s beautiful blue eyes met her stare, and as he tilted his head in inquiry, she realized words were bullshit in moments like this.

  Stepping into his hard body, she wrapped one of her arms around the small of his back. With her free hand, she stretched up and captured his nape, pulling him down to her.

  John hesitated and then came willingly, linking his arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck.

  Xhex held him, lending him her strength, offering him shelter that she was more than capable of providing. As they stood one against another, she looked over his shoulders into the room beyond, at the small dark heads on their pillows.

  In the silence, she felt the past and the present shift and mix, but that was a mirage. There was no way to comfort the lost boy he’d been back then.

  But she had the grown male.

  She had him right in her arms, and for a brief moment of whimsy, she imagined that she was never, ever going to let him go.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As he sat in his guest room at the Rathboone mansion, Gregg Winn should have felt better than he did. Thanks to some evocative camera shots of that soulful portrait down in the living room, coupled with some stills of the grounds taken in the gloaming, the brass back in L.A. was thrilled with the presell footage and was set to start running it. The butler had also come along nicely, signing the legal documents that gave permission for all kinds of access.

  Stan the cameraman could perform a proctology exam on the damn house for all the places he could stick his lens.

  But Gregg didn’t have the taste of victory in his mouth. Nope, he had a case of the this-isn’t-rights riding his gut and a tension headache that ran from the base of his skull all the way into his frontal lobe.

  The problem was the hidden camera they’d put out in the hall the night before.

  There was no rational explanation for what it had captured.

  Ironic that a “ghost hunter,” when confronted with a figure who disappeared into thin air, needed Advil and Tums. You’d think he’d be overjoyed that for once he didn’t have to get his camera guy to fudge the footage.

  As for Stan? He just shrugged it all off. Oh, he thought it was a ghost for sure—but that didn’t faze him in the slightest.

  Then again, he could have been tied to a set of railroad tracks on some Perils of Pauline thing and just thought, Perfect, time for a quick nap before he got greased.

  There were advantages to being a pothead.

  As the clock struck ten down below, Gregg got up from the laptop and went to the window. Man, he’d feel better about this whole thing if he hadn’t seen that long-haired figure roaming the grounds the night before.

  To hell with that: Better that he hadn’t seen the fucker outside in the hall pulling a hallucination’s trick of now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t.

  From behind him on the bed, Holly said, “A
re you hoping to see the Easter bunny out there?”

  He glanced over at her and thought she looked great propped up against the pillows, her nose in a book. When she’d taken the thing out, he’d been surprised to see it was the Doris Kearns Goodwin about the Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys. He’d have figured she was more a Tori Spelling-bio kind of girl.

  “Yeah, I’m all about the cotton tail,” he murmured. “And I think I’m going to go down and see if I can get the bastard’s basket.”

  “Don’t bring back any marshmallow Peeps. Colored eggs, chocolate bunnies, that fake fuzzy grass—all good. The Peeps freak me out.”

  “I’ll have Stan come sit with you, ’kay?”

  Holly’s eyes lifted from Camelot’s backstory. “I don’t need a nanny. Especially not one who’s liable to light up a joint in the bathroom.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “I’m not alone.” She nodded to the camera in the far corner of the room. “Just turn that on.”

  Gregg leaned back against the window jamb. The way her hair caught the light was really nice. Of course, the color was undoubtedly an expert dye job . . . but it was the perfect shade of blond against her skin.

  “You aren’t scared, are you,” he said, wondering exactly when it was that they’d traded places on that account.

  “You mean about last night?” She smiled. “Nope. I think that ‘shadow’ is Stan playing a trick on both of us as payback for jerking him around between rooms. You know how he hates moving luggage. Besides, it got me back in your bed, didn’t it. Not that you’ve done anything much about this.”

  He snagged his windbreaker and went over to her. Taking her chin in hand, he looked into her eyes. “You still want me like that?”

  “Always have.” Holly’s voice dropped. “I’m cursed.”

  “Cursed?”

  “Come on, Gregg.” When he just looked at her, she threw up her hands. “You’re a bad bet. You’re married to your job and you’d sell your soul to get ahead. You reduce everything and everyone around you to a lowest common denominator and that allows you to use them. And when they aren’t useful? You don’t remember their name.”