The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Saxton rolled his cigar between his forefinger and thumb. “Two ports. Croft Vintage 1945, please.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  Saxton’s eyes returned to Blay’s. “I know.”

  Blay looked to the window they were seated in front of and wondered if he was ever going to stop blushing around the guy. “It’s raining.”

  “Is it.”

  God, that voice. Saxton’s words were as smooth and delicious as the cigar.

  Blay switched his legs around, crossing them at the knee.

  As he searched his brain for something to kill the silence, it looked as if no-shit-Sherlock comments about the weather were as close to inspired as he was going to get. The thing was, the end of the date was starting to loom, and whereas he’d learned that he and Saxton both mourned the loss of Dominick Dunne and were fans of Miles Davis, he didn’t know what he was going to do when it came to parting ways.

  Would it be a case of Call and we’ll do this again? Or the infinitely more complicated, messy, and pleasurable, Yes, as a matter of fact, I will come over and look at your etchings.

  To which his conscience compelled him to add: Even though I’ve never done this with a guy before, and in spite of the fact that anyone but Qhuinn is going to be a poor man’s substitute for the real thing.

  “When was the last time you were out on a date, Blaylock?”

  “I . . .” Blay took a long draw on the cigar. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Whatever have you been doing with yourself? All work, no play?”

  “Something like that.” Okay, unrequited love wasn’t exactly in either of those categories, although the no-play was certainly covered.

  Saxton smiled a little. “I was glad you called me. And a bit surprised.”

  “Why?”>

  “My cousin has a certain . . . territorial response to you.”

  Blay turned his cigar around and stared at the glowing tip. “I think you vastly overread his interest.”

  “And I think you’re politely telling me to mind my own business, aren’t you.”

  “There’s no business to mind there.” Blay smiled up at the waiter as the guy put two port glasses down on the round table and backed away. “Trust me.”

  “You know, Qhuinn’s an interesting character.” Saxton reached out with an elegant hand and picked up his port. “He’s one of my favorite cousins, actually. His nonconformity is admirable and he’s survived things that would crush a lesser male. Don’t know that being in love with him would be easy, however.”

  Blay didn’t go near that one. “So do you come here often?”

  Saxton laughed, his pale eyes glinting. “Not for discussion, huh.” He looked around with a frown. “Actually, I haven’t been out much lately. Too much work.”

  “You said you’re a solicitor in the Old Law. Must be interesting.”

  “I specialize in trusts and estates so the fact that business is booming is something to mourn. The Fade has become too full of the innocent as of last summer—”

  At the booth next door, a bunch of big guts with gold watches and silk suits laughed like the blowhard drunks they were—to the point that the loudest of them slammed back in his seat and knocked into Saxton.

  Which didn’t go over well, proving that Saxton was a gentleman, but not a pussy: “I beg your pardon, but would you mind toning it down?”

  The sloppy human cranked around, his belly fat bulging over his belt until it looked like he was going to pull a Meaning of Life and thin-mint it all over the place. “Yeah. I mind.” His watery eyes narrowed. “Your types don’t belong here anyway.”

  And he wasn’t talking about the fact that they were vampires.

  As Blay took a drink of his port, the high-priced liquor tasted like vinegar . . . although the bitter sting in his mouth wasn’t because the stuff had gone bad.

  A moment later, the guy banged back so hard, Saxton nearly spilled his drink. “Damn it to hell,” the male muttered going for his napkin.

  The fidiot human leaned into their space again, and you had to wonder if that belt wasn’t going to snap free and take someone’s eye out. “We interrupting you two pretty boys sucking on those hard things?”

  Saxton smiled tightly. “You are definitely interrupting.”

  “Oh, sorrrrry.” The man made an abrupt show of lifting his pinkie up from his stogie. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Let’s go,” Blay said as he leaned in and snuffed out his cigar.

  “I can get us another table.”

  “You running along, boys?” Mr. Mouth drawled. “You going to a party where there’s all kindsa cigars? Maybe we’ll follow you just to make sure you get there okay.”

  Blay kept his eyes locked on Saxton. “It’s getting late anyway.”

  “Which means it’s only the middle of our day.”

  Blay stood up and reached into his pocket, but Saxton put his hand out and stopped him from getting his wallet. “No, allow me.”

  Another round of commentary from the Super Bowl-and-stripper set soured the air even further and left Blay grinding his molars. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for Saxton to pay the waiter and then they were making their way to the door.

  Outside, the night’s chilly air was a balm to the senses and Blay took a deep breath.

  “That place isn’t always like that,” Saxton murmured. “Otherwise, I would never have taken you there.”

  “It’s all right.” As Blay started walking, he felt Saxton fall in beside him.

  When they got to the head of an alley, they paused to let a car hang a louie on Commerce.

  “So how are you feeling about all this?”

  Blay faced the other male and decided life was too short to pretend he didn’t know precisely what the “this” was. “To be honest, I feel strange.”

  “And not about those charmers back there.”

  “I lied. I’ve never been on a date before.” This got him a cocked brow and he had to laugh. “Yup, I’m a real player.”

  Saxton’s suave air slipped and behind his eyes, true warmth glowed. “Well, I’m glad I was your first.”

  Blay met the guy’s stare. “How did you know I was gay?”

  “I didn’t. I merely hoped.”

  Blay laughed again. “Well, there you go.” After a pause, he put out his palm. “Thank you for tonight.”

  As Saxton slipped his hand in, a frisson of pure heat flared between them. “You do realize that dates don’t normally end this way. Assuming both parties are interested.”

  Blay found that he was unable to let go of the male’s palm. “Oh . . . really?”

  Saxton nodded. “A kiss is more customary.”

  Blay focused on the male’s lips and abruptly wondered what they tasted like.

  “Come here,” Saxton murmured, pulling on their connection, drawing him into the shelter of the alley.

  Blay followed into the darkness, swept up under an erotic spell he had no interest in breaking. When they were in the lee of the buildings, he felt the male’s chest come up against his own and then their hips fused.

  So he knew precisely how much Saxton was aroused.

  And Saxton knew he was the same.

  “Tell me something,” Saxton whispered. “Have you ever kissed a male before?”

  Blay didn’t want to think of Qhuinn right now and he shook his head to clear the image. When that didn’t work, and the guy’s blue and green eyes lingered, he did the one thing guaranteed to get him to stop thinking of his pyrocant.

  He closed the distance between Saxton’s mouth and his own.

  Qhuinn knew he should have gone right home. After he got summarily dismissed from Tohr’s house, no doubt so that John and Xhex could do a little horizontal conversating, he should have gone back to the mansion and cozied up to some Herradura and minded his own goddamned business.

  But nooooo. He’d taken form across the street from the only cigar bar in Caldwell and watched—in the rain like a loser
—as Blay and Saxton took up res at a table right in the front window. He’d gotten a whole lot of bird’s-eye as his cousin had looked at his best friend with an elegant lust, and then some knuckleheads gave them a hard time and they left their cigars barely smoked and their ports mostly unfinished.

  Not wanting to get caught in the shadow game, Qhuinn had dematerialized into the alley beside the place . . . which quickly turned into a wrong place/wrong time kind of gig.

  Saxton’s voice drifted over on the chilly breeze. “You do realize that dates don’t normally end this way. Assuming both parties are interested.”

  “Oh . . . really?”

  “A kiss is more customary.”

  Qhuinn felt his fists tighten, and for a split second, he actually thought of stepping out from behind the Dumpster he was standing behind. But to do what? Ride on up into their space and be all red-light, break-it-up-boys?

  Well, yeah. Exactly.

  “Come here,” Saxton murmured.

  Shit, the bastard sounded like a sex-phone operator, all husky and mad sexed up. And . . . oh, man, Blay was going with it, following the guy into the darkness.

  There were times when a vampire’s incredible sense of hearing was a real ball-gnasher. And of course . . . it didn’t help if you put your head around the corner of the trash heap you were next to so you could have a clear visual shot.

  As the two of them came up against each other, Qhuinn’s mouth dropped open. But not because he was shocked and not because he wanted in on the action.

  He simply couldn’t breathe. It was as if his ribs had frozen along with his heart.

  No . . . no, goddamn it, no . . .

  “Tell me something,” Saxton whispered. “Have you ever kissed a male before?”

  Yes, he has, Qhuinn wanted to scream—

  Blay shook his head. He actually shook his head.

  Qhuinn squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to calm down enough to dematerialize. As he took form in front of the Brotherhood’s mansion, he was shaking like a motherfucker . . . and briefly considered bending over and fertilizing the bushes with the dinner he’d eaten before leaving with Xhex and John.

  A couple of inhales later, he decided it was more appealing to go with plan A and get good and shitfaced. With that in mind, he walked into the vestibule, got let in by Fritz, and headed for the kitchen.

  Hell, maybe he’d take it a little further than just a buzz. God knew Saxton wasn’t going to want to stop at a kiss or two in a cold, damp alley, and Blay had looked like he was prepared to finally get what he’d needed all along.

  So there was plenty of time to hammer the hooch until he blacked the fuck out.

  Jesus . . . Christ, Qhuinn thought as he rubbed his chest and heard his cousin’s voice over and over again: Tell me something. Have you ever kissed a male before?

  The image of Blay shaking his head was like a scar on Qhuinn’s brain, and didn’t that just carry him right out the far side of the kitchen to the storage room where the cases of alcohol were kept.

  Such a cliché. Getting sauced because you didn’t want to deal.

  But he might as well do one thing in his life according to tradition.

  Heading back through the kitchen, he realized there was at least one saving grace. When the pair of them did the deed, it had to be back at Saxton’s house, because no casual visitors were allowed in the king’s home, ever.

  As he came out into the foyer, he stopped dead.

  Blay was just ducking in through the vestibule.

  “Back so soon,” Qhuinn said gruffly. “Don’t tell me my cousin is that fast.”

  Blay didn’t even pause. Just kept on going up the stairs. “Your cousin is a gentleman.”

  Qhuinn fell in behind his best friend, getting right on the guy’s heels. “You think? In my experience, he just looks like one.”

  That got Blay to turn around. “You always liked him before. He was your favorite. I can remember you talking about him like he was a god.”

  “I grew out of that.”

  “Well, I like him. A lot.”

  Qhuinn wanted to growl, but killed the impulse by cracking open the Herradura he’d snagged off the shelf and taking a swallow. “Good for you. I’m just thrilled for you both.”

  “Really. Then why aren’t you even using a glass.”

  Qhuinn marched around his buddy and didn’t stop as Blay said, “Where’re John and Xhex?”

  “Out. In the world. On their own.”

  “I thought you were supposed to stay with them?”

  “I was momentarily dismissed.” Qhuinn paused at the top of the stairs and tapped the tear that had been tattooed under his eye. “She’s an assassin, for God’s sake. She can take care of him just fine. Besides, they were hanging at Tohr’s old place.”

  When he got to his room, Qhuinn kicked the door shut and stripped his clothes off. After swigging from the bottle, he closed his eyes and sent out a summons.

  Layla would be good company right about now.

  Right up his alley.

  After all, she had been trained for sex, and all she wanted to do was use him as an erotic gymnasium. He didn’t have to worry about hurting her or her getting attached to him. She was a professional, so to speak.

  Or she would be when he was done with her.

  As for Blay? He had no idea why the guy had come back instead of heading off into Saxton’s bed, but one thing was clear. The pair of them were attracted to each other and Saxton wasn’t the kind to wait when it came to somebody he wanted.

  Qhuinn and his cousin were related, after all.

  And that wasn’t going to save the sonofabitch in the slightest if he broke Blay’s heart.

  FORTY-ONE

  The party at the farmhouse went on and on and more people kept coming, their cars parking on the lawn, their bodies jamming into the downstairs rooms. Most who showed were ones that Lash had seen at the Xtreme Park, but not all of them. And they kept bringing more booze. Six-packs. Bottles. Kegs.

  God only knew what kinds of illegal were in their pockets.

  What the fuck, he started to think. Maybe he’d been wrong and the Omega had been snowed by his perversions—

  As a rolling breeze developed out of the north, Lash went perfectly still, keeping his camo in place and locking his mind down.

  Shadow . . . He projected a shadow in him and through him and around him.

  The Omega’s arrival was preceded by an eclipse of the moon and the idiots inside didn’t have a clue what was doing . . . but that little shit did. The kid stepped out of the front door, the light from inside spilling out around him.

  Lash’s blooded father came into form on the scruffy lawn, his white robes swirling around his body, his arrival driving the ambient air temperature down even further. As soon as he’d taken form, the Shit walked up to him and the two embraced.

  There was the temptation to go off on the pair of them, to tell his father he was nothing but a fickle cocksucker and warn that little rat bitch his days and nights were numbered—

  The Omega’s hooded face turned in Lash’s direction.

  Lash stayed perfectly motionless and projected in his mind an utterly blank slate such that he was invisible inside and out. Shadow . . . shadow . . . shadow . . .

  The pause lasted a lifetime, because without a doubt if the Omega sensed Lash was around, it was game-over.

  After a moment, the Omega refocused on his golden boy, and just as he did, some fuck-twit tripped out the front door, his flailing arms and loose legs going haywire as he tried to keep upright. Once on the grass, the guy got close to a cabbage patch but didn’t quite make it, before landing on his knees and hurling all over the foundation of the house. As people inside laughed at him and the sounds of the party rolled out into the night, the Omega swept up to the doorway.

  The party just kept raging as he went into the house, no doubt because the shwasted bastards were too far gone to realize that under that white drape, evil had just come int
o their mix.

  They weren’t clueless for long, though.

  A massive light bomb went off, the blast of illumination sweeping through the house and streaming out of the windows to the tree line. As the roaring illumination dimmed to a soft glow, there were no upright survivors: All those lushes had dropped to the floor on a oner, the good times over and then some.

  Holy shit. If this was headed where it seemed to be going . . .

  Lash sidled up to the house, being careful to leave no footprint literally or figuratively, and as he got closer, he heard an odd scraping sound.

  Coming to one of the living room’s windows, he looked inside.

  The Shit was dragging bodies around, lining them up side by side on the floor so that their heads were all facing north and there was a foot or so between them. Jesus . . . there were so many of the stiffs that the good-little-dead-soldier routine stretched all the way out into the hall and into the dining room.

  The Omega hung back as if he liked the view of his boy toy muscling the men around.

  How. Precious.

  It took almost a half hour to get everyone in the row, the guys from the second floor getting dragged down the stairs so that their heads bounced on each step and left a bright red trail of blood.

  Made sense. Easier to pull a deadweight by the feet.

  When everybody was together, the Shit got to work with a knife and it became an assembly line of inductions. Starting in the dining room, he sliced throats and wrists and ankles and chests and the Omega followed behind, bleeding black into the open ribs then hitting them with electricity before performing cardio-ectomies.

  No jars for this batch. When the hearts were extracted, they were pitched into a corner.

  Slaughterhouse much?

  By the time it was done, there was a pond of blood in the center of the living room where the floorboards had sagged, and another at the base of the stairs in the hall. Lash couldn’t get a look-see all the way to the dining room, but he was damn sure there was one there as well.

  The moans of the inducted started up soon after, and the crop of misery that had been reaped was going to get louder and messier as the transition was bridged and the last of their humanity was vomited out of them.