The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Like he was her future.

  Rather ironic because, on paper, she was his ideal female. Might well have solved his mating problem permanently.

  Except his heart wasn’t in it.

  So yeah, no way he was taking on the responsibility for her hopes and dreams. And not a chance he was going all the way with her. She was already being seduced by a fantasy of him—if he actually made love to her, it was only going to get worse: When you didn’t know any better, that kind of physical rush could easily be mistaken for something deeper and more meaningful.

  Hell, that sort of delusion could happen between two people who had experience.

  Like that chick at the tat place, for instance, slipping him her number. He’d had no interest in calling her before, during, or after. He couldn’t even remember her name—and the intel vacuum didn’t bother him in the slightest. Any woman willing to fuck a guy she didn’t know in a public place with three other males around was not someone he needed to have a relationship with.

  Harsh? Yes. Double standard? Not a chance. He had no respect for himself either, so it wasn’t like he judged his own low, filthy standards with any less distaste.

  And besides, Layla had no clue what he’d been doing with humans since his transition . . . all the sex in bathrooms and alleys and dark corners of clubs, that dirty math adding up to his being able to know exactly what to do with her body.

  With any body. Male or female.

  Shit. Didn’t that make him think about how Blay had spent the day.

  Qhuinn fumbled with his phone and flicked the thing open. Calling up the text that Blay had sent from that unknown number, he read and reread and reread it again.

  Had to have come from Saxton’s phone.

  Probably typed out on the guy’s bed.

  Qhuinn tossed his BlackBerry onto his table and stood up. In the bathroom, he kept the lights out because he was sooo not interested in what he looked like in the jeans and shirt he’d slept in.

  Hot mess. No doubt.

  As he was washing his face, a subtle whirring sound emanated from all around, the shutters rising from the windows. With water dripping off his chin and a can of Barbasol in his mitt, he glanced out into the new night. In the moonlight, the buds on the silver-trunked birches by the window had come out even farther, indicating the day had been a warm one.

  He totally ignored any parallel to Blay’s being awakened to his own sexuality.

  By Qhuinn’s own cousin.

  Disgusted with himself, he skipped the razor action and stalked out of his room. Gunning for the kitchen, he went as fast as he dared, given that the barometric pressure in his skull was making him worried about the health and longevity of his optic nerves.

  Down in Fritz’s fiefdom, he made a pot of coffee as doggen scurried around making First Meal. Good thing they were already so preoccupied. Sometimes, when you felt like shit inside and out, you wanted to work your own Krups.

  Pride mattered in moments like this.

  Mind you, first trip through the park, he forgot to add the grounds, so all he got was a nice, steaming pot of clear water.

  Once more with feeling.

  He was coming out of the dining room with a camping thermos full of dark brown miracle juice and a bottle of aspirin when the door to the vestibule was opened by Fritz.

  The pair who stepped past the good doggen ensured that there was a shitload of Bayer in Qhuinn’s immediate future: Blay and Saxton entered the house arm in arm.

  For a split second, he nearly growled as possessiveness made him want to drive his Hummer between the two and park it there—until he realized their huggy-huggy was evidently for medicinal purposes. Saxton didn’t seem too steady on his feet, and his face had clearly been used as a punching bag.

  Now Qhuinn growled low for a different reason. “Who fucking did that to you.”

  Couldn’t be the guy’s own family. Saxton’s folks were cool with what and who he was.

  “Tell me,” he demanded. And once that question was answered, the pair could follow it up with how in the fuck Blay thought he could bring an outsider not only into the Brotherhood’s seat, but the home of the First Family.

  Oh, but number three: How was it? was actually going to stay right where it was. Namely choking his throat.

  Saxton smiled. Sort of. His upper lip wasn’t working all that well. “Nothing but some human trash. Let us not get emotional, shall we?”

  “Fuck that. And what the hell are you doing here with him?” Qhuinn stared at Blay and tried not to measure the guy’s face for stubble burn. “He can’t be in this house. You can’t bring him—”

  From up above, Wrath’s voice cut him off, the king’s deep baritone filling the foyer. “Blay wasn’t kidding about you, was he. You got some kind of cracked there, didn’t you, son.”

  Saxton wheezed as he bowed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, for not providing a more agreeable presentation. You are most kind to welcome me herein.”

  “You did me right when it mattered. I return the favor. Always. That being said, you compromise my happy home in any way, I’ll slice off your balls and feed them to you.”

  I love Wrath, Qhuinn thought.

  Saxton bowed again. “Understood.”

  Wrath didn’t look down the stairs, his wraparounds remaining straight ahead so that it seemed as if he were staring up at the frescoes on the lofty ceiling. And yet even with his blindness, he missed nothing. “Qhuinn’s got coffee, from what I can scent, so that’ll help, and Fritz has fired up a bedroom for you. You want something to eat before you feed?”

  Feed? Feed?

  Qhuinn didn’t appreciate being out of the loop, even when it came to little shit like what was being served for dinner. Saxton, the mansion, Blay, and someone’s vein? Yeah, not knowing what was doing with the likes of all that made the tips of his fangs tingle.

  Saxton bowed once again. “Indeed, you are a very kind host.”

  “Fritz, get the male some chow. The Chosen should be arriving very soon.”

  A Chosen’s vein?

  Christ, what exactly had Saxton done for the king? Whose ass had he saved?

  “And our physician will see you.” Wrath held his palm up. “Nope. I smell the pain you’re feeling—it’s a combo of kerosene and raw peppers in my sinuses. Now get moving. Take care of yourself and we’ll talk later.”

  As Wrath and George did a wheel-around up on the balcony, Qhuinn fell into the wake of Fritz’s hospitality, walking behind the butler as the guy led a slow ascension of the grand staircase. At the top, the elderly doggen paused in favor of Saxton’s limp, whipping out his handkerchief to polish the carved brass curlicues.

  With nothing to do but wait as well, Qhuinn popped open the aspirin and took a handful, noting that through the open doors of the king’s study, John and Xhex were talking to V and Wrath, the four of them standing over a map that was stretched flat on the desk.

  “This is a spectacular manse,” Saxton said while he stopped to regain his breath. Leaning on Blay’s strength, he fit under the guy’s arm . . . fucking perfectly.

  The miserable bastard.

  “My master, Darius, built it.” Fritz’s ancient watery eyes drifted around before focusing on the apple tree that was depicted in mosaic tile down below. “He had always wanted the Brotherhood herein . . . had constructed the facility for their every purpose. He would be so pleased.”

  “Let us continue then,” Saxton said. “I am eager to see more.”

  Down the hall of statues. Past Tohr’s room. Past Qhuinn’s and John Matthew’s. Past Blay’s . . . and right next door.

  Why not farther down, Qhuinn thought. Like in the basement.

  “I shall bring you a tray of various and sundry.” Fritz went inside and double-checked that everything was in order. “Dial star-one if you should need anything before I return or at any other time.”

  With a bow, the butler took off, leaving a whole lot of awkward behind. Which didn’t smooth out in the slightest
as Blay took Saxton over to the bed and helped the male get horizontal.

  SOB was in a gorgeous gray suit. With a waistcoat. Which made Qhuinn in his clothes-as-sleeping-bag feel like he was dressed in some of Hefty’s best.

  Standing a little taller, so at least he clearly beat Sax on the vertical front, he said, “It was those guys at the cigar bar. Those fucking assholes. Wasn’t it.”

  As Blay stiffened, Saxton laughed a little. “So our mutual friend Blaylock here told you about our date? I wondered what he was doing on my phone in my bathroom.”

  Uh-huh, whatever. Deduction not daytime minutes had led him to that conclusion. Hell, he’d only gotten that one text from the guy. One measely, short text that didn’t offer so much as a hi-how’re-ya—

  Holy. Shit. Was he actually bitching about phone etiquette? Was he really chicking out like that?

  Um . . . short of wearing panties under his jeans, he guessed that would be a big yuppity-yup-yup.

  Getting back in the game, he snapped, “Was it them?”

  When Blay said nothing, Saxton sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid they felt the need to express themselves—well, the head ape in the group did.” The male’s lids lowered and he glanced over at Blay. “And I’m a lover not a fighter, you see.”

  Blay hurried to fill the silence after that little bomb. “Selena will be here shortly. You’ll like her.”

  Thank God it wasn’t Layla, Qhuinn thought for absolutely no good reason. . . .

  The silence that followed had the consistency of tar and the smell of guilty conscience.

  “Can I talk to you,” Qhuinn said to Blay abruptly. “Out in the hall.”

  Not a request.

  As Fritz arrived with the tray, Qhuinn stepped from the room and waited in the corridor, facing off at one of the muscular statues. Which made him think about what Blay looked like naked.

  Cracking the thermos lid, he took a swig from his coffee, burned his throat, and drank more anyway.

  After Fritz left, Blay emerged and shut the door. “What is it?”

  “I can’t believe you brought him here.”

  Blay recoiled with a frown. “You’ve seen his face. How could I not? He’s hurt and not healing well and he needs to feed. And Phury would never allow one of his Chosen to just show up in the world somewhere. This is the only safe way to do it.”

  “Why didn’t you just find him someone else? It doesn’t have to be a Chosen.”

  “Excuse me?” That frown got even deeper. “He’s your cousin, Qhuinn.”

  “I’m well aware of the relation.” And of how petty he sounded. “I just don’t get why you pulled all these strings for the guy.”

  Bullshit. He knew exactly why.

  Blay turned away. “I’m going back in now—”

  “Is he your lover.”

  That stopped the male dead . . . just froze him like he was one of the Greek statues, his hand halting on its reach for the doorknob.

  Blay glanced over his shoulder, his face hard. “That is none of your business.”

  Not a blush in sight, and Qhuinn exhaled slowly in relief. “He isn’t, is he. You haven’t been with him.”

  “Leave me alone, Qhuinn. Just . . . leave me alone.”

  As the door shut behind the guy, Qhuinn cursed under his breath and wondered if he would ever be able to do that.

  Not anytime soon, a voice said in his head. Maybe not ever.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Lash woke up with his face in the dirt and someone going through his pockets. As he tried to turn over, something hard cupped the back of his skull and held him in place.

  A palm. A human palm.

  “Get the car keys!” somebody hissed from the left.

  There were two of them. A pair of humans, both of whom smelled like crack smoke and old sweat.

  Just as the rummaging hand went to the other side of him, Lash caught the man’s wrist and, with a twist and a jump, traded places with the looting bastard.

  As the guy went fish-mouth in shock, Lash bared his fangs and swept down from above, catching the ruddy skin of a cheek and ripping it free of the bone. A quick spit and he ripped the cocksucker’s throat wide-open.

  Yelling. Serious yelling from the guy who’d given the order about the keys—

  Which was quickly extinguished as Lash withdrew his knife and pitched it at the running back of Mr. Grand Theft Auto, catching the fucker right between the shoulder blades. As the son of a bitch yard-saled into the dirt, Lash curled up a fist and punched the temple of the man who’d mounted him.

  With the threat now neutralized, Lash went wobbly again, his body falling to the side as he briefly considered another round of throwing up. Not a great condition to be in—especially as the human he’d nailed on the fly began to grunt and claw at the ground like he was determined to get away.

  Lash forced himself to his feet and shuffled over. Standing above the crackhead, he braced a foot on the guy’s ass and yanked his knife out of that back. Then he kicked his target over and lifted his arm—

  He was about to do the plunge-into-the-chest thing when he realized the bastard was built strong, his frame packed with muscle. Given his wild eyes, he was clearly into the pipe, but he was young enough so that the ravages of the addiction had yet to eat away at his body mass.

  Well, wasn’t this the SOB’s lucky night. Thanks to a whim and a good body, he’d just gone from corpse to lab rat.

  Instead of stabbing him in the heart, Lash slashed the human’s wrists and nicked his jugular. As red blood flowed into the earth, and the man started in with the moans, Lash looked to the car and felt like the thing was a hundred miles away.

  He needed energy. He needed . . .

  Bingo.

  While those veins drained, Lash dragged himself to the Mercedes, popped the trunk, and lifted the carpet section up. The panel that covered where the spare would normally go pulled out easily.

  Hello, wakey-wakey.

  The kilo of cocaine was supposed to have been cut down and repackaged for street sale days ago, but then the world had exploded and it had been left right where Mr. D had stashed it.

  Wiping his knife off on his pants, Lash punctured a corner of the cellophaned block and dipped in the tip of the blade. He snorted the shit right off the stainless steel, loading up first his right then his left nonexistent nostril.

  For good measure, he did another round.

  Annnnnd . . . one more.

  As he rocked some keep-it-in-there sniffing, the rush that thundered through him saved his ass, perking him up so that he could keep going even after his vomiting and passing-out routine. Why he’d had those problems was a mystery. . . . Maybe that ’hood rat’s blood had been tainted, or maybe it wasn’t only Lash’s body but his internal chemistry that was changing. Either way, he was going to need that powder in the back until things stabilized.

  Shit worked, too. He felt great.

  After rehiding his stash, he returned to the crackhead. The cold didn’t help the draining process, and waiting around here while the fucker bled out wasn’t the brightest idea, no matter how well hidden they were under the bridge. Riding his considerable buzz, he strode over to the dead guy he’d done a Hannibal Lecter on; he ripped open the man’s filthy jacket and tore the undershirt beneath into bandage-size strips.

  Fuck his father.

  Fuck that little Shit.

  He was going to make his own army. Starting with that bulldog addict.

  It didn’t take long to wrap up the seeping wounds on the human, and then Lash picked him up and threw him in the trunk with all the regard a cabdriver would pay to cheap luggage.

  Driving out from under the bridge, his eyes were bouncing around. But shit . . . every car he saw, from the ones on the surface roads to the traffic that whizzed by on the highway, every single one of them was a Caldwell PD unmarked.

  He was sure of it. They were police. Humans with badges looking into his car. The police, the CPD, the police, the CPD . . .

&n
bsp; As he headed for the ranch, he hit every single red light in Caldwell, and as he was forced to brake it, he stared straight ahead, praying that all the police behind and in front of him didn’t sense he had a dying man and a fuckload of drugs in the car.

  It would take too much effort to deal with being pulled over. Besides, talk about buzz kill. He was finally feeling like himself, every single heartbeat drumming through his veins, the steel-shod hooves of all that cocaine trampling through his brain, creating a cacophony of creative inspiration—

  Wait. What had he been thinking of?

  Aw, hell, what did it matter. Half-formed ideas winged around his mind, plans forming and disintegrating, every single one of them brilliant.

  Benloise, he had to get to Benloise and reestablish the connection. Make more lessers of his own. Find the little Shit and stab him back to the Omega.

  Fuck his father like the guy fucked him.

  Fuck Xhex again.

  Go back to the farmhouse and fight with the Brothers.

  Money, money, money—he needed money.

  As he passed by one of Caldwell’s parks, his foot eased off the accelerator. At first, he wasn’t sure whether he was actually seeing what he thought he was . . . or whether his coked head was warping reality.

  But no . . .

  What was going down in the shadows by the fountain presented the opportunity he’d planned on manufacturing for himself. Or infiltrating if need be.

  Pulling the Mercedes into one of the metered parking spaces, he turned off the car and got his knife out. As he went around the hood of the AMG, he was vaguely aware he wasn’t thinking straight, but as he rode the cocaine rush, that felt just fine.

  John Matthew took form in a stand of pines and bushes along with Xhex and Qhuinn, and Butch, V and Rhage. Up ahead, the ratty farmhouse with the yellow crime scene tape around it looked like something out of Law & Order.

  Although if that were true, without Smell-o-Vision, you wouldn’t get an accurate pic even with great camera work. Despite the acres of fresh air around, the scent of blood was strong enough to make you clear your throat.