The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Lash frowned as his instincts rippled outward and located that which had been taken from him.

  She was here.

  Xhex . . . his Xhex was here.

  As what was left of his vampire side roared with possession, Lash found his body vibrating until his feet were removed of their burden and he moved over the asphalt with the wind, leaning into the momentum he created with his mind, not his legs. Faster. Faster—

  He came around the corner and there she was, standing by his car, looking like pure sex in her leathers and her jacket. The instant he appeared, she turned toward him as if he had called out to her.

  Even with no lights shining down on her, Xhex was resplendent, the ambient illumination of the city gathering to her body, like her inner charisma demanded it. Fucking wow. She was one hot bitch, especially in the fighting gear, and as the hollow space in front of his hips tingled, he reached down.

  Something was hard. Behind his fly, something was there and ready for her.

  With a shot of adrenaline that was better than any kind of coke, he entertained how much fun it would be to take her with an audience. His cock had returned in some form or another and that meant he was back in business—just in time.

  As she met his eyes, he slowed his speed and focused on who was with her. The Brother Tohrment. Qhuinn, the mismatched genetic failure. And John Matthew.

  The perfect peanut gallery for some Clockwork Orange shit.

  How. Fucking. Fabulous.

  Lash lowered himself down to the ground and set the briefcases on the asphalt. The idiot males she was with were all busy popping various kinds of heat—but not his Xhex. Nope, she was stronger than that.

  “Hey, baby,” he said. “Miss me?”

  Someone let out a growl that reminded him of his rottweiler, but whatever, now that he had everyone’s attention, he was going to take advantage of the stage time. Willing the raincoat’s hood from his head, he reached up, his shadow hands undoing the black strips that covered his face to reveal his features.

  “Jesus Christ . . .” Qhuinn muttered. “You look like a Rorschach test.”

  Lash didn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because the only one he cared about was the female in the leather. Obviously, she hadn’t expected his transformation, and the way she recoiled? Better than a hug and a kiss. To disgust her was just as good as turning her on—and much more fun when he got her back and booked their asses some time in a honeymoon suite.

  Lash smiled and sent his new, improved voice out into the air. “I have such plans for you and me, bitch. ’Course, you’re going to have to beg me for it—”

  The goddamn fucking female disappeared.

  Right into thin air.

  One moment she was standing by his car; the next there was nothing but air where she had been. Bitch was still in the alley, though. He could sense her, just not see her—

  The first gunshot that rang out came from behind him and caught him in the shoulder—or didn’t, as was the case. The trench coat shredded on impact, blowing out a flap, but the nonflesh beneath couldn’t have cared less—and all he felt was an odd echoing sting.

  Niiiiiice. Otherwise that might have hurt.

  He cranked his head around, frankly unimpressed by how obvious she was being and how bad her aim was.

  Except Xhex hadn’t been the one throwing the lead. Benloise’s boys had shown up with reinforcements, and good thing they couldn’t aim for shit. Last time he’d checked, his chest was still solid, so a couple of inches down and to the center and he might have had a sieve for a heart.

  Rage at the goddamn nerve of those fucking drug slingers had Lash boiling up a ball of lights-out-asshole in his palm.

  As he flashed back into an inset doorway, he cast the energy force down at the humans, the blast providing a helluva show as it bowling-balled the bastards, illuminating their bodies all manga-style as they were thrown to the sides in the wake of the rollout.

  By this point, more Brothers had arrived and all kinds of people had started shooting, various guns getting a workout—which was no big deal until Lash took a slug in the hip, the pain scorching through his torso and making his heart ricochet around. As he cursed and fell to the side, his eyes shifted to the alley.

  John Matthew was the only one who hadn’t taken cover: Team Brother had ducked behind the Mercedes and Benloise’s guys had dragged themselves behind the rusted-out shell of a Jeep.

  But John Matthew had his shitkickers planted on the ground and his hands down at his sides.

  Fucker made himself one hell of a target. It was almost a bore.

  Lash summoned up another ball of energy in his palm and shouted, “You’re killing yourself sure as if you put a gun to your head, you bitch-ass motherfucker.”

  John started walking forward, his fangs bared, a cold rush waving out ahead of him.

  For a moment, Lash felt a prickle of tension filter through the nape of his neck. This couldn’t be right. No one in their right mind would ride up on his grille like this.

  It was suicide.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Plans, plans, plans . . .

  Or, in other words, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit . . .

  Xhex had had the perfect plan when she’d cloaked herself in the manner of symphaths and whispered out of sight. As an assassin, she had prided herself not only on her success rate, but the flair she brought to her work, and this payback was going to be good. Her “plan” had been to flank up on Lash unseen and slice his throat before going to work on him—while she looked in his eyes and smiled like the crazy bitch she was.

  First wrinkle? What the fuck had happened to him since she’d seen him last? The reveal he’d pulled unwrapping his head had stunned the crap out of her. He had no flesh left on his face; there was nothing but black-slicked muscle fibers and jarring bones, his bright white teeth looking fluorescent in contrast. And his hands weren’t right, either. They had form, not substance. In the shadowy night . . . they were nothing but a deeper shade of darkness.

  Thank God she’d gotten away from him when she did—although maybe all that decaying was the reason she’d been able to break out of her prison: It seemed logical to assume his powers were weakening as well.

  But whatever . . . her second problem in Plan Land? John. Who right now was standing in the center of the alley with everything but a sign saying SHOOT ME HERE on his chest.

  It was pretty frickin’ obvious that there would be no reasoning with him—even if she took form right next to his ear and screamed into his brain, she knew there was no derailing him. He was all animal as he faced off at his enemy, his fangs bared like a lion’s, his body arching forward like he was going to pile-drive the guy.

  Pretty good bet that he was going to die if he didn’t take cover, but he didn’t seem to care and the why was clear: His bonding scent was louder than any noise he could have made with his throat, the dark spice a roar that overcame every other smell, from the city’s body odor to the river’s sweat to the lesser stench that was wafting up from Lash’s rotting body.

  Standing in the gritty alley, John was the primordial male protecting his female—and everything she hadn’t wanted in this situation for precisely this reason: Clearly, his personal safety meant nothing to him, his objective overriding all his common sense and specific training.

  Bottom line? He wasn’t going to be able to survive whatever energy ball Lash was palming up . . . and that reality shifted everything in her world.

  New plan. No cloaking anymore for her. No disable, disarm, dismember. No extraction of pain for the agony she had been through, no Jack the Ripper routine.

  As she took form and lunged at Lash, it was about saving John, not avenging herself. Because when it came down to it? Turned out John was the only thing that mattered to her.

  She tackled Lash around the waist at the very moment he started to throw his ball of knock-down, and though she took him to the ground with her, he managed to course-correct his aim . . . and hit John sq
uare in the chest.

  The impact blew her male off the pavement, sweeping him up and back, all but blowing him out of his boots.

  “You fucking bastard!” she screamed into Lash’s stripped face.

  The son of a bitch’s arms snapped around her, locking on with incredible strength. And as he flipped her around and pinned her to the pavement beneath him, his breath was hot and foul on her face.

  “Gotcha,” he sneered, grinding his hips into hers, his erection enough to make her sick.

  “Fuck you!” With a quick jerk, she nailed him right in the . . . well, what passed for a nose . . . with a head butt that had him howling.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t get another clean shot as they struggled for control, rolling around, their legs intertwining, that horrible arousal of his pushing at her. He managed to snag one of her wrists, but at least she kept the other one out of his way.

  Which meant when the time was right, she was able to reach between them, grab his balls, and twist them so hard, if it hadn’t been for his pants, she’d have broken the fuckers off.

  Lash wheezed out a curse and went rigid, proving that he might have been a demigod on the dark side, but he was pretty fucking mortal when it came to taking a hit in the jewels.

  Now she was the one in control of the ground game, spinning him over onto his back and straddling him. “Got you,” she snapped at him.

  As she held him down, rage got the better of her—instead of stabbing him outright, she gripped him around the neck and squeezed the air out of his throat.

  “You don’t fuck with what’s mine,” she growled at him.

  Lash’s ugly-ass puss went vicious pissed and somehow his voice emanated up even with the lock she had on his larynx. “He’s already been fucked good. Or didn’t he tell you about that human who—”

  Xhex cuffed the SOB so hard, she took a tooth with her on the follow-through. “Don’t you dare go there—”

  “I’ll go anywhere the fuck I want, sweetheart.”

  With that, he ghosted on her, dissolving into nothing—but that didn’t last. An instant later, she was taken from behind, grabbed, and pulled up hard against his body. In the still seconds that followed, she had a brief impression of the humans who were moaning on the asphalt, and then she was swung around and used as a shield as she and Lash faced the Brothers.

  Her eyes didn’t waste time checking her team’s positions behind the Mercedes or measuring what weapons were pointed in her and Lash’s direction.

  John was the only thing that mattered.

  And thank God, the Scribe Virgin . . . or whoever granted mercies . . . that he was sitting up and shaking off whatever strobe-light nightmare had ass-over-elbowed him.

  At least he was alive.

  She was probably not going to survive this, but John . . . he was going to live. Provided she got herself and Lash out of here.

  “Take me,” she hissed to the bastard. “Just take me and leave them.”

  There was a whisper of metal against metal and then a switchblade appeared in front of her face, the blade flashing right next to her eye—so close, she could make out the inscription of the manufacturer’s name.

  “You like to get real personal with your kills.” Lash’s voice was so not right, the distortion in it making his words ripple in her ear. “I know this because of what you did to that fool Grady. Gave him one hell of a last meal—wonder if he liked sausage in life as much as he did in death?”

  The point of the weapon dipped out of her visual field . . . and then she felt the tip go into her cheekbone and drag slowly downward.

  The breeze was cool. Her blood was warm.

  Closing her eyes, all she could do was repeat, “Take me.”

  “Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that.” Something wet drew up over the wound—his tongue lapping at what had welled up. Then he called out, “She tastes as good as I remember—Stop right there. Anyone takes another step forward, and I’ll slice her where it counts.”

  The blade went to her throat and Lash started walking backward, dragging her with him. On instinct, she tried to get inside his head in the event her symphath side could influence him, but she was blocked sure as if she were in front of a stone wall. Not a surprise.

  Abruptly, she wondered why he didn’t cloak them both—

  He was limping. He’d taken a bullet somewhere—and now that she was properly focused, she could smell his blood, and see it glistening on the pavement.

  As Lash kept going, those sorry-ass humans came into sight again, and they looked like corpses, all pale and stiff to the point where she was amazed they could make any noises at all. Their car, she thought. Lash was going to try to take the two of them back to whatever ride those boys had come in. And although he was compromised on some levels, his grip on her was viciously strong, and that knife? Steady and ready.

  Xhex stared down at John and knew she would remember the magnificent sight of his warrior’s vengeance forever—

  She frowned as she sensed his emotions. How . . . strange. That shadow she had always sensed in the lee of his grid wasn’t a mere second-stringer anymore—it was as tangible and vivid as that which had always been the primary construct within his psyche.

  In fact, as he stared up the alley, the two parts of him . . . became one.

  After John had been hit with that bomb of energy, he was dazed and disoriented, but he forced his head to get back in the game and somehow managed to heave himself off the ground. He couldn’t feel some portion of his body, and the other half that wasn’t numb screamed in pain, but neither mattered. Deadly purpose animated him, replacing the beat of his heart as the driver of his physical form.

  Locking his eyes on the scene before him, his hands twitched and his shoulders tightened. Lash was using Xhex as a living shield, all his best target points hidden behind her as he pulled her away.

  That knife to her throat was right on her vein. Pressing against her . . .

  In a quick twist, reality warped and distorted on him, his sight fuzzing out and becoming clear, only to lose its grip on the alley they were all in once more. Blinking hard, he cursed the tricks that Lash had at his disposal—

  Except the problem wasn’t what John had been hit with. It was something inside of him—a vision. A vision was boiling up from somewhere deep in his mind, wiping out what he was actually seeing. . . .

  A field by a barn. In the dark of night.

  He shook his head and was relieved when the alley in Caldwell came back—

  A field by a barn. In the dark of night . . . a female who mattered held in an evil lock, a knife to her throat.

  And then he was abruptly back in the present, returning here to the warehouse district . . . where a female who mattered was held in an evil lock, a knife to her throat.

  Oh, God . . . he felt like he had done this before.

  Fuck that . . . he had done this before.

  The epileptic fit came over him as it always did, scrambling his neurons, sending him flying in his own skin.

  Usually he ended up on his ass, but the bonded male in him kept him upright, giving him a kind of power that came from the soul, not the body: His female was in the arms of a killer and every cell in John’s body was going to rectify the situation in as violent and fast a manner as possible.

  Or maybe even a little bloodier and quicker than that.

  He moved his hand into his coat for his gun . . . but shit, what was there to shoot at? Lash wasn’t taking any chances with his own vital organs and his grotesque head was so close to hers, there was no room for error.

  John’s fury screamed inside of him—

  In his peripheral vision, he saw a gun muzzle come up.

  Blink.

  A field by a barn. In the dark of night. A female who mattered held in an evil lock, a knife to her throat. A gun brought to bear—

  Blink.

  Back here in Caldwell, the love of his life in the hands of his enemy.

  Blink.

 
; A gun going off—

  The explosion right next to John’s ear shocked him firmly back into reality, and he let out a wordless scream, lunging forward as if he could catch the bullet.

  No! he screamed soundlessly. Noooo—

  Except it was a perfect shot. The slug caught Lash in the temple—about two inches away from Xhex’s own head.

  In slow motion, John glanced over his shoulder. Tohrment’s forty was held straight out from the guy’s body, the weapon unwavering in the cold air.

  For some reason, neither the shooter nor the accuracy was a surprise even though it had been a one-in-a-million Hail Mary.

  Oh, God, they’d done this before, hadn’t they. Just . . . like this.

  Real time snapped back into place and John whipped his head around again. Across the way, Xhex was brilliant as Lash staggered. She ducked down into a crouch to give Tohr a bigger target and was almost totally out of the way as the second bullet got sent flying.

  Impact number two popped Lash right off his precious little loafers, landing him flat on his back.

  John threw off the vestiges of his vertigo and pounded down to his female, his shitkickers grabbing the ground and holding tight, his thighs shoving all his strength into his feet as he burst into action.

  His only thought was of saving Xhex, and he went for the weapon he needed to do the deed with: the six-inch black dagger that was holstered to his chest. As he came up to them, he raised his arm over his head, prepared to fall upon his enemy and stab Lash back to—

  The scent of Xhex’s blood changed everything, derailing the slice.

  Oh, Jesus. . . . The fucking bastard had had two knives. One that had been at her throat. And another that had penetrated her in the gut.

  Xhex rolled over on her back, grabbing her side with a grimace.

  As Lash writhed and clasped his head and chest, Tohr arrived with Qhuinn and Blay and the other Brothers, all their guns pointed at their enemy, so John didn’t have to worry about coverage as he assessed the damage.

  John leaned down to Xhex.

  “I’m okay,” she gasped out. “I’m okay . . . I’m okay. . . .”