The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  The hell she was. She could barely breathe, and the hand that she had against the wound was covered with shiny, fresh blood.

  John started to sign frantically. Call for Doc Jane—

  “No!” she burst out, grabbing his arm with her bloody hand. “I only care about one thing right now.”

  As her eyes locked on Lash, John’s heart slammed against his rib cage.

  From overhead, Z said, “Butch and V are bringing the Escalade over from the Xtreme Park—motherfucker . . . we got company.”

  John glanced down the alley. Four lessers had stepped into view . . . evidence that the address on the Civic’s registration had been right, even though the timing was now very wrong.

  “We’ve got ’em,” Z hissed as he and the group raced back to engage the new arrivals.

  The sound of laughter refocused John. Lash was grinning widely, the unholy anatomy of his face pulled into a crazy-ass smile.

  “John, boy . . . I fucked her, John. . . . I fucked her hard and she liked it.”

  White rage tore through John, the bonded male in him screaming, the dagger in his hand rising up once again.

  “She begged me, John. . . .” The breath that was drawn in was ragged, but satisfied. “Next time you’re with her . . . remember I fill—”

  “I never wanted it!” Xhex spat. “Never!”

  “Filthy female,” Lash sneered. “That’s what you were and what you’ll stay. Filthy and mine—”

  Everything slowed down for John, everything from how the three of them were clustered together to the way the wind whiffled through the alley to the fight that had broken out a hundred yards away by the Mercedes.

  He thought of his own violation long ago in that stairwell. Pictured Xhex going through similar humiliation and degradation. Recalled what Z had said he’d been through. Remembered what Tohr had suffered.

  And in the midst of the recollections, he felt the echo of something long, long ago, something of another abduction, another female hurt wrongly, another life ruined.

  Lash’s horrific face and his decrepit, melting form became the embodiment of all of it: a festering, rotting, tangible representation of all the evil in the world, all the pain caused with deliberation, all the cruelty and debasement and malicious joy.

  All the deeds done in a moment that had repercussions which lasted a lifetime.

  “I fucked her, John, boy—”

  With a slashing arch, John’s dagger arm plunged downward.

  At the last second, he twisted his wrist so that the head of the hilt caught Lash right in the face. And the bonded male in him wanted to do what he’d done to that slayer back at the brownstone—nothing but complete evisceration.

  Except then he’d be cheating this situation of the kind of divine justice so few people got. His wrong had never been righted—that human piece of shit who’d hurt him had gotten clean away. And Tohr’s wrong could never be righted, because Wellsie was never coming back.

  But Z had gotten his closure.

  And goddamn it, so would his Xhex . . . even if that was the last thing in this world she did.

  John had tears in his eyes as he took one of her bloodied hands from her wound . . . and opened it wide.

  Turning his dagger around, he placed the hilt onto her palm. As her eyes flared, he closed her hold on his weapon and moved around to help prop her up and get her within range.

  Lash’s chest was going up and down, his skinless throat flexing while he drew his breath and blew it back out. As light dawned on him and he got a picture of what was coming, lidless eyes stretched in their sockets and his lipless mouth pulled off his teeth in a smile that was the stuff of horror movies.

  He tried to say something, but he couldn’t quite get it out.

  Which was good. He’d already said too much, done too much, hurt too much.

  Time had come for his reckoning.

  In his arms, John felt Xhex gathering her strength and he watched as she took her other hand from her wound to aid in gripping his weapon. Her stare burned with hatred as she took over from there, a sudden surge of power in her body lifting her arms to form an arch above Lash’s sternum.

  The bastard knew what was coming, though, and blocked the blow by covering his chest.

  Oh, hell, no. John shot out and grabbed both of the guy’s biceps, forcing the asshole flat onto the ground, exposing the expanse she needed to hit, giving her the clearest and best shot.

  As her eyes rose to John’s, there was a telltale sheen of red across them, her tears making her irises glow: All the pain she’d borne in her heart was as exposed as Lash’s ugliness, all the burden on her and in her made manifest in her stare.

  When John nodded at her, his dagger in her hands swept down and hit Lash directly in the heart. . . .

  The evil’s scream echoed in between the buildings, ricocheting back and forth, gathering in volume until it became the great Pop! that accompanied a vivid flash of light.

  Which took Lash back to his unholy sire.

  As the sound and illumination faded, all that was left was a faint scorched circle on the asphalt and the stench of burned sugar.

  Xhex’s shoulders went limp and the dagger blade squeaked across the pavement as she fell backward, her strength gone. John caught her before she hit the ground, and she stared up at him, her tears mixing with the blood on her face and running down her neck, past the vital beating pulse that was her life force.

  John held her tight against him, her head fitting perfectly under his chin.

  “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “Oh, God, John . . . he’s dead. . . .”

  With his hands occupied, all he could do was nod so that she knew that he was agreeing with her.

  End of an era, he thought, looking over at Blay and Qhuinn, who were fighting side by side with Zsadist and Tohrment against the slayers who had shown up.

  God, he had the oddest sense of continuity. He and Xhex might have briefly stepped out of the way of the war, taking this momentary respite at the side of the struggle trail. But the fight in the shadows of the alleys in Caldwell was going to continue without . . .

  Her.

  John closed his eyes and buried his face in Xhex’s curling hair.

  This was the end game she’d wanted, he thought. Get Lash . . . and get out of life.

  She had exactly what she’d wanted.

  “Thank you,” he heard her say roughly. “Thank you . . .”

  Against the tide of sadness that overtook him, he realized that those two words were better than I love you. They actually meant more to him than anything else she could have uttered.

  He had given her what she wanted. When it had really mattered, he had done right by her.

  And now he was going to hold her as her body grew colder and she drifted away from where he was going to stay.

  The separation was going to last longer than the number of days he knew her.

  Taking her slick palm, he flattened it once more. And then with his free hand, he signed against her skin in slow, precise positions:

  L. O. V. E. U. 4. E. V. E. R.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Death was messy and painful and largely predictable . . . except when it didn’t feel like behaving and decided to exercise its bizarre sense of humor.

  An hour later, as Xhex opened her eyes a crack, she realized she was in fact not in the foggy folds of the Fade . . . but in the clinic at the Brotherhood’s mansion.

  A tube was being pulled out of her throat. And her side felt like someone had parked a rusty spear in it. And somewhere over on the left, gloves were being snapped off.

  Doc Jane’s voice was low. “She coded twice, John. I got the bleeder in her gut . . . but I don’t know—”

  “I think she’s awake,” Ehlena said. “Are you coming back to us, Xhex?”

  Well, apparently she was. She felt like hell, and after having sliced open a variety of stomachs over the years, she couldn’t believe she still had a heartbeat . . . but yeah, she was alive.


  Hanging by a thread, but alive.

  John’s pasty white face entered her line of vision, and in contrast to the ill cast of his skin, his blue eyes were like fire.

  She opened her mouth . . . but all that came out was the air in her lungs. She didn’t have the strength to speak.

  Sorry, she mouthed.

  He frowned. Shaking his head, he took her hand and smoothed it. . . .

  She must have passed out, because when she woke up, John was walking beside her. What the hell—oh, she was being moved into the other room . . . because they were bringing someone else in—someone strapped down to a gurney. A female, given the long, black braid that swung off the side.

  The word pain came to mind.

  “Pain is in here,” Xhex murmured.

  John’s head whipped around. What? he mouthed.

  “Whoever’s there . . . is pain.”

  She passed out again . . . and came to feeding from John’s wrist. And passed out again.

  In her dreams, she saw parts of her life going all the way back to a time she didn’t consciously remember. And as in-flight movies went, the drama was pretty depressing. There were too many crossroads to count where things should have been different, where fate had been more of a grind than a gift. Destiny was like the passage of time, however, immutable and unforgiving and uninterested in the personal opinion of those who breathed.

  And yet . . . as her mind churned beneath the leaden weight and still surface of her unconscious body, she had the sense that everything had worked out as it was supposed to, that the path she had been set upon had taken her precisely where she was supposed to go:

  Back to John.

  Even though that made no sense whatsoever.

  After all, she’d met him only a year or so ago. Which hardly justified the sprawl of history that seemed to unite them.

  But then, maybe that did make sense. While you were unconscious on morphine and teetering on the brink of the Fade . . . things looked different. And time, like priorities, shifted.

  On the other side of the door to Xhex’s recovery room, Payne blinked hard and tried to ascertain where she had been moved to. There was naught to inform her, however. The chamber’s walls were tiled in a pale green and gleaming fixtures and storage casings abounded. But she hadn’t a clue what it all meant.

  At least the transport had been slow, careful, and relatively comfortable. But then something had been put into her veins to calm her and ease her—and verily, she was grateful for whatever potion it was.

  Indeed, the specter of her dead was more agitating than her discomfort or whether she had a future on this side. Had the good doctor truly spoken the name of her twin? Or had that been a figment of her scattered, muddled mind?

  She knew not. But cared a great deal.

  In the periphery of her vision, she saw many attending upon her arrival herein, including the doctor and the Blind King. There was also a blond female of comely visage . . . and a dark-haired warrior who people were calling by the name Tohrment.

  Exhausted, Payne closed her eyes, the patter of voices carrying her off into a drifting sleep. She did not how long she was out . . . but what brought her back was the sudden awareness of a new arrival within the hushed space.

  The personage was one whom she knew so very well, and the appearance was a greater source of shock than the reality that she was away from her mother.

  As Payne opened her eyes, No’One approached her, her limp shifting her across the smooth flooring, the hood of her robe shielding her face from view. The Blind King loomed behind the female, arms crossed over his chest, his beautiful blond dog and his beautiful brunette queen on either side of him.

  “Whatever . . . are you here?” Payne said hoarsely, aware she was making more sense on the inside of her head than her words would suggest.

  The fallen Chosen seemed very nervous, although how that was exactly evident, Payne wasn’t sure. It was something sensed but not seen, given that the Chosen’s black robes were covering all of her.

  “Taketh my hand,” Payne said. “I should want to ease you.”

  No’One shook her head beneath her hood. “It is I who have come to ease you.” As Payne frowned, the Chosen glanced back at Wrath. “The king has permitted me to tarry in his household for to serve as your maid.”

  Payne swallowed, but her dry mouth offered no relief to her parched throat. “No serve me. Be here . . . but serve yourself.”

  “Indeed . . . there is that as well.” No’One’s soft voice grew tight. “Verily, upon your departure from the Sanctuary, I approached the Scribe Virgin—and my request was granted. You inspired me to long o’erdue action. I have been cowardly . . . but no longer, thanks to you.”

  “I . . . am . . . glad . . .” Although what she could have done to justify such motivation escaped her. “And I am grateful you are here—”

  With an explosive shove, the door in the far corner was thrown open, and a male dressed in black leather and smelling of sickly death burst into the room. Right on his heels was the private physician, and as he jerked to a halt, the ghostly female put her hand upon his shoulder as if to soothe him.

  The male’s diamond eyes locked on Payne, and though she hadn’t seen him in forever, she knew who he was. Sure as if she was staring at her own reflection.

  Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes for last she had known, he breathed no longer. “Vishous,” she whispered desperately. “Oh, brother mine . . .”

  He was at her side in a flash, taking form right next to her. His incredibly intelligent stare traced her features and she had the sense that their expressions were as identical as their coloring: her surprise and incomprehension were likewise upon his harsh, handsome features.

  His eyes . . . oh, his diamond eyes. They were her own; she had seen them staring back at her in countless mirrors.

  “Who are you?” he said roughly.

  Abruptly, she felt something in her ever-numbing body—and the great heavy weight came not from physical injury, but inner calamity. That he didn’t know who she was, that they had been kept separate by a lie, was a tragedy she could hardly bear.

  Her voice became strong. “I am . . . your blood.”

  “Jesus Christ . . .” He lifted a hand that was encased in a black glove. “My sister . . . ?”

  “I have to go,” the doctor said urgently. “The break in her spine is beyond my expertise. I need to go get—”

  “Find that goddamn surgeon,” Vishous growled, his eyes still locked on Payne’s. “Find him and bring him here . . . no matter what it takes.”

  “I won’t come back without him. You have my word.”

  Vishous turned to the female and captured her mouth in a quick, hard kiss. “God . . . I love you.”

  The physician’s ghostly face became solid as they stared at each other. “We’re going to save her, trust me. I’ll be back the second I can—Wrath’s given his permission and Fritz is going to help me get Manny here.”

  “Fucking sunlight. It’s coming all too soon.”

  “I’d want you here with her anyway. You and Ehlena need to watch her vitals, and Xhex is still in critical condition. I want you to take care of them.”

  When he nodded, the physician disappeared into thin air, and then a moment later, Payne felt a warm palm encompass hers. It was Vishous’s un-gloved hand against her own and the connection between them eased her in ways she couldn’t name.

  Verily, she had lost her mother . . . but if she lived through this, she still had family. On this side.

  “Sister,” he murmured, not as an inquiry, but a statement of fact.

  “Brother mine,” she groaned . . . before her consciousness slipped from her grasp and she drifted away.

  But she would come back to him. One way or the other, she would not leave her twin ever again.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Xhex woke up alone in the room off the OR, and yet she sensed that John wasn’t far.

  The draw to find him gave h
er the strength to push herself up and swing her legs off the bed. As she waited for her heart to stop thumping from the effort, she noticed dimly that her hospital johnny had hearts on it. Little pink and blue hearts.

  She couldn’t even marshal up the energy to be offended. Her side was killing her and her skin was prickling all over. And she had to get to John.

  Glancing over, she saw that the IV in her arm was plugged into a bag that hung off the bed’s monitoring headboard. Crap. What she needed was one of those rolling poles they used to put ’em on. Could have used the help with the whole balance-while-upright thing.

  When she finally put some weight on her feet, she was relieved to find she didn’t face-plant right away. And, after a moment of orientation, she slipped the bag of fluids free and carried it with her, giving herself a pat on the back for being such a good little patient.

  Thing was kind of like a handbag. Maybe she’d start a new trend.

  She took the door that led directly out into the corridor, as opposed to going through the OR. After all, the episode with Doc Jane and John’s procedure had helped her phobia, but she had quite enough to deal with at the moment and the last thing she needed was to walk into another operation—and God only knew what they were doing to that poor female who’d been rolled in after her.

  Xhex stopped with one foot into the hallway.

  John was all the way down by the office, standing outside the glass door and facing the wall across from it. His eyes were locked on the fissures that ran through the concrete and his emotional grid was dimmed to the point where it left her instincts squinting.

  He was in mourning.

  He didn’t know for sure whether she had lived or died . . . yet he felt as if he had already lost her.

  “Oh . . . John.”

  His head snapped toward her. Shit, he signed, hustling down to her. What are you doing out of bed?

  Xhex started to walk in his direction, but he got to her first, rushing up as if he were going to scoop her into his arms.

  She held him off, shaking her head. “No, I’m steady—”

  At which point, her knees buckled and he was all that kept her from hitting the floor. . . which reminded her of being in that alley and Lash stabbing her.