The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Xhex blinked. As lame as it made her, it was all she could do . . . apart from absorb the female’s incredible sorrow.

  Eventually, in an attempt to understand something, anything, she tried to pierce the mind of the robed figure before her, but didn’t get far at all. Any specific thoughts or memories, like Tohrment’s, were blocked from her perception. She had emotional context, but no detail.

  She knew, however, that the female told the truth.

  And though there had been many times she had felt deserted by the one who had birthed her, she wasn’t stupid. The circumstances of her conception, given who her sire had been, could not possibly have been joyous.

  Horrific was more like it.

  Xhex had always felt that she must have been a curse on the mother who had borne her, and so now, meeting the female face-to-face? She felt no acrimony toward the still, tense figure before her.

  Xhex got to her feet, and as she stood, she sensed Tohrment’s rank despair and disbelief, and knew some of that for herself. But she would not turn away from this opportunity . . . this gift that destiny had given her on the night of her mating.

  She walked slowly across the rug. As she came up to her mother, she noticed the other female was much smaller than she, and thinner of stature, and more timid of nature.

  “Whatever is your name?” Xhex asked roughly.

  “I am . . . No’One,” came the reply. “I am No’One—”

  A shrill whistle whipped everybody’s heads around to the door. John was standing just inside the room, his sister the queen by his side, a small red bag with MARCUS REINHARDT JEWELERS, EST. 1893 written on it in his hand.

  John clearly hadn’t gone for a workout. He’d gone with Beth into the human world . . . to pick out a mating ring.

  Xhex looked around at the assembled and saw the tableau they all made: Tohrment by the LV trunk, John and Beth in the doorway, No’One by the bed.

  She would remember this moment all the days of her life. And though there were more questions in her mind than answers, she found the strength in her own soul to voice a reply to John’s mute question about who her mystery guest was.

  And actually, it was because of him she was able to answer at all: Always look forward. There was much in the past that was best left in the annals of history. Here in this room, with these people, she needed to look forward.

  Clearing her throat, she said loudly and clearly, “John . . . this is my mother. And she shall stand for me at our mating.”

  John seemed utterly nonplussed—but he got over it quickly. Like a perfect gentlemale, he approached No’One and bowed at the waist. After he signed, Xhex translated hoarsely.

  “He said he is grateful for your presence on this night and that you are e’er welcome within our home.”

  No’One put her hands over her face, clearly overcome with emotion. “Thank . . . you. Thank you.”

  Xhex wasn’t a hugger, but she was damned good at holding people up, and she clasped her mother’s terribly thin arm so the poor thing didn’t go down onto the carpet.

  “It’s okay,” she told John, who was obviously freaking about having upset the female. “Wait—don’t look over there, you can’t see my gown.”

  John froze with his eyes halfway across the room. Gown, he mouthed.

  Yeah, hard to know what the biggest shocker was: her mother showing up for the first time in three hundred years. Or the fact that, yes, it appeared she was jacking her ass into a mating gown.

  You never knew where life was going to take you, did you.

  And sometimes, the surprises were not bad, not bad at all.

  One . . . John.

  Two . . . a gown.

  Three . . . her mother.

  Tonight was a good night, a very good night, indeed.

  “Here, we’ll go down the hall,” she said, heading over and shutting the dress in. “I’ve got to get dressed . . . don’t want to be late for my very own mating.”

  As she hustled the wardrobe out of the room, turning down help from the males, she asked No’One and Beth to come with her. After all, when it came to her mother and John’s sister, they all needed to start getting acquainted . . . and what better way than to get her well and properly dressed for her future hellren.

  For her male of worth.

  For the love of her life.

  Tonight was actually the very best thing that had ever happened to her.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  John Matthew was forced to stand aside and watch his shellan heft a trunk the size of a Chevy off down the hall with his sister . . . and her mother?

  He was thrilled about the latter two females; not so much about the former deadweight. But he knew better than to play he-man with the muscles. If Xhex needed his help, she’d ask for it.

  And what do you know, she was strong enough to do it all by herself.

  Right, for reals . . . that was hot—he wasn’t going to lie.

  “Have you got your duds?” Tohrment asked gruffly.

  As John glanced over at the guy, it was clear the Brother had just been rocked to his core. He was absolutely reeling in his shitkickers. Except, given the hard line of his brow and his jaw, he was not going to go into it.

  Ah . . . I don’t know what I’m wearing, John signed. A tuxedo?

  “No, I’ll go get you what you need. Hold on.”

  Bam—the door was shut.

  John looked around his room, and when he saw the closet, that clown smile he seemed to wear all the time came back. Walking over, he put the little red bag he’d gotten at the jewelers on the bureau and paused to admire the display of their coupledom.

  Oh, man . . . she’d moved in. She’d really moved in. Her clothes and his were hanging together.

  Reaching out, he touched her leathers and her muscle shirts and her holsters . . . and felt his flush of pride and happiness dim a little. She was going to fight in the war. Side by side with him and the Brothers. The Old Laws might have expressly forbidden it, but the Blind King had already proven he wasn’t a slave to the ancient ways—and Xhex had already proven she could more than handle herself in the field.

  John headed for the bed and sat down. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her out in the night with the slayers.

  Okay. Fuck that. He knew exactly how he felt about it.

  Wasn’t going to tell her not to go out there, though. She was who she was and he was mating with a fighter.

  Just as she was.

  His eyes shifted to the bedside table. Leaning over, he popped open the top drawer and took out his father’s diary. Smoothing his hand down the supple leather, he felt history slide out of the intellectual and into the actual. Long, long ago another’s hands had held this book and written on its pages . . . and then through a series of accidents and luck the journal had come down through the nights and days to John.

  For some reason, on this evening, his tie to his father Darius seemed strong enough to best the foggy ether of time and pull the two of them together, uniting them until . . . God, it seemed as if they were almost one person.

  Because he knew his father would have been thrilled with this. Knew surely as if the guy were seated next to him on this bed.

  Darius would have wanted him and Xhex to end up together. Why? Who knew . . . but that was a truth as real as the vows he would soon be taking.

  John reached forward for the drawer again, and this time, he took out the small old box. Lifting the lid, he stared down at the heavy gold signet ring. The damn thing was huge and sized to fit a warrior’s hand, its surface glowing through the fine network of scratches that covered the crest and the sides.

  It fit the forefinger on his right hand perfectly.

  And he abruptly decided he wasn’t taking it off again even when fighting.

  “He would have so approved of this.”

  John’s eyes flashed up. Tohr had come back and brought a bunch of black silk with him—as well as Lassiter. Standing behind the guy, the fallen angel’s light spille
d in all directions, as if a sunrise had happened out in the hall.

  You know, for some reason I think you’re right, John signed.

  “I know I’m right.” The Brother came forward and sat down on the bed. “He knew her.”

  Who?

  “He knew Xhex. He was there when she was born, when her mother . . .” There was a long pause, as if Tohr had had his brain scrambled and the sloshing hadn’t quite quieted down yet. “When her mother died, he took Xhex to a family who could care for her. He loved that young—and so did I. That was why he called her Xhexania. He watched her from afar—”

  The epileptic attack came on so suddenly, John didn’t have time to try to fight the seizure—one moment he was sitting upright listening to Tohr; the next he was down on the floor doing the not-this-again jitterbug.

  When his synapses finally stopped snap-crackle-popping, and his flopping limbs fell still, his breath heaved in and out of his mouth. To his relief, Tohr was right over him, crouching down.

  “How you doing?” the guy asked tightly.

  John shoved against the floor and sat upright. Rubbing his face, he was glad to find his eyesight still worked. Never thought he’d be glad to get a clear picture of Lassiter’s mug.

  Struggling for control of his hands, he managed to sign, Feel like I’ve been in a blender.

  The fallen angel nodded gravely. “And you look it, too.”

  Tohr shot the guy a glare, then refocused on John. “Don’t mind him, he’s blind.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “In another minute and a half, you’re going to be.” Tohr hitched a hold on John’s biceps and dragged him back onto the bed. “You want a drink?”

  “Or maybe a new brain?” Lassiter offered.

  Tohr leaned in. “As a public service, I’ll make him mute, too, ’kay?”

  You are such a giver.

  There was a long pause and then John signed, My father knew her?

  “Yes.”

  You did, too, didn’t you.

  “Yes.”

  In the silence that followed, John decided that some things were best just left at their definition. And this was one of them, given the Brother’s tight expression.

  “I’m glad you’re wearing his ring,” Tohr said abruptly as he got to his feet. “Especially on a night like tonight.”

  John looked at the hunk of gold on his finger. It felt so right. As if he’d been wearing it for years.

  Me, too, he signed.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get dressed myself.”

  As John glanced up, he was taken back to a moment all that time ago when he’d answered the door to his shitty studio and leveled a gun up, up, way up, into the guy’s face.

  And now Tohr had brought him his ceremonial mating robes.

  The Brother smiled a little. “I wish your father was here to see this.”

  John frowned and rolled that signet ring around on his finger, thinking about how much he owed the male. Then on a quick surge, he burst to his feet . . . and embraced the Brother hard. Tohr seemed momentarily surprised but then strong arms reciprocated.

  When John pulled back, he stared straight into those eyes. He is here, he signed. My father is right here with me.

  An hour later, John was standing on the mosaic floor in the foyer, shifting his weight back and forth between his two feet. He was dressed in the traditional mating ceremony garb of a noble male of worth, the black silk pants falling to the floor, the loose top secured with a jeweled belt that had been presented to him for use by the king.

  The decision had been made to conduct the ceremony at the base of the grand staircase, in the archway that was formed by the dining room. The double doors of where everyone ate had been shut to form a wall, and on the other side of them, the doggen had set out a feast.

  Everything was arranged, the Brotherhood standing in a line next to him, the shellans and other members of the household assembled in a loose half-circle across the way. Among those playing witness, Qhuinn was on one end; Blay and Saxton were on the other. iAm and Trez were in the middle, having been invited as special guests.

  As John looked all around the space, he took note of the malachite columns and the marble walls and the chandeliers. There had been so many times since he had come here to stay when people had told him how much his father would have enjoyed people filling up all the rooms and living their lives under the sturdy roof.

  John focused on the apple tree depicted on the floor. It was so lovely, a sign of spring, eternally flowering . . . the kind of thing that uplifted you every time you saw it.

  He’d loved the tree since he’d moved in—

  A collective gasp snapped his head up.

  Oh . . . sweet . . . Mary . . . Mother . . . of . . .

  His brain conked out at that point. Just went blank. He was pretty sure his heart was still ticking, given that he remained upright, but other than that?

  Well, he’d just died and gone to heaven.

  Standing up at the top of the grand staircase, with her hand poised on the golden balustrade, Xhex had appeared in a breathtaking glory that rendered him senseless and astonished.

  The red gown she was wearing suited her perfectly, the black lace at the top playing to her black hair and her dark gray eyes, the miles of satin skirting falling about her slender body in resplendent waves.

  As she met his eyes, she fussed with the waist, then smoothed the front.

  Come to me, he signed. Come down to me, my female.

  In the far corner, a tenor began to sing, Zsadist’s crystal-clear voice sailing up toward the warrior paintings on the ceiling far, far above them all. At first John didn’t know what the song was . . . although if he’d been asked what his name was, he would have said Santa Claus, or Luther Vandross, or Teddy Roosevelt.

  Maybe even Joan Collins.

  But then the sounds coalesced and he caught the tune. U2’s “All I Want Is You.”

  The one John had asked the male to sing.

  Xhex’s first step brought out the sniffles from the females. And Lassiter, evidently. Either that or the angel had dust in his eye.

  With every descending footfall Xhex took, John’s chest swelled further until he felt as if not only his body was buoyant, but he was lifting the great weight of the stone mansion up with him.

  At the base of the stairs, she paused again and Beth rushed forward to arrange the long skirting.

  And then Xhex was standing with him in front of Wrath, the Blind King.

  I love you, John mouthed.

  The smile she gave him started small, just a lift on one side, but it spread—oh, God . . . it spread until she was beaming so wide her fangs were showing and her eyes were lit up like stars.

  I love you, too, she mouthed back.

  The king’s voice echoed to the high ceiling. “Hear ye, all assembled before me. We are gathered herein to witness the mating of this male and this female. . . .”

  The ceremony commenced and proceeded, with him and Xhex responding when they were supposed to. The absence of the Scribe Virgin was glossed over, with the king pronouncing that it was a good mating, and then when all the vows were made, it was time to get serious.

  As Wrath gave the cue, John leaned in and pressed his lips to Xhex’s; then he stepped back and took off the jeweled belt and the robe. He was smiling like a motherfucker as he gave them over to Tohr and Fritz brought forward the table with the bowl of salt and the silver pitcher of water on it.

  Wrath unsheathed his black dagger and said in a loud voice, “What is the name of your shellan?”

  To all and sundry, John signed, She is called Xhexania.

  With Tohr’s guiding hand, the king carved the first letter, right over the tattoo John had gotten. And then the other Brothers followed suit, marking across the ink in his skin, the blades of the Brotherhood cutting him along not just the four Old Language symbols, but the scrollwork the tat artist had drawn. With every slice, he bore down onto the depi
ction of the apple tree, taking the pain with pride, refusing to let even a silent hiss escape his lips—and after each letter or swirl, he looked up to Xhex. She was standing at the forefront of the females and the other males, her arms locked over the bodice of the dress, her eyes grave, but approving.

  When the salt hit his fresh wounds, he gritted his teeth so hard, his jaw cracked under the strain, the sound cutting through the dripping of the water. But he didn’t gasp or mouth a curse even as the agony lanced through him and made his vision fuzz out.

  As he straightened his torso on his hips, the war cry of the Brotherhood and the soldiers of the house echoed all around and Tohr blotted the raw design with a stretch of white linen. After the Brother was finished, he put the cloth into a black lacquered box and gave it to John.

  Rising up off his knees, John approached Xhex with the swagger of a male in his full prime—who’d just been through the gauntlet and rocked it just fine, thank you very much. In front of her, he knelt back down, dropped his head, and held the black box up for her to take or refuse at her will. Tradition said if she accepted it, she accepted him.

  She didn’t even wait a heartbeat.

  The weight was relieved from his hold and he looked up. Those beautiful red tears of hers were in her eyes as she cradled the box with his pledge to her against her heart.

  As the assembled cheered and clapped, John burst to his feet and swept her and that big, gorgeous red dress right up into his arms. He kissed her hard and then, in front of the king and his sister and his best friends and the Brotherhood, he carried his female straight up those stairs she’d come down.

  Yeah, there was a feast in their honor about to break out. But the bonded male in him needed to do a little marking—then they’d come down for food.

  He was halfway to the top when Hollywood’s voice sounded out. “Oh, man, I want mine done over with some of that curlicue crap.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Rhage,” was Mary’s response.