by J. R. Ward
Fine, he had previously shared such status. But the genetic ties were immutable.
And he did have a blood connection to the male of worth who had been stabbed.
Throe had ordered the murder to be committed.
Looking around at the damask wallpaper, the Aubusson rug, the oil paintings of distinguished males and winsome females, he felt an existential calm bloom within his body. He had been on the outs for so long, his forced tenure with the Band of Bastards a period in his life he would sooner forget: That centuries of fighting and surviving in the Old World with Xcor’s group of rogue soldiers had been an aberrant interruption of where he had started and where he was now, a bout of existential flu, a passing infection that his destiny had managed to surmount and cure itself of.
He put his hand on the Book. “Isn’t that right, darling.”
As his palm made contact with the ancient tome’s leather cover, he felt a shimmer travel up his arm to his heart—and the resulting resonance in the center of his chest was rather like the warmth one felt when complimented or hugged, a reassuring glow of happiness, a subtle charge of well-being flaring where one needed it most.
His ambitions were finally gathering momentum once again and it was all because of the Book. Courtesy of its powers, he had conjured weapons from thin air.
Shadows which did his bidding.
The ghostly forms were the perfect fighters, capable of killing at the slightest direction from him and requiring no armaments, no ammo, no food or rest. And just as significant, they had no independent will or aspiration. They were content to serve him as he saw fit, with no chance of argument or threat of mutiny.
They were hellaciously effective, too. He had staged a number of attacks downtown, the targets chosen with care: sons of the glymera in their prime. With the aristocrats already enraged by Wrath’s disbanding of the Council, the upper class was disaffected and unstable. Add to that simmering discord the fact that the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the King could not protect their precious male progeny?
It was the perfect social unrest, a kettle about to o’erboil—and Throe was in the best position to seize upon the fear and anger, and leverage them into a claim on the throne.
His first foray unto that goal had failed. This time? With his shadows? With his Book?
He was going to get what he wanted, rising above the ridicule and the shame from the centuries before, reclaiming his rightful place in the glymera.
And the idea that the Band of Bastards, now aligned with Wrath, would suffer? Well, that just gave him additional satisfaction. Granted, overtime, he had fallen in with them, believing those males to be his family. But that had been a ruse created by circumstance. Forced proximity to their brutish ways did not equate with true kinship.
All he needed was the Book and his shadows, and his future was secure.
Opening up to a random page, he stroked the symbols of the Old Language that had been inked into the parchment, and in response, they shifted ever so slightly as his fingers passed over them—
In the back of his mind, he was aware that that was not right.
Images imbedded through an inking’s permanent stain should not move, and people in their right minds did not talk to inanimate objects as if they were in a relationship with them.
In a foggy, rambly series of recollections, he remembered going to that psychic’s shop and having the Book materialize unto him, its seductive power calling him forth and deeming him worthy of its many gifts. He recalled opening the cover and being unable to translate the runes upon its pages—except then, before his very eyes, the ink had rearranged itself into the Old Language which he could read.
In a series of vivid snapshots, he remembered coming back here, and conjuring his first shadow . . .
All at once a flush went through him, the heat reaching his brain and unscrambling his thoughts.
No, it is fine, he told himself. All is well. All is as it should be.
“I have my faith and my faith has me,” he whispered. “I have my faith and my faith has me . . .”
As the mantra came out of his mouth, over and over again, he focused on the desktop. On it was a seating plan for twenty-four in the formal dining room. The guests had been chosen with deliberation, each one of the couples not just from the glymera, but with hellrens who had been members of the Council that Wrath had seen fit to do away with.
As if aristocrats didn’t know best.
Everything was set for the party. The hors d’oeuvres, the menu, the wine pairings—and most especially the entertainment.
Following all those targeted deaths downtown, it was now time for him and his shadows to take it up a notch. At the appointed moment, the party was going to be “infiltrated” with the terrifying new enemy of the species, the scourge of downtown, the mystical killer of the glymera’s young.
And there would be no Brotherhood, no Wrath, to save them. Just as there had been no Brotherhood, no Wrath, to save their sons.
Instead, Throe would be the one who vanquished the threat. Protected them and their shellans. Placed himself voluntarily in grave bodily danger in order to ensure their safety and survival.
All of which were no big deal when you were actually in control of the attack.
All of which positioned him nicely as a one-of-them leadership alternative to Wrath’s throne.
Throe stroked the Book as he imagined himself in a position of true power, no longer the fallen-from-grace also-ran of a fairly good family.
Instead, the King.
Without the Book, none of this would be possible, he told himself. So whatever oddities occurred with respect to its pages, whatever things he could not explain about how it had come to him—or him to it, as it were—whatever concerns he might have about sometimes not feeling as if he were in control of himself, none of these mattered as long as he dethroned Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath—
No, his inner voice insisted. None of this was right, none of this made sense—
The Book cover flipped open, casting his palm away. Pages turned at a frenetic pace, the blur faster than the eye could track, continuing longer than there were folios set within the binding.
“Now, darling,” he said. “Let us not do this.”
The pages slowed.
“Forgive me my wayward thoughts.” Slower the sheaths turned. “It is never my intent to offend.”
Finally the Book stilled.
“I do not want to quarrel—”
Leaning over, he frowned at the pages facing up at him. The characters of the Old Language upon them were beginning to swirl around a fulcrum in the center of the open binding. Faster and faster they turned, a galaxy forming and then tightening into a black hole so resonant and intense, Throe could have sworn a three-dimensional sinkhole had been created, one that was so vast, there was no comprehending its terminal—or perhaps it had no terminal at all.
He leaned closer.
Staring into the void, his eyes adjusted to the dense blackness . . . and that was when he recognized a contouring around its edges. The pattern that was uneven and yet predictable.
Stones, he thought. It seemed as though stones had been mortared together in a circle that plunged into the earth.
A well.
Throe . . .
At the sound of his name echoing up to him, a surge of fear had him pushing back against the desk, and for a split second, the pull of that voice, of whatever was at the base of the void, latched onto him and held him in place.
Sucking him in—the vortex was sucking him in—
The seduction snapped like a tether that had reached its limit, and he was suddenly free and falling back into the chair with a slam that nearly toppled him backward onto the carpet. As he threw out his hands to steady himself, his heart pounded and his head swam, sure as if he’d just caught himself from a deadly fall, his life saved by a split second and a stroke of luck.
When he looked up, all four of his shadows were in front of the desk.
It was the first time they had moved of their own volition.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
As Sarah sat in the back of a van with blacked-out windows and bench seats, she was aware she needed to go to the authorities about BioMed and the secret lab. But every time that impulse went through her head, a ringing pain cut her thoughts off. She had proof, however. Proof that had to be given over to some kind of official someone.
She wasn’t exactly sure whom to go to. The New York State police? Or maybe the FBI. Yes, the FBI—
As the sharpshooter in her frontal lobe returned, she distracted herself from the discomfort by looking around the inside of the van. It was the boy, the commando, and the doctor sitting with her on padded seats that ringed, not row’d, the rear compartment. Early on in the trip, she decided it was like the inside of a cargo plane and they were all going to parachute out of the rear doors when they reached ten thousand feet.
She didn’t know who was driving. Where they were going. Or what exactly was going to happen when they reached their destination.
But the boy’s head was in her lap, and someone had given her a really good Reuben sandwich and a Coke before they’d left, and there was a nice warm heater breezing up her ankles.
There would be time to go to the Feds. Or whoever. Just not tonight.
As they continued along what had to be a well-paved road, different things drifted through her mind, none of them landing on her proverbial tarmac for very long: the fact that she was still in the hazmat suit, the weird headache, the way the commando continued to stare at her.
Okay, that one did stick.
By all accounts, she should have been terrified to put her life in the hands of these strangers with their guns and their secrets: There was nobody at home to miss her. No family who was expecting her to call. No friends to check in. And didn’t all that make her feel like a ghost in her own life, P.S.
Work, however, would miss her—although considering what she had done? Breaking and entering, evac’ing the boy, taking Kraiten’s own SUV, for godsakes . . . there was going to be chaos at the company tomorrow and her absence would be noted.
So maybe this little side step wasn’t a bad thing. It might give her some time to think of a plan to confront the mess she’d left behind. The real question, she supposed, was how Kraiten was going to spin things. After all, it was hard to go to the authorities and demand the laws be used to defend your own illegal practices.
Kind of like a drug dealer calling 911 when his stash gets stolen.
But Kraiten had tremendous resources—and not all of them were of the “proper authorities” variety, she was willing to guess. Hell, she’d heard his private security were ex–Israeli Defense Forces soldiers.
Abruptly, she thought of Gerry. Of Thomas McCaid, his dead boss. Of Kraiten’s own partner, who had met a grisly end two decades ago.
Anxiety, of the mortal kind, curled around her heart—
“What’s wrong?”
As the commando spoke, she snapped her head up. The sudden movement caused the boy to stir, but she stroked his thin arm and he resettled. His name was Nate, she’d learned. Or at least that was his first name. Last hadn’t come up. Yet.
Surely he had family somewhere.
“Tell me,” her commando said in a soft voice.
Sarah glanced over at the doctor. The woman was deep into her phone, sending some kind of text message. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Tell me anyway.”
The van slowed. Stopped.
“Are we here?” she asked.
“It’s the gates. We still have a while to go. Answer my question.”
I’m so over my head, she thought. With all of this. The kid, that patient with the wound, what we did at BioMed . . . what I know about that company.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Had she spoken all of that aloud again? She wasn’t sure.
Shaking her head and looking down at the boy, she fell silent and concentrated on the stopping and going of the van. After a while, there was a descent, as if they were coming off a hill or going underground. And then the van finally halted, the engine was turned off, and the rear doors opened—
Sarah did a double take as she saw four or five men, in tactical gear, standing around the back of the vehicle.
What the hell, she thought. Did they have a hydroponic farm somewhere and grow these big boys from test tubes?
The soldiers—and that was absolutely what they were—were all like her commando, huge, calm, and surprisingly welcoming as they peered in at her and the child. That being said, she did not want to get on their bad sides.
Look at those weapons.
“Hi,” the blond one said. “You need a hand there?”
As he smiled, she blinked like she’d been hit by a beam of sunshine. Between his brilliant blue eyes, his gleaming teeth, and that too-handsome face, he should have been in Hollywood.
The guy made Chris Hemsworth look like a candidate for reconstructive surgery.
“I’ve got him,” she murmured as she gathered the boy in her arms.
Crab-walking out the back, Nate stirred when they got hit by the bright lights of . . .
It was a parking area. They were in a professional grade, municipal parking garage, on what appeared to be its lowest level.
“This way,” another soldier said as he went across to a reinforced steel door with no markings on it.
Okay, that man had long, multi-colored hair and incredible eyes that were lion-yellow and impossibly kind, especially as they rested on the boy.
Sarah stayed put, however, even as the doctor hurried off through the entry like she had another patient to see. Instinctively, Sarah waited for her commando to get out and come alongside of her, and then the pair of them walked into the facility together with Nate still in her arms. The boy woke up properly halfway down a long hall that had concrete walls, a tiled floor, and fluorescent ceiling lights that were as bright white as the moon on a clear winter night.
Big money, she thought as she passed by numerous closed doors. These facilities were on a par with BioMed’s.
So who was the Kraiten behind all this?
Up ahead, a dark-haired man in a white physician’s coat stepped out of a doorway. With his scrubs and that stethoscope around his neck, he seemed right out of central casting.
“And here’s our patient,” he said as they stopped in front of him. “Hey, buddy, what’s up? I’m Dr. Manello, but you can call me Manny.”
As he extended his hand to the boy, Sarah turned so Nate could put his tiny palm in the man’s.
“My name is Nate,” the child said. “It is short for Natelem. I am the proud son of Ingridge.”
Such a strange formality, Sarah thought.
“Well, Nate, welcome to my humble abode. I understand you’re going to be staying with us for a little while.” He looked at Sarah and smiled. “And you’re Dr. Watkins. Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
“You want to bring him in here? I have a sumptuous suite prepared for his use.”
The doctor swept the door open and revealed a hospital room that had every piece of monitoring equipment you could want for a trauma patient—and even though that confused the hell out of Sarah, she felt instantly better for the boy.
She glanced at her commando. He was staring at her with hooded eyes, as if he were waiting to see what she was going to do.
“Let’s get you settled,” she said to Nate as she went in. “And maybe fed. How’s that sound?”
The Brotherhood had certainly taken things up a notch or twelve down here, Murhder thought as he followed Sarah and Nate into the hospital room.
Darius’s old digs in the Richie Rich part of town were nothing compared to this underground stuff. The Brotherhood had what looked like an entire hospital down here, and God only knew what else.
Not that he was paying a huge amount
of attention to the facility.
Nope, his gray matter was trained on the human woman. Every move she made. The nuances of her expression. The sound of her voice—
Okay, fine, maybe he was also ever-so-slightly, kinda-sorta, possibly-a-little interested in where the Brothers were and what they were doing. Like, oh, say, how close they were getting to Sarah. Whether she seemed to notice them or they her. If any of them were taking down her phone number.
Which, P.S., he didn’t have.
Ten-digit vacancies aside, and fortunately for his possessive nature, none of what he was worried about—initial attraction turning into lust that transitioned into a lifelong bonded love and adoration between Sarah and Rhage or Phury or Tohr—seemed to be happening as she took the young over to the hospital bed: The Brothers were keeping it all strictly professional, and if anything, the only carbon-based life form his woman seemed to notice, apart from the young, was Murhder himself.
But eternal vigilance and all that—although, really, what was he going to do if he saw something he didn’t like? It wasn’t as if the woman was his to claim—
As his upper lip twitched and his fangs threatened to drop down, he tried to reason with the male beast inside his skin—and didn’t get far. It was kind of like throwing a math problem at a grizzly bear: You got frustrated and the bear didn’t give a shit.
“—rest for a little while,” Manny, the human doctor—human?—said. “I’ll be right back with some eats for everyone. You want anything in particular, Dr. Watkins?”
“Whatever you have is fine for me. And it’s Sarah. Just Sarah.”
As the doctor smiled and then left, Murhder shook himself back to attention. The Brothers had stepped out, the young was lying down against the pillows, and the woman who was not his was removing the blue bag of plastic from her body.
And what do you know. As she finally stepped out of the loose, flapping outer shell she’d had on, what was revealed was beautiful to him—although not because of what it necessarily looked like, but because it was her. Those long legs, the graceful curves of her torso, the proportion of shoulder to hip, all of that could have fit together in any particular way, been any-whatever-size, had more or less in any place, and he still would have wanted to touch her, taste her, take her.