by J. R. Ward
ANYWAY, Phury was really quiet. He’s gotten terribly quiet. Sadly quiet. He keeps to himself mostly, and was really there more because he felt he had to be than because he wanted to be.
Z watched both movies for the first time. He was ABSORBED by them. Imagine the surprises in store—when Mr. Takagi gets shot by Alan Rickman? When the body shows up in the elevator with HO HO HO on the shirt? When Mc-Clane is in the ventilator shaft? Then later when McClane’s wife Tasers that idiot reporter? Z LOVED the movies. . . . He jumped in the right places and cursed at the screen and snarled and yelled. He was all involved and had a death grip on Bella through the whole thing. The only time he looked away from the TV was to make sure she had something to drink. Or to eat. Or to ask if she was comfortable. “Too cold? You need another fleece, maybe?”
I will say—even though I shouldn’t—that Bella had a huge bite mark on her neck. He’d fed from her about an hour before they started to watch the movies. He’d gotten home from a night of fighting and he felt this . . . urge . . . to feed. He ended up sidling up to her in the bathroom. She was just out of the shower and was talking to him about this writing class she’s taking online. Anyway . . . he was staring at her in the mirror, and she was chatting away and toweling off her hair and . . . she stopped and asked him what was wrong. When she got the picture, she turned and smiled at him. Um . . . dropped the towel she had wrapped around herself. At first he was apologetic about it. Like embarrassed, almost, because he hadn’t come to her before. But then she was in his arms and he lowered his mouth to her throat and.....................well, they really got into the swing of things. *clears throat* Boy, did they ever . . . *blushes* Er . . . ANYWAY . . .
V stayed out of the movie thing, for the most part. He was doing searches on the Internet, although what he was looking for I have no clue. Every once in a while someone would yell at him to get off the computer. He ignored them until Butch fired an empty beer can at him. (And who was drinking the beer? Beth . . . she likes Sam Adams, remember.) V ended up sitting with Phury and Butch. The bachelors, as the others call them.
Sooooooooooooo, that was movie night (day). Next one is going to be an Aliens marathon. And yeah, Rhage is going to insist on acting out the alien-out-of-the-stomach routine on the floor in front of the TV. *sigh* Hollywood’s just like that, you know?
Wrath and the Letter Opener
posted July 23, 2006
This one is done properly, and it’s long—but man, what a scene with Beth and Wrath at the end, huh?
Whoever said it couldn’t snow in July had their fucking head wedged.
Wrath sat back in his throne and looked at the piles of white before him: Requests to him as king for intervention on civil matters. Powers of attorney to Fritz for banking transactions. The glymera’s constant stream of “helpful suggestions,” all of which served only them.
It was a wonder the pansy desk could hold it all up.
From behind him he heard a series of metallic clicks, and then the shutters rose for the night with a whirring noise. Along with the lifting of steel came a rolling bass rumble, advance warning that one of Caldwell’s summer thunderstorms was getting its groove on.
Wrath sat forward and picked up his magnifying glass. The damn thing was getting to be an extension of his arm, and he hated it. First, the piece of shit didn’t really work: He couldn’t see much better when he used it. And second, it reminded him that for all intents and purposes his life had been reduced to a desk job.
A desk job with purpose and honor and nobility, sure. But still.
Idly, he picked up an envelope opener that bore his royal seal, and he balanced the tip of it on the end of his forefinger, suspending the knife-shaped slice of silver in midair. To make the game harder on himself, he closed his eyes and moved his hand around, creating instability, testing himself, using senses other than his weak eyes.
With a curse he cracked his lids back open. Christ, why was he wasting time here? He had about ten thousand things he needed to do. All of which were urgent—
From the open double doors across the study he heard voices—and, riding his uncharacteristic wave of procrastination, he tossed the opener onto the snow-bank of shit he had to do and walked out. At the balcony he planted his hands on the gold-leafed balustrade and looked down.
In the foyer below, Vishous, Rhage, and Phury were getting ready to go out, yakking it up while they double-checked their weapons. And off to the side Zsadist was leaning back against a malachite column, one shitkicker crossed over the other. He had a black dagger in his hand, and he was tossing it up into the air and catching it over and over again. On each trip the blade caught the light in flashes of navy blue.
Damn, those daggers V made were fantastic. Sharpened to a razor edge, weighted perfectly, the handle contoured with precision for Z’s grip alone, the weapon was not state-of-the-art, it was a state of grace: a simple configuration of steel that meant survival for the race.
And fuck-you, have-a-nice-trip-back-to-the-Omega for the lessers.
“Rock on,” Rhage said as he went for the door. Heading over the mosaic tiles of the foyer, he moved with his typical swagger and impatience, clearly craving the fight he was damn well going to find, his beast no doubt as ready for some hand-to-hand as he was.
Vishous was right behind him, all cool strides and lethal calm. Phury was likewise collected, his limp not noticeable in the slightest, thanks to the new prosthesis he was using.
In their wake, Zsadist stood from the column and sheathed his dagger. The slide of metal on metal reverberated up to Wrath like a sigh of satisfaction.
Z’s vicious black eyes followed the sound as it lifted. In the light from overhead his scar was very noticeable, that distorted upper lip more pronounced than ever. “’Evening, my lord.”
Wrath nodded down at his brother, thinking that the Lessening Society was facing a demon in the male who stood down there. Even though Bella was in Z’s life, whenever he left to go fighting, his hatred came back. With a nasty aura, the burn weaved through his bones and muscles, becoming indistinguishable from his body, making him as he had always been: a savage capable of anything.
Though, considering what the guy’s shellan had been put through, Wrath didn’t fault him for the killing rage. Not in the slightest.
Z walked to the door and then paused. Over his shoulder he said, “You look tight tonight. And not in a good way.”
“It’ll pass.”
The smile that flashed was a slash of aggression, nothing happy. “I can’t count to ten for very long. Can you?”
Wrath frowned, but the brother was already out the door. Out into the night.
Left by himself, Wrath headed back for his study. He sat down behind the frilly desk, and his hand found the envelope opener, his forefinger running up and down the dull edge. As he looked at the thing, he knew someone could kill with it. Just not with any finesse.
Cranking his fist tight, as if the silver opener actually were a weapon, he pointed the thing out in front of him, leveling it over his paper mountain. As he moved, the tattoos running up his forearm stretched out, his crystal-clean lineage all loud and clear in black ink. Not that he could read the purebred stamp of approval.
Jesus, what the fuck was he doing here ass-rotting on this throne?
How had this happened? His brothers out working the war. Him sitting here with a goddamned letter opener.
“Wrath?”
He looked up. Beth was in the doorway, wearing a pair of old cutoffs and a muscle shirt. Her long dark hair was down past her shoulders, and she smelled like night-blooming roses . . . night-blooming roses and his bonding scent.
As he stared at her, for some reason he thought about the workouts he put himself through in the gym . . . those hard-core, hamster-wheel, full-body masturbations that got him exactly nowhere.
God . . . there were edges you just couldn’t work off on a treadmill. There were things that were missing even if you burned yourself out until the
sweat ran as fast as the blood in your veins.
Yeah . . . before you knew it, you lost your edge. You went from being a dagger to a desk ornament. Castrated.
“Wrath? Are you okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m steady.”
Her dark blue eyes narrowed, and the color struck him as being the same as Z’s dagger blade catching the light: midnight blue. Beautiful.
And the intelligence in them was just as sharp as that weapon.
“Wrath, talk to me.”
Downtown on Tenth Street, Zsadist jogged over the pavement quick as a breeze, quiet as a ghost, a leathered-up wraith tracking his prey. He had found his first kills for the night, but at the moment he had his body on Master Lock, holding himself back, waiting until there was a little privacy.
No fighting in public for the Brotherhood. Unless you absolutely had to.
And this little impending shindig was going to create some noise. The three lessers ahead of him were primes, all paled-out, looking to go at it, moving with the deadly rhythm of heavy bodies on solid ground.
For fuck’s sake, he needed to get them in an alley.
As the four of them went along, the storm overhead stretched out its arms and started to pound on the night, its lightning flashing, its thunder cursing. Wind sprinted down the streets, then tripped and fell, forming gusts that pushed and then relented at Z’s back.
He told himself, Patience, but holding back felt like a punishment.
Except then, like a gift from the Scribe Virgin, the trio ahead turned into an alley. And wheeled around to face him.
Ah, so it wasn’t a gift or luck. They knew he’d been in their trunks and had been looking for some darkened corner to do business in.
Yeah, well, time to waltz, motherfuckers.
Z unsheathed his dagger and fell into a jog, triggering the starter gun on the fight. As he came forward the lessers backed up, disappearing further into the long alley, finding the shadows necessary to keep what was about to happen from human eyes.
Zsadist targeted the slayer on the right because the bastard was the biggest and had the largest knife, so disarming him was a tactical priority. It was also something Z was just plain jonesing to do.
His momentum carried him faster and faster until he was skimming the ground, shitkickers barely touching the pavement. As he moved in, he was the wind, carrying along, rushing forward, sweeping down on what was ahead of him.
The lessers got ready, switching positions, crouching for conflict, so that the big guy was up in front and the other two flanked him.
At the last moment Z tucked into a ball and rolled on the asphalt. Then he sprang up and led with his dagger, catching the linebacker lesser in the gut, opening the bastard up like a pillow. Man, abdominal cavities were always a messy affair, even if you didn’t eat, and the slayer went down on a waterfall of black blood.
Unfortunately, on the way to his dirt nap, he managed to clip Z right in the neck with his switchblade.
Z felt his skin split open and his vein start leaking, but there wasn’t time to get thought up about the injury. He focused on the other two slayers, popping free his second dagger so he was a two-fisted slashing machine. The fight went into hard-core territory fast, and as a second wound broke open on his shoulder, he thought he might even need a pickup at the end of it.
Especially as a length of steel chain snaked around his neck and went tight as a tire rim. With a yank he was whipped off his feet, and he back-landed it so hard he felt like he’d been body-punched: All the air left his lungs on that eviction notice, and it stayed away, his rib cage refusing to reexpand no matter how much he worked his mouth.
Right before he blacked out he thought of Bella, and the panic of leaving her gave him the crash-cart shock he needed. His sternum heaved for the heavens, drawing in breath so hard the shit went all the way down to his balls. And just in time.
As the two lessers fell on him, he twisted to the side and somehow popped off the pavement and found footing. Going on instinct and experience, he licksplitted a classic two-knife lock and cross on the first of the slayers, all but decapitating the thing. Then he stabbed the other one in the ear, shorting him out cold.
Except then four more showed up: backups called in, all nice and fresh, ready to work.
Z was now in goat-fuck territory.
He sheathed a dagger and palmed one of his SIGs, even though the gun would make noise when it went off. And the thing took a bite out of his pride. He was just flipping the safety off when he saw a pair of pale green lights at the back of the alley.
As the lessers went all standstill, clearly they noticed, too.
Z cursed. Dollars to dickheads that was some new kind of xenon headlight, and they were about to get a visit by a carload of kibitzers.
Except then the air temperature dropped twenty degrees. Just like that. As if someone had unloaded two tons of dry ice over there and hit the shit with an industrial blower.
Zsadist threw his head back and laughed loud and long, the power coming back into his body even with his slit throat and his dripping shoulder. As rain started to fall, he positively sizzled with aggression.
The lessers clearly thought he was nuts. But then lightning snapped out and turned the alley daylight bright.
Wrath was revealed at the far end, his massive legs set like oak trunks in the ground, his arms stretched out like I beams, the storm’s wind whipping his waist-length hair around. His glowing eyes were a roaring call of death in the night, his fangs white and sharp and visible from yards and yards away. In his hands were his trademark throwing stars, on his hips were his Berettas . . . and across his chest, crisscrossed with handles down, were the daggers, the black daggers of the Brotherhood, the weapons that he had not used since his ascension.
The king had come out to kill.
Zsadist glanced at the lessers, one of whom was dialing for more backup.
Man, Z thought, he was so ready to get back in the game.
He and Wrath had never fought together before, but they would tonight. And they were going to win.
Much later, back at the mansion, Beth paced around the billiards room. Over the course of the night she’d turned the pool table into the center of her universe: The green felt square with its pockets and its rainbow balls was the sun to her solar system, and around and around she went. . . .
God. She didn’t know how Mary and Bella handled this . . . knowing that their hellrens were out there in that evil night fighting an endless enemy, an enemy with weapons that didn’t just maim, but killed.
When Wrath had told her what he wanted to do, what he needed to do, she’d had to force herself not to scream at him. But, Christ, she’d already seen him lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and machines and tubes, injured, dying, lurching back and forth between life and nothingness.
She had zero interest in reliving that nightmare.
Sure, he’d done his best to reassure her. And told her he’d be careful. And reminded her that he’d fought for some three hundred years and been trained and honed and bred for this. And said it was only for tonight.
Except like that all mattered? She wasn’t thinking about the three centuries he’d come home at the crack of dawn safely. She was worried about this specific night, when he might not make it back. After all, he was flesh and blood, and there was a timer on his life, a timer that could zero out in the work of a moment. All it would take was a bullet in the chest or the head or—
She looked down and realized she wasn’t moving anymore. Which kind of made sense. Evidently, her feet had just superglued themselves to the floor.