Blood Fury: Black Dagger Legacy

by J. R. Ward

  But all that came to a crashing halt.

  Through the ornate archway, he could see into the elegant room, the silk sofas and chairs arranged with the marble fireplace as a focal point. Seated on the cushions, with her back to him, was a female with brunette hair pulled back in a chignon and a formal, pale blue dress that had some sort of tie or sleeving that draped like an angel’s wing over the arm. Her head was down, and her shoulders were tight, as if she were holding herself together.

  But just barely.

  She didn’t want this any more than he did, he thought. Either that, or she was feeling rejected by him because he hadn’t showed up.

  “Will you please get moving,” his father demanded.

  Peyton looked at the poor female a little longer and wondered where she would rather be tonight.

  “Give me ten minutes,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be right down.”

  As he stepped around his father and took the stairs two at a time, he despised his family and its traditions and the glymera’s stupid fucking rules. But what he was not going to do? Leave some other schmuck like him out to dry, thinking she was lesser because of stuff that had nothing to with her.

  He didn’t know the female, but the way he looked at it, they were in the social cesspool together.

  At least for this one meal.

  As Ruhn materialized on a skyscraper terrace that was larger than the estate cottage he had lived in, he took a moment to internalize where he was. Saxton’s home. Where the male lived.

  He should have waited an hour and met with the attorney at the Audience House.

  What had he been thinking—

  You wanted to see him, a small voice said in his head. Alone.

  “No, I don’t.”

  The words he spoke out loud were lost in the cold wind that rushed at his back, the blustery, chilly gusts seeming to urge him inside. For a moment or two, he fought against the draft, leaning against the invisible hands pushing at him…but it was too late to turn back now. Not without making a mess of things.

  Besides, this was not personal. They were working on something together.

  “And I do not want to be alone with him.”

  With that resolved, he tried to figure out where he was supposed to knock, or ring a bell. The entire penthouse seemed to be made of glass, great panels lining up one to another down the front. Inside, there were few lights on, everything dim, the shadows of the furniture a landscape yet to be revealed by an artificial dawn.

  So luxurious and fancy, he thought. It seemed all very sophisticated, just like the male who lived there.

  Then again, someone’s personal space tended to reflect who they were. Take him, for example. He was a squatter with no prospects, homeless but for the kindness of others. It made sense if you had no future and little of the present that you would also have no roof and four walls of your own.

  Walking over and inspecting one of what he hoped were sliders, he wondered who lived here with the solicitor? He had never seen the male with a shellan, nor had there been any mention of one. But then a certain professional distance had always seemed to surround Saxton, even as it was clear that he was respected by all.

  Surely there had to be a female somewhere in the picture. And didn’t that fact make all of this even more uncomfortable—

  He froze as Saxton came into the great open room, the male’s stride sure, his blond hair gleaming under the dimmed ceiling lights, his impeccable slacks and super-white button-down looking tuxedo ready. Or, like, whatever you wore on top of all that.

  The solicitor headed into the kitchen area, throwing out a casual hand to turn on lights that provided brighter pools of illumination from above. He started doing something at the counter, by the sink—he was preparing coffee and getting out mugs and a tray. But Ruhn noticed little of that. The things that registered? Saxton’s skin was golden. His face was beautiful. His body was lithe.

  What is this, Ruhn thought…especially as sexual arousal curled around his hips, sure as if hands were touching him—

  Saxton looked over without warning and stopped as he saw that he was in the regard of another.

  Moments turned into a full minute.

  And then they both snapped back into action at the same time, Ruhn trying to pretend that he was just searching for a handle or an opening or something as Saxton came across and solved the problem for him.

  “Good evening,” the male said as he slid one of the panels back.

  “You invited me.” As Ruhn heard the words leave his mouth, he closed his eyes. “I mean, I’m here. I mean…”

  “Yes, you are expected.”

  When Ruhn didn’t respond, Saxton stepped aside. “Come in.”

  Two words. Two syllables. A simple invitation. The kind of thing that was offered and accepted or rejected by humans and vampires all over the world.

  The trouble was, Ruhn couldn’t shake the awareness that it was so much more for him—and he couldn’t handle it. He could handle…none of this.

  “I should go,” he mumbled. “Actually. Yeah, I’m sorry—”

  “Why?” Saxton frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  I think I want you, that’s what’s wrong.

  Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, had that just gone through his mind?

  “Ruhn, come in. It’s cold.”

  Turn away, he told himself. Just turn and leave, and tell him that you’ll meet him at the Audience House in a little bit.

  “I shouldn’t have disturbed you at home.” He shook his head and prayed that the heavy beating of his heart was not something Saxton could hear or sense. “I apologize.”

  —

  Across town, Peyton returned downstairs in exactly ten minutes, his hair wet and slicked back thanks to the fastest shower in the east, his tuxedo on and poppin’—and also a little tight across the shoulders, in the arms, and at the thighs, thanks to all the exercise he’d been getting.

  As he entered the parlor, he did a quick check that the bar was stocked and open for business. Yup: Over there in the corner, an array of mimosas in slender flutes and Bloody Marys in squat glasses had been arranged on an antique brass cart.

  My friends, I cannot wait for us to become reacquainted, he thought.

  But first things first.

  “Ah, yes, my firstborn son,” Peythone said in the Old Language from the armchair closest to the fire—and hey, points for the smile, old man; it looked almost sincere. “Salone and Idina, may I present Peyton, son of Peythone.”

  The couple were seated on the silk sofa across from their sacrificial lamb—sorry, daughter—and Peyton walked forward to them and bowed low, first to the male, who was your bog-standard glymera type, and then the female, who was wearing a dress the exact same blue color as her young. Which was creepy. He also didn’t immediately recognize them, which was unusual. The aristocracy was small, and nearly everyone was their own uncle’s first cousin. They must be from out of town, he thought. Maybe down South?

  “It is my pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Please excuse my tardiness. I have been unforgivably rude.”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  “You are even more handsome than I have heard,” the mahmen said, her eyes going wide. “So handsome. Is he not handsome? Such a handsome male, fresh from his transition.”

  You are no MILF, he thought. So stop looking at me like I’m fresh meat.

  God, he hated this.

  “Enough with that, Idina,” Salone grumbled before he switched things to English. “Now, Peyton, your sire indicated you are in the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s training program—something that we have only just learned this night. I suppose we may give your tardiness a pass on this account.”

  Peythone smiled smugly. “Indeed, Peyton is contributing to the defense of the species in a very meaningful way. But one does not wish to brag.”

  Oh, yeah. Riiiiiiiiiiight.

  Idina placed her hands on either side of her décolletage and leaned forward as if they were going to share a
secret—or perhaps she was going to flash him. “You must tell me, what are the Brotherhood like? They are so mysterious, so impressive, so frightening. I have only ever seen them from afar at meetings of the Council. Tell me, you must.”

  Okay, he hated everything about the female. From her rapacious eyes, to those big diamonds, and that accent. God, what was up with that accent? It was like ninety percent right, but there was something wrong with her r’s. She couldn’t seem to roll them properly. And then there was the sire. Upon closer reflection, his features were coarser than one might expect, and that tuxedo—it had a shine on it like it had been rubbed hard with some KFC.

  What was his father up to, Peyton thought. Of all the families they might want to associate with, why these people?

  Then again, the Founding Families in Caldwell were aware of Peyton’s reputation. Maybe this wasn’t so much the best his father could do…as the best the son could do.

  “Well?” Idina of the Libido prompted. “Tell me everything about them.”

  Fuck this shit.

  Peyton turned around and looked at the young female.

  This shut everyone in the room up, a hushed disapproval slamming the door shut on all that social drooling.

  The daughter recoiled, but then she collected herself quickly, shifting her stare downward as was appropriate considering his social faux pas: They had not yet been properly introduced.

  She was lovely in a low key kind of way, her beauty not the sort that grabbed the eye immediately, but rather something that was revealed the more you stared at her. Her features were even and small, her limbs long and graceful, her body in that soft blue dress possessing all the curves a male could want.

  A slight flutter off to the side drew his attention. It was her hands…her hands were shaking—and as if she didn’t want him to notice that, she clasped them together in her lap.

  What have you done to deserve me, you poor thing, he thought.

  “I’m Peyton,” he said, much to his father’s horror.

  As he spoke up, the female’s eyes lifted to his, and there was surprise in them. But she immediately glanced to her parents.

  Her sire cleared his throat with a disapproving grunt—like he wished this were going better, but knew he had no right to expect shit in that department.

  And then he muttered, “This is my daughter, Romina.”

  English, not the Old Language. An insult to which one of us? Peyton wondered.

  In any event, he bowed low. “My pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Before he straightened, he tried to communicate with her telepathically: It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get out of this.

  As if they were both prisoners.

  Take out the “as if.”

  And clearly, they were on death row, at least in the female’s opinion. The girl was flat-out terrified.

  As Saxton stood beside the open sliding door of his penthouse, he didn’t feel the freezing cold or the punches of the wind gusts or the hunger that had been agitating his belly. The male before him took all of that away, Ruhn’s big body tensed as if he were ready to bolt off the top of the Commodore, his hair blowing asunder, his eyes too bright and very wary. But that scent…that scent.

  Dark spices. Arousal.

  Sexual need.

  What fantasy is this, Saxton wondered. Was he asleep and dreaming?

  “Don’t go,” he said in a rough voice. Except then he caught himself and tried to pull back from a tone that was too close to begging. “I mean, come in and tell me what happened. At Minnie’s. Please.”

  Ruhn’s stare shifted so that he seemed to focus on the interior.

  “There’s no one here but me.” Saxton stepped back even farther. “We’re alone.”

  Dear God, why did that sound like an invitation?

  Because it was.

  “Stop it—” As he realized he’d spoken aloud, he closed his eyes and tried to pull himself together. “Sorry. Please, it’s cold.”

  Or maybe it was sweltering hot. Who the hell knew.

  “All right,” Ruhn said in a low voice.

  As the big male turned sideways and came in, Saxton couldn’t keep from closing his eyes and inhaling. He had never smelled anything so sensual in his life. Ever.

  With shaky hands, he closed them both in together by pulling the glass back into place. “I was…well, I was just going to make—would you like some coffee?”

  Ruhn looked around and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  “This shouldn’t take long.”

  And yet the male did not start to speak. He stayed there right by the exit, his boots planted on the pale gray rug, his black leather jacket and blue jeans making a mockery of all the carefully constructed minimalism around him, a giant in a dollhouse.

  “Tell me what happened?” Saxton went across and sat down on his sofa. “Is anything wrong?”

  Ruhn seemed to take a deep breath, his chest expanding so much that that jacket creaked. “I went out there, to the farmhouse, to make sure Mistress Miniahna was all right. There was a truck parked in the driveway, just before the circle in front of the house. Black, with darkened windows. I waited, and after a moment, two human males got out and looked at the trees. One had a sensor in his hand.”

  “They know we removed the cameras.”

  “Yes.” Ruhn put his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “They do.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I couldn’t just leave with them there.”

  Here we go, Saxton thought.

  “What did you do?”

  “I dematerialized around to the back and approached them as if I were coming around the house. The men were surprised. I told them I was staying with my aunt and was out chopping wood when I heard them come up the lane. I asked them what they were doing on the property. One said he and his buddy were concerned for her, what with her being all alone. When I pointed out that she wasn’t alone, that I was there, they said they knew she lived by herself. Then they went on about how the neighborhood was really changing and that she should consider selling. I told them that there was no more reason to worry about her as I was going to take care of things at the house and that I would deal with any trespassers. Then I asked them what their names were and why they were on the property at all, and that was when things got interesting.”

  “Did they threaten you, too?”

  “They gave me these.” He pulled out some papers that had been folded in quarters. “And told me that they were for Mistress Miniahna. They had tried the front door during the day a number of times, they said.”

  Saxton sat forward and held out his hand. “Did you show these to her?”

  “I can’t read.” Ruhn came forward only far enough to give whatever it was over and then he immediately dropped back. “As I didn’t know what they were, I didn’t want to show her something that would upset her for no good reason. I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. That’s why I called you.”

  Saxton unfolded things, and a quick scan got him right up off the cushions onto his feet. Then he paced around as he did a more careful read.

  “What is it?” Ruhn asked.

  Saxton stopped and looked over at the male. “They’re accusing her of being a squatter.”

  “How? It’s her property.”

  “It is, but she and her hellren made a mistake with the property records. I discovered it late last night. They didn’t file redundant real property contracts over time.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a strategy for vampires who hold real estate in the human world. Every twenty years or so, generally, you want to pretend that you’ve sold your house or your land to what appears to be a fellow family member. Otherwise, you have what Miniahna is going to have to deal with here—which is that the records show a single owner since 1821. Needless to say, that is impossible for a human to pull off, and clearly, the developer has
discovered the issue, even as he cannot guess the truth about our species. Anyway, tell me—did you wait for them to leave? The humans?”

  “Yes. They took off right after they gave me those.” Ruhn frowned. “Can you do anything to help her?”

  Saxton walked into the kitchen area and went straight for the coffee machine. As he poured himself some Starbucks Breakfast Blend, his mind was racing.

  Backdating documents. Yes, he had to create an artificial paper trail—

  When he turned around, he caught Ruhn wincing as the male gripped under his arm and seemed to stretch his torso.

  “Are you all right?” Saxton asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “Then why are you looking as if you’re in pain.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  Ruhn opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

  Saxton shook his head sadly. Abruptly, he was tired, horny, and totally confused by the male—oh, and he was truly pissed off at the human race and its meddling ways. So, indeed, he was done with being socially appropriate and polite.

  “Look,” he muttered, “whatever it is, just say it. We’re working together, right? And I don’t want you involved in all this if you’re compromised.”

  There was a long silence. And then Ruhn re-crossed his arms over his chest with mostly no grimace. “I’ve always known you didn’t approve of me.”

  Saxton recoiled. “I beg your pardon?”

  —

  “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  As Novo spoke, she tried to look as strong and powerful as she could. Okay, fine, so she was still in her hospital bed with wires and tubing in places she would really prefer to be wire-less and tube-lacking, and she was, in fact, wearing a johnny that had little pink bouquets of flowers all over it, but damn it, she was perfectly fine.

  And she had every right to—

  “You’re not leaving this facility.” Dr. Manello stood over her and smiled like he held all the cards. “I’m sorry.”

  To keep from throat-punching the human, she looked down at herself…and blamed those frickin’ rosebuds that were all over her johnny. Why couldn’t the hospital gowns have prints of, like, Deadpool’s mask. Knives. Bombs with the wicks lit. Vials of poison.