Blood Fury: Black Dagger Legacy

by J. R. Ward

  “Here it is,” the male said as he pointed ahead. “Premier. There’s a parking lot behind. Just head down the alley right here.”

  Ruhn took them back into a cramped foursquare stretch of asphalt, made even smaller by the plowed piecrust edges of snow. Fortunately, there was only one other car so he was able to squeeze the truck into the far corner, and then he and Saxton were walking on the packed ice to the rear door.

  He went forward and held things open, and as Saxton passed by, Ruhn traced with his eyes the male’s hair and shoulders, his tight waist, his fine slacks and pointed shoes.

  Inside, the smell from the kitchen was amazing. He didn’t have any idea what the aromas were made of, but his spine loosened with every breath he took. Onions…mushrooms…soft spices.

  “Ah! You are back.”

  A human man in a black suit and a blue tie came down a thin hallway with both arms out. He and Saxton kissed each other’s cheeks, once on each side, and they slipped into a language Ruhn did not recognize.

  Abruptly, the human switched back to English. “But of course, we have always the table for you and your guest. This way, come. Come.”

  It was not very far at all before things opened up to the restaurant proper. As with the parking lot, there were few places to sit, and a couple was just standing up to leave. Probably the owners of that other vehicle in back.

  “Right in front of the house,” the human said proudly.

  “Merci mille fois.”

  The human bowed. “The usual?”

  Saxton looked at Ruhn. “Would it be okay if the chef used her discretion?”

  Ruhn nodded. “Whatever is easiest.”

  The human man recoiled. “It is not easy. It is our honor.”

  Saxton put his hand out. “We are so looking forward to whatever Lisette prepares. It will be a masterpiece.”

  “You may be so assured.”

  As the man left in a bit of a huff, Ruhn squeezed himself into a chair that would have done well by Bitty’s toy tiger, Mastimon. In fact, the entire place made him feel big as an elephant and as coordinated as a falling boulder.

  “I think I offended him.” He sat back—and then got with the program as Saxton put a napkin in his lap. Following suit, he murmured, “That was not my intention.”

  “You will love Lisette’s food. That is all they will care about in the end.”

  Wine appeared. White. Ruhn took a sip and was astounded. “What is this?”

  “Chateau Haut Brion Blanc. It is from Pessac-Leognan.”

  “I love this.”

  “I am glad.”

  As Saxton smiled, Ruhn forgot all about the wine. And he was still distracted as the male started to talk about what he had done during the day for Minnie and some of the other cases he was working on for the King. It was all so interesting, but more than that, the rise and fall of the solicitor’s voice was hypnotic.

  Food was served, small, colorful portions arriving on tiny, square white plates. More wine. More of Saxton’s conversation.

  It was all just so…peaceful. Even with the undercurrent of sexual need, and in spite of the restaurant’s mini-sized everything, Ruhn felt an unfamiliar ease. And the food was, in fact, absolutely amazing, each course building on the previous, the totality satiating his hunger in a way that was subtle, but powerful.

  When they were finally finished, some two hours later, it was well after midnight—and he felt as though they had been at it for about five minutes. Sitting back, he put his hand on his belly.

  “That was the most incredible meal I have ever had.”

  “I am so happy.” Saxton motioned to the human man who had sat them down. “Marc, if you please?”

  The man came right over. “Monsieur?”

  “Tell him, Ruhn.”

  Emboldened by the wine and a full belly, Ruhn met the human’s eyes without giving it another thought. “That was incredible. Amazing. I’ve never had a meal like that in my life and I never shall again.”

  Okay, apparently, he’d said all the right things. The man went into a positive swoon of happiness—and promptly rewarded them with a plate of pear slices and chocolate something-or-other.

  “I will get the bill tonight,” Saxton said as he took out his wallet and slid free a black card. “This is my treat as it was my choice. Next time, you pick and you pay.”

  Ruhn flushed. Yes, he had tried to guess in his head what this might have cost—although that had all been only in theory as they had not had menus and no dollar amounts had been discussed—and he could only imagine it was incredibly expensive. And he did appreciate Saxton’s nod to the fact that he wanted to contribute.

  After the check came and the card was exchanged, Saxton then signed things just out of sight, and the two of them got up and gave further compliments to the human—at which point, a woman in a white chef’s outfit came forth and there were exclamations to her as the person who had provided them with such a glorious meal.

  When they were finally back outside, Ruhn found that he could remember little in terms of detail: If asked what precisely he had eaten or drunk, what had been said, where they had sat, he could not have pointed to many particulars.

  And yet the whole was unforgettable.

  “Aren’t they wonderful?” Saxton was saying as they walked over to the trunk. “Such a great couple. They live above the restaurant. It is truly their life.”

  As if on cue, a light flared in a window on the upper level, a shadow passing by drapes that were pulled.

  “Thank you,” Ruhn murmured as he looked at Saxton. “This was amazing.”

  “I am glad. I wanted to show you something special.”

  Shifting his eyes lower, Ruhn recalled the taste and feel of the male’s kiss—and oh, how he wished that they were on the human schedule. It would have been wonderful to find this the end of the day instead of the start of the night, the two of them winding down together back at Saxton’s sleek penthouse, entwining themselves, legs about legs, arms about arms, in a bed, with nothing but hours of pleasure ahead.

  There was much to explore.

  So many things he wanted to taste and touch.

  “If you keep staring at me like that,” Saxton groaned, “I am going to lose my job for failure to show up.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was not. “I’ll stop.” He did not.

  It was cold and the wind was blowing, but it might as well have been an August night for all he was in a rush to get under cover in the truck. He could have stayed just where they were forever, suspended between a good meal and the good-bye that was going to have to come because of Saxton’s responsibilities.

  “Can I visit you at the end of the night?” Ruhn asked.

  “If you spend the day with me, yes.” Saxton’s smile was slow and full of promise. “I’m going to need more than a half hour before the dawn’s ugly light.”

  “That is—”

  Later, he would wonder exactly what it was that broke the moment and brought his head around, but he would be forever grateful for whatever instinct had his back-—because they were no longer alone.

  Two figures were in the shadows about fifteen yards away, standing just out of sight behind a shop’s back porch.

  He knew who they were without confirmation from their scents.

  “Get in the truck,” he ordered Saxton.

  “What?”

  Ruhn grabbed the male’s arm in a hard grip and started marching for the cab. “The truck. Get in there and lock the doors.”

  “Ruhn, why are you—”

  The men who had been at that two-bit office stepped forward, silencing that line of questioning. And a quick triangulation to the passenger-side door of the truck made Ruhn nervous. It all depended on how fast those humans moved.

  “Let me call the Brothers,” Saxton said as he put his hand inside his coat, clearly going for his phone.

  Keeping his voice down and his eyes on the approach, Ruhn shook his head. “I’ve got this.”

&
nbsp; “They could be armed. They probably are. Let me—”

  “This is why I’m here. Get in the vehicle.”

  He unlocked things remotely and then jumped ahead, opened the door, and pressed the keys into Saxton’s palm. “Lock yourself in. Leave if things go badly.”

  “I will never leave you.”

  With a rough shove, Ruhn all but airlifted the other male in, and then he shut the door and glowered at the solicitor.

  Thunch went the locks.

  Ruhn walked around and stood at the back of the bed. The humans were not in a hurry on the approach, but that didn’t mean anything. Aggression was best played as a second card, and maybe they knew that—

  As if on cue, the two men rushed forward on the attack. One had a knife. The other was empty-handed—if there were guns, they were holstered for now, probably because even though it was late, there were still humans around in short-stack apartment buildings or over their businesses, like the restaurant owners.

  Settling into his fighting stance, Ruhn returned to his previous life in between one heartbeat and the next, his brain flipping into a different gear that was rusty only for a split second. Then everything, for better or worse, came back to him.

  And he started to fight.

  “A wheelchair. You want me to go down the corridor…in a wheelchair.”

  As Novo glared a hole in the back of her surgeon’s head, Dr. Manello seemed woefully unaware that his skull had sprung a leak and she was the one responsible for his brains evac’ing all over the place. In fact, the man seemed nonchalant and utterly unconcerned by her Laser Eyes of Total Domination.

  Which was pretty fucking frustrating. Especially when it was compounded by the fact that she was still relegated to her hospital bed. Still in a johnny with flowers on it. Still hooked up to things that beeped.

  “Come on.” He patted the chair’s seat. “You don’t want to be late for the big meeting.”

  “I am perfectly fine walking on my own, thank you very much. I’m not a goddamn cripple.”

  “Okay, that counts as a micro-aggression. Or something. Or, like, disrespectful to the physically handicapped.”

  “What are you, the thought police, too?”

  “Non-negotiable.” His smile was about as charming as a toe infection. “So let’s do this.”

  “I’m not getting in that thing.” She crossed her arms—at least until her IV line got squeezed and she had to put them back down. “And when can I get rid of this bag.”

  “I am so relieved.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The bitchier my patients get, the more they are improving.” He pumped his fist like Rocky. “Woo-hoo!”

  “I’m going to hit you with my bag.”

  “I didn’t know females like you had purses. I thought you just fanny-packed your shit like a dude.”

  Novo burst out laughing and pointed a finger at him. “That is not funny.”

  “Then why are you—”

  “Fine, bring that thing over—but I am driving.”

  “Oh, of course, Danica. Aaaaaabsolutely.”

  The fact that she grunted as she sat up and swung her legs around probably proved his point, but he had the good sense not to bring that up.

  The wheelchair wasn’t more than three feet from the mattress—and it was a shock to find that even within that short distance, she was ready to take a load off by the time she turned herself about and positioned her ass over the seat.

  She thought of Peyton.

  His blood was solely responsible for the recovery she’d had. After the two times she had fed from him, she’d taken huge leaps in her forward progress. Without him? She doubted she’d be upright at all, and yet she was still frustrated.

  “Let’s get you set up here.” Dr. Manello transferred the IV bag to a pole on the back of the chair. “Okay, hit it.”

  He jumped ahead and held the door open.

  It took her a minute to get a hang of the ambulation thing. Her hands were sloppy and her arms were weak. But then she was rolling along.

  “If you salute me, I’m going to—”

  Dr. Manello snapped to attention, all Benny Hill with his palm flashing out.

  “Really?” She started to laugh again and had to hold under her rib cage. “Ow.”

  “Come on, badass,” he said. “Let me help you.”

  Before she could tell him to fuck off, he took control of the driving, and it was a little hard to argue that she didn’t need the help as she breathed through the sharp-shooter.

  Which seemed to be getting worse. To the point where she had to bring it up.

  “Am I having a heart attack?” she asked as she massaged under her left arm. “I…”

  Panic made her feel like she was suffocating, and the good doctor was right on it, pulling a stethoscope out from his white coat and coming in front of her. He listened to things for a little bit. Asked her to sit forward. Listened some more from the back.

  Then he unplugged the thing from his ears and stood back, observing her. “I think you’re fine,” he said. “Heart is regular as a metronome. Your color is great. Your eyes are fine.”

  “I feel like I can’t…”

  A sudden muffled burst of talk made her frown. “Are they in the gym?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Why aren’t we in a classroom?” Usually if there was a meeting, it was only the six trainees, and one or two Brothers, tops. “I mean, we don’t need all that space—”

  “You ever have panic attacks?”

  “No, never,” she lied.

  “Okay. Well, you might have some anxiety spikes over the next little bit. It’s not uncommon. You’ve been through a lot—and it wouldn’t be unusual for you to be jumpy as hell.”

  “Is that a medical term of art?”

  “Tonight it is, yup.” He sank down on his haunches and got serious. “The tricky thing is to recognize that the shortness of breath is more likely anxiety, not your heart exploding in your chest, ’kay? If you can believe in that, you’ll do better. You’re medically sound. I promise you that or we wouldn’t be out here in this hall.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “You got this.”

  “I’m not normally…weird.”

  “When was the last time you got stabbed in the heart?”

  She pshaw’d with her hand. “Whatever, man. I mean, it’s been at least a week. Maybe two. Guess I’m just out of practice.”

  “That’s my girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s do this. And I’m going to hang right with you.”

  “I thought you said I’m medically sound?”

  Dr. Manello started pushing her down the concrete corridor again. “Belt and suspenders, my friend. Belt and suspenders.”

  They went forth at a pace that was all about the slow and steady, and as they trundled by the weight room, she wondered whether she was ever going to work out again.

  The closer they got to the gym, the louder the voices became and she gathered her long braid, holding it in the center of her chest as if it would offer her some kind of protection—even though she knew not against what.

  One of the sets of doors opened before they were in range, and as Vishous stepped out, she wondered if they had been sensed by the Brother.

  That diamond stare narrowed on her, the tattoos at his temple distorting. “How you.”

  “Ready to fight.”

  “That’s right.” He offered his knuckles out for a pound. “Gimme some.”

  Something about knocking her fist against his gave her some additional strength, and holy crap, it turned out she needed it. As Dr. Manello pushed her into the gym, she was stunned by the number of people who had lined up at the bleachers. It was the entire Black Dagger Brotherhood, all the fighters and her fellow trainees.

  Everyone went silent.

  At least until they started to clap. Those who had been seated rose to their feet, and people whistled and cheered as well—to the point where
she was tempted to check and see if someone else, someone who was important or who had actually done something significant, was behind her.

  “Oh, God, please stop,” she muttered into the din.

  What was she supposed to do? Pull a Queen Elizabeth and do a white-glove wave?

  One by one, the Brothers and fighters came over to her, everybody from Rhage to Butch to Tohrment, John Matthew to Blay and Qhuinn, giving her shoulder or hand a squeeze—or in Zsadist’s case, offering a brief nod. What truly saved her was that there wasn’t any pity or gooey sympathy. No…it was like they were welcoming her into a club that they themselves had been a part of for quite some time.

  It was a survivors’ club.

  Of course, she thought as she started to relax. The Brothers had all been critically injured in the field at one point or another in their long careers—likely, a number of times.

  She had cut her teeth in that regard.

  Phury was the last Brother to come up to her, his limp barely noticeable thanks to his state-of-the-art prosthetic lower leg.

  “Don’t let it get into your head,” he said as he bent down. “Your body will heal more quickly than your mind. Your job is to place this in a perspective that allows you to still be effective out there. A loss of confidence is worse than going into the field unarmed. Talk to Mary if you need help, ’kay?”

  His yellow eyes were warm and kind, his head of multi-colored hair reminding her of a lion’s mane.

  And as he went to step away, she almost called him back just so he could say that to her all over again.

  But she would remember.

  She had to, she thought as she put her hand to her sternum and rubbed. There was no sense getting herself killed…just because she had managed to live.

  The trainees came next, Axe giving her a high five that was more like a medium to maybe a low four and a quarter. And then Boone was hugging her and Craeg and Paradise were offering words of encouragement.

  Peyton was the only one who didn’t make an approach. He stayed standing on the bleachers, a couple of rows up from the bottom, dressed in scrubs and tuxedo shoes. His hair was streaked back as if he had been pulling his hands through it.