Blood Fury: Black Dagger Legacy

by J. R. Ward

  “I can’t fix you,” he murmured.

  “What was that?” she snapped. “What the hell did you say to me?”

  He swung his eyes back to hers. “I’m sorry that you were hurt. I really am—”

  “This is not about Oskar! Don’t you dare try to deflect—”

  “Actually, it absolutely is. Maybe you’ll figure that out sometime, maybe you won’t. But either way, that’s none of my business because I refuse to keep paying for the sins of another. Good luck to you. Hope you find peace somehow, some way.”

  He turned away and went for the double doors—and as he came up to them, he caught a flash of her reflection in the glass. She was staring after him, her chin up, her eyes flashing, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Over her heart.

  If that was not a perfect metaphor for who she was as a person, he didn’t know what was.

  Letting himself out, he went down the seven snow-packed steps one by one and looked left. Then right.

  He chose a direction randomly and walked along, putting his hands in the pockets of his fleece. He hadn’t bothered to put on a parka, and he’d left his duffel bag back in the locker room at the training center by mistake. The cold didn’t bother him.

  For some reason, as he went along, he thought of a wounded animal that nonetheless bit the hand that was trying to save its life.

  All just part of the tragedy, though. Wasn’t it.

  “No, fuck that shit. That pair of assholes can fuck right off.”

  As Wrath made his proclamation, he was sitting in the Audience Room, in the armchair on the left, in front of a blazing hearth. George was curled on his lap, the King’s hand stroking that boxy, blond head, the dog feeling considerably better after he’d apparently tried to ingest the yellow fuzz of a tennis ball.

  Things were working their way through. Not that Saxton had asked for a detailed accounting of what “things” or “working” or “through” meant.

  One could guess, however.

  “You have such a way of putting things, my Lord,” he said with a grin as he looked back down at the ancient tome that he had opened with care and consulted with much deliberation. “And in this instance, I wholly agree. Peyton and Romina have every right to determine the course of their lives, and by revising the language in this antiquated passage, we can assure that non-consented dowries are not a problem going forward for either sex.”

  “Do you want to cancel that appointment?” Wrath lifted his head, those black wraparounds making him look like he was prepared to shoot the pair of sires. “Because if they come in here, they may not appreciate my delicate delivery. Selling your fucking kid. Are you kidding me.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Saxton made a notation on his schedule. “I think it would be best if I explained to them over the phone that there will be no avenue legally for them to accomplish their objectives. Otherwise, we will have call Stainmaster, won’t we.”

  Wrath laughed softly. “We are a good pair, you and I.”

  “I am complimented greatly by your praise and could not agree more wholeheartedly.” Saxton bowed. “I shall draft the revision to the Old Laws and enter it into my online database so that it is effective as of this evening. All will be well.”

  “That’s the last thing on our agenda, right?”

  “Yes, my Lord.” He glanced at the dog. “Although, George, no more with the tennis balls, okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re not doing that anymore, right, big man?”

  As the golden let out a groan, Saxton gathered his papers, got up from his desk, and bid his adieu. On the way out, he nodded at Blay, who had been on guard by the door.

  “I think the pair of them are beyond ready to go home,” he whispered. “Wrath is exhausted from worrying about his second child.”

  “And I think we’re all scared to death anything will happen to—”

  “—that dog.”

  “—that dog.”

  They nodded and then Blay went into the Audience Room to arrange for transport and Saxton went back to his office. The temptation to go home right away was nearly overwhelming, but in the end, he had to follow his procedure. It was a good hour before he could leave, and when he was finally done, he nearly trampled two doggen on the way to the back door.

  Dematerializing to the farmhouse’s front stoop, he paused to loosen the laces on his Merrells, and he was whistling as he entered the—

  The scent of blood was thick in the air.

  “Ruhn?” He dropped his satchel and his travel mug on the floor. “Ruhn!”

  As sheer panic flooded every nerve ending he had, he raced into the parlor. Furniture had been knocked over, a lamp was broken…rugs were out of place, scrunched up in corners.

  “Ruhn!” he screamed.

  Not a sound. Not a moan. Not a groan.

  But the blood was not human.

  Wheeling around, he ran down to the kitchen and—

  The pool of blood was over by the table and Saxton all but tripped in his rush to get over there—

  “Oh, God, no…!”

  Ruhn was sprawled on the floor facedown, blood…everywhere.

  “Ruhn! My love!”

  Saxton fell to his knees by the body, his stomach rolling to the point of vomiting, but he refused to give in to the impulse as he reached out to touch shoulder and back.

  “Ruhn…? Dear God, please don’t be dead…”

  With hands that shook and arms that were weak, he carefully rolled the male over onto his back. What he saw was the stuff of nightmare: Ruhn’s throat was slashed, his eyes fixed and unblinking. He did not appear to be breathing.

  Saxton screamed into the empty house. And then he cried out in further pain as he realized what Ruhn had been lying on.

  The dying male had pulled Saxton’s cashmere coat off the back of the chair it had been on…and had held it to him as he had bled as if taking comfort in the love they had shared.

  “Please don’t be dead…wake up…wake up…”

  Somehow, Saxton managed to get his phone out and call…someone. He didn’t know who it was. But all of a sudden, he was not alone. He was surrounded by people…and somebody was easing him back so that someone else could look at Ruhn—

  Blay. It was Blay’s arms around his chest.

  They were both kneeling in Ruhn’s blood.

  “I can’t hear anything,” Saxton blurted. “Is anybody saying anything?”

  “Shh,” came Blay’s soothing voice. “It’s okay. They’re just looking at him…”

  “I can’t…what’s wrong with my ears.” He hit himself in the side of the head a couple of times. “I can’t…they’re not working—”

  Blay captured his hand and stilled him. “We need to find out if there’s…”

  “Is he dead?”

  At that point, the floodgates threatened to open, but he had no time for the blindness that came with tears or any further lack of hearing. He simply sobbed without crying and tried to focus through his wretched sorrow.

  When he had to turn to the side to try to throw up, Blay held his head while he dry-heaved, and he could vaguely recognize the male’s voice speaking to him again. But God, he couldn’t think.

  And then Qhuinn was crouching down to him. The Brother’s lips were moving and his mismatched stare was earnest, concerned, compassionate.

  “I can’t…” Saxton tapped his ear again. “I can’t hear what you’re saying…”

  Qhuinn nodded and squeezed Saxton’s shoulder. Then the male looked at Manny and Doc Jane, who were bending over Ruhn.

  Chosen—a Chosen was here, Saxton realized.

  Wait, they wouldn’t have brought her if he was dead? Right?

  “Someone talk to me!” Saxton shouted.

  Everybody froze and looked over at him. And then Rhage was blocking the way and pointing to another room.

  “No.” Saxton shook his head. “No, I’m not—don’t take me away from him—I’m not—”

  Rhage’s face got right
in front of his own. “He has a pulse. They’re going to feed him and they’re going to close the knife wound. I’m taking you to the parlor and we’re going to let them do their job—”

  “No! No, don’t make me leave him—”

  “Do you want them distracted by you or working on Ruhn.”

  Saxton blinked. Put like that, the logic was enough to quiet him for the time being.

  When he tried to stand up, his legs gave out and he caught himself by throwing out a hand. Blay and Qhuinn ended up pulling him to his feet and leading him out to the parlor. And as he fell down onto the sofa, he looked at his palms. His knees. His shirt.

  There was blood all over him.

  He glanced toward the door. And heard himself say, “There’s a camera. Mounted in the corner of the eaves.”

  The Brother Vishous stepped forward from God only knew where. “Do you know what it feeds into?”

  Saxton cleared his throat and spoke in a hoarse voice. “There’s…downstairs, there’s a laptop. The password is Minnie. It’s there.”

  “I’m on it.”

  As the Brother stomped out of the room, like he was on a personal mission, Saxton put his head down…and wept.

  How could his love have been taken away from him so soon?

  —

  Across town, Novo was pacing in her apartment. Which wasn’t saying much: It took her about four strides to cover the distance to the bathroom. Four strides back to the futon.

  Rinse and repeat, so to speak.

  There was an intense restlessness in her, as if the universe were shattering somewhere in Caldwell, some kind of cosmic realignment happening that resonated in her world. Then again, maybe she was simply hallucinating from not having eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

  She had been doing much better before Peyton had showed up just now.

  Not really a newsflash.

  It had been a shock to sense the echo of his blood up above her basement shithole, but all things considered, she couldn’t really be surprised he had come. And she had been tempted to ignore his presence, except sooner or later, he would have figured out a way down to her level—and really, who needed to wait around for the other shoe to drop.

  Seizing the bull by the horns, she had marched up there and given him what for.

  So it was done. And he was the asshole and she was the victim who refused to be a victim.

  Yada, yada, yada.

  The trouble was, something wasn’t sitting right. I refuse to keep paying for the sins of another.

  “Just words, just fucking words,” she muttered as she made another trip.

  A quick check of the digital clock by her pillows and she added up how many hours before dawn: two. She had about one hundred and twenty minutes before she was stuck here all day.

  There was only one place she could think of to go. And unfortunately, it was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

  Something wouldn’t keep her inside, though.

  Like a bird seeking flight, she made a sudden rush to leave, sure as if she were afraid destiny’s hand would close the door of her freedom of choice and lock it for good.

  Out on the street, she walked fast, following in the footsteps of countless humans, and a few vampires, who had trod over the snowpack on the sidewalk. She went way farther than she had to to find a place to dematerialize, but she wanted to give herself as much of an opportunity to change her mind as she could.

  The calling would not be denied, however.

  Eventually, she ducked into a doorway that had no light above it…and after more than a few attempts, she traveled out and away from downtown, past the very outer ring of the suburbs, to a forest of trees and marshes.

  When she re-materialized, she found herself in an unfamiliar familiar landscape.

  The house she had once rented was abandoned now, its windows broken, a hole in its roof, the yard a tangle of vines, out-of-control bushes, and saplings that would soon be trees. In fact, the entire property seemed to have been returned to the wild, the six or seven acres overgrown such that the other houses in the area could not be seen at all.

  The snow cover, undisturbed except for some deer prints, seemed to be the crowning glory on the home’s death. Or more like the dirt on its coffin lid.

  She must have been the last person to inhabit the place.

  Maybe her tragedy had cursed the land and the little house.

  Or…maybe its owner had simply forfeited the mortgage and the bank had repossessed the property and not been able to move it on to someone else…and then a season had passed and a winter had come and pipes had broken…and after more of the same, there you had it.

  The real estate equivalent of cancer that metastasized.

  Walking forward, she was in no rush to get around to the back…but as with all journeys, large and small, the end came when it did.

  And then she was staring out at the marshes that seemed to go on forever. In reality, there was a good mile of them, and off in the distance, there were foothills that turned into the mountains that ultimately cupped Schroon Lake on the other side.

  Even with everything so unkempt, she knew exactly the spot where she had buried the young. It was over there. Under that little bush she had planted that was now so much bigger and the pile of rocks she had made that had stayed the same height.

  There was still a small mound, beneath the blanket of snow.

  With each step she took, the heaviness in her heart grew…until she could not take a full breath anymore. And then she was crouching down and she was putting her bare hand out to the snow.

  Turning her palm over, she remembered the blisters.

  It had been as cold as it was now the night it had happened. But she had been determined to dig. She had used a kitchen knife to stab at the hard, frozen earth and then had clawed the loose dirt free with her bare hands. Three feet down, and then she could go no farther because her hands were too shot.

  She had gone back into the house then.

  The young she had wrapped in a dishtowel—a clean one that had no holes.

  Back out by the grave, she had leaned down and placed the tiny bundle in the earth. Her tears had been the first thing that had filled what she had dug. And then that dirt, falling in chunks that she had had to press down, her blood mixing with the clay soil.

  Concerned that predators would find the site, she had turned back to the house. Stones set aside for some kind of terrace project that had not come to fruition had been stacked by the back door. One by one, she had carried them over and made a cairn.

  Then she had sat in the cold until she had shivered from hypothermia.

  Much like she was doing now.

  Only the blazing burn of the sun’s earliest rays had motivated her to go back inside—and even then, she had retreated not because she wanted to live, but rather because she had been determined to clean up her blood on the kitchen floor.

  And also because of that old wives’ tale about not being welcomed in the Fade if you killed yourself.

  At nightfall, she had dug up that bush and replanted it…and then she had left with no idea where she was going.

  She had spent the first few days on the streets, keeping sheltered from the sun in alleys behind Dumpsters. She’d wanted to believe she could meet her young eventually.

  She still wanted to believe that.

  Oddly, she recalled how busy the city had been during the day. Having only known Caldwell at night, the amount of traffic on the city streets, and all the walking, talking humans, and the bustling activity had been a surprise.

  Eventually, she had decided she had to do something with herself. She had found a job as a short-order cook at an all-night diner, taking the third shift that paid relatively well because most humans didn’t want to do the late hours.

  And then she’d seen that post on a closed Facebook group about the Brotherhood’s training program.

  Letting herself fall back onto her ass, she stared at the stones she had
laid, one upon the other.

  “Serenity,” she said out loud. “I’m going to name you Serenity. Because I hope that is what you have found in the Fade…”

  “You are my uncle’s special friend.”

  At the sound of a small voice, Saxton turned away from the closed door of the operating room. Bitty was standing beside him in the training center’s corridor, both of her parents behind her, a toy tiger dangling in her hand. The little girl was in a red dress, her dark hair curling at the ends, her eyes innocent, yet very old.

  This one had known so much suffering. Thus, she was used to this sorrow, wasn’t she, he thought sadly.

  Clearing his throat, he eased down to her level so he could meet her eye to eye. “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

  “My uncle told me all about you. When we were doing our puzzle the other night. He said you were his special friend and he loved you very much.”

  Saxton had thought that he was all cried out: After the trip in on the surgical van, with Ruhn coding twice, and then watching the door close as Doc Jane and Manny went in to put some kind of a tube or something in the male’s throat, he’d assumed he was dry as a bone.

  Nope.

  His eyes started to water all over again. “I love your uncle very much, too. He is my special friend as well.”

  “Here.” She held out her stuffed tiger. “This is Mastimon. He has always protected me. You can hold him now.”

  With hands that shook, he accepted the precious gift, and as he tucked it into his heart, he pulled the little girl close to his chest. Her arms did not fit very far around him, but he drew strength from her.

  Rhage looked heartbroken as he spoke up. “Any news…?”

  Saxton stood and was surprised as Bitty kept her arm around him. It seemed so easy to rest his hand on her small shoulder, the pair of them hurting together.

  “Not yet,” he told the Brother. “They’ve been in there forever.”

  “Do they know who did this?”

  “Vishous is looking into it. I can’t really even focus on that right now. All I want is for Ruhn to…” He stopped himself. “We’re just going to pray for the best, aren’t we, Bitty?”