Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  Qhuinn gasped. He was up on a dais, and the cave that was before him was lit with a hundred black candles, the flames creating a symphony of soft, golden light that flickered over the rough-hewn walls and reflected off the glossy floor.

  But that was not what really got his attention: Right in front of him, between him and the tremendous, illuminated space, was an altar.

  In the center of which was a large skull.

  The thing was ancient, the bone not the white of the newly dead, but carrying the darkened, pitted patina of the aged, the sacred, the revered.

  That was the first Brother. Had to be.

  As his eyes shifted away from it, he was struck with awe: Down on the floor, looking up at him, were the living, breathing carriers of the great tradition. The Brotherhood stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the naked bodies of the fighters forming a tremendous wall of flesh and muscle, that candlelight playing across their strength and power.

  Tohr took Wrath’s arm and led the king up the stairs that Qhuinn himself had just surmounted.

  “Back up against the wall, and grip the pegs,” Wrath commanded in English as he was escorted to the altar.

  Qhuinn obeyed without hesitation, feeling his shoulder blades and ass hit the stone as his hands brushed a pair of stout, dowel-like protrusions.

  When the king brought up his arm, Qhuinn suddenly knew exactly how each of the Brothers had gotten that star-shaped scarring on their pectoral: An aged silver glove was locked onto Wrath’s hand, barbs marking the knuckles of the thing—and within the fist, was the handle of a black dagger.

  With a minimum of fuss, Tohr extended Wrath’s wrist over to the skull. “My lord.”

  As the king brought up the blade, the ritualistic tattoos that delineated his lineage caught the glowing light—and then the razor-sharp edge as he scored his skin.

  Red blood welled and fell into a silver cup that had been inset into the crown of the skull. “My flesh,” the king proclaimed.

  After a moment, Wrath licked the wound closed. And then the huge male, with his waist-length black hair and his widow’s peak and those wraparounds, was led over to Qhuinn.

  Even without the benefit of sight, Wrath somehow knew exactly how their bodies were positioned, how tall Qhuinn was, where Qhuinn’s face was….

  Because the king snapped out a hold right on Qhuinn’s jaw. Then with brutal force, he shoved Qhuinn’s head back and to the side, exposing his throat.

  Now he knew what the fucking pegs were for.

  Wrath’s cruel smile exposed tremendous fangs, the likes of which Qhuinn had never seen before. “Your flesh.”

  With a lightning-fast strike, the king latched on without mercy, piercing Qhuinn’s vein in a brutal bite and then drawing in a series of ripping pulls that were swallowed one after another. When finally he retracted those canines, he drew his tongue over his lips and smiled like a warlord.

  And then it was time.

  Qhuinn didn’t need to be told to brace the ever-loving shit out of himself. Bearing down on his hands, he locked his shoulders and his legs, ready to receive.

  “Our flesh,” Wrath growled.

  The king didn’t hold back. With the same unerring accuracy, he curled up a fist inside that ancient glove and slammed the thing into Qhuinn’s pec, the impact of those barbed knuckles so great, Qhuinn’s lips flapped in the gale that blew up and out of his lungs. Vision went bye-bye-birdie for a little bit, but when it came back, he got a crystal-clear of Wrath’s face.

  The king’s expression was one of respect—and a total lack of surprise, as if Wrath had expected Qhuinn to take it like a male.

  And on it went. Tohr was next in line, accepting the glove and the dagger, saying the same words, scoring his forearm, bleeding into the skull, striking at Qhuinn’s throat, then hitting as hard as a truck. And then Rhage. Vishous. Butch. Phury. Zsadist.

  By the end of it, Qhuinn was bleeding from the wounds at his throat and his chest, his body was covered from sweat, and the only reason he wasn’t on the floor was the bitch grip he had on those pegs.

  But he didn’t care what else they did to him; he was going to stay on his feet no matter what. He had no clue about the history of the Brotherhood, but he was willing to bet none of these guys had gone down like a bag of sand during their inductions—and he didn’t mind being the first in some senses, but not in a sacless one.

  Besides, so far so good, he guessed: The other Brothers were standing around and grinning from ear to ear at him, like they totally approved of how he was handling shit—and didn’t that only make him even more determined.

  With a nod, as if he’d been given an order, Tohr led the king back over to the altar and handed him the skull. Raising the collected blood high, Wrath said, “This is the first of us. Hail to him, the warrior who birthed the Brotherhood.”

  A war cry burst forth from the Brothers, their combined voices thundering in the cave; and then Wrath approached Qhuinn. “Drink and join us.”

  Roger. That.

  With a sudden surge of strength, he grabbed that skull and looked right into the eye sockets as he brought the silver cup to his mouth. Opening the way to his gut, he poured the blood down his throat, accepting the males into him, absorbing their strength…joining them.

  All around, the Brothers growled their approval.

  When he was finished, he put the skull back in Wrath’s palms and wiped his mouth.

  The king laughed deep in his massive chest. “You’re going to want to hang on to those pegs again, son….”

  Annnnnnnnd that was the last thing he heard for a while.

  Like a lightning bolt coming out of the sky and drilling him right in the head, a sudden burst of energy hit him, overtaking all of his senses. He jumped backward, finding the grips and locking on just as his body started to go into a seizure….

  He had every intention of staying conscious.

  But alas…sorry, Charlie. The maelstrom was too great.

  As his body shook, and his heart flickered, and his mind fizzled like a firecracker, Boom! it was lights-out.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  “Sola, why you no tell me we have visitors?”

  Sola paused as she put her backpack down on the countertop in the kitchen. Even though her grandmother was clearly waiting for an answer, she was not going to turn around until she was sure her expression showed none of the surprise she was feeling.

  When she was ready, she pivoted on one boot.

  Her grandmother was sitting at their little table, her pink-and-blue housecoat coordinating with the curlers in her hair and the flowered curtains behind her. At the age of eighty, she had the gracefully lined face of a woman who had lived through thirteen presidents, a World War, and innumerable personal struggles. Her eyes, however, burned with the strength of an immortal.

  “Who came to the door, vovó?” she asked.

  “The man with the”—her grandmother lifted her heavily knuckled hand and encircled her curlers—“dark hair.”

  Crap. “When did he stop by?”

  “He was very nice.”

  “Did he leave his name?”

  “So you did no expect him.”

  Sola took a deep breath, and prayed that her neutral affect stayed in place in spite of the grilling. Hell, after having lived with her grandmother for how many years, you’d think she’d be used to the fact that the woman was a one-way street when it came to questions.

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone, no.” And the idea that someone had come a-knocking made her put her hand on her bag. There was a nine in there with a laser sight and a silencer—and that was a very good thing. “What did he look like?”

  “Very big. And the dark hair. Deep-set eyes.”

  “What color were they?” Her grandmother didn’t see all that well, but surely she would remember that. “Was he—”

  “Like us. He spoke with me in the Spanish.”

  Maybe that erotic man she’d been tracking was bilingual—make that trilingual, given his
strange accent.

  “So did he leave his name?” Not that that would help. She didn’t know what the man she’d been tracking called himself.

  “He said you knew him, and that he would be back with you.”

  Sola glanced at the digital readout on the microwave. It was just before ten p.m. “When did he come by?”

  “Not that long ago.” Her grandmother’s eyes narrowed. “You been seeing him, Marisol? Why you no tell me?”

  At that point, everything flipped into Portuguese, their staccato speech overlapping, all kinds of I’m-not-dating-anyone interlacing with why-can’t-you-just-get-married. They’d had the argument so many times, they basically just reassumed their well-practiced parts in this overdone play.

  “Well, I liked him,” her grandmother announced as she got up from the table and banged the surface with her open palms. As the napkin caddy with its payload of Vanity Fair jumped, Sola wanted to curse. “And I think you should bring him here for a proper dinner.”

  I would, Grandmother, but I don’t know the guy—and would you feel this way if you knew he was a criminal? And a playboy?

  “Is he Catholic?” her grandmother asked on the way out.

  He’s a drug dealer—so if he is religious, he’s got incredible powers of reconciliation.

  “He looks like a good boy,” her vovó said over her shoulder. “A Catholic good boy.” And that was that—for now.

  As those slippers scuffed their way across to the stairs, undoubtedly there were all kinds of making the sign of the cross going on. She could just picture it.

  With a curse, Sola dropped her head and closed her eyes. On some level, she couldn’t imagine that man being all warm and fuzzy just because a little old Brazilian woman opened the damn door. Catholic, her ass.

  “Damn it.”

  Then again, who was she to be sanctimonious? She was a criminal, too. Had been for years—and the fact that she’d had to provide for herself and her grandmother didn’t justify all the breaking and entering.

  Who did her mystery man support, she wondered as the next-door neighbor’s dog began to bark. Those twins? They’d looked really self-sufficient. Did he have kids? A wife?

  For some reason, that made her shudder.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at the you-could-eat-off-of-it floor that her grandmother cleaned every day.

  He had no right to come here, she thought.

  Then again, she had visited his place uninvited, hadn’t she—

  Sola frowned and lifted her eyes. The window that was framed by those ruffled pink half drapes was jet-black because she hadn’t turned any exterior lights on yet. But she knew someone was there.

  And she knew who it was.

  Breath going short, heart starting to beat fast, she put her hand up to the front of her throat for some reason.

  Turn away, she told herself. Run away.

  But…she did not.

  * * *

  Assail had not meant to go to his burglar’s home. But the tracking device was still on her Audi, and when it had informed him that she’d returned to the address, he was incapable of not materializing there.

  He did not want to be seen, however, so he chose the backyard, and how fortuitous: When his burglar walked into the kitchen, he got a full view of her—as well as her housemate.

  The older human female was rather enchanting in an elderly kind of way, her hair in curlers, her robe bright as a spring day, her face beautiful in spite of her age. She was not happy, however, as she sat at the table and glared across at what Assail surmised had to be her grandaughter.

  Words were exchanged, and he smiled a little in the darkness. Much love between the pair of them—much annoyance, too. And wasn’t that the way with older relatives, whether you were human or vampire.

  Oh, how he was eased by knowing she did not live with a male.

  Unless, of course, that one she had met at the restaurant also stayed in the little house.

  As he growled softly in the dark, the dog in the house next door began to bark, warning his human owners of that of which they were unaware.

  A moment later, his burglar was left alone in the kitchen, her expression one of both resignation and frustration.

  As she stood there, crossing her arms, shaking her head, he told himself he should go. Instead, he did what he should not: He reached through the glass with his mind and let his need unleash.

  Instantly, she responded, that lithe body straightening from its lean against the counter, her eyes flipping to his through the window.

  “Come to me,” he said into the cold.

  And she did.

  The back door creaked as she opened it with her hip, forcing the bottom corner to carve a pie slice in the snow of the deck.

  Her scent was ambrosia to him. And as he closed the distance between them, his body surged with a predatory lust.

  Assail didn’t stop until he was mere inches from her. Up close, chest-to-breast, she was so much smaller than he; yet the effect she had on him was mountainous: His hands curled up; his thighs tightened; his heart beat with hot blood.

  “I didn’t think I was going to see you again,” she whispered.

  His cock hardened even further, just from the sound of her voice. “It appears that we have unfinished business.”

  And it did not involve money, drugs, or information.

  “I meant what I said to you.” She brushed her hair back, as if she were having difficulty standing still. “No more spying on my part. I promise.”

  “Indeed, you have given me your word. But it seems that I miss having your eyes upon me.” Her little hiss carried across the chilly air between their mouths. “Among other things.”

  She looked away quickly. Looked back. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Why? Because of that human you were having dinner with last night?”

  His burglar frowned—probably at the use of the word human. “No. Not because of him.”

  “So he does not live here.”

  “No, it’s just my grandmother and me.”

  “I approve.”

  “Why would you have any opinion at all?”

  “I ask myself that daily,” he muttered. “But explain, if it’s not because of that man, why shall we not meet?”

  His burglar pushed her hair over her shoulder again and shook her head. “You’re…trouble.”

  “Says the woman who is almost always armed.”

  She tilted up her chin. “You think I didn’t see that bloody blade in your back hall?”

  “Oh, that.” He dismissed the comment with a flick of the hand. “Just taking care of business.”

  “I thought you’d killed him.”

  “Who?”

  “Mark—my friend.”

  “Friend,” he heard himself growl. “Is that what he is.”

  “So who did you kill?”

  Assail took out a cigar to light, but she stopped him. “My grandmother will smell it.”

  He glanced up at the closed windows of the second floor. “How?”

  “Just please don’t. Not here.”

  With an incline of his head, he acquiesced—even though he couldn’t remember ever declining one for anybody.

  “Who did you kill?”

  This was asked factually, without the hysteria one might expect from a female. “It is nothing that concerns you.”

  “Better I don’t know, huh.”

  Given that he was a different species than her? Yes. Indeed.

  “’Twas nobody you would ever know. I will tell you, however, that I had grounds. He betrayed me.”

  “So he deserved it.” Not a question; more a statement of approval.

  He couldn’t help but favor her take on things. “Yes, he did.”

  There was a period of silence, and then he had to ask, “What is your name?”

  She laughed. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “How would I have found out?”

  “Good point—and I�
��ll tell you, if you explain what you said to my vovó.” She hugged her torso, as if cold. “You know, she liked you.”

  “Who likes me?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “How ever does she know me?”

  His burglar frowned. “When you came before now. She said she thought you were a good man, and she wants to invite you back for dinner.” Those astonishing dark eyes returned to his. “Not that I’m advocating—what? Hey, ow.”

  Assail forced his hold to loosen, unaware of having gripped her arm. “I did not come by earlier. At no time have I spoken to your grandmother.”

  His burglar opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “You weren’t here tonight?”

  “No.”

  “So who the hell is looking for me?”

  As a vast protective urge came over him, his fangs elongated and his upper lip began to curl back—but he caught himself, tamping down the outer show of his inner emotions.

  Abruptly, he nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “We go inside. Now. And you will tell me more.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Assail stared at her from his superior height. “You shall have it anyway.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Trez was not used to being chauffeured around. He liked driving himself. Being in control. Choosing the left or the right.

  That kind of self-determination was not on the menu tonight, however.

  At the moment, he was riding phat in the back of a Mercedes that was the size of a house. Up in front, Fritz, as his name was, was driving like a bat out of hell—not exactly something you expected from a butler who looked like he was seven thousand years old.

  Now, given that Trez was still a little off after the previous night’s headache, he supposed he was okay with being a passenger in this instance. But if he and iAm were going to live here, they were going to have to know where the damn property was—

  What. The. Fuck.

  For some reason, his senses were picking up on a change in the atmosphere, something tingling on the edges of his consciousness—a warning. And what do you know, outside the window, the moonlit landscape grew wavy, a vital distortion tweaking his vision.