Lover Revealed tbdb-4

by J. R. Ward

  So good. He'd been so good.

  "Will you use me again?" Butch's voice, always full of gravel, was nearly gone.

  Marissa closed her eyes, her chest hurting so badly she had trouble breathing.

  "Because I want it to be me instead of him," he said.

  Oh… so this was about an act of aggression directed toward Rehvenge, not about feeding her. She should have known. She'd seen the look Butch had given Rehv just before getting into the car. He obviously still held a grudge from before.

  "Never mind," Butch said, putting himself back into his pants and zipping up. "None of my business."

  She had no reply for him, but he didn't seem to expect one. He handed her her clothes, didn't look at her as she dressed, and the second her nakedness was covered, he opened the back door.

  Cold air rushed in… and that was when she realized something. The inside of the car smelled of passion and feeding—thick, heady fragrances that were enticing. But there was not one hint of the bonding scent. Not one hint.

  She couldn't bear to glance back at him as she walked away.

  It was close to dawn when Butch finally pulled into the compound's courtyard. After parking the Escalade between Rhage's deep purple GTO and Beth's Audi station wagon, he walked over to the Pit.

  After he and Marissa had parted, he'd driven around the city for hours, following the paths of meaningless streets, passing by nonexistent houses, stopping at traffic lights when he remembered to. He'd come home only because daylight was going to flash over the land very soon and it just seemed like the thing to do.

  He looked to the east, where the barest hint of radiance showed.

  Walking out to the center of the courtyard, he sat on the edge of the fountain's marble pool and watched as the shutters came down over the windows of the main house and the Pit. He blinked a little at the glow in the sky. Then blinked a lot.

  As his eyes started to burn, he thought about Marissa and remembered every single thing about her, from the shape of her face to the fall of her hair to the sound of her voice and the scent of her skin. Here in privacy, he let his feelings out, giving in to the aching love and the hateful yearning that refused to leave him be.

  And what do you know, the bonding scent made an appearance once again. He'd somehow managed to withhold it when he'd been around her, feeling as though marking her wasn't fair. But here? Alone? No reason to hide.

  As the sunrise gathered momentum, his cheeks flared with pain, like he had a sunburn, and his body twitched with alarm. He forced himself to stay because he needed to see the sun, but his thighs trembled from the urge to run, and he wasn't going to be able to hold them for a long.

  Shit… he was never going to catch daylight again, was he? And with Marissa out of his life, there would be no kind of sunshine for him. Ever.

  The darkness owned him, didn't it.

  He released the lock on himself because he had no choice, and the instant he did, his legs raced across the courtyard. Hurling his body through the Pit's vestibule, he slammed the innermost door and breathed roughly.

  There was no rap music playing, but V's leather jacket was tossed on the chair behind the computers, so he was around. Probably still at the big house doing a postgame wrap-up with Wrath.

  As Butch stood by himself in the living room, the familiar urge to drink hit hard, and he could see no good reason not to give in. Dumping his coat and his weapons, he headed for the Scotch, poured himself a long/tall, and brought the bottle out with him from the kitchen. Going over to his favorite couch, he lifted the glass to his lips and while he swallowed, his eyes fell on the newest issue of Sports Illustrated. There was a picture of a baseball player on the cover and next to the guy's head, in big yellow print, was a single word: HERO.

  Marissa was right. He did have a hero complex. But it wasn't about some kind of an ego trip. It was because maybe if he saved enough people he could be… forgiven.

  That's what he was truly after: absolution.

  Flashbacks from his younger years started to play like pay-per-view, except sure as shit this wasn't a movie he'd choose to order. And in the midst of the show, his eyes slid to the phone. There was only one person who could ease him about this stuff, and he doubted she would. But damn, if he could reach out and have his mother say, just once, that she forgave him for letting Janie get into that car…

  Butch sat down on the leather sofa and put his Scotch aside.

  He waited there for hours, until the clock said nine. And then he picked up the phone and dialed a number that started with the area code 617. His father answered.

  The conversation was just as awful as Butch had thought it might be. The only thing worse? The news from home.

  As he ended the call on the cordless, he saw that the total elapsed time, counting the six rings at the beginning, was one minute thirty-four seconds. And it was, he knew, likely the last time he would talk to Eddie O'Neal.

  "What's doing, cop?"

  He jumped and looked up at Vishous. Saw no reason to lie. "My mother's sick. For the past two years, apparently. Has Alzheimer's. Bad. Of course, no one thought to tell me. And I would never have known if I hadn't just called."

  "Shit…" V came over and sat down. "You want to go see her?"

  "Nope." Butch shook his head and picked up his Scotch. "Got no reason to. Those people aren't my business anymore."

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The following evening, Marissa shook the hand of her new residence director. The female was perfect for the position. Smart. Kind. Soft of voice. Trained in public health at NYU—the night school, of course.

  "When would you like me to start?" the female said.

  "How's tonight sound?" Marissa replied wryly. When she got an enthusiastic nod in response, she smiled a little. "Great… Why don't I show you to your office."

  When Marissa got back from the upstairs bedroom she'd assigned the director, she went to her laptop, logged in to Caldwell's multiple listing service, and started looking at some other properties for sale within the community.

  It wasn't long before she saw nothing at all. Butch was a constant pressure on her chest, an invisible weight that made it hard to breathe. And if she wasn't busy, memories of him consumed her.

  "Mistress?"

  She looked up at Safe Place's doggen. "Yes, Phillipa?"

  "Havers has referred a case to us. The female and her son are going to be driven here tomorrow after the young is stabilized, but the case history taken by the client's nurse is going to be e-mailed over to you within the hour."

  "Thank you. Will you get a room ready for them downstairs?"

  "Yes, mistress." The doggen bowed and left.

  So, Havers was keeping his word, wasn't he.

  Marissa frowned, that now perennial sense that she was missing something coming back to her. For some reason, an image of Havers came to mind and wouldn't leave… and that's what brought the shadowed thought to light.

  From out of nowhere, she heard her own voice when she'd been talking to Butch: I will not sit back and watch you destroy yourself.

  Good God. The exact words her brother had said to her when he'd kicked her out of the house. Oh, sweet Virgin Scribe, she was doing to Butch precisely what Havers had done to her: banishing him under the noble guise of prudent disapproval. Except wasn't the point really about saving herself from feeling scared and out of control because she loved him?

  But what about his death wish?

  The sight of him facing off against that lesser on the leahdyre's front lawn came to her: Butch had been cautious in that situation. Careful. Not reckless. And he'd moved with skill, not a berserker's messy flailing.

  Oh… hell, she thought. What if she'd been wrong? What if Butch could fight? What if he should fight?

  Except what about the Evil? The Omega?

  Well, the Scribe Virgin had interceded to protect Butch. And he had still been… Butch after the Omega had vanished. What if—

  A knock sounded and she jump
ed to her feet. "My queen!"

  Beth smiled from the doorway, lifting a hand. "Hi."

  All tangled in her head, Marissa fell into a curtsy, which made Beth shake her head with a chuckle.

  "Am I ever going to get you to cut that out?"

  "Likely not… It's the burden of my upbringing." Marissa tried to concentrate. "Have you… ah, have you come to see what we've done here in the last—"

  Bella and Mary appeared behind the queen.

  "We want to talk with you," Beth said. "It's about Butch."

  Butch stirred in his bed. Cracked open an eye. Cursed as he saw the clock. He'd overslept, probably because of how hard he'd gone the night before. Were three lessers too much in one night? Or maybe it had been feeding—

  Oh, hell, no. He was so not thinking of that. Not remembering that.

  He rolled over onto his back—

  And jacked right off the mattress. "Oh… fuck."

  Five figures in black hooded robes surrounded his bed.

  Wrath's voice came first in the Old Language, then in English: "There is no going back from the question that shall be posed to you this night. You shall be given it only once, and your answer will stand for the rest of the life you lead. Are you prepared to be asked?"

  The Brotherhood. Holy Mary, Mother of God.

  "Yes," Butch breathed, grabbing his cross.

  "Then I shall say unto you now, Butch O'Neal descendant of mine own blood, and the blood of mine father, will you join us?"

  Oh… shit. Was this real? A dream?

  He looked at each one of the hooded figures. "Yes. Yes, I will join you."

  A black robe was thrown at him. "Tender this to your skin, raising the hood unto your head. At all times, you shall say nothing unless spoken to. You shall keep your eyes on the ground. Your hands shall be clasped at the small of your back. Your bravery and the honor of the bloodline we share shall be measured in every action you take."

  Butch stood up and pulled on the robe. Wished briefly he could hit the bathroom—

  "You will be permitted to empty your body. Do it now."

  When Butch came out, he made sure his head was down and his hands were linked behind him.

  As a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, he knew it was Rhage's. No one else's palm weighed so much.

  "Come with us now," Wrath said.

  Butch was led out of the Pit and right into the Escalade, the SUV parked practically in the vestibule, as if they didn't want anyone to know what was happening.

  After Butch slid into the back, the Escalade's engine turned over and many doors were shut. With a lurch, they slowly progressed through what he assumed was the courtyard until they started to bump along like they were heading over the back lawn and into the woods. No one said a thing, and in the silence he couldn't help wondering what the hell they were going to do to him. For sure this was not going to be a cakewalk.

  Eventually the SUV stopped and everyone got out. Trying to follow the rules, Butch stepped to the side and stared at the ground, waiting for someone to lead him. Someone did while the Escalade was driven away.

  As Butch shuffled forward he was able to see moonlight on the ground, but then the source of light was abruptly cut off and it became utterly dark. Were they in a cave? Yes… they were. The smell of damp earth filled his nose and beneath his bare feet he could feel small stones taking bites out of his soles.

  Some forty steps later he was jerked to a stop. There was a whispering sound and then more walking, now on a downward slope. Another stop. More quiet noises as if a well-oiled gate was being retracted.

  Then warmth and light. A polished floor of… marble. Glossy black marble. As they continued along, he had the sense that they were processing through some high-ceilinged place because what little sounds they made reverberated upward and echoed. There was another pause, followed by lots of shifting of fabric… the brothers disrobing, he thought.

  A hand clamped on the back of his neck and the deep growl of Wrath's voice shot into his ear. "You are unworthy to enter herein as you stand now. Nod your head."

  Butch nodded.

  "Say that you are unworthy."

  "I am unworthy."

  The Brotherhood's voices suddenly let out a loud, hard shout in the Old Language, as if in protest.

  Wrath continued: "Though you are not worthy, you desire to become as such this night. Nod your head."

  He nodded.

  "Say that you wish to become worthy."

  "I wish to become worthy."

  Another shout in the Old Language, this time a cheer of support.

  Wrath went on: "There is only one way to become worthy and it is the right and proper way. Flesh of our flesh. Nod your head."

  He nodded.

  "Say that you wish to become flesh of our flesh."

  "I wish to become flesh of your flesh."

  A low chanting started up, and Butch had the impression that a line had formed in front of and behind him. Without warning, they started to move, the back and forth surging motion mirrored by the cadence of powerful male voices. Butch struggled to get into the rhythm, bumping forward into what he suspected was Phury by the subtle scent of red smoke, then getting bumped from behind by what he knew was Vishous just because he knew. Shit, he was making a mess of the whole thing—

  And then it happened. His body found the groove and he was moving with them… yes, they were all as one with the chanting and the movement, back… forth… swaying left… then right… the voices, not the muscles of their thighs, carrying their feet forward.

  Suddenly, there was an acoustic explosion, the sounds of the chanting fracturing and re-forming in a thousand different directions: They had entered a vast space.

  A hand on his shoulder told him when to halt.

  The chanting stopped as if unplugged, the sounds ricocheting for a while, then floating away.

  He was taken by the arm and led forward.

  At his side, Vishous said in a low voice, "Stairs."

  Butch stumbled a little, then took the steps. When he got to a plateau, he was positioned by V, his body put… wherever it needed to be. As he settled into his stance, he had the sense he was right in front of something big, his toes up against what seemed to be a wall.

  In the silence that followed, a bead of sweat dripped off his nose and landed right between his feet on the glossy floor.

  V squeezed his shoulder as if in reassurance. Then stepped away.

  "Who proposes this male?" the Scribe Virgin demanded.

  "I, Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, do."

  "Who rejects this male?" There was quiet. Thank God.

  Now the Scribe Virgin's voice took on epic proportions, filling the space around them and every inch between Butch's ears until all he knew was the sound of the words she spoke. "On the basis of testimony from Wrath son of Wrath, and upon the proposal by Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, I find this male before me, Butch O'Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, I have waived the requirement of the maternal line in this case. You may begin."

  Wrath spoke. "Turn him. Unveil him."

  Butch was repositioned so he faced out, and Vishous removed the black robe. Then the brother slipped the gold cross around so it hung down Butch's back, and walked away.

  "Lift thine eyes," Wrath ordered.

  Butch's breath sucked in as he looked up.

  He was standing on a black marble dais, staring out at a subterranean cave lit by hundreds of black candles. In front of him there was an altar made of a huge stone lintel balanced on two squat posts… on top of which was an ancient skull. Beyond that, lined up before him, was the Brotherhood in all their glory, five males whose faces were solemn and whose bodies were strong.

  Wrath broke ranks and came up to stand at the altar. "Step back agai
nst the wall and hold on to the pegs."

  Butch did as he was told, feeling smooth, cool stone against his shoulders and his ass as his hands fell onto two sturdy grips.

  Wrath brought up his hand and it was… shit, it was covered by an antique silver glove that sported barbs at the knuckles. Inside the fist he was making was the handle of a black dagger.

  Extending his arm, the king scored himself down the wrist and held the wound over the skull, the dome of which had a silver cup mounted in it. What flowed from Wrath's vein was caught and held, a glossy red pool that caught the candlelight.

  "My flesh," Wrath said. Then he licked his wound closed, put the blade down, and approached Butch.

  Butch swallowed hard.

  Wrath clapped his palm on Butch's jaw, shoved his head back and bit him in the neck, hard. Butch's whole body spasmed and he gritted his teeth to keep from yelling out, his hands squeezing at the pegs until his wrists felt like they were going to snap. Then Wrath stepped back and wiped his mouth.

  He smiled fiercely. "Your flesh."

  The king curled up a fist within the silver glove, hauled back his arm, and nailed Butch in the chest. The barbs sunk into his skin as air exploded out of his lungs, the raw sound leaping and bounding throughout the cave.

  As he caught his breath, Rhage came up and took the glove. The brother performed the ritual just as Wrath had: cutting his wrist, holding it over the skull, speaking the same two words. After he sealed up his wound, he approached Butch. The next two words were mouthed and then Rhage's hard-core fangs were piercing Butch's throat, the bite positioned below Wrath's. Rhage's punch was fast and solid, right where Wrath had thrown his, on the left pec.

  Next it was Phury. Followed by Zsadist.

  By the time they were done, Butch's neck felt so loose he was convinced his head was going to roll off his shoulders and bounce down the steps. And he was dizzy from the poundings on his chest, blood running down his stomach onto his thigh from the wound.

  Then it was V's turn.

  Vishous came up onto the dais, his eyes down. He accepted the silver glove from Z and slipped it over the black leather he already wore on his hand. Then he scored himself with a quick flash of the black blade and stared at the skull as his blood dripped down into the basin, joining the others'.