Lover Awakened tbdb-3

by J. R. Ward

  "No!" she roared.

  Except, strangely, the hit seemed to wake Zsadist up. Or maybe her voice had done the trick. His black eyes flipped open and an evil expression came over his face. With a quick thrust he clamped his hands under the lesser's armpits and twisted so hard, the slayer's torso contorted into a vicious arch.

  In a flash Zsadist was on top, straddling the lesser. He grabbed hold of the slayer's right arm and stretched it into a bone-cracking bad angle. Then he jammed his thumb under the undead's chin so far you couldn't see half the finger and bared long fangs that glistened white and deadly. He bit the lesser in the neck, right through the esophageal column.

  The slayer hollered in pain, thrashing wildly between his legs. And that was only the beginning. Zsadist tore his prey apart. When the thing no longer moved, he paused while panting and pushed his fingers into the lesser's dark hair, splitting a section wide, clearly looking for white roots.

  But she could have told him it wasn't David. Assuming she could find her voice.

  Zsadist cursed and caught his breath, but stayed crouched over his kill, looking for signs of life. As if he wanted to keep going.

  And then he frowned and glanced up, clearly realizing the battle was over and there had been witnesses.

  Oh… Jesus. His face was marked with the black blood of the lesser, and more of the stain covered his chest and hands.

  His black eyes shifted to hers. They were bright. Shiny. Just like the blood he'd spilled to defend her. And he quickly looked away, as if he wanted to hide the satisfaction he'd gotten from the kill.

  "The other two are finished," he said, still breathing hard. He pulled out the bottom of his shirt and wiped his face.

  Phury headed for the hallway. "Where are they? Front lawn?"

  "Try the Omega's front door. I stabbed them both." Zsadist looked at Butch. "Take her home. Now. She's too shocked out to dematerialize. And Phury, you go with them. I want a call the moment she puts a foot in the foyer, we clear?"

  "What about you?" Butch said, even as he was moving her around the dead lesser.

  Zsadist stood up and unsheathed a dagger. "I'll poof this one and wait for others to come. When these fuckers don't check in, there'll be more."

  "We'll be back."

  "I don't care what you do as long as you get her home. So quit talking and start driving."

  Bella reached out to him, though she wasn't sure why. She was horrified by what he had done and by what he looked like now, all bruised and beaten, his own blood running down his clothes along with the slayers'.

  Zsadist slashed a hand through the air, dismissing her. "Get her the hell out of here."

  John leaped from the bus, so damned relieved to be home he almost fell all over himself. Man, if the first two days of training were anything to go by, the next couple years were going to be hell.

  As he came in the front door, he whistled.

  Wellsie's voice drifted out of her study. "Hi! How'd it go today?"

  While he took off his coat, he blew two quick whistles, which was kind of an okay, fine, all righty type of thing.

  "Good. Hey, Havers is coming in an hour."

  John headed for her study and paused in the doorway. Sitting at her desk, Wellsie was surrounded by a collection of old books, most of which were laid open. The sight of all those splayed, bound pages reminded him of eager dogs on their backs, waiting for belly attention.

  She smiled. "You look tired."

  I'm going to crash for a while before Havers comes, he signed.

  "You sure you're okay?"

  Absolutely. He smiled to give the fib some juice. He hated lying to her, but he didn't want to go into his failures. In another sixteen hours he was going to have to have them out on display again. He needed a break, and no doubt they were exhausted, too, from having had so much airtime.

  "I'll wake you up when the doctor gets here."

  Thanks.

  As he turned away, she said, "I hope you know that no matter what that test says, we'll deal with it."

  He glanced at her. So she was worried about the results, too.

  In a quick rush he went over and hugged her, then headed for his room. He didn't even put his laundry in the chute, just dropped his bags and lay on the bed. Man, the cumulative effects of eight hours of derision was enough to make him want to sleep for a week.

  Except all he could think about was Havers's visit. God, what if it was all a mistake? What if he wasn't going to turn into something fantastic and powerful? What if his visions at night were nothing more than an overactive Dracula fixation?

  What if he was mostly human?

  It would kind of make sense. Even though the training was just beginning, it was clear he wasn't like the other pretransitions in the class. He flat-out sucked at anything physical and was weaker than the other guys. Maybe practice would help, although he doubted it.

  John closed his eyes and hoped for a good dream. A dream that would place him in a big body, a dream that would have him strong and…

  Tohr's voice woke him up. "Havers is here."

  John yawned and stretched and tried to hide from the sympathy on Tohr's face. That was the other nightmare about training: He had to screw up in front of Tohr all the time.

  "How you are you doing, son—I mean, John?"

  John shook his head and signed, I'm fine, but I would rather be son to you.

  Tohr smiled. "Good. That's how I want it, too. Now come on, let's rip this Band-Aid off about the tests, okay?"

  John followed Tohr to the living room. Havers was sitting on the couch, looking like a professor with his tortoiseshell glasses and herringbone jacket and red bow tie.

  "Hello, John," he said.

  John lifted a hand and sat in the wing chair closest to Wellsie.

  "So I have the results of your blood test." Havers took a piece of paper out of the inside of his sport coat. "It took me a little longer, because there was an anomaly I didn't expect."

  John glanced at Tohr. Then Wellsie. Jesus… What if he was wholly human? What would they do to him? Would he have to leave—

  "John, you are a full-bred warrior. There is only the barest trace of nonspecies blood in you at all."

  Tohr laughed in a loud burst and clapped his hands together. "Hot damn! That's great!"

  John started to grin and kept going until his lips totally disappeared into a smile.

  "But there's something else." Havers pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. "You are of the line of Darius of Marklon. So close you could be his son. So close… you must be his son."

  A stony silence overtook the room.

  John looked back and forth between Tohr and Wellsie. The two were frozen solid. Was this good news? Bad news? Who was Darius? Going by their expressions, maybe the guy was a criminal or something…

  Tohr burst up from the sofa and took John into his arms, squeezing so hard the two became one. Gasping for air, feet dangling, John looked over at Wellsie. She had both hands over her mouth, and tears were rolling down her face.

  Abruptly Tohr let go and stepped back. He coughed a little, eyes shimmering. "Well… what do you know."

  The man cleared his throat a number of times. Rubbed his face. Looked a little woozy.

  Who is Darius? John signed as he sat down again.

  Tohr smiled slowly. "He was my best friend, my brother in the fighting, my… I can't wait to tell you all about him. And this means you have a sister."

  Who?

  "Beth, our queen. Wrath's shellan—"

  "Yes, about her," Havers said, looking at John. "I don't understand the reaction you had to her. Your CAT scans are all fine, so too your EKG, your CBC. I believe you when you say she was what caused the seizures, though I have no idea why that would be. I'd like you to stay away from her for a while so we can see if it happens in another environment, okay?"

  John nodded, though he wanted to see the woman again, especially if he was related to her. A sister. How cool…

 
"Now, about the other issue," Havers said pointedly.

  Wellsie leaned forward and put her hand on John's knee. "Havers has something he wants to talk to you about."

  John frowned. What? he signed slowly.

  The doctor smiled, trying to be all reassuring. "I'd like you to see that therapist."

  John went cold. In a panic, he searched Wellsie's face, then Tohr's, wondering how much the doctor might have told them about what had happened to him a year ago.

  Why would I go? he signed. I'm fine.

  Wellsie's reply was level. "It's just to help you make the transition to your new world."

  "And your first appointment is tomorrow evening," Havers said, tipping his head down. He stared into John's face over the top of the horn-rims, and the message in his eyes was: Either you go or I'll tell them the real reason why you have to.

  John was outmaneuvered, and that pissed him off. But he figured it was better to submit to compassionate blackmail than to have Tohr and Wellsie know anything about what had been done to him.

  Okay. I'll do it.

  "I'll take you," Tohr said quickly. Then he frowned. "I mean… we can find someone to take you—Butch will take you."

  John's face burned. Yeah, he didn't want Tohr anywhere near the therapist gig. No way.

  The front doorbell rang.

  Wellsie grinned. "Oh, good. That's Sarelle. She's come over to work on the solstice festival. John, maybe you'd like to help us?"

  Sarelle was here again? She hadn't mentioned that when they'd IM'd last night.

  "John? Do you want to work with Sarelle?"

  He nodded and tried to keep it cool, although his body had lit up like a neon sign. He was positively tingling. Yeah. I can do that.

  He put his hands in his lap and looked down at them, trying to keep his smile to himself.

  CHAPTER 23

  Bella was damn well coming home. Tonight.

  Rehvenge was not the kind of male who handled frustration well under the best of circumstances. So he was beyond through waiting to have his sister back where she needed to be. Goddamn it, he was not just her brother, he was her ghardian, and that meant he had rights.

  As he yanked on his full-length sable coat, the fur swirled around his big body, then fell to rest at his ankles. The suit he was wearing was black and by Ermenegildo Zegna. The twin nine-millimeter handguns under his arms were by Heckler & Koch.

  "Rehvenge, please don't do this."

  He looked at his mother. Madalina was standing beneath the chandelier in the hall, the picture of aristocracy with her regal bearing and her diamonds and her satin gown. The only thing out of place was the worry on her face, and that wasn't because the tension clashed with her Harry Winston and haute couture. She never got upset. Ever.

  He took a deep breath. He was more likely to calm her down if he didn't show his infamous temper, but more to the point, in his current frame of mind he was liable to shred her where she stood, and that wasn't fair.

  "She will come home this way," he said.

  His mother's graceful hand lifted to her throat, a sure sign she was caught between what she wanted and what she thought was right. "But it's so extreme."

  "You want her sleeping in her own bed? You want her where she should be?" His voice started to punch through the air. "Or do you want her staying with the Brotherhood? Those are warriors, mahmen. Bloodthirsty, blood-hungry warriors. You think they would hesitate to take a female? And you know damn well by law the Blind King can lay with whatever female he chooses. You want her in that kind of environment? I don't."

  As his mahmen stepped back, he realized he was yelling at her. He sucked in another deep breath.

  "But, Rehvenge, I spoke with her. She doesn't want to come home yet. And they are males of honor. In the Old Country—"

  "We don't even know who's in the Brotherhood anymore."

  "They saved her."

  "Then they can give her back to her family. For God's sake, she's a female of the aristocracy. You think the glymera will accept her after this? She's already had that one affair."

  And what a mess that had been. The male had been totally unworthy of her, a crumbling idiot, and yet the bastard had managed to walk away from the split without talk. Bella, on the other hand, had been whispered about for months, and though she'd tried to pretend it hadn't bothered her, Rehv knew it had.

  He hated the aristocracy they were stuck in, he really did.

  He shook his head, pissed off at himself. "She should never have moved out of this house. I should never have allowed that."

  And as soon as he got her back, she was never going to be allowed out again without his approval. He was going to have her anointed as a sehcluded female. Her blood was pure enough to justify it, and frankly she should have been one all along. Once that was done, the Brotherhood was legally required to render her back to Rehvenge's care, and thereafter she would not be able to leave the house without his permission. And there was more. Any male who wanted to see her would have to go through him as head of her household, and he was going to deny every single one of the sons of bitches. He'd failed to protect his sister once. He wasn't going to let that happen again.

  Rehv checked his watch even though he knew he was late for his business. He would make the petition for sehclusion to the king from his office. It was odd to do something so ancient and traditional through e-mail, but that was the way of things now.

  "Rehvenge…"

  "What."

  "You will drive her away."

  "Not possible. Once I take care of this, she'll have nowhere else to go but here."

  He reached for his cane and paused. His mother looked so miserable, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  "You don't worry about a thing, mahmen. I'm going to fix it so she never gets hurt again. Why don't you ready the house for her? You could take her mourning cloth down."

  Madalina shook her head. In a reverent voice she said, "Not until she walks over the threshold. It would offend the Scribe Virgin to assume her safe return."

  He held back a curse. His mother's devotion to the Mother of the Race was legendary. Hell, she should have been a member of the Chosen with all her prayers and her rules and her flinching fear that one word askance would bring certain doom.

  But whatever. It was her spiritual cage, not his.

  "As you wish," he said, leaning on his cane and turning away.

  He moved slowly through the house, relying on the different kinds of floorings to tell him which room he was in. There was marble in the hall, a swirling Persian carpet in the dining room, wide-planked hardwood in the kitchen. He used his sight to tell him that his feet were landing squarely and that it was safe for him to put his weight on them. He carried the cane in case he misjudged and lost balance.

  As he went out into the garage, he held on to the door frame before putting one foot and then the other down the four steps. After sliding into his bulletproof Bentley, he hit the garage door opener and waited for a clear shot out.

  Goddamn it. He wished like hell he knew who those Brothers were and where they lived. He'd go there, blast through the door, and drag Bella away from them.

  When he could see the driveway behind him, he threw the sedan in reverse and nailed the gas so hard the tires squealed. Now that he was behind the wheel, he could move at the speed he wanted to. Fast. Nimble. Free of caution.

  The long lawn was a blur as he gunned down the winding drive to the gates, which were set back from the street. He suffered a quick pause while the things opened; then he tore out onto Thome Avenue and proceeded down one of the wealthiest streets in Caldwell.

  To keep his family safe and never lacking for anything, he worked at despicable things. But he was good at what he did, and his mother and his sister deserved the kind of life they had. He would give them anything they wanted, fulfill any whim they had. Things had been too hard on them for too long—

  Yeah, the death of his father had been the first gift he'd given them, the fi
rst of many ways he'd improved their lives and kept them out of harm's way. And he wasn't stopping the trend now.

  Rehv was going at a clip and heading for downtown when the base of his skull began to tingle. He tried to ignore the sensation, but in a matter of moments it condensed into a tight grip, as if a vise had been clamped around the top of his spine. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and waited for the feeling to pass.

  Then it happened.

  With a stab of pain his vision went to shades of red, like he'd pulled a transparent veil over his face: The headlights of oncoming cars were neon pink, the road a dull rust, the sky a claret like burgundy wine. He checked the clock on the dash, the numbers of which were now a ruby glow.

  Shit. This was all wrong. This shouldn't be hap—

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, his depth perception was gone.

  Yeah, the hell this isn't happening. And he wasn't going to make it downtown.

  He wrenched the wheel to the right and pulled over into a strip mall, the one where the Caldwell Martial Arts Academy had been before it burned down. He killed the Bentley's lights and drove behind the long, narrow buildings, parking flush with the bricks so that if he had to drive off fast, all he had to do was hit the gas.

  Leaving the engine running, he shrugged out of the sable coat, stripped off his suit jacket, then rolled up his left sleeve. Through the red haze, he reached into his glove compartment and took out a hypodermic syringe and a length of rubber tubing. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped the needle and had to stretch down and pick it up off the floor.

  He patted his jacket pockets until he found the glass vial of the neuromodulator dopamine. He put the thing on the dash.

  It took two tries to open the hypodermic's sterile packet, and then he nearly broke the needle off getting it through the rubber top on the dopamine lid. When the syringe was loaded, he wrapped the rubber tubing around his biceps using one hand and his teeth; then he tried to find a vein. Because he was working in a flat visual field, everything was complicated.

  He just couldn't see well enough. All he had in front of him was… red.