The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4

by J. R. Ward

  He’d tried drawing the blood and channeling it immediately into an airtight container. This most obvious solution didn’t work. The disintegration occurred anyway, just at a decelerated pace. This had suggested there was another factor at work, something inherent in the corporal environment that was missing when the blood was removed from the body. He’d tried isolating samples in warmth, in cold. In suspensions of saline or human plasma.

  Frustration had kept his mind burning through the permutations of his experiments. He ran more tests and tried different approaches. Retried. Walked away from the project. Came back to it.

  Decades passed. And more decades.

  And then personal tragedy gave him a very intimate reason to solve the problem. Following the deaths in childbirth of his shellan and infant son a little over two years ago, he’d become obsessed and had started from scratch.

  His own need to feed was the driver.

  He usually needed to drink only every six months, because his bloodline was strong. After his beautiful Evangaline’s death, he’d waited as long as he could, until he had taken to his bed with the pain of the hunger. When he’d finally asked for help, he’d hated the fact that he wanted to live badly enough to drink from another female. And he’d allowed himself to consider the feeding only because he’d been convinced that it wouldn’t be as it had been with Evangaline. Surely he wouldn’t betray her memory by taking pleasure in someone else’s blood.

  There were so many whom he had helped that it wasn’t hard to find a female willing to offer herself. He’d chosen a friend who was unmated and had hoped he’d be able to keep his sadness and humiliation to himself.

  It had turned out to be a nightmare. He’d held back for so long that as soon as he’d smelled blood, the predator in him had come out. He’d attacked his friend and drunk so hard, he’d had to stitch up her wrist afterward.

  He’d nearly bitten her hand off.

  His actions flew in the face of his notions of himself. He’d always been a gentleman, a scholar, a healer. A male not subject to the base desires of his race.

  But then, he’d always been well fed.

  And the terrible truth was, he’d relished the taste of that blood. The smooth, warm flow down his throat, the roaring strength that came afterward.

  He’d felt pleasure. And he’d only wanted more.

  The shame had made him retch. And he’d vowed never to drink of another’s vein again.

  It was a promise he’d kept, though as a result he’d grown weak, so weak that focusing his mind was like herding a fog bank. His starvation was a constant ache in his belly. And his body, craving sustenance that food couldn’t give it, had cannibalized itself to keep him alive. He’d lost so much weight his clothes hung off of him like bags, his face turning haggard and gray.

  But the state he was in had shown him the way.

  The solution was obvious.

  You had to feed that which was hungry.

  An airtight process coupled with a sufficient quantity of human blood and he had his living cells.

  Under the microscope, he watched as the vampire cells, larger and more irregularly shaped compared to the human ones, slowly consumed what he had given them. The human count was decreasing in the sample, and when it was extinguished he was willing to bet the viability of the vampire component would dwindle down to nothing.

  All he had to do was conduct a clinical trial. He would extract a pint from a female, mix with it an appropriate proportion of human blood, and then transfuse himself.

  If everything went well, he would set up a donor and storage program. Patients would be saved. And those who chose to forgo the intimacy of drinking could live their lives in peace.

  Havers looked up from the microscope, suddenly aware that he’d been staring at the cells for twenty minutes. The salad course for luncheon would be waiting on the table upstairs for him.

  He removed his white coat and walked through the clinic, pausing to talk to some of his nursing staff and a couple of patients. The facility took up about six thousand square feet and was hidden deep in the earth beneath his mansion. There were three ORs, a fleet of recovery and examination rooms, the lab, his office, and a waiting area with a separate access to the street. He saw about a thousand patients a year, and made house calls for birthing and other emergencies as needed.

  Although as the population had dwindled, so had his practice.

  Compared to humans, vampires had tremendous advantages when it came to health. Their bodies healed fast. They were not subject to diseases such as cancer, diabetes, or HIV. But lord help you if you had an accident at high noon. No one could get to you. Vampires also died during their transitions or right afterward. And fertility was another tremendous problem. Even if conception was successful, females frequently did not survive childbirth, either from blood loss or soaring preeclampsia. Stillborns were common, and infant mortality was through the roof.

  For the sick, injured, or dying, human doctors were not a good option, even though the two species shared much of the same anatomy. If a human physician ordered a CBC on some blood from a vampire, they would find all sorts of anomalies and imagine they had something worthy of the New England Journal of Medicine. It was best to avoid that kind of attention.

  On occasion, however, a patient would end up at a human hospital, a problem that was on the rise since the advent of 911 and fast-response ambulances. If a vampire was hurt badly enough to lose consciousness away from home, he was in danger of being picked up and taken in to a human ER. Getting him out of a facility against medical advice was always a struggle.

  Havers wasn’t arrogant, but he knew he was the best doctor his species had. He’d gone through Harvard Medical School twice, once in the late 1800s and then again in the 1980s. He’d stated on his application in both instances that he was disabled, and HMS had permitted him special allowances. He hadn’t been able to attend the lectures because they’d taken place during the day, but his doggen had been allowed to take notes and hand in his examinations. Havers had read all the texts, corresponded with the professors, and even attended seminars and talks that were scheduled at night.

  He’d always loved school.

  When he got upstairs, he wasn’t surprised to see that Marissa had not come down to the dining room. Even though luncheon was served at one A.M. every night.

  He went to her rooms.

  “Marissa?” he said at the door. He knocked once. “Marissa, it’s time to eat.”

  Havers stuck his head inside. Light from the chandelier in the hall drifted in, cutting a golden slice through the blackness. The draperies were still down across the windows, and she hadn’t turned any of the lamps on.

  “Marissa, darling?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Havers stepped through the door. He could make out her canopy bed and the small swell of her body under the covers.

  “But you missed luncheon last night. As well as dinner.”

  “I’ll come down later.”

  He shut his eyes, concluding that she’d been to feed the night before. Every time she saw Wrath, she would retreat into herself for days afterward.

  He thought of the living cells down in his lab.

  Wrath might be their race’s king by birth, and he might have the purest blood of them all, but the warrior was a bastard. He seemed totally unconcerned with what he was doing to Marissa. Or perhaps he didn’t even know how much his cruelty affected her.

  It was hard to decide which was the worse crime.

  “I’ve made some important progress,” Havers said, going over to the bed and sitting down. “I’m going to set you free.”

  “From what?”

  “That…assassin.”

  “Don’t talk about him like that.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Marissa—”

  “I don’t want to be free of him.”

  “How can you say that? He treats you with no respect. I hate the idea of that brute feeding off you in some back alley
—”

  “We go to Darius’s. He has a room there.”

  The idea that she was being exposed to another of those warriors didn’t make him any happier. They were all frightening, and a few were downright horrific.

  He knew the Black Dagger Brotherhood was a necessary evil to defend the race, and he knew he should be grateful for their protection. Except he couldn’t feel anything save dread at their existence. The fact that the world was dangerous enough, the race’s enemies powerful enough, so as to mandate the likes of those warriors was tragic.

  “You don’t have to do this to yourself.”

  Marissa rolled over, turning her back to him. “Leave me.”

  Havers planted his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. His memories of Marissa before she’d begun to service their dreadful king were so very dim. He could recall only bits and pieces of the way she’d been, and he feared the joyous, smiling young female was forever lost now.

  And what was in her place? A somber, subdued shadow who floated around his house, pining for a male who treated her with no regard whatsoever.

  “I hope you will reconsider luncheon,” Havers said softly. “I would love to have your company.”

  He shut the door quietly and went down the ornate, curving staircase. The dining room table was set as he liked it, with a full complement of china, glassware, and silver. He sat down at the head of the glossy table, and one of his doggen came in to serve him some wine.

  Looking down at the plate of Bibb lettuce before him, he forced a smile. “Karolyn, this salad is lovely.”

  Karolyn bowed her head, eyes glowing from his praise. “I went to a farm stand today just to find the right leaves for you.”

  “Well, I most certainly appreciate the effort.” Havers cut into the delicate greens as she left him alone in the beautiful room.

  He thought of his sister, curled up in her bed.

  Havers was a healer by nature and profession, a male who had marked his entire life in service to others. But if Wrath were ever injured enough to come and see him, Havers would be tempted to let that monster bleed out.

  Or kill him on the OR table with a slip of the scalpel.

  Chapter Ten

  Beth eased into consciousness slowly. It was like surfacing from a perfectly performed swan dive. There was a glow in her body, a satisfaction as she emerged from the buffered world of sleep.

  Something was on her forehead.

  Her eyelids flipped open. Long male fingers were moving down the bridge of her nose. They drifted across her cheek and then over to her jaw.

  There was enough ambient light coming from the kitchen that she could dimly make out the man lying with her.

  His concentration was fierce as he explored her face. His eyes were closed, arching brows drawn down, thick lashes against his high, regal cheekbones. He was on his side, his shoulders a mountain blocking her view to the glass door.

  Good lord, he was huge. And stacked.

  His upper arms were the size of her thighs. His abdomen was ribbed as if he were smuggling paint rollers under his skin. His legs were thick and corded. And his sex was as big and magnificent as the rest of him.

  When he’d first come up against her naked and she’d had a chance to touch him, she’d been shocked. He had no hair on his torso or arms and legs at all. Just smooth skin over hard muscle.

  She wondered why he shaved all over, even down there. Maybe he was some kind of bodybuilder.

  Although why he’d go the Full Monty with a razor was a mystery.

  Her memories of what had happened between them were fuzzy. She couldn’t quite recall how he’d come into her apartment. Or what he’d said to her. But everything they’d done horizontally was vivid as hell.

  Which made sense, since he’d given her the first orgasms she’d ever had.

  The fingertips rounded her chin and came up to her lips. He brushed her lower one with his thumb.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispered. His subtle accent made him roll the R over his tongue, almost as if he were purring.

  Well, that stands to reason, she thought. When he touched her, she felt beautiful.

  His mouth came down on hers, but he wasn’t looking for anything. The kiss was not a demand. It was closer to a thank-you.

  Somewhere in the room, a cell phone went off. The ring wasn’t hers.

  He moved so fast she jumped. One moment he was by her side; the next he was at his jacket. He flipped open the phone.

  “Yeah?” The voice that had told her she was beautiful was gone. Now he growled.

  She pulled a sheet around her chest.

  “We’ll meet at D’s. Give me ten.”

  He hung up the phone, put it back in the jacket, and picked up the pants he’d been wearing. The threat of re-dressing brought back some reality.

  God, had she really just had sex—really, really good, mind-blowing sex—with a complete stranger?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  As he pulled black leather up his thighs, she caught a terrific shot of his ass.

  “Wrath.” He went over to the table and got his sunglasses. When he sat down next to her, they were in place. “I’ve got to go. I might not get back tonight, but I’ll try.”

  She didn’t want him to leave. She liked the feel of his body taking up more than its fair share of her futon.

  She reached up to him, but took her hand back. She didn’t want to seem needy.

  “No, touch me,” he said, bending his body down, giving her all the access she could ask for.

  She put her palm on his chest. His skin was warm, his heart surging in an even pump. She noticed he had a circular-shaped scar on his left pectoral.

  “I need to know something, Wrath.” His name felt good on her tongue even if it was an odd one. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He smiled a little, as if he liked her suspicion. “I’m here to take care of you, Elizabeth.”

  Well, he certainly had.

  “Beth. I go by Beth.”

  He inclined his head. “Beth.”

  He stood up and reached for his shirt. He ran his hands down the front of it, as if feeling for buttons.

  He wasn’t going to find many, she thought. Most of them were on her floor.

  “You got a wastepaper basket around here?” he asked, as if realizing the same thing.

  “Over there. In the corner.”

  “Where?”

  She stood up, keeping the sheet around her, and took the shirt. Throwing it out seemed like a lost opportunity.

  When she looked at him again, he’d pulled a black holster on over his naked skin. Two daggers crisscrossed in the middle of his chest, handles down.

  Oddly, as she looked at his weapons, they calmed her. The idea that there was a logical explanation to his appearance was a relief.

  “Was it Butch?”

  “Butch?”

  “Who put you up to guard duty.”

  He pulled on his jacket, the heft of it widening his shoulders even more. The leather was as dark as his hair, one lapel embossed with an intricate design in black thread.

  “The man who attacked you last night,” he said. “He was a stranger?”

  “Yes.” She brought her arms around herself.

  “Were the police good to you?”

  “They’re always good to me.”

  “Have they told you his name?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. When Butch told me I thought he was joking. Billy Riddle sounds more like a Sesame Street character than a rapist, but he clearly had an MO and some practice—”

  She stopped. Wrath’s face had gone so vicious, she stepped back.

  Jesus, if Butch was tough on perps, this guy was about two feet ahead of deadly, she thought.

  But then his expression changed, as if he’d buried his emotions because he knew they scared her a little. He walked over to the bathroom and opened the door. Boo leaped up into his arms, and a low, rhy
thmic purring sound cut through the heavy air.

  Except that sure wasn’t her cat.

  The throaty reverberation was coming out of the man as he held her pet in his arms. Boo ate up the attention, rubbing his head into the wide palm that was stroking him.

  “I’m going to give you my cell phone number, Beth. You need to call me if you feel threatened in any way.” He put the cat down and recited a bunch of digits. Made her repeat them until she had them memorized. “If I don’t see you tonight, I want you to come to eight sixteen Wallace Avenue tomorrow morning. I’ll explain everything.”

  And then he just looked at her.

  “Come here,” he said.

  Her body obeyed before her mind checked in with a command to move.

  As she got close to him, he put one arm around her waist and pulled her against his hard body. His lips came down hot and hungry on hers as he buried his other hand in her hair. Through his leather pants, she could feel he was ready for sex again.

  And she was ready to have him.

  When he lifted his head, he ran his hand leisurely over her collarbone. “This wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

  “Is Wrath your first or last name?”

  “Both.” He put a kiss on the side of her neck, sucking at her skin. She let her head fall back, and his tongue traveled up the smooth column. “Beth?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t worry about Billy Riddle. He’s going to get what’s coming to him.”

  He kissed her quickly and then walked out through the sliding glass door.

  She put her hand up to her neck where he’d licked her. The skin tingled.

  Beth hurried to the window and pulled up the shade.

  He was already gone.

  Wrath materialized in Darius’s drawing room.

  He hadn’t expected the evening to take him where it had, and the extra layer of complication wasn’t going to help the situation.

  She was Darius’s daughter. She was about to have her whole world turned upside down. And worse, she’d been the victim of a sexual assault the night before, for Christ’s sake.