The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4

by J. R. Ward

  Letting those two bastards drive off into the sunset was an exercise in bondage, with Z turning the large muscles of his body into iron ropes over his bones. It was either that or he’d be on the truck’s hood, smashing his fist through the windshield, pulling the SOBs out by their hair so he could bite them.

  As the sound of the truck faded, Z listened hard to the silence that followed. When he heard nothing, he went back to wanting to blast through the door, but he thought about the alarm and checked his watch. V would be on site in about a minute and a half.

  It would kill him. But he would wait.

  While he twitched in his shitkickers, he became aware of a smell, something…. He sniffed the air. There was propanearound, somewhere close. Probably feeding that generator around the back. And kerosene from a heater. But there was something else, some kind of smoky, burning…He looked at his hands, wondering if he was on fire and hadn’t noticed. No.

  What the hell?

  His bones went cold as he realized what it was. His boots were planted in the middle of a scorched patch of earth, one about the size of a body. Something had been incinerated right where he was standing—within the last twelve hours, by the scent of it.

  Oh…God. Had they left her out for the sun?

  Z eased down on his haunches, putting his free hand on the withered ground. He imagined Bella lying there when the sun came out, imagined her feeling ten thousand times more pain than he had as he’d just materialized.

  The blackened spot got blurry.

  He scrubbed his face and then stared at his palm. There was wetness on it. Tears?

  He searched his chest for what he was feeling, but all that came to him was information about his body. His torso was swaying because his muscles were weak. He was light-headed and vaguely nauseous. But that was it. There were no emotions for him.

  He rubbed his sternum and was about to do another sweep with his hands when a pair of shitkickers came into his line of sight.

  He looked up into Phury’s face. The thing was a mask, all frozen and pasty.

  “Was it her?” he croaked, kneeling down.

  Z lurched backward, just barely managing to keep his gun out of the snow. He couldn’t be anywhere near someone right now, especially Phury.

  In a messy scramble, he got to his feet. “Vishous here yet?”

  “Right behind you, my brother,” V whispered.

  “There’s…” He cleared his throat. Rubbed his face on his forearm. “There’s a security alarm. I think the place is clear, because two slayers just left, but I’m not sure.”

  “I’m on the alarm.”

  Z caught a number of scents all of a sudden and glanced behind him. The whole of the Brotherhood was there, even Wrath, who as king was not supposed to be in the field. They were all armed. They had all come to get her back.

  The group lined up flat against the house as V used a pick on the door lock. His Glock went in first. When there was no reaction, he slipped inside and closed himself in. A moment later there was one long beep. He opened the door.

  “Good to go.”

  Z rushed forward, practically mowing down the male.

  His eyes penetrated the dim corners of the single room. The place was a mess, with shit scattered all over the floor. Clothes…knives and handcuffs and…shampoo bottles? And what the fuck was that? God, a disemboweled first-aid kit, its gauze and tape bleeding out of the ruined lid. The thing looked like it had been stomped on until it had opened.

  Heart pounding in his chest, sweat blooming all over him, he looked for Bella and saw only inanimate objects: A wall of shelving that held nightmarish instruments. A cot. A fireproof metal closet the size of a car. An autopsy table with four sets of steel chains hanging off its corners…and blood smudged on its smooth surface.

  Random thoughts fired through Z’s brain. She was dead. That burned oval proved it. Except what if that had just been another captive? What if she’d been moved or something?

  As his brothers hung back, like they knew better than to get in his way, Z went over to the fireproof closet, keeping his gun in hand. He wrenched the doors off, just grabbed onto the metal panels and bent them until the hinges broke. He tossed the heavy sections away, hearing them clatter and bang.

  Guns. Ammunition. Plastic explosives.

  The arsenal of their enemies.

  He went into the bathroom. Nothing but a stall shower and a bucket with a toilet seat on it.

  “She’s not here, my brother,” Phury said.

  In a fit of rage Z launched himself at the autopsy table, picking it up with one hand and throwing it into a wall. In midflight, a length of chain came back at him, catching him in the shoulder, nailing him to the bone.

  And then he heard it. A soft whimpering sound.

  His head snapped around to the left.

  In the corner, on the ground, there were three cylindrical metal lips protruding from the earth, and they were capped by mesh plates that were the dark brown color of the dirt floor. Which explained why he hadn’t noticed them.

  He went over and kicked off one of the covers. The whimpering got louder.

  Suddenly light-headed, he fell to his knees. “Bella?”

  Gibberish rose from the earth to answer him, and he dropped his gun. How was he going to…? Ropes—there were ropes coming out of what looked like a sewer pipe. He grabbed onto them and pulled gently.

  What emerged was a dirty, bloody male, about ten years out of his transition. The civilian was naked and shivering, his lips blue, his eyes rolling around.

  Z dragged him free, and Rhage wrapped his leather trench coat around the male.

  “Get him out of here,” someone said as Hollywood sliced the ropes.

  “Can you dematerialize?” another brother asked the male.

  Z paid no attention to the conversation. He went for the next hole, but there were no ropes leading down into it, and his nose detected no scent. The thing was empty.

  He was stepping over to the third when the captive yelled, “No! Th-that one’s booby-trapped!”

  Z froze. “How?”

  Through chattering teeth, the civilian said, “I d-don’t know. I just heard the l-lesser warn one of his m-men about it.”

  Before Z could ask, Rhage started walking the room. “Got a gun over here. Business end pointed in that direction.” There were the sounds of metal clicks and shifting. “It’s not armed. Anymore.”

  Z looked above the hole. Mounted on the exposed rafters of the roof, about fifteen feet from the floor, there was a small device. “V, what have we got up there?”

  “Laser eye. You break it, it probably triggers the—”

  “Hold up,” Rhage said. “I got another gun to empty out here.”

  V stroked his goatee. “There must be a remote-control activator, although the guy probably took it with him. That’s what I would do.” He squinted up at the ceiling. “That particular model runs on lithium batteries. So it’s not like we could kill the generator to turn it off. And they’re tricky to disarm.”

  Z glanced around for something he could use to push the plate off and thought of the bathroom. He went inside, whipped the shower curtain down, and brought the pole it had hung from back.

  “Everyone clear out.”

  Rhage spoke sharply. “Z, man, I don’t know that I’ve found all the—”

  “Take the civilian with you.” When no one moved, he cursed. “We don’t have time to fuck around, and if someone’s getting shot it’s going to be me. Jesus Christ, will you brothers leave?”

  When the place was cleared out, Z approached the hole. Standing with his back to one of the guns that had been removed, so that he would have been in its line of fire, he nudged the cover off with the pole. A gunshot rang out with a popping sound.

  Z caught the slug in his left calf. The searing impact brought him down on one knee, but he ignored it and dragged himself to the neck of the pipe. He took hold of the ropes that led down into the earth and began to pull.
/>   The first thing he saw was her hair. Bella’s long, beautiful mahogany hair was all around her, a veil over her face and shoulders.

  He sagged and lost his vision, partly passing out, but even through the full-body wobble, he kept pulling. Abruptly the effort became easier…because there were hands helping him…other hands on the rope, other hands laying her gently on the floor.

  Dressed in a sheer nightgown that was stained with her blood, she wasn’t moving, but she was breathing. He carefully pushed her hair back from her face….

  Zsadist’s blood pressure took a nosedive. “Oh, sweet Jesus…oh, sweet Jesus…oh, sweet—”

  “What did they do…” Whoever had spoken couldn’t find the words to finish.

  Throats cleared. A couple of coughs were smothered. Or maybe they were gags.

  Z gathered her in his arms and just…hugged her. He had to get her out, but he couldn’t move for what had been done to her. Blinking, dizzy, screaming inside, he rocked her gently back and forth. Words fell from his mouth, lamentations for her in the Old Language.

  Phury sank down to his knees. “Zsadist? We have to take her away from here.”

  Focus came to Z in a rush, and suddenly all he could think about was moving her to the mansion. He sliced the harness off her torso, then struggled to his feet with her in his arms. When he tried to walk, his left leg gave out and he stumbled. For a split second he couldn’t think of why.

  “Let me take her,” Phury said, putting out his hands. “You’ve been shot.”

  Zsadist shook his head and brushed by his twin, limping.

  He took Bella out to the Taurus that was still parked in front of the building. Holding her against his chest, he broke the driver’s-side window with his fist, then craned his arm inside and unlocked everything while the alarm went crazy. Opening the rear door, he leaned down and put her on the seat. When he bent her legs slightly to make them fit, the nightgown rode up and he winced. She had bruises. A lot of them.

  As the alarm ran out of steam, he said, “Someone give me a jacket.”

  The second he held his hand out behind him, leather hit his palm. He draped her carefully in what he realized was Phury’s coat, and then he shut her in and got behind the wheel.

  The last thing he heard was a command from Wrath. “V, get out that hand of yours. This place needs to be torched.”

  Reaching under the dash, Z hot-wired the sedan and sped from the scene like a bat out of hell.

  O pulled his truck over to the curb on a dark section of Tenth Street. “I still don’t get why you lied.”

  “If you got yourself sent home to the Omega, where would that leave us? You’re one of the strongest slayers we’ve got.”

  O glanced over with distaste. “You’re such a company man, aren’t you?”

  “I take pride in our work.”

  “How nineteen-fifties, Howdy Doody of you.”

  “Yeah, and that shit saved your ass, so be grateful.”

  Whatever. He had better things to worry about than U’s gung ho pep rally crap.

  He and U got out of the truck. ZeroSum and Screamer’s and Snuff’d were down a couple blocks, and though it was cold, there were lines waiting to get into the clubs. Some of the shivering masses were undoubtedly vampires, and even if they weren’t, the night would be busy. There were always fights with the Brothers to get down with.

  O hit the security alarm, stuffed the keys into his pocket…and stopped dead in the middle of Tenth Street. He literally couldn’t move.

  His wife…Jesus, his wife really hadn’t looked well when he’d left with U.

  O grabbed the front of his black turtleneck, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t care about the pain she was enduring; she’d brought that on herself. But he couldn’t bear it if she died, if she left him…. What if she was dying right now?

  “What’s the matter?” U asked.

  O fished around for the car keys, anxiety sizzling in his veins. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re bailing? We missed quota last night—”

  “I just have to go back to the center for a sec. L’s over on Fifth Street hunting. Hang with him. I’ll find you in thirty.”

  O didn’t wait for an answer. He hopped in the truck and sped out of town, taking Route 22 through Caldwell’s rural sprawl. He was about fifteen minutes away from the persuasion center when he saw the flashing tangle of a cop car convention up ahead. He cursed and hit the brakes, hoping it was just an accident.

  But no, in the intervening time since he’d left, the goddamned police had set up another one of their intoxication checkpoints. Two squad cars were parked on either side of Route 22, and orange cones and flares ran up the middle of the road. On the right, there was a reflective sign announcing the Caldwell Police Department’s Safety First program.

  Holy Christ, like they had to do this here? In the middle of nowhere? Why weren’t they downtown, near the bars? Then again, people from the shit burg next to Caldwell did have to drive home after club-hopping in the big city….

  There was one car in front of him, a minivan, and O drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel. He had half a mind to pull out his Smith & Wesson and pop both the cop and the driver to their royal reward. Just for slowing him up.

  A car approached from the opposite direction, and O looked across the road. The unremarkable Ford Taurus stopped with a little squeak of the brakes, its headlights milky and dim.

  Man, those lame-ass cars were a dime a dozen, but that was why U had chosen the make and model for his own ride. Fitting in with the general human population was critical to keeping the war with the vampires secret.

  As the policeman approached the POS, O thought it was weird that the driver’s window was already down on a cold night like this. Then he got a gander at the guy behind the wheel. Holy shit. Bastard had a scar as thick as a finger running down his face. And a gauge in his earlobe. Maybe the car was stolen.

  The cop obviously had the same idea, because his hand was on the butt of his gun as he bent over to address the driver. And the shit really went down when the badge trained his flashlight into the backseat. Abruptly his body jerked like he’d been nailed between the eyes, and he reached for his shoulder, going for what was probably his transmitter. Except the driver stuck his head out the window and stared up at the officer. There was a frozen moment between them.

  Then the policeman dropped his arm and casually waved the Taurus through without even checking the driver’s ID.

  O glared at the cop doing duty on O’s side of the road. The fucker was still detaining the soccer-mom special in front like the minivan was full of drug dealers. Meanwhile, the guy’s buddy across the way was letting what looked like a serial killer go through without so much as a hi-how-are-ya. It was like getting in the wrong lane at a tollbooth.

  Finally O pulled up. He was as civil as he could be, and a couple minutes later he was hitting the gas. He’d gone about five miles when a brilliant flash of light broke out over the landscape to the right. About where the persuasion center was.

  He thought of the kerosene heater. The one that leaked.

  O floored the accelerator. His woman was stuck in the ground…. If there was a fire…

  He cut into the forest and sped under the pine trees, bumping up and down, his head smacking the roof while he tried to hang onto the steering wheel. He reassured himself that up ahead there was no orange glow from a blaze. If there had been an explosion, there would be flames, smoke….

  His headlights swung around. The persuasion center was gone. Eliminated. Ash.

  O punched into the brake to keep the truck from smashing into a tree. Then he looked around the forest to make sure he was in the right place. When it was clear he was, he leaped out and threw himself to the ground.

  Grabbing handfuls of dust, he waded around in the residue until the shit got in his nose and his mouth and covered his body like a robe. He found bits of melted metal, but nothing larger than his palm.

>   Through the roaring in his mind, he remembered seeing this odd ghostly powder before.

  O tilted his head back and hurled his voice to the heavens. He had no idea what left his mouth. All he knew was that the Brotherhood had done this. Because the same thing had happened to the lessers’ martial-arts academy six months ago.

  Dust…ashes…gone. And they had taken his wife.

  Oh, God… Had she been alive when they’d found her? Or had they taken her body with them? Was she dead?

  This was his fault; this was all his fault. He’d been so hell-bent on punishing her, he’d missed the implications of that civilian getting loose. The male had gone to the Brotherhood and told them where she was, and they had come at the first shades of night and taken her away.

  O wiped desperate tears out of his eyes. And then he stopped breathing. He swiveled his head around, taking in the landscape. U’s silver Ford Taurus was gone.

  The checkpoint. The fucking checkpoint. That scary-ass man behind the wheel had in fact been no man at all. He’d been a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. Had to be. And O’s wife had been in the back, either barely breathing or dead. That was why the cop had freaked out. He’d seen her as he’d looked into the rear of the car, but the Brother had brainwashed him into letting the Taurus through.

  O lurched into the truck and hammered the accelerator, driving east, heading for U’s place.

  The Taurus had a LoJack system.

  Which meant with the right computer equipment, he could find that POS anywhere.

  Chapter Seven

  Bella had some vague thought that she was in a car. Except how was that possible? She must be hallucinating.

  No…it really sounded like a car, with that steady hum of an engine. And it felt like a car, a subtle vibration that at times condensed into a bump as something in the road went under the tires.

  She tried to open her eyes, found she couldn’t, and tried again. As the effort exhausted her, she gave up. God, she was tired…like she had the flu. Ached all over, too, especially at her head and stomach. And she was nauseated. She tried to remember what had happened, how she’d gotten free, if she was free. But all she had was an image of the lesser who loved her coming through the door, covered in black blood. The rest was fog.