The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4

by J. R. Ward

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes…” she whispered, settling on her side, already easing into sleep. “Yes, Zsadist…yes.”

  She was going to need food, he thought. He needed to go get her food.

  Gathering his will, he took a deep breath, and another and another…and finally forced his upper body off the bed. His head swam wildly, the furniture and the floor and the walls spinning, trading places, until he wasn’t sure whether he was on the ceiling or not.

  The vertigo got worse as he shifted his legs off the mattress, and when he stood his balance deserted him completely. He fell into the wall, slamming into the thing, and had to hold himself up by clinging to some drapes.

  When he was ready, he pushed free and leaned down to her. Lifting her up in his arms was a struggle, but his need to care for her was stronger than the exhaustion. He took her to his pallet and laid her down, then covered her with the comforter they’d long ago shoved to the floor. He was turning away when she took his arm.

  “You have to feed,” she said, trying to draw him close. “Come to my throat.”

  God, he was tempted.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, stumbling to his feet. He lurched over to the closet and drew on a pair of boxers. Then he stripped the bed of the sheets and mattress pad and left.

  Phury opened his eyes and realized he couldn’t breathe.

  Which made sense, he supposed. His face was mashed into a wad of blankets. He moved his mouth and nose free of the jam-up and tried to get his eyes to focus. The first thing he saw, about six inches from his head, was an ashtray full of dead blunts. On the floor.

  What the hell? Oh… He was hanging off the foot of the mattress.

  When he heard a groan, he shoved himself up, turned his head around—and came face-to-face with one of Vishous’s feet. Beyond the size-fourteen was Butch’s thigh.

  Phury had to laugh, and that brought the cop’s groggy gaze up out of a pillow. The human looked over himself and then Phury. He blinked a couple of times, like he was hoping to wake up for real.

  “Oh, man,” he said with more gravel than voice. Then he glanced at Vishous, who was passed out next to him. “Oh…man, this is too weird.”

  “Get over yourself, cop. You’re not that attractive.”

  “Fair enough.” He scrubbed his face. “But that doesn’t mean I’m all into waking up with two men.”

  “V told you not to come back.”

  “True. That was my bad call.”

  Talk about a long night. Eventually, when even the feel of clothing against their skin had gotten to be too much, they’d lost any pretense of modesty. It had just been a matter of enduring the need: lighting up red smoke after red smoke, hitting the Scotch or the vodka, slipping into the bathroom alone to relieve themselves privately.

  “So is it over?” Butch asked. “Tell me it’s over.”

  Phury shuffled off the bed. “Yeah. I think so.”

  He picked up a sheet and pitched it at Butch, who covered himself and Vishous. V didn’t even twitch. He was sleeping like the dead on his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut, a soft snore coming out of his mouth.

  The cop cursed and rearranged his body, propping a pillow up against the headboard and leaning back. He rubbed his hair until it stood straight off his head and yawned so wide Phury heard the guy’s jaw crack.

  “Damn, vampire, I never thought I’d say this, but I have absolutely no interest in sex. Thank God.”

  Phury pulled on a pair of nylon warm-ups. “You want food? I’m going to make a kitchen trip.”

  Butch’s eyes blissed out. “You’re actually going to bring it up here? As in, I don’t have to move?”

  “You’re going to owe me, but yeah, I’m willing to deliver.”

  “You are a god.”

  Phury put on a T-shirt. “What do you want?”

  “Whatever’s in the kitchen. Hell, make yourself really useful and drag that refrigerator on up here. I’m starved.”

  Phury went downstairs to the kitchen and was about to start foraging when he heard sounds coming from the laundry room. He went over and pushed the door open.

  Zsadist was cramming sheets into the washer.

  And dear Virgin in the Fade, he looked like hell. His stomach was a shrunken hole; his hips stood out from his skin like tent posts; his rib cage looked like a plow field. He must have lost ten, fifteen pounds overnight. And—holy hell—his neck and wrists were chewed raw. But…he smelled of beautiful dark spices, and there was a peace about him, so deep and unlikely Phury wondered if his senses were playing tricks on him.

  “My brother?” he said.

  Z didn’t look up. “Do you know how to work this thing?”

  “Ah, yeah. You put some of that stuff in the box in and you move that dial around—Here, let me help.”

  Z finished stuffing the belly of the washer and then stepped back, his eyes still locked on the floor. When the machine was filling up with water, Z muttered a thank-you and headed into the kitchen.

  Phury followed, his heart in his throat. He wanted to ask if everything was okay, and not just with Bella.

  He was trying to choose his words carefully when Z took a roasted turkey out of the refrigerator, tore the leg off, and bit into it. He chewed desperately, cleaning the meat from the bone as fast as he could, and the moment he was done he ripped the other drumstick free and did the same thing.

  Jesus… The brother never took meat. Then again, he’d never been through a night like last night before. None of them had.

  Z could feel Phury’s eyes on him, and would have stopped eating if he could have. He hated people looking at him, especially when he was chewing on something, but he just couldn’t get the food in fast enough.

  He kept shoving stuff in his face as he took out a knife and a plate and started slicing off thin shavings of the turkey breast. He was careful to take only the very best parts of the meat for Bella. The odd bits, the corners, the stuff close to the core, that he ate himself, as it was not as good.

  What else would she need? He wanted her to eat calorically dense things. And drink—he should bring her something to drink. He went back to the refrigerator and began making a pile of leftovers for review. He would choose carefully, taking to her only what was worthy of her tongue.

  “Zsadist?”

  God, he’d forgotten that Phury was still kicking around.

  “Yeah,” he said as he cracked a Tupperware bowl.

  The mashed potatoes inside looked okay, though he really would have preferred bringing her some that he’d made. Not that he knew how to do that. Christ, he couldn’t read, couldn’t work a damn washing machine, couldn’t cook.

  He had to let her go so she could find a male who had half a brain.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Phury said.

  “Yeah, you do.” He took a loaf of Fritz’s homemade sourdough bread out of the cupboard and squeezed the thing with his fingers. It was soft, but he sniffed at it anyway. Good, it was fresh enough for her.

  “Is she okay? Are…you?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “What was it like?” Phury coughed a little. “I mean, I want to know not because it was Bella. It’s just…I’ve heard a lot of rumors and I don’t know what to believe.”

  Z took some mashed potatoes and put them on the plate with the turkey; then he spooned on wild rice and covered the lot with a good dose of gravy. He threw the heavy load into the microwave, glad this was one machine he knew how to work.

  As he watched the food go around, he thought about his twin’s question and remembered the feel of Bella getting up on his hips. That joining, of the dozens they’d had during the night, was the one that stuck out the most. She had been so lovely on top of him, especially as she’d kissed him….

  Throughout the needing, but mostly during that particular union, she’d chipped away at the past’s hold on him, marking him with something good. He would treasure the warmth she’d given him for the rest of his days
.

  The microwave dinged and he realized Phury was still waiting for an answer.

  Z put the food on a tray and grabbed some silverware so he could feed her properly.

  As he turned and headed out of the room, he murmured, “She is more beautiful than I have words for.” He lifted his eyes to Phury’s. “And last night I was blessed beyond measure to serve her.”

  For some reason, the brother recoiled in shock and reached out. “Zsadist, your—”

  “I have to bring my nalla her food. I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait! Zsadist! Your—”

  Z just shook his head and kept on going.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Why didn’t you show me this as soon as I got home?”

  Rehvenge asked his doggen. As the servant flushed with shame and horror, he reached out to the poor male. “It’s okay. Never mind.”

  “Master, I came to you when I realized you had returned for the day. But you were sleeping for once. I wasn’t sure what the image was, and I didn’t want to disturb you. You never rest.”

  Yeah, the feeding with Marissa had put him out like a light. First time he’d closed his eyes and lost consciousness in…God, whenever. But this was trouble.

  Rehv sat down in front of the computer screen and replayed the digital file. It was the same as the first time he’d seen it: A man with dark hair and black clothes parking in front of the gates. Getting out of a truck. Coming forward to touch the mourning ribbons that had been tied on the iron bars.

  Rehv increased the zoom until he saw the man’s face clearly. Unremarkable, neither handsome nor ugly. But the body that went with it was big. And that jacket looked as if it was either padded or covering some weapons.

  Rehv froze the image and did a copy on the date/time reading in the lower right-hand corner. He switched screens, calling up the files from the other camera that monitored the front gate, the heat-sensing one. With a quick paste action, he got the recording from that piece of equipment at exactly the same moment in time.

  And what do you know. Body temperature of that “man” was in the fifties. A lesser.

  Rehv switched screens again and got in real tight on the slayer’s face while the killer looked at those ribbons. Sadness, fear…anger. None of which were anonymous emotions; all of which were tied to something personal. Something lost.

  So this was the bastard who took Bella. And he was coming back for her.

  Rehv wasn’t surprised the lesser had found the house. Bella’s capture had been news within the species, and the family’s address had never been hidden from the race…in fact, with mahmen’s spiritual advising, the Thorne Avenue mansion was well-known. All it would take would be the capture of one civilian who knew where they lived.

  The real question was, Why hadn’t the slayer come through the gates?

  God. What time was it? Four in the afternoon. Shit.

  “That is a lesser,” Rehv said, punching his cane into the floor and rising quickly. “So we evacuate the house right now. You will find Lahni immediately and tell her the mistress must be dressed. Then you will take them both through the tunnel and drive them to the safe house in the van.”

  The doggen blanched. “Master, I had no idea that it was a—”

  Rehv put a hand on the male’s shoulder to quell the wheel-spin panic. “You did well with what you knew. But move quickly now. Go get Lahni.”

  Rehv walked as quickly as he could to his mother’s bedroom.

  “Mahmen?” he said as he opened her door. “Mahmen, wake up.”

  His mother sat up in her bed of silken sheets, her white hair coiled in a cap for the day. “But it’s…it is the afternoon still. Why—”

  “Lahni is coming to help you dress.”

  “Dear Virgin, Rehvenge. Why?”

  “You are leaving this house.”

  “What—”

  “Now, mahmen. I’ll explain later.” He kissed both her cheeks as her maid came in. “Ah, good. Lahni, you will dress your mistress fast.”

  “Yes, master,” the doggen said with a bow.

  “Rehvenge! What is—”

  “Hurry. Leave with the doggen. I’ll call you.”

  As his mother cried out his name, he went down to his private quarters and shut the doors so he wouldn’t hear her. He picked up the phone and dialed the Brotherhood’s number despising what he had to do. But Bella’s safety had to come first. After he left a message that made his throat sting, he went to his walk-in closet.

  Right now the mansion was sealed up tight for the daylight hours, so there was no way a lesser could get in. The shutters covering the windows and doors were bullet-and fireproof and the house was made of stone walls that were two feet thick. To top it off, there were enough cameras and security alarms so he’d know if anyone so much as sneezed on his property. But he wanted his mahmen out anyway.

  Plus, as soon as darkness fell, he was going to open up the iron gates and roll out the welcome mat. He wanted that lesser inside.

  Rehv stripped out of his mink robe and put on a pair of black pants and a thick turtleneck sweater. He wouldn’t get out the weapons until his mother was gone. If she wasn’t totally hysterical already, seeing him covered with metal was going to throw her right over the edge.

  Before he went back to check on the progress of the evac, he glanced at the locked cabinet in his closet. It was getting time for his afternoon dopamine dose. How perfect.

  Smiling, he left his room without injecting himself, ready to bring all his senses out to play.

  As the shutters lifted for the night, Zsadist lay on his side next to Bella, watching her sleep. She was on her back, tight in the crook of his arm, her head at his chest level. No sheets or blankets covered her naked body, because she was still radiating heat from the remnants of the needing.

  When he’d returned after his trip to the kitchen, she’d eaten from his hand and then snoozed as he’d made up the bed with fresh linens. They’d lain together in the pitch-dark ever since.

  He moved his hand from her upper thigh to the underside of her breast and brushed at her nipple with his forefinger. He’d been like this for hours, petting her, humming to her. Though he was so tired his lids were at half-mast, the calm between them was better than any rest he could have gotten if he’d shut his eyes.

  As she stirred against him her hip brushed his, and he was surprised as the urge to take her rose. By now he figured he’d be done with that for a while.

  He leaned back and looked down his body. Through the slit in the front of his boxers, the head of that thing he’d used on her had escaped, and as the shaft lengthened, the blunt tip pushed out farther and farther.

  Feeling as if he were breaking some kind of law, he took the finger that had been running circles around Bella’s nipple and poked at the erection. It was stiff, so it moved right back into place.

  He closed his eyes and, with a wince, captured the arousal in his palm. When he stroked it he was surprised at how the soft skin slid over the hard core. And the sensations were weird. Not unpleasant, really. Actually, they kind of reminded him of being inside of Bella, only not that good. Not by a long shot.

  God, he was such a sissy. Afraid of his own…dick. Cock? Penis? What the hell should he call it? What did normal males call themselves? Okay, George wasn’t an option. But somehow referring to it as…it, just didn’t seem right anymore.

  Now that they’d shaken hands, so to speak.

  He let go of the thing and slid his palm under the waistband of the boxers. He was queased out and nervous, but figured he had to finish the Lewis-and-Clark routine. He didn’t know when he’d have the heart to do this again.

  He shuffled the…dick, yeah, he’d start with just calling it dick…around so it was inside, but out of the way, and then touched the balls underneath. He felt a shock ride up the erection’s shaft, and the tip tingled.

  That felt kind of nice.

  He frowned as he explored for the first time what the good Virgin ha
d given him. Funny that all of it had been attached to him, hanging off of him, for so long and yet he’d never done what young, post-transition males no doubt spent whole days doing.

  As he brushed over the balls again, they got tighter and the dick got even harder. Sensations boiled in his lower body, and images of Bella popped into his mind, images of the two of them having sex, of him stretching her legs up and going deep into her. He recalled with bone-aching clarity what she felt like beneath him, what that channel of hers did to him, how tight she was….

  The whole thing started to snowball, the pictures in his mind, the rolling currents of energy spreading out from where his hand was. His breath grew short. His mouth parted. His body did some kind of surge thing, his hips jerking forward. On impulse, he rolled over on to his back and shoved the boxers down.

  And then he realized what he was doing. Was he jerking off? Next to Bella? God, he was a nasty bastard.

  Disgusted with himself, he released his hand and started yanking the boxers back up—

  “Don’t stop,” Bella said softly.

  A frigid blast shot down Z’s spine. Busted.

  His eyes went to hers as the blood hit his face.

  But she just smiled at him and stroked his arm. “You’re so beautiful. The way you arched just now. Finish it, Zsadist. I know that’s what you want to do, and you have nothing to be embarrassed by. You’re beautiful when you touch yourself.” She kissed his bicep, her eyes going to the tent of his boxers. “Finish it,” she whispered. “Let me see you finish.”

  Feeling like an anxious fool, but curiously unable to stop himself, he sat up and got naked.

  Bella made a little noise of approval as he lay down again. Taking strength from her, he slowly slid his hand down his stomach, feeling the ridges of his muscles and the smooth, hairless skin that covered them. He didn’t really expect to be able to continue—