The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4

by J. R. Ward

Thank the Scribe Virgin.

  Her tension eased marginally as she went in and looked around. She’d always thought of this particular bathroom in her brother’s mansion as a luxurious locker room for debutantes. Decorated in a vivid Russian czarist motif, the bloodred sitting and primping area was kitted out with ten matching vanities, each makeup station holding everything a female could want to improve her appearance. Extending out the back of the lounge were the private lavatory chambers, all of which were done in the scheme of a different Fabergé egg from her brother’s extensive collection.

  Perfectly feminine. Perfectly lovely.

  Standing in the middle of it all, she wanted to scream.

  Instead, she bit her lip and bent down to check her hair in one of the mirrors. The blond weight, which reached the small of her back when down, was arranged with watchmaker precision on the top of her head and the chignon was holding up well. Even after several hours, everything was still in place, the pearl strands woven in by her doggen exactly where they’d been when she’d come down to the ball.

  Then again, standing on the fringes hadn’t really given the Marie Antoinette job a workout.

  But her necklace was out of whack again. She jogged the multitiered pearl collar back into position so that its lowest drop, a Tahitian twenty-three-millimeter, pointed directly down into what little cleavage she had.

  Her dove gray gown was vintage Balmain, one that she’d bought in Manhattan in the 1940s. Shoes were Stuart Weitzman and brand-new, not that anyone saw them under the floor-length skirt. Necklace, earrings, and cuffs were Tiffany, as always: When her father had discovered the great Louis Comfort in the late 1800s, the family had become loyal customers of the company and had stayed that way.

  Which was the hallmark of the aristocracy, wasn’t it? Constancy and quality in all things, change and defects to be greeted with glaring disapproval.

  She straightened and backed up until she could see her whole self from across the room. The image staring back at her was ironic: Her reflection was of utter female flawlessness, an improbable beauty that seemed sculpted, not born. Tall and thin, her body was made up of delicate angles, and her face was absolutely sublime, a perfect combination of lips and eyes and cheeks and nose. The skin over it all was alabaster. The eyes were silver blue. The blood in her veins was among the very purest in the species.

  Yet here she was. The forsaken female. The one left behind. The unwanted, defective, spinster virgin who not even a purebred warrior like Wrath had been able to bear sexually even once, if only to rid her of being a newling. And thanks to his repulsion, she was ever unmated, though she’d been with Wrath for what had seemed like forever. You had to have been taken to be considered someone’s shellan.

  Their end had been a surprise and no surprise at all. To anyone. Despite Wrath declaring that she had left him, the glymera knew the truth. She’d been untouched for centuries, never carrying the bonding scent from him, never spending a day alone with him. More to the point, no female would have left Wrath voluntarily. He was the Blind King, the last purebred vampire on the planet, a great warrior and a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. There was no higher than he.

  The conclusion among the aristocracy? Something had to be wrong with her, most likely hidden beneath her clothes, and the deficiency was probably sexual in nature. Why else would a full-blooded warrior have no erotic impulse toward her?

  She took a deep breath. Then another. And another.

  The scent of the fresh-cut flowers invaded her nose, the sweetness swelling, taking over, replacing the air…until it was only fragrance going down into her lungs. Her throat seemed to close up, as if to fight the onslaught, and she pulled at her necklace. Tight…it was so tight on her neck. And heavy…like hands choking her…. She opened her mouth to breathe, but it didn’t help. Her lungs were clogged with the flower stench, coated by it…she was suffocating, drowning, though she was not in water…

  On loose legs, she walked to the door, but she couldn’t face those dancing couples, those people who defined who they were by ostracizing her. No, she couldn’t let them see her…they would know how upset she was. They would see how hard this was for her. Then they would despise her even more.

  Her eyes shot around the mistresses’ lounge, skipping over everything, bouncing off all the mirrors. Frantically she tried to…what was she doing? Where could she…go—bedroom, upstairs…. She had to…oh, God…she couldn’t breathe. She was going to die here, right here and now, from her throat closing up tight as a fist.

  Havers…her brother…she needed to reach him. He was a doctor…. He would come and help her—but his birthday would be ruined. Ruined…because of her. Everything ruined because of her…. It was all her fault…everything. All the disgrace she bore was her fault…. Thank God her parents had been dead for centuries and hadn’t seen her for what…she was…

  Going to throw up. She was definitely going to throw up.

  Hands shaking, legs like pudding, she lurched into one of the bathrooms and locked herself inside. On the way to the toilet, she fumbled with the sink, turning the water on to drown out her rasping breath in case someone came in. Then she fell to her knees and bent over the porcelain bowl.

  She gagged and wretched, her throat working through the dry heaves, nothing coming up but air. Sweat broke out on her forehead and under her armpits and between her breasts. Head spinning, mouth gaping, she struggled for breath as thoughts of dying and having no one to help her, of ruining her brother’s party, of being an abhorred object swarmed like bees…bees in her head, buzzing, stinging…causing the death…thoughts like bees…

  Marissa started to cry, not because she thought she was going to die but because she knew she wasn’t.

  God, the panic attacks had been brutal these last few months, her anxiety a stalker with no solid form, whose persistence knew no exhaustion. And every time she had a meltdown, the experience was a fresh and horrible revelation.

  Propping her head on her hand, she wept hoarsely, tears running down her face and getting trapped in the pearls and diamonds at her throat. She was so alone. Caged in a beautiful, wealthy, fancy nightmare where the bogeymen wore tuxedos and smoking jackets and the vultures swooped down on wings of satin and silk to peck out her eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to get some control over her respiration. Easy…easy now. You’re okay. You’ve done this before.

  After a while, she looked down into the toilet. The bowl was solid gold and her tears made the surface of the water ripple as if sunlight shined within it. She became abruptly aware that the tile was hard beneath her knees. And her corset was biting into her rib cage. And her skin was clammy.

  She lifted her head and glanced around. Well, what do you know. She’d picked her favorite private chamber to fall apart in, the one based on the Lilies of the Valley egg. As she sat draped over the toilet, she was surrounded by blush-pink walls hand-painted with bright green vines and little white flowers. The floor and counter and sink were pink marble veined with white and cream. The sconces were gold.

  Very nice. Perfect background for an anxiety attack, really. But then, lately panic went with everything, didn’t it? The new black.

  Marissa pushed herself up from the floor, turned off the faucet, and collapsed into the little silk-covered chair in the corner. Her gown settled around her as if it were an animal stretching out now that the drama was over.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was blotchy, her nose red. Her makeup was ruined. Her hair was a ragged mess.

  See, this was what she looked like on the inside, so no wonder the glymera despised her. Somehow they knew this was the truth of her.

  God…maybe that was why Butch hadn’t wanted her—

  Oh, hell no. The last thing she needed was to think about him right now. What she had to do was straighten herself up as best she could and then scoot up to her bedroom. Sure, hiding was unattractive, but so was she.

  Just as she reached up to her hai
r, she heard the outside door to the lounge open, the chamber music swelling, then easing off as it closed.

  Great. Now she was trapped. But maybe it was only one female so she didn’t have to worry about being an eavesdropper.

  “I can’t believe I spilled on my shawl, Sanima.”

  Okay, so now she was an eavesdropper as well as a coward.

  “It’s barely noticeable,” Sanima said. “Although thank the Virgin you caught it before anyone else did. We’ll go in here together and use some water.”

  Marissa shook herself into focus. Don’t worry about them, just fix your hair. And for the Virgin’s sake do something about that mascara. You look like a raccoon.

  She grabbed a washcloth and wet it quietly while the two females went into the little room across the way. Obviously, they left the door open—their voices were undimmed.

  “But what if someone saw?”

  “Shh…let’s take the shawl off—oh, my Lord.” There was a short laugh. “Your neck.”

  The younger female’s voice dropped to an ecstatic hush. “It’s Marlus. Ever since we were mated last month, he’s been…”

  Now the laughter was shared.

  “Does he come to you often during the day?” Sanima’s secretive tone was delighted.

  “Oh, yes. When he said he wanted our bedrooms connected, I didn’t know why. Now, I do. He’s…insatiable. And he…he doesn’t just want to feed.”

  Marissa stopped with the washcloth under her eye. Only once had she known a male’s hunger for her. One kiss, only one…and she held the memory with care. She was going to her grave a virgin, and that brief meeting of mouths was all she would ever have of anything sexual.

  Butch O’Neal. Butch had kissed her with—Stop it.

  She went to work on the other side of her face.

  “To be newly mated, how marvelous. Though you mustn’t let anyone see these marks. Your skin is marred.”

  “That’s why I rushed in here. What if someone told me to take off the wrap because of the wine I spilled?” This was said with the kind of horror usually reserved for accidents involving knives.

  Although, given the glymera, Marissa could understand all too well wanting to avoid their attention.

  Tossing the washcloth aside, she tried to rework her hair…and gave up not thinking about Butch.

  God, she would have loved having to hide his teeth marks from the eyes of the glymera. Would have loved to hold the delicious secret that under the civilized gowns she wore, her body had known his raw sex. And she would have loved to bear the scent of his bonding for her on her skin, emphasizing it, as mated females did, by choosing the perfect complementary perfume.

  But none of that was going to happen. For one thing, humans didn’t bond, from what she’d heard. And even if they did, Butch O’Neal had walked away from her the last time she’d seen him, so he wasn’t interested in her anymore. Probably because he’d heard about her deficiencies. As he was close with the Brotherhood, no doubt he knew all kinds of things about her now.

  “Is there someone in here?” Sanima said sharply.

  Marissa cursed under her breath and figured she’d just sighed out loud. Giving up on her hair and her face, she opened the door. When she stepped out, both females looked down, which in this instance was a good thing. Her hair was a train wreck.

  “Worry not. I will say nothing,” she murmured. Because sex was never to be discussed in a public place. Or any private ones, really.

  The two curtsied dutifully and did not reply while Marissa left.

  As soon as she walked out of the lounge, she felt more glances sliding away from her, all eyes going elsewhere…especially those of the unmated males smoking cigars over in the corner.

  Just before she turned her back on the ball, she caught Havers’s stare through the crowd. He nodded and smiled sadly, as if he knew she couldn’t stay a moment longer.

  Dearest brother, she thought. He had always supported her, had never given any indication he was ashamed of how she had turned out. She would have loved him for their shared parents, but she adored him for his loyalty most of all.

  With a last look at the glymera in all its glory, she went to her room. After a quick shower, she changed into a simpler floor-length dress and lower-heeled shoes, then went down the mansion’s back stairs.

  Untouched and unwanted she could deal with. If that was the fate the Scribe Virgin laid upon her, so be it. There were far worse lives to be led, and bemoaning what she lacked, considering all she had, was boring and selfish.

  What she couldn’t handle was being purposeless. Thank God that she had her position on the Princeps Council and that her seat was secure by virtue of her bloodline. But there was also another way to leave a positive mark on her world.

  As she keyed in a code and unlocked a steel door, she envied the couples dancing at the other end of the mansion and probably always would. Except that was not her destiny.

  She had other paths to walk.

  Chapter Two

  Butch left ZeroSum at three forty-five, and though the Escalade was parked in the back, he headed in the opposite direction. He needed air. Jesus…he needed air.

  The middle of March was still winter so far as upstate New York was concerned, and the night was meat-locker cold. As he walked alone down Trade Street, his breath left his mouth in white clouds and drifted over his shoulder. The chill and the isolation suited him: He was hot and crowded even though he’d left the club’s crush of sweaty people behind.

  As he went along, his Ferragamos hit hard against the sidewalk, the heels grinding the salt and sand on the little concrete strip between dirty snowbanks. In the background, muffled music thumped out of the other bars on Trade, though business hours were soon going to be over.

  When he came up to McGrider’s, he popped his collar and up’d his pace. He avoided the blues bar because the boys on the force hung out there and he didn’t want to see them. Far as his former colleagues in the CPD knew, he’d up and disappeared, and that was the way he wanted to keep it.

  Screamer’s was next and hard-core rap pounded, turning the whole damn building into a bass extender. When he got to the far side of the club, he paused and looked down the alley that ran the length of the place.

  It had all started here. His weird trip into the vampire world had started right here the previous July, with a car bomb he’d investigated at this site: a BMW blown to shit. A man ashed. No material evidence left behind except a couple of martial-arts throwing stars. The hit had been very professional, the kind of thing that sent a message, and shortly thereafter the bodies of the prostitutes had appeared in the alleys. Throats cut. Blood levels sky high with heroine. With more martial-arts weapons around.

  He and his partner, José de la Cruz, had assumed the blast was a pimp-related turf toaster and the dead women payback, but soon enough he’d learned the whole story. Darius, a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, had been taken out by his race’s enemies, the lessers. And the murders of those prostitutes were part of a strategy by the Lessening Society to capture civilian vampires for questioning.

  Man, back then he’d never have even guessed vampires existed. Much less drove $90,000 BMWs. Or had sophisticated enemies.

  Butch walked down the alley, right to the spot where the 650i had been blown to high heaven. There was still a black soot ring on the building from the bomb’s heat and he reached out, putting fingertips on the cold brick.

  It had all started here.

  A gust of wind came up and flashed under his coat, lifting the fine cashmere, getting to the fancy suit underneath. Dropping his hand, he looked down at his clothes. Overcoat was Missoni, about five grand. Suit underneath, an RL Black Label, about three grand. Shoes were amateur night at a mere seven hundred bucks. Cuff links were Cartier and into the five-digit category. Watch was Patek Philippe. Twenty-five grand.

  The two forty-millimeter Glocks under his pits were two grand a piece.

  So he was sporting…Jesus Chr
ist, about $44,000 worth of Saks Fifth and Army/Navy. And this wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg for his threads. He had two closets worth of the shit back at the compound…none of which he’d bought with his own cash. All of which had been purchased with Brotherhood green.

  Shit…he dressed in clothes that weren’t his. Lived in a house and ate food and watched a plasma screen TV…none of which were his. Drank Scotch he didn’t pay for. Drove a sweet ride he didn’t own. And what did he do in return? Not a whole hell of a lot. Every time action went down, the brothers kept him on the sidelines—

  Footsteps rang out at the far end of the alley, pounding, pounding, getting closer. And there was more than one set.

  Butch eased back into the shadows, slipping free the buttons on his coat and his suit jacket so he could get at his heat if he needed it. He had no intention of mixing up someone else’s biz, but he wasn’t the type to hang back if an innocent was getting cracked.

  Guess the cop in him wasn’t dead yet.

  As the alley had only one open end, the track-and-fielders heading this way were going to pass by him. Hoping to avoid any crossfire, he got tight with a Dumpster and waited to see what turned up.

  Young guy flew by, terror on his face, his body all jerky panic. And then…well, what do you know, the two thugs in his trunk were pale haired. Big as houses. Smelling like baby powder.

  Lessers. Going after a civilian.

  Butch palmed one of his Glocks, speed-dialed V’s cell phone, and took off in pursuit. As he ran, the call dumped into voice mail, so he just shoved his Razr back into his pocket.

  When he caught up with the drama, the three were at the base of the alley, a loose knot of bad news. Now that the slayers had the civilian cornered, they were moving all lazy, closing in, backing off, smiling, toying. The civilian was shaking, eyes so wide the whites glowed in the dark.

  Butch leveled his gun at the scene. “Hey, Blondies, how ’bout you show me your hands?”

  The lessers stopped and looked at him. Man, it was like getting pegged with headlights, assuming you were a deer and the thing coming at you was a Peterbilt. Those undead bastards were pure power backed up by cold logic—a nasty combination, especially in duplicate.