The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4

by J. R. Ward

  V shoved his dagger back into his chest holster and ripped his glove off. He reached down, then stopped. “Wait, I can’t touch anyone with this.”

  “The infection will offer the human protection. Do it now, warrior, and as you make contact, visualize the white glow of your palm all around you, as if you are skinned by light.”

  Vishous brought his hand forward while imagining himself surrounded by a pure, radiant incandescence. The moment he made contact with the black piece, his body shuddered and bucked. The thing, whatever it was, disintegrated with a hiss and pop, but, oh, shit, he felt ill.

  “Breathe,” the Scribe Virgin said. “Just breathe through it.”

  Vishous swayed and caught himself on the ground, his head hanging off his shoulders, his throat starting to pump. “I think I’m going to be—”

  Yeah, he got sick. And as the retching tackled him again and again, he felt himself get eased off his arms. The Scribe Virgin supported him through the vomiting, and when it was over, he sagged into her. For a moment he even thought she was stroking his hair.

  Then from out of nowhere, his cell phone appeared in his good hand, and her voice was strong in his ear. “Go now, take this human, and trust that the seat of evil is in the soul, not the body. And you must bring back the jar of one of your enemies. Bring it to this place and use your hand upon it. Do this without delay.”

  V nodded. Unsolicited advice from the Scribe Virgin was not the kind you left at the roadside.

  “And, warrior, keep your shield of light in place around this human. Further, use your hand to heal him. He may yet die unless enough light enters his body and heart.”

  V felt the power of her fade as another shot of nausea hit his gut. While he dealt with the lingering effects of touching that thing, he figured, Jesus, if he felt this bad, he couldn’t imagine how Butch was doing.

  When the phone rang in his hand, he realized he’d been lying on his back in the snow for some time. “Hello?” he said, all groggy.

  “Where are you? What’s happening?” Rhage’s bass holler was a relief.

  “I have him. I have”—V eyed the bloody mess that was his roommate—“Jesus, I need a pickup. Oh, shit, Rhage—” V put his hand to his eyes and started to shake. “Rhage—what they did to him…”

  The tone of his brother’s voice instantly gentled, as if the guy knew V had gone bye-bye. “Okay, just relax. Tell me, where are you?”

  “Woods…I don’t know…” God, his brain had totally shorted out. “Can you pinpoint me on the GPS?”

  A voice in the background, probably Phury, yelled, “Got him!”

  “All right, V, we got you and we’re coming—”

  “No, place is contaminated.” As Rhage started in with the whats, V cut the brother off. “Car. We need a car. I’m going to have to carry him out. I don’t want anyone else to come here.”

  There was a long pause. “All right. Head straight north, my brother. About a half mile you’ll run into Route 22. We’ll be there waiting for you.”

  “Call—” He had to clear his voice and wipe his eyes. “Call Havers. Tell him we’re bringing in a trauma case. And tell him that we need a quarantine.”

  “Jesus…what the hell did they do to him?”

  “Hurry, Rhage—wait! Bring a lesser jar with you.”

  “Why?”

  “No time to explain. Just make sure you have one.”

  V shoved his phone into his pocket, stuffed his glowing hand back into its glove, and went to Butch. After making sure the Mylar blanket was in place, he gathered the cop in his arms and eased all that deadweight off the ground. Butch hissed with pain.

  “This is going to be a rough ride,” V said, “but we gotta get you moving.”

  Except then V frowned and looked at the ground. Butch wasn’t bleeding much anymore, but holy hell, what about the footprints tracking out through the snow? If a lesser happened to come back, he might catch them on the way out.

  From out of nowhere, storm clouds rolled in and snow started to fall hard.

  Damn, the Scribe Virgin was good.

  As V headed off through what was now nearly a blizzard, he imagined a white light of protection around both him and the man in his arms.

  “You came!”

  Marissa smiled as she shut the door to the cheery, windowless patient room. On the hospital bed, looking small and fragile, was a seven-year-old female. By her side, looking only somewhat larger but much more breakable, was the young’s mother.

  “I promised last night I would visit you again, didn’t I?”

  When the young grinned, there was a black hole where her front tooth was missing. “But still, you came. And you look so pretty.”

  “So do you.” Marissa sat on the bed and took the young’s hand. “How are you?”

  “Mahmen and I have been watching Dora the Explorer.”

  The mother smiled a little, but the expression didn’t touch much of her plain face or her eyes. Since the young had been brought in three days ago, the mother had seemed to be on some kind of numbed-out autopilot. Well, except when she jumped every time someone came into the room.

  “Mahmen says that we can only stay here a little while longer. Is that true?”

  The mother opened her mouth, but Marissa answered, “You don’t have to worry about leaving. We need to take care of your leg first.”

  These were not wealthy civilians, probably couldn’t pay for any of this, but Havers never turned anyone away. And he wasn’t going to rush them out.

  “Mahmen says that my leg is bad. Is that true?”

  “Not for long.” Marissa glanced down at the blankets. Havers was going to operate on the compound fracture momentarily. Hopefully it would heal right.

  “Mahmen says I’ll be in the green room for an hour. Can it be shorter than that?”

  “My brother will keep you there only as long as he has to.”

  Havers was going to replace her shinbone with a titanium rod, which was better than losing the limb but still a hard path. The young would need more operations as she grew, and going by the mother’s exhausted eyes, the female knew this was just the beginning.

  “I’m not scared.” The young tucked her tattered stuffed tiger in closer to her neck. “Mastimon is coming with me. The nurse said he could.”

  “Mastimon will protect you. He is fierce, as a tiger should be.”

  “I told him not to eat anybody.”

  “Wise of you.” Marissa reached into the skirting pocket of her pale pink gown and took out a leather box. “I have something for you.”

  “A present?”

  “Yes.” Marissa turned the box to face the young and opened it. Inside, there was a gold plate about the size of a tea saucer, and the precious object was buffed to a high shine, all mirror bright, gleaming like sunshine.

  “That’s so pretty,” the child breathed.

  “This is my wishing plate.” Marissa took it out and turned the thing over. “Do you see my initial on the back?”

  The young squinted. “Yes. And look! There’s a letter like as in my name.”

  “I had yours added. I’d like you to have this.”

  There was a little gasp from the mother in the corner. Clearly she knew what all that gold was worth.

  “Really?” the young said.

  “Hold your hands out.” Marissa put the gold disk in the girl’s palms.

  “Oh, it’s so heavy.”

  “Do you know how these wishing plates work?” When the young shook her head, Marissa took out a little piece of parchment and a fountain pen. “Think of a wish and I’ll write it down. While you sleep, the Scribe Virgin will come and read it.”

  “If she doesn’t give you your wish, does that mean you’re bad?”

  “Oh, no. It just means she has something better planned for you. So what would you like? It can be anything. Ice cream when you wake up. More Dora?”

  The little female frowned in concentration. “I want my mahmen to stop crying. She t
ries to pretend she doesn’t, but ever since I…fell down the stairs she’s been sad.”

  Marissa swallowed, knowing full well the child hadn’t broken her leg like that. “I think that’s fine. I’ll write that down.”

  Using the intricate characters of the Old Language, she penned in red ink: If it would not offend, I would be grateful for my mahmen’s happiness.

  “There. How is it?”

  “Perfect!”

  “Now we fold it and leave it. Perhaps the Scribe Virgin will reply to you while you are in the operating—the green room.”

  The child hugged her tiger closer. “I would like that.”

  As a nurse came in, Marissa stood up. In a rush of heat, she felt a near-violent urge to protect the young, to shield her from what had happened at her home and what was about to happen in the OR.

  Instead, Marissa looked at the mother. “This is going to be fine.”

  When she went over and put her hand on a thin shoulder, the mother shuddered, then gripped Marissa’s palm hard.

  “Tell me he can’t get in here,” the female said in a low voice. “If he finds us, he’ll kill us.”

  Marissa whispered, “No one can get into the elevator without identifying themselves in front of a camera. The two of you are safe. I swear to it.”

  When the female nodded, Marissa left so that the young could be sedated.

  Outside the patient room, she leaned against the hallway wall and felt more heaving rage. The fact that those two were bearing the pain of a male’s violent temper was enough to make her want to learn how to shoot a gun.

  And God, she couldn’t imagine setting that female and her young loose in the world because surely that hellren would find them when they left the clinic. Although most males put their mates higher than themselves, there had always been among the race a minority of abusers and the realities of domestic violence were ugly and far-reaching.

  A door shutting to the left brought her head up, and she saw Havers come walking down the hall, his head buried in a patient chart. Odd…his shoes were covered with little yellow plastic booties, the kind he always put on when he donned a hazmat suit.

  “Have you been in the lab again, brother mine?” she asked.

  His eyes shot up from the chart and he pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. His jaunty red bow tie was cocked at a bad angle. “Come again?”

  She nodded at his feet with a smile. “The lab.”

  “Ah…yes. I have.” He reached down and took the covers off his loafers, crushing the yellow plastic in his hand. “Marissa, would you do me the favor of returning to the house? I’ve asked the Princeps Council leahdyre and seven other members to dinner on Monday next. The menu must be perfect and I would talk to Karolyn myself, but I’m due in the OR.”

  “Of course.” Except then Marissa frowned, aware that her brother was still as a statue. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. Go…go now. Do…yes, please go now.”

  She was tempted to pry, but she didn’t want to keep him from the young’s operation, so she kissed him on the cheek, straightened his bow tie, and walked away. When she reached the double doors that led into the reception area, though, something made her glance back.

  Havers was stuffing what he’d been wearing on his feet into a biohazard bin, and his face was drawn into tight lines. With a deep breath, he braced himself, then pushed open the door to the surgical suite’s anteroom.

  Ah, she thought, so that’s what it was. He was upset about operating on the young. And who could blame him?

  Marissa turned back to the doors…then heard the boots.

  She froze. Only one kind of male made that thunder when he approached.

  Pivoting around, she saw Vishous striding down the hall, his dark head lowered, and behind him, Phury and Rhage were similar silent menaces. All three were dripping with weapons and weariness, and Vishous had dried blood on his leathers and his jacket. But why had they been in Havers’s lab? That facility was the only thing back there, really.

  The Brothers didn’t notice her until they practically mowed her down. Coming to a stop as a group, their eyes quickly went elsewhere, no doubt because of her having fallen from Wrath’s grace.

  Dear Virgin, up close they looked truly awful. Sick, yet not unwell, if that made any sense.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.

  “Everything’s cool,” Vishous said in a hard voice. “’Scuse us.”

  The dream…Butch lying in the snow…“Is someone hurt? Is…Butch…”

  Vishous just shrugged her off and stepped past her, punching open the doors into Reception. The other two offered stiff smiles, then did the same.

  Following at a distance, she watched them walk by the nursing station to the access elevator. As they waited for the doors to open, Rhage reached out and put his hand on Vishous’s shoulder, and the other Brother seemed to shudder.

  The exchange made warning bells go off, and the instant the elevator doors closed Marissa headed for the wing of the clinic the three had originally come from. Moving quickly, she passed the sprawling, brilliantly lit lab, then put her head into the six older patient rooms. All of which were empty.

  Why had the Brothers been here? Maybe just to talk to Havers?

  On instinct, she went out to the front desk, logged on to the computer and scanned the admissions. Nothing about any of the Brothers or Butch came up, but that didn’t mean a thing. The warriors were never entered into the system, and she had to imagine it would be the same for Butch if he were in-house. What she was after was how many beds were occupied of the thirty-five they had.

  She got the number and did a quick walk around, scouting each room. Everything was accounted for. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Butch had not been admitted—unless he was in one of the other rooms in the main house. Sometimes patients who were VIPs stayed there.

  Marissa picked up her skirts and hightailed it for the back stairs.

  Butch curled into himself even though he wasn’t cold, operating on the theory that if he could just bring his knees up high enough, the pain in his stomach would ease a little.

  Yeah, right. The hot poker in his gut was not impressed by that plan.

  He peeled his puffy eyelids apart, and after a lot of blinking and deep breathing, he came to the following conclusions: He was not dead. He was in a hospital. And shit that was no doubt keeping him alive was being pumped into his arm.

  As he rolled over gingerly, he came to one more realization. His body had been used for a punching bag. Oh…and something nasty was in his belly, like his last meal had been rancid roast beef.

  What the fuck had happened to him?

  Only a vague series of snapshots came to mind: Vishous finding him in the woods. Him with a screaming instinct that the brother should leave him to die. Then some knife action and…something about that hand of V’s, that glowing thing used to take out a vile piece of—

  Butch lurched over onto his side and gagged just from the memory. There had been evil in his belly. Pure, undiluted malice, and the black horror had been spreading.

  With shaking hands, he grabbed the hospital johnny he was wearing and yanked it up. “Oh…Jesus…”

  There was a stain on the skin of his stomach, like the scorch mark of a fire that had been snuffed out. In desperation, he weeded through his sloppy brain, trying to remember how the scarring had gotten there and what it was, but he just came up with a big fat zero.

  So like the detective he’d been before, he examined the scene—which in this case was his body. Lifting one of his hands, he saw that his fingernails were a mess, as if something like a file or some small nails had been hammered under a number of them. A deep breath told him his ribs were cracked. And going by his swollen eyes, he had to assume his face had partied with a lot of knuckles.

  He had been tortured. Recently.

  Reaching into his mind again, he panned for memories, trying to get back to the last p
lace he’d been. ZeroSum. ZeroSum with…oh, God, that female. In the bathroom. Having hard-core, who-cares sex. Then he’d gone out and…lessers. Fighting with those lessers. Getting shot and then…

  His recollections came to the end of their train track at that point. Just shot off the edge of reasoning into a pit of huh, what?

  Had he squealed on the Brotherhood? Betrayed them? Had he given his nearest and dearest away?

  And what the hell had been done to his belly? God, he felt like there was sludge in his veins thanks to whatever had festered there.

  Letting himself go limp, he breathed through his mouth for a while. And found there was no peace to be had.

  As if his brain didn’t want to stop working, or maybe because it was showing off, the thing kicked up random visions from the distant past. Birthdays with his dad glaring at him and his mom tense and smoking like a chimney. Christmases where his brothers and sisters got presents and he didn’t.

  Hot July nights that no fan could cool off, the heat driving his father into the cold beer. The Pabst Blue Ribbon driving his father into fist-cracking wake-up calls just for Butch.

  Memories he hadn’t thought of for years came back, all unwanted visitors. He saw his sisters and brothers, happy, shouting, playing on bright green grass. And remembered how he’d wished he could be among them instead of hanging back, the oddball who’d never fit in.

  And then—Oh, God, no…not this memory.

  Too late. He pictured himself as the twelve-year-old he’d been, scrawny and shaggy, standing at the curb in front of the O’Neal family row house in South Boston. It had been a clear, beautiful fall afternoon when he’d watched his sister Janie get into a red Chevy Chevette that had rainbow stripes down the side. With perfect recollection he saw her waving at him through the window in the back as the car drove off.

  Now that the door to the nightmare was open, he couldn’t stop the horror show. He recalled the police coming to the door that night and his mother’s knees going out when they finished talking to her. He remembered the cops questioning him because he was the last person to see Janie alive. He heard his younger self telling the badges that he hadn’t recognized the boys and had wanted to tell his sister not to get in.