Lover Reborn: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood

by J. R. Ward

  There would never be a place for the likes of Tohrment in his band of bastards, however: that Brother and his ilk would not slum themselves for a shared meal, much less any professional association.

  Though one cohesed briefly, this night. As the fight progressed, he and Throe fell into a cooperation with the Brothers, funneling lessers in small groups into blade range, whereupon they were dispatched to the Omega by the other three.

  Two Brothers, or Brotherhood candidates, were with Tohr, and both were larger than him—in fact, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was not as broad as he had once been. Mayhap from recovery of a recent injury? Whatever the cause, Tohr had chosen his backups wisely. The one on the right was a tremendous male, the size of whom proved that the Scribe Virgin’s breeding program had had a point. The other was more the girth and vertical of Xcor and his males—which was to say he was not small. Both worked seamlessly and without hesitation, showing no fear.

  When it was finally done, Xcor was breathing hard, his forearms and biceps numb from exertion. All who had fangs were standing. All who had black blood in the vein were gone, sent back to their evil maker.

  The five of them stayed in their positions, weapons still in hand as they panted, eyes peeled for any signs of aggression from the other side.

  Xcor glanced at Throe and nodded ever so slightly. If others from the Brotherhood had been called in, this was not the kind of showdown they would come out of alive. If these three engaged? He and his soldier had a chance, but there would be injuries.

  He did not come to Caldwell to die. He came here to be king.

  “I look forward to seeing you again, Tohrment, son of Hharm,” he announced.

  “Leaving so soon?” the Brother countered.

  “Did you think I would bow before you?”

  “No, that would require class.”

  Xcor smiled coldly, flashing his fangs as they elongated. His temper was held in check by his self-control—and the fact that he was already begining to work on the glymera. “Unlike the Brotherhood, we lowly soldiers actually work during the night. So instead of kissing the ring of antiquated custom, we’re going to seek and eliminate more of the enemy.”

  “I know why you’re here, Xcor.”

  “Do you. Mind reader?”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Indeed. Or mayhap it shall be the other way around.”

  Tohrment shook his head slowly. “Consider this a friendly warning. Go back where you came from before what you set in motion rolls you right into an early grave.”

  “I like where I am. The air is bracing on this side of the ocean. How’s your shellan, by the way.”

  The cold draft that surged forward was what he wanted: He’d heard through the convoluted grapevine that the female Wellesandra had been killed in the war some time ago, and he wasn’t above using any weapon he had to throw off the enemy.

  And the shot was a good one. Immediately, the bookends on either side of the Brother stepped in and grabbed on. But there would be no fighting or arguing. Not this eve.

  Xcor and Throe dematerialized, scattering themselves into the chilly spring night. He was not worried that they would be followed. That pair was going to make sure Tohr was okay, which meant they were going to dissuade him from a half-cocked, angry whim that might possibly lead to an ambush.

  They had no way of knowing he couldn’t access the rest of his troops.

  He and Throe regained their forms on top of the tallest skyscraper in the city. He and his soldiers had always had a rallying point such that the band could be reunited from time to time during the night, and this towering rooftop was not only easily visible from all quadrants of the battlefield; it seemed apt.

  Xcor liked the view from on high.

  “We need cell phones,” Throe said over the din of the wind.

  “Do we.”

  “They have them.”

  “The enemy, you mean?”

  “Aye. Both of them.” When Xcor said nothing further, his right-hand male muttered, “They have ways of communicating—”

  “That we do not require. If you allow yourself to rely on externals, they become weapons over you. We have done just fine without such technology for centuries.”

  “And this is a new era in a new place. Things are different here.”

  Xcor glanced over his shoulder, trading the view of the city for the sight of his second in command. Throe, son of Throe, was a fine example of breeding, all perfect features, and comely body that, thanks to Xcor’s lessons, was now not merely decorative, but useful: For truth, he had grown hard over the years, finally earning the right to declare his sex as that of male.

  Xcor smiled coldly. “If the Brothers’ tactics and methods are so successful, why did the race get raided?”

  “Things happen.”

  “And sometimes they are the result of mistakes—fatal ones.” Xcor resumed his perusal of the city. “You might consider how easily such errors can be made.”

  “All I’m saying—”

  “This is the problem with the glymera—always looking for the easy way out. I thought I beat that tendency out of you years ago. Do you require a refresher?”

  As Throe shut the fuck up, Xcor smiled more broadly.

  Focusing on the expanse of Caldwell, he knew that dark though the night was, his future was bright indeed.

  And paved with the bodies of the Brotherhood.

  FOUR

  “Where the hell are they finding all these recruits?” Qhuinn asked as he walked around the fight scene, his boots slapping through the black blood.

  John barely heard the guy, even though his ears were working just fine. With the departure of those bastards, he was sticking by Tohr’s side. The Brother seemed to have recovered from that uncalled-for kick in the nuts Xcor had just nailed him with, but it was still waaaaay break time.

  Tohr wiped his black blades off on his thighs. Took a deep breath. Seemed to pull out of an inner suck hole. “Ah… the only thing that makes sense is Manhattan. You need a big population. With a lot of bad seeds on the periphery.”

  “Who the hell is this Fore-lesser?”

  “A little shit, last I heard.”

  “Right up the Omega’s alley.”

  “Smart, though.”

  Just as John was going to broach the whole Cinderella-turning-into-a-pumpkin thing, his head shot around.

  “More,” Tohr said on a growl.

  Yeah, but that wasn’t the problem.

  John’s shellan was out in the alleys.

  Instantly, everything went from his mind; his toilet bowl flushed. What the hell was she doing out? She wasn’t on rotation. She should be home—

  As the stench of fresh, breathing lesser entered his nose, a deep inner conviction clawed into his chest: She shouldn’t be out here at all.

  “I need to get my coat,” Tohr said. “Stay here and I’ll go with you.”

  Fat. Chance.

  The instant Tohr dematerialized back to the bridge, John took off, his shitkickers pounding the asphalt as Qhuinn shouted something that ended with, “You cocksucker!”

  Whatever, unlike Tohr’s wild, crazy, maniac diversions, this was important.

  John cut through the alley, shot down a side street, jumped across two lines of parked cars, bolted into a detour.…

  And there she was, his mate, his lover, his life, squaring off against a quartet of lessers in front of an abandoned rooming house—flanked by a big, loudmouthed blond traitor.

  Rhage should never have recruited her. John had said reinforcements—he sure as shit hadn’t meant his Xhex. And second of all, he’d told them to stay home, at Tohr’s request. What the fuck were they—

  “Hey!” Rhage called out cheerfully. Like he was inviting them to a party. “Just thought we’d take the air tonight in beeeeautiful downtown Caldwell.”

  Right. This was one moment when being mute sucked. You fucking ass—

  Xhex turned her head around to look at him�
�and that was when it happened. One of the lessers was tucking a knife, and the sonofabitch had both a good arm and great aim: The blade flew through the air, hilt over point.

  Until it came to a sudden stop… in Xhex’s chest.

  For the second time in one evening, John screamed without making a sound.

  As his body surged forward, Xhex whipped around to the slayer, an expression of rage tightening her features. Without losing a beat, she grabbed onto the handle and tore the weapon out of her own flesh—but how long would her strength last? That was a direct hit—

  Jesus Christ! She was going to try to take care of the bastard. Even injured, she was going to go after him tooth and nail… and get herself killed in the process.

  The one thought that shot through John’s mind was that he didn’t want to be like Tohr. He didn’t want to walk that stretch of hell on earth.

  He didn’t want to lose his Xhex tonight, tomorrow night, any night. Ever.

  Opening his mouth, he roared all of the air out of his lungs. He wasn’t conscious of dematerializing, but he was on that lesser so fast that going ghost and re-forming was the only explanation. Locking onto the thing’s throat with his palm, he pushed the piece of shit backward off its feet and let his own weight follow. When they hit the ground, he head-butted its face, smashing the nose, and likely breaking a cheekbone or an eye socket.

  No stopping there.

  As black blood splashed up all over him, he bared his fangs and tore into the enemy with his teeth while he held the thing down. The destructive instinct was so finely tuned and focused, he would have kept going until he was chewing on pavement—but then his rational side sent up a hi-how’re-ya.

  He needed to assess Xhex’s injuries.

  Taking out a dagger, he raised his arm high and locked eyes with the slayer. Or what was left of the lesser’s pair of peepers.

  John buried that blade so deep and hard that after the flash and bang faded, he needed a two-handed grip and a full-body pull to free the weapon out of the asphalt. Scrambling around, he prayed to see Xhex—

  She was more than up on her feet. She was engaging another one of the quartet—even though there was a growing red stain on the front of her chest, and her right arm was hanging loose.

  John nearly lost his mind.

  Leaping up, he threw his body between his mate and the enemy, and as he shoved her out of the way, he took a hit meant for her—a solid swing with a baseball bat that rang his church bell and made him momentarily lose his balance.

  Exactly the kind of thing that would have knocked her flat and put “paid” to her coffin.

  With a quick shift, he reestablished equilibrium, and then caught the second try at turning him into a homer with both hands.

  Quick punch forward and he slammed the lesser in the face with its own Louisville slugger, giving the undead a split second of show tunes in its head. Then it was domination time.

  “What the hell!” Xhex hollered at him as he forced the slayer onto the ground.

  No good way to communicate, considering his hands were locked on the lesser’s throat. Then again, it wasn’t going to help them for her to know what was on his mind.

  With a quick stab, John dispatched the slayer back to the Omega and got up. His left eye, the one that had gotten corked with the bat, was starting to swell, and he could feel his heartbeat in his face. Meanwhile, Xhex was still bleeding.

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” she hissed.

  He wanted to jab his finger in her face, but if he did, he couldn’t talk. Then don’t fight when you’re injury-injer-injured!

  Christ, he couldn’t even communicate, his fingers clogging up over words.

  “I was just fine!”

  You’re fucking bleeding—

  “It’s a flesh wound—”

  Then why can’t you lift up your arm!

  The pair of them were closing in on each other, and not in a good way, their jaws jacked forward, their bodies hunched in aggression. And when she didn’t counter him on his last potshot, he knew he’d guessed right—knew, too, that she was hurting.

  “I take care of myself, John Matthew,” she spat. “I don’t need you looking over my shoulder because I’m a female.”

  I would have done the same for one of the Brothers. Well, mostly he would have. So don’t push that feminist bullshit on me—

  “Feminist bullshit?!”

  You’re the one making it about your sex, not me.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Funnily enough, I’m not persuaded. And if you think my standing up for myself is a goddamn political statement, you mated the wrong goddamn female.”

  This is not about your being female!

  “The fuck it isn’t!”

  On that note, she inhaled deep, as if to remind him that his bonding scent was so strong, it knocked out even the stench of all the lesser blood splattered around.

  John bared his fangs and signed, It’s about your stupidity creating a liability on the battlefield.

  Xhex’s mouth cranked open—but then, instead of countering, she just stared up at him.

  Abruptly, she crossed her good arm over her chest and focused out over his left shoulder, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

  Like she was regretting not just what had happened a moment ago, but maybe meeting him in the first place.

  John cursed and went to pace around, only to find that everyone else in the alleyway—and that would be Tohr, Qhuinn, Rhage, Blaylock, Zsadist, and Phury—was watching the show. And what do you know, each of the males wore an expression that suggested he was really, truly, completely, and utterly glad that John’s last statement hadn’t come out of his piehole.

  Do you mind, John signed with a glare.

  On cue, the bunch of them started milling about, looking up at the dark sky, down at the pavement, across at the brick walls of the alley. Manly muttering floated over on the stinky breeze, as if they were a convention of movie critics discussing what had just been screened.

  He didn’t care what their opinions were.

  And in this moment of anger, he didn’t care what Xhex’s was, either.

  Back at the Brotherhood mansion, No’One had her daughter’s mating dress in her arms—and a doggen planted in front of her, thwarting her quest for directions to the second-story laundry room. The former was welcome; the latter was not.

  “No,” she said again. “I shall take care of this.”

  “Mistress, please, it is a simple thing to—”

  “Then letting me tend to the gown will be no problem for you.”

  The doggen’s face fell so far, it was a wonder he didn’t have to look up to meet her eyes. “Perhaps… I shall just check with Superior Perlmutter—”

  “And perhaps I shall tell him how helpful you were in showing me the cleaning supplies—and how much I appreciated your fine service unto me.”

  Even though her hood was up and shielding her face, the doggen seemed to gauge her intention clearly enough: She wasn’t budging. Not to this member of the staff or any other. His only option was to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off—and that would never happen.

  “I am—”

  “Just about to lead the way, aren’t you.”

  “Ah… yes, mistress.”

  She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

  “May I take the—”

  “Lead? Yes, please. Thank you.”

  He was not holding the dress for her. Or cleaning it. Or hanging it up. Or redelivering it.

  This was between her and her daughter.

  With dejection worthy of a castaway, the servant spun about and started walking, taking her down the long corridor that was marked by beautiful marble statuary of males in various positions. Then it was through a pair of swinging doors at the end, to the left, and through another set of doors.

  At this point, everything changed. The runner on the hardwood flooring was no longer an Oriental, but a plain, well-vacuumed cream. There was
no art on these pristine creamy walls, and the windows were covered not with great swaths of color with fringe and tassels, but heavy bolts of cotton in the same pale color.

  They had entered the servant portion of the mansion.

  The juxtaposition had been the same at her father’s manse: One standard for the family. One standard for the staff.

  Or at least she had heard it was as such. She had never gone to the back side of the house when she had lived therein.

  “This should be”—the doggen opened a pair of doors—“everything you seek.”

  The room was the size of the suite she had had at her father’s estate, big and spacious. Except there were no windows. No grand bed with a matching set of handmade furniture. No needlepoint rugs in peaches and yellows and reds. No closets full of fashions from Paris or drawers of jewels or baskets of hair ribbons.

  This was where she belonged now. Especially as the doggen described the sundry white contraptions as washing machines and dryers, and then detailed the operation of the ironing boards and irons.

  Yes, the servants’ quarters rather than the guest accommodations were her home, and had been ever since she had… found herself in a different place.

  In fact, if she could convince someone, anyone, to let her have a room down in this part of the mansion, it would be preferable. Alas, however, as the mother of the mated shellan of one of the household’s prime fighters, she was accorded privilege that she did not deserve.

  The doggen began to open cupboards and closets, showing her all manner of equipment and concoctions that were described variously as steamers and stain removers and pressers.…

  After the tour was completed, she went over and rose up awkwardly on her good foot to link the top of the gown’s hanger upon a knob.

  “Are there any stains of which you are aware?” the doggen asked as she flounced out the skirting.

  No’One proceeded to go over every square inch of the full bottom, the bodice, the capped sleeves. “There is only this that I can see.” She bent down carefully so as not to put a lot of weight on her weak leg. “Here where the hem meets the floor.”

  The doggen did likewise and inspected the faint darkening on the fabric, his pale hands so sure, his frown one of concentration instead of confusion. “Yes, the manual dry cleaner, I think.”