by J. R. Ward
“I love you, grandpapa,” she said hoarsely.
“And I, you, my Nyx. You have made me so proud. Always.”
They stayed as they were, and she breathed deep, smelling the scent of fresh pine shavings and the perfume of the varnish and the smoke from the pipe. She didn’t want to cry, and she didn’t.
She was afraid once she opened the floodgates, there would be no stemming the course of the emotional release. And they had work to do.
Nyx was the one who stepped back, though she had waited her entire life for just this moment. In response, her grandfather nodded once, and she knew that he was going to put his emotions in the vault again and lock it all down tight. But she understood now why someone would do that. And just because you couldn’t see something did not mean it didn’t exist.
It was like the stars behind a cloud cover.
Like Jack beneath the earth.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Her grandfather nodded and motioned her toward a table in the far corner. The surface was covered by a coarse Army blanket, and what was beneath the heavy weight of that felt made things bumpy.
“I have what we need.” Drawing the blanket back, he revealed seven handguns, two rifles, a broadsword, five holsters of clips, and—
“Are those hand grenades?” Nyx asked as she breathed in and smelled gun oil.
“Pull the pin and you have fifteen seconds to throw and run.”
“Good.”
As he put down the gray cloth bundle that he’d kept under his arm, and began to gather weapons himself, she picked up a nine millimeter, checked that there were bullets in the clip and the safety was on, and tucked the gun into the back of her jeans.
“Here, put this on.” Her grandfather held forward an empty holster. “And pull out your shirt to hide it all.”
She did as he suggested while he cross-chested a setup that included two of the three projectiles, two of the handguns, and most of the ammunition.
“Are you leaving that sword?” she asked as she picked up one of the rifles.
Her grandfather stared at the weapon with a sad longing that was more properly reserved for leaving a cherished pet home alone for five weeks.
“Yes,” he said. “But I think the grenades are going to be fun.”
“Fun?” Nyx had to smile. “I thought you were a craftsman.”
“I am.” He picked up the cloth bundle again and put it back under his arm. “But I’ve been other things, too.”
“Mysterious.”
“We all have different sides to us.”
“So I’m learning.” She glanced around the workshop. “Are you worried this might be the last time you see this place?”
“It will be what it will be.” Her grandfather pulled a loose flannel work shirt on over his arsenal. “I learned long ago never to predict. All you can do is influence what you can and endure the rest.”
Nyx nodded. “Amen to that. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rhage reported in on time to the Audience House. Part of his prompt arrival for his shift guarding his King was his commitment to his job and to the pursuit of excellence in everything he did. There was also the unrelenting need to be there for his brothers, in whatever way they needed him.
“Good evening, Fritz,” he said as he came in through the kitchen.
The butler, dressed superbly in his black-and-white formal uniform, pivoted around from the counter by the oven—and in his hands was a sight to behold: A sterling silver tray the size of a car tire bearing an assortment of homemade Danish, fresh off the baking sheet, whisked with white icing stripes.
“Sire, your timing is perfect.” Fritz’s wrinkly face stretched into a wide smile, like theater drapes parting to reveal a movie screen. “I have just prepared these for the waiting room. But you must help yourself.”
Rhage clasped the front of his muscle shirt and wished he could bow without risking a fainting spell—on the butler’s part. Which would mean all those Danish would end up on the floor.
“This means so much, Fritz. Thank you.” He took the tray. “This is just the snack I was looking for.”
Fritz seemed momentarily nonplussed, but then he bent low at the waist. “Indeed, I am honored you would think so highly of my provisions. May I please get you a beverage? You will need to clear your palate.”
Taking a test bite of a cherry one, Rhage knew—not that he needed the confirmation—that Fritz was a gift from heaven, sent to reaffirm for hungry, set-upon mortals everywhere that goodness did indeed exist in the world.
“This is amazing,” he said as he chewed. “And I would love some orange juice.”
“A liter or gallon?”
“Just a liter would be fine.”
“Allow me to fresh squeeze it for you and I shall bring it into the Audience Room right away!”
Fritz seemed as excited at the prospect of halving and squeezing as you might expect somebody to jazz up over a trip to a resort. And Rhage was more than happy to be the recipient of some vitamin C benediction.
Except a quick review of the countertops revealed a copious lack of backup Danish.
“Worry not, sire.” The doggen indicated the oven. “There is another batch as yet baking. And the appointments for the evening have been set back a half an hour. So there is plenty of time to prepare more—and they will be warm for our citizens.”
“Well, if you look at it like that, I’m doing a public service.”
“You are always in service unto the race, sire.”
“And you are good for my ego and my expanding waistline.”
Basking in his good mood, Rhage would have whistled as he made his way to the front of the formal Federal, but that was an impossibility. Especially as he tried one of the lemon jobbies.
“Mmm.”
Strolling into the foyer, he nodded at the receptionist sitting at the desk in the waiting area. “How we doing tonight?”
The female smiled and sat back from her laptop. “Very well. And yourself?”
“Better now.” He lifted the tray. “These will cure a multitude of ills. Care for some?”
“No, thank you.”
“How about only one?”
“I’m good.” She smiled. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“Lemme know if you change your mind. I’m across the way.”
It was with the saunter of a male secure in the number of Danish available for his imminent consumption that Rhage entered the Audience Room—or, as the space had been known back when Darius had built the mansion, the dining room. No more eating in here, though.
Present company excluded, of course.
But yeah, nope, the long mahogany table had been moved out. The eight million carved chairs as well. Gone, too, were the sideboards and the candelabra. In place of all that? A pair of armchairs in front of the marble fireplace that was currently, because of the heat of summer, set with unlit birch logs. There was also a desk where Saxton, the King’s solicitor, sat when he was on duty, and some other chairs off to the side. The brocade drapes at the long windows were always pulled—nosy human neighbors being what they were, even in Richie Rich parts of town like this one—and the Persian carpet, which glowed like a jewel underfoot, was allowed to take center stage in a way that would never have happened if the room had been fully furnished and used for what it had been originally intended.
Rhage took a load off on one of the chairs that were against the far wall, so he could see through the open double doors. Then he settled his tray in his lap and picked up his second cherry Danish. He used only his right hand and only his forefinger and thumb.
White icing, you know, could get sticky—
“Is this a private moment or can I watch as long as I don’t record.”
Rhage smiled at Vishous as the brother walked in—and tried to make it look like he wasn’t curling himself protectively around his tray.
“Don’t worry,” V muttered as he lit up a hand-rolled. “I
’m not hungry.”
“I have literally never said that. In my life.”
“I live with you, remember. I know better than to try to take your Danish.”
Exhaling, V went over to where he kept his ashtray on the edge of the desk, a leather-clad hard-ass with a goatee, tattoos at his temple, and all the compassion of a sawed-off shotgun.
“I like my arms and legs right where they are, and I’m already down one testicle.”
“I would never,” Rhage muttered around a mouthful.
“You absolutely would. And speaking of ouchies, tall, dark, and cranky is on his way. Wrath should be here—”
A buzzing sound had V taking out his Samsung Galaxy. Putting his hand-rolled between his white teeth, he scrolled into something.
“They’re early.”
“Who is?”
“The special request.” V put his phone away. “You can stay here with your calories, if you want.”
“I hadn’t had a B plan, my guy.”
On that note, how was it possible he only had two left? At least he had the OJ to look forward to, Rhage thought as he heard V talk to someone out in the foyer—
Gunpowder. He was smelling gunpowder.
The tray went off to the side, and he stalked across that Persian carpet, taking out the forty he kept at the small of his back. He was halfway down the room when the butler came through the flap door in the rear with a carafe of OJ.
Rhage pinned the doggen with a hard stare and nodded sharply to the side.
Fritz immediately bowed and backed out. Then there was a click as the butler locked the entry into the kitchen.
Emerging into the foyer, Rhage looked through the waiting area’s archway and saw an older male in a red-and-black-checked flannel shirt that was way too heavy for late summer. V, who was standing next to the guy, didn’t seem worried at all, so Rhage retucked his weapon. But he remained on high alert as he entered.
Across the way, in front of the seating arrangement’s coffee table, a female wearing jeans and boots was lifting a loose, white, full-sleeved shirt—to reveal a whole lot of click, click, bang, bang. Yet she was disarming, her metal joining a whole host of other shootables. Clearly, the old guy had de-leaded himself first.
“Rhage,” V said, “come meet a friend of mine. This is Dredrich. He taught me how to sharpen knives.”
Rhage whistled under his breath as he held out his palm. “Wow. You’ve done all of us a favor.”
The old male had mostly white hair and a lot of wrinkles on his face, but his eyes were bright and clear.
“It is an honor.” Dredrich shook what was offered to him and then bowed low. “And Vishous, please forgive me for asking for special dispensation.”
V shrugged. “S’all good. Tell us, what do you need? And for fuck’s sake, you could have just called me privately. You didn’t need to go through official channels.”
“I did not want to be a burden.” The old male held out a bundle wrapped in gray. “Allow me first to return this to you.”
V accepted whatever it was, unwrapping things with quick, sure hands—one of which, as always, sported a lead-lined black leather glove.
“Well, well, well,” the brother said as he palmed up a black dagger. “I’ve been missing this.”
“You left it during our last lesson. You were called away. I kept thinking you’d come back for it so I kept it hidden and safe.”
V’s diamond eyes shifted from the black blade to the old male. Then the brother bowed. “You’re a male of worth, old friend.”
Meanwhile, Rhage double-checked, just because he was like that, that the female wasn’t getting any bright ideas about—
“Hey,” he said, “are those grenades?”
The older male nodded. “Yes, they are.”
Just as Rhage was going to ask where the hell the pair of civilians were going with an arsenal’s worth of firepower, the female turned around. As he looked at her to get a read on things, her face drained of all color.
“Hey, hey…” He lunged forward to catch her in case she fainted. “Let’s sit you down—”
With a shaking hand, she reached up and grabbed his shoulder.
“What?” he said. Then he noticed the healing scar at her hairline and a bruise on the side of her jaw. “Do you need a doctor?”
“I need your help.” Her voice was threaded with emotion. “Oh, God, we need your help. Your brother needs your help.”
* * *
It was the eyes. The incredible blue eyes, the aquamarine blue eyes that Nyx had never seen on any other people. But Jack. And Peter.
And now, this member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood.
“Please,” she said, aware that she was shaking. “We need your help.”
The warrior locked a gentle hold on her arm, like he expected her to pass out. “Can we get you some medical attention? You’ve clearly got some—”
Emotion vibrated up from the center of her chest, making her talk too fast. “Jack, you need to help Jack—”
“—bruising on your face, and this wound on—”
“—in the prison. Jack is—”
“Who is Jack?”
“The Jackal.” Even though she didn’t know the Brother, she could see recognition flare behind his eyes. “Yes, him. Your blooded brother.”
“I don’t have any blooded brothers.” The warrior shook his head slowly. “I’m really sorry, but you’ve got me confused with someone else.”
The other Brother, the one with the goatee and the tattoos by his temple, spoke up. “Okay, okay, let’s take this one drama bomb at a time. What prison are we talking about?”
Nyx looked over at the fighter. “The glymera’s. The one that is out west, close to where I live.”
“Say what?” The Brother stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray he’d brought in with him. “I thought that place had closed down years ago.”
“The hell it’s closed down.” Nyx stepped free of the blond Brother’s hold because she didn’t want him to think she was physically weak. Which she wasn’t. “I’ve been down in it for the last few days.”
The other Brother narrowed his cold, diamond eyes on her. “Why would you, as a free citizen, choose to go there?”
“To find my sister. I’ve been looking for her for fifty years.”
A black-gloved hand raised. “Hold up. Who did you go with?”
“I went alone. The entrances are all hidden. I found one behind an abandoned church. I thought my sister had been falsely—well, it doesn’t matter. She’s dead. She died there.”
“And how did you meet up with the Jackal?” the Brother with the brilliant blue eyes asked.
“He was down there. And he’s still down there—even though we believe they are trying to abandon the place. There are about a thousand prisoners as well as some kind of manufacturing thing. But I don’t know many details about that part of it.”
“How did you get out?” the goateed one asked.
“The Jackal…” Nyx cleared her throat and looked down at her boots, realizing for the first time that they had dried bloodstains on them. “He helped me. He got me into a hidden tunnel that he’d made himself. I followed it to the surface, and then my grandfather happened to come upon me.”
“Happened” didn’t really cover it. It turned out that her grandfather had spent the days fixing the Volvo and the nights scouring a fifty-mile radius on foot, on mountain bike, and finally in the station wagon, when it was operational. He had been determined to find her. Thank God.
“Why’s this Jackal still down there?” the goateed Brother demanded.
Nyx glanced at the warrior with the bright blue eyes. Even though he was staying quiet, he knew something. She could just sense it.
“He wouldn’t leave,” she said.
“It’s a prison. Not a lot of free choice when it comes to the exit.”
“He was special. I mean, he was a different case down there. There were extenuating circumstances.”
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“Why.” The goateed Brother was like a polygraph that lived and breathed, his attention fixated on her like he was reading every nuance of her facial expression as well as the pounding pulse in the jugular at the side of her neck. “And if he won’t leave of his free will, why do you think he needs rescuing. Because that’s what you’re here for, right? You want us to rescue him.”
“No,” she countered sharply. “I’m going to rescue him. We just thought the King might want to know that a thousand prisoners are on the move, and many of them are in custody under false pretenses—”
“You and your granddad are not going into that prison, abandoned or otherwise.”
Nyx lifted her chin at the goateed warrior. “You can’t stop me.”
“The fuck I can’t, female—”
“Here you go again, V,” someone interrupted, “making friends and influencing people. What are you putting your foot down about now? She buying an iPhone after she leaves here or some shit?”
Nyx glanced to the archway and did a double take. The vampire standing just inside the room was bigger than even the blond Brother who had Jack’s blue eyes. With long, waist-length black hair falling from a widow’s peak, and wraparound black sunglasses, he was obviously a killer. But the enormous black diamond on his middle finger meant he was…
“The King,” she whispered.
A black brow lifted up over the top of the wraparounds. “Last I checked, that’s right. And you are?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Well, that escalated quickly.
About thirty minutes later, as Rhage re-formed in the middle of a bowling-alley-flat scrub brush meadow, the Ron Burgundy meme was going through his head. Then again, hard to think what else applied considering he had been up to his elbows in Danish, and now he was here. Wherever the fuck “here” was.
Looking around the valley and at the highway that ribboned through the low area between two pipsqueak mountains, he had a gut twist going on—but the uneasiness was not connected in the slightest to this stretch of ground that made him think of an old guy’s tufted, balding head. It also wasn’t about the mission they were on.