Blood Truth

by J. R. Ward

  Something that was undeniable. Urgent. Terrifying.

  Pulling open the heavy metal panel, she winced as the rusty hinges whined in protest. The stairwell to the lower level was badly lit, its air cold and damp, tinged with mold. She ignored all that. The coppery bloom of blood, as it rode a nasty updraft from the lower level, was all that mattered.

  Slipping through the doorway, she whispered down the filthy concrete stairs. The temperature dropped perceptibly as she descended, and there was a second door at the bottom. This steel panel had had a far harder life than the upper one, its rectangular body kicked in such that it hung cockeyed from its hinges and did not sit properly in its jambs.

  She opened the battered weight slowly, her hot hand on the cold lever, creating a shock that went through her nervous system like a chemical fire.

  Peering around, her heart skipped a beat. The corridor beyond was broad as a street, arched at the low ceiling, stained like the inside of an old sewer pipe. Sixties-era fluorescent lights flickered from fixtures set overhead, their spastic illumination animating the series of doorways that extended into what felt like perpetuity.

  The blood scent was obvious now.

  Under her cape, under her hood, Helania shook so badly her teeth chattered, and even as her breath came out in puffs of white, she didn’t feel the cold.

  Within the folds that covered her, she felt for the gun she had holstered at her waist. She had learned to shoot it about eight months ago, and she couldn’t say she was at ease with having the weapon on her. She wasn’t even sure she had the guts to use it, but she was trying not to be foolish. Unprotected. A victim.

  Like her sister had been.

  Stepping out into the corridor, she stuck to one side without brushing against the paint-flaked, mold-smudged walls. As quiet as she tried to be, her soft footfalls seemed to echo like thunder, and the fear pounding through her veins on hooves of steel was something she wondered if the others upstairs could hear over the music.

  Helania’s body stopped before her brain gave the command.

  The doorway was just like the others, made of wood panels nailed close together on horizontal supports, the arched top echoing that of the barreled ceiling like a stab at being stylish.

  She looked around. She was alone, but there was no way of knowing how long that would last. Or whether it was even true, given the number of closed doors.

  Reaching forward, her hand curled around the icy latch. She expected a lock to be engaged. When things gave way under easy pressure, her breath caught. Pushing with her shoulder, she met resistance and put more strength into it, something on the floor getting moved out of the way. But then she had to stop. Through the dense darkness that was revealed, fresh blood hit her nose like a heavy curtain, brushing into her face.

  All at once, she was sucked back to eight months ago, a female she didn’t know at her apartment door in tears, the four words the stranger spoke to her not registering.

  Your sister is dead.

  Helania pushed harder. The interior of the storage area was pitch black, and the strobing light from the corridor behind didn’t penetrate far.

  She got out her phone. Her hand trembled so badly that triggering the flashlight took a couple of tries—

  The moan that came out of her mouth was that of an animal, the horror before her too great for her mind to comprehend, her senses overrun such that her vision went checkerboard and the world spun around her, out of control.

  • • •

  The Black Dagger Brotherhood had resources that put even Boone’s aristocratic background in the shade. Everything those warriors did and all that they had, from their facilities to their weapons, their toys to their serious gear, was top rate and state-of-the-art.

  Take this mobile surgical unit, for instance. It was very impressive how the RV had been retrofitted with an OR and kitted out with all kinds of diagnostic equipment, including a portable X-ray and an ultrasound machine.

  Too bad its considerable capabilities, as well as the time and talents of its master, were going to be wasted on him.

  As Boone pulled his heavy body into the back treatment bay, he shook his head. “Dr. Manello, this is not necessary.”

  The man in the scrubs and the white coat smiled, revealing pearly whites that had the telltale short canines of a human. He was a handsome guy, his dark hair and mahogany-brown eyes the kind of thing you’d see on an eighties medical drama. Mated to Payne, the surgeon was highly respected, and not just because he was capable of stitching up all manner of rips and tears, inside and out: In addition to all those technical skills, you had to be impressed by anything of masculine derivation who could be that close to Vishous’s sister and still retain the structural integrity of his hey-nanny-nannies.

  The human closed the rear door and crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you let me decide what’s going on with that wound?”

  “I’m just saying that I feel fine and—”

  “Hey, can I show you something?” Dr. Manello leaned forward and tapped his white coat by the lapel. “What’s this?”

  Boone focused on the cursive letters that were done in black. “Your name.”

  “No, this part.”

  “ ‘M.D.’ ”

  “Do you have any letters with periods after your name like that? No? Well, then let’s allow the Medical Doctor to make this call. If you’re as a-okay as you say you are, you’ll be out of here in a New York minute.”

  Dr. Manello’s wide smile was as open and nonjudgmental as ever. Then again, you had to imagine he’d heard it all because he didn’t just treat the trainees. He was part of the Brotherhood’s private medical team, so he had to face off at the likes of a leaking or broken Zsadist, for godsakes.

  And wasn’t that enough to make your blood run cold even in theory.

  “It’s only a puncture wound,” Boone groused as he stepped over to the exam table.

  Hopping up, he was surprised to find that his shoulder started talking to him as he tried to get his jacket off. Pain, a well-known houseguest, had him wincing. Which sucked on a lot of levels.

  “Let me help you.”

  Dr. Manello was gentle and took his time with the leather-outerwear-ectomy, but Boone would rather have had the man rip the jacket off. Left without something to command his attention in a particular direction . . . the things he had sought to avoid all night came rushing into his mind, a crowd bursting through the barrier they had been up against, chaos spinning up within the confines of his skull.

  “That hurt?”

  Boone glanced at the doctor. “What?”

  “Your breath just got tight.”

  Not because of the wound. “I’m okay.”

  With the jacket off, Boone looked down at himself. Blood had seeped into the thin weave of his black Under Armour shirt, the ruddy brown stain located at the hollow of his shoulder.

  Moisture wicking, indeed.

  Boone removed his chest holster of daggers with the doctor’s help, and then the nylon shirt was cut off. Okay . . . see? Not so bad. Just a little hole, the penetration about an inch and a half in length and thin as a pencil line. And due to him being properly fed, his body was already healing, the skin closing itself, reknitting, sealing the wound up.

  “I told you,” Boone said.

  When Dr. Manello didn’t reply, he looked at the human. The man was leaning back against the supply shelves and staring at Boone’s naked torso.

  “What?” Boone asked. “It’s fine.”

  “I agree, the wound isn’t that bad.”

  “So with all due respect, what’s the problem?”

  “Where’s your bulletproof vest, son?”

  Boone’s mouth opened to answer that one—but he stopped the words before they came out. What he had been about to say was that his vest, the Kevlar one that, as a trainee, he was required to wear out in the field, was right over there with his leather jacket. His arm, on the side of him that wasn’t injured, was even raising
so he could point, in a helpful way, over to where both it and that jacket of his were lying next to the small sink.

  Except there was nothing over there that would stop a bullet.

  In fact, he had forgotten part of his gear when he had gotten dressed at his house. And when he had attended roster call at the checkpoint, he’d had his jacket on, so neither he nor anyone else caught his mistake.

  From out of nowhere, he heard the Brother Phury’s voice: Distraction during preparation is deadly.

  “Listen,” Dr. Manello said, “I don’t want to be a buzzkill, or a snitch. But I can’t not report this.”

  Boone was tempted to try and argue that it was “only once” and he would “never make this mistake again.” But giving airtime to that defensive edge he was suddenly sporting was just going to make him look like an unprofessional jackass.

  Which, considering he’d forgotten a critical safety requirement? Well, he’d already captured the incompetent flag tonight, hadn’t he—thanks to wondering what the hell his father was up to at that party.

  “We’ve got company, hold on.” Dr. Manello went to the rear door and waited. When a pound on the panels sounded out, he unlatched things and opened up. “Hello, boys. Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Tilting forward, Boone looked out of the bay. Standing in the red glow of the RV’s rear lights, with hot exhaust billowing around them like fog on a Steven Seagal movie set, Tohrment, son of Hharm, and Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, were everything Boone wanted to be: Experts in fighting and straight-up killers when they had to be. The pair were also stand-up males who were loyal to their own and willing to sacrifice themselves for any who fought beside them.

  Whether it was another Brother. Or a soldier. Or some idiot trainee who had made a mistake that could have cost him his life.

  For a split second, Boone thought maybe they had been injured out in the field, too. But as they stared at him and him alone . . . he knew why they were here.

  “Is he dead?” Boone heard himself say. “Is my father . . . dead.”

  Tohrment stepped up into the mobile surgical unit, the vehicle’s suspension tilting to accommodate his formidable weight. That the Brother Vishous came inside with him made Boone want to throw up. Even the diamond-eyed warrior, best known for his ability to flay flesh from people using only words, was looking subdued.

  The closing of that back panel was loud as a slam—or seemed that way. Boone was aware of his hearing sharpening to a painful degree, the rustling of sterile packages as the doctor got supplies out to clean the stab wound like gunshots in a canyon.

  Tohr’s hand landed on Boone’s shoulder, heavy as an anvil. “I’m really sorry, son. Your father . . .”

  Boone closed his eyes. He knew the Brother continued talking, but he couldn’t track the words.

  “So I was right, wasn’t I?” he interrupted. When no one replied, he popped his lids and focused on Tohrment. “I was right, they were plotting against Wrath.”

  The Brother applied a little pressure to his hold. “Why don’t you sit down here.”

  “I thought I was?” Boone glanced at the floor and was surprised to find he was on his feet. “I guess not.”

  Without warning, the world went on a twirl with him in the center—or maybe he was winging around the outside of the galaxy and looking in—and then everything went black and silent . . .

  Things didn’t stay that way, however. The next he knew, he was lying on the exam table, with the other males standing around him and talking over his body.

  Huh. So now he knew what a corpse felt like.

  Staring up at them as they conversed among themselves, he noted the way their mouths moved and watched as their eyes shifted positions as the conversation ebbed and flowed. There was a nod or two. A shake of a head. Meanwhile, Boone was back to hearing nothing. Then again, when you found out you’d had your father killed? Even if it was indirectly? Well, you were allowed to retreat into your head.

  Especially if, from time to time, and for good reason, you had prayed for this very moment right here.

  Mission accomplished, he thought sadly.

  But what else could he have done? He had told his father not to go to that gathering at that aristocrat’s house. And when his sire had refused to listen to reason—not that the male had ever much cared about Boone’s opinion of so much as a dessert course, much less matters political—he’d known he had to follow through on doing the right thing. He’d had to go to the Brotherhood: As a civilian, aristocratic or not, he had a duty to report treasonous behavior to the King. Still, it had taken him three sleepless days to make the appointment because he’d had to be sure that he was doing it for the right reason, not as some retaliation against Altamere—

  “How did it happen?” he blurted.

  All of the males looked down at him. Then Dr. Manello and Vishous looked at Tohr, passing the buck.

  So it was bad, wasn’t it.

  “He was attacked by a shadow.” As Boone sat up, the Brother put his hand on Boone’s shoulder again. “Nope, stay down, son. You’re still the color of flour—”

  “What happened?”

  The story had to be repeated twice—and then a third time—before he came to understand that not only was his father gone, but his stepmahmen, too.

  The latter was apparently also a surprise to Dr. Manello. Not that his patient had died in surgery from a blood clot—of course, he remembered that—but that the female in question had been related by mating to Boone.

  “I am so sorry, son,” the good doctor said. “Please know I did everything I could to save her.”

  Boone shook his head. “I’m sure you did. And we had no relationship to speak of, really. I didn’t wish her ill, but . . . wait, tell me about my sire again?”

  This time, the story’s totality finally sank in: His father had been standing among the other aristocrats at the gathering when shadow entities had come in and ambushed the crowd. The Brothers had counterattacked, but not before Altamere had sustained mortal injuries.

  Boone rubbed his face. There was a question he needed to ask, except the syllables refused to come out. All he could do was stare helplessly into Tohr’s navy blue eyes.

  It was a long moment before the Brother answered. “We made sure that before there was any reanimation that your father’s body was properly contained.”

  “Thank God,” Boone breathed.

  When it came to his father, “close” had been a measure of physical proximity between them rather than emotional connection. “Close” was a function of the pair of them sharing a house, passing each other in the luxurious halls, occasionally sitting in the same gracious room at a meal. And yet no matter how estranged you were from your parent . . . when it came to their death, it shook the ground under your feet—even if you were lying down.

  “We’re going to take you back home,” Tohr said. “After Manny’s finished here and you feed.”

  Boone glanced at his shoulder and was surprised to find that the stab wound was half stitched up.

  “I don’t need a vein,” he muttered. “I just took one last week.”

  “Not an option,” Manny said. “And the Chosen is on her way.”

  As something started to ring, Vishous frowned and took out his phone to answer a call. “Yeah.” The Brother frowned, the tattoos at his temple distorting. “Where?”

  Vishous turned away and lowered his voice, his words coming out so softly, Boone couldn’t track them.

  Tohr spoke up. “Listen, son, with all this stress, and that injury, you do need to feed. And as soon as it’s done, I’ll take you home.”

  Boone stared at the Brother’s somber face. “You’ve done this a lot, haven’t you.”

  “Done what?”

  “Broken bad news to people.”

  “Yeah, son, I have.” The Brother exhaled long and slow. “And I’ve been on the receiving end of it, too.”

  FOUR

  All things considered, getting summoned away
was probably for the best.

  As V resumed his form a good ten blocks from where Boone was getting treated, he took a minute to catch his breath in the cold. Granted, he wasn’t breathing hard at all. And he needed to hustle to his destination. But . . . shit. Seeing that kid find out the why and how of his father and stepmahmen being dead? After he’d been the one who turned the gathering into the Brotherhood?

  The kid felt responsible. You could see it in his face.

  It was heartbreaking. Even for someone like V who prided himself on having a meat locker for a pericardium.

  Taking out a hand-rolled, he lit up and strode down the snow-packed sidewalk. On the exhale, smoke wafted forward on the wind that was hitting his back, a bright white cloud in the cold. After another two draws, he was better calibrated. Good timing, too. The place he was looking for was only three hundred yards away. And given the number of humans in that wait line? Getting himself properly nicotine’d was a goddamn public service.

  Still, being sent on this “errand” was so much better than taking Boone back to the kid’s house. V sucked at sympathy. What was that saying? It was just a word between “shit” and “syphilis” in the dictionary.

  Okay, fine, he wasn’t that bad.

  But yeah, that young male? V totally felt for him. Plus, come on, demonstration of that trainee’s loyalty to Wrath aside, V knew from crap fathers. The Bloodletter, hello.

  Whatever, time to truck with the humans, V thought as he licked the lit end of the hand-rolled and put the stump into the ass pocket of his leathers.

  As he approached the line of shivering, stamping, huffing humans, the men and women milled in their places, their eyes latching on to him through their masks, the women’s bodies warming with arousal, the men’s retracting like they didn’t want his attention. Underneath all those coats and jackets, he could see enough of their costumes. Neo-Victorian. Black, like they were allergic to color. Lots of high heels, even on the dudes.

  The bouncer at the door puffed up his sizable chest like he was looking forward to telling Vishous that he wasn’t allowed in the place. That he had to wait like everyone else. That he wasn’t nothing special—