The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  It turned out not to be as much a fight as a dodging contest, with V on the shoddy defensive and his opponent all showy aggression. Whilst the soldier displayed his proficiency with his weapon of note, V learned the predictability of the male’s actions as well as the hammer’s rhythm. Even as strong as the soldier was, he had to brace his feet square before the hammer’s head-sized spiked ball was sent forward. V waited for one of the pauses in action and then struck, flipping the broom around and jamming the handle directly into the bulbous soldier’s groin.

  The male roared, lost hold of the hammer, and clapped his knees together, cupping himself. V didn’t waste a moment. He lifted the broom over his shoulder and swung with his full reach, catching his opponent in the temple and knocking him senseless.

  The cheering dried up until all there was was the fire’s crackling chatter and the sound of V’s ragged breathing. He dropped the broom and stepped over his opponent, ready to get out.

  His father’s boots planted on the lip of the circle, blocking his way.

  The Bloodletter’s eyes were narrow as blades. “You haven’t finished.”

  “He shall not rise.”

  “Not the point.” The Bloodletter nodded to the soldier on the floor. “Finish him.”

  As his opponent moaned, Vishous assessed his father. If V said no, the game his father was playing would be fulfilled, the alienation the Bloodletter was after complete, though not in the way the male had probably expected: V would become a target for the simple staple that he would be perceived as weak for not punishing his opponent. If he finished, however, his position in the camp would be as stable as it could be—until the next test.

  Exhaustion overtook him. Would his life always be based on such a crude and unforgiving scale of balances?

  The Bloodletter smiled. “This bastard who calls himself my son has no spine, it appears. Perhaps the seed that his mother’s womb ate was of another?”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd, and someone yelled out, “No son of yours would hesitate at such an hour!”

  “And during a fight no true son of mine would be so cowardly as to attack a male’s vulnerable place as such.” The Bloodletter met the eyes of his soldiers. “The weak must be devious, as strength is not available to them.”

  The sensation of being strangled locked onto Vishous’s throat, sure as if his father’s hands were wrapped around his neck. As his breath quickened anew, anger swelled in his chest and his heart pounded. He looked down at the fat soldier who had beaten him…then thought of the books his father had made him burn…and the boy who had gone after him…and the thousands of cruel and graceless acts that had been done to him over the course of his life.

  V’s body quickened from the anger that burned in him, and before he knew what he was doing he was rolling the soldier over onto his fat belly.

  He took the male. In front of his father. In front of the camp.

  And he was brutal about it.

  When it was over, he disengaged and stumbled back. The soldier was covered with V’s blood and sweat and the remnants of his rage.

  With a scramble like a goat he got himself out of the ring, and though he knew not what time of day it was, he ran through the camp to the main way out of the cave. As he burst free, the cold night was just gaining its hold on the land, and the faint glow in the east burned his face.

  He bent over at the knees and threw up. Again and again.

  “So weak you are.” The Bloodletter’s voice was bored…but only on the surface. There was a depth of satisfaction in his words caused by a mission completed: Although Vishous had done what he had to the soldier, his retreat afterward had been precisely the kind of cowardice his father had sought.

  The Bloodletter’s eyes narrowed. “You shall never best me, boy. Just as you shall never be free of me. I shall rule your life—”

  On a surge of hatred, V sprang up from his crouch and attacked his father head-on, leading with his glowing hand. The Bloodletter went rigid as the electrical blast went through his massive body, and the two of them fell upon the ground, with Vishous on top. Going on instinct, V locked his bright white palm on his father’s thick throat and squeezed.

  As the Bloodletter’s face turned brilliant red, V’s eye stung briefly and a vision replaced what was before him.

  He saw the death of his father. As clearly as if it happened in front of him.

  Words left his mouth, though he was not conscious of speaking them: “You shall see your end in a wall of fire caused by a pain you know. You will burn until you are nothing but smoke, and be cast upon the wind.”

  His father’s expression turned to abject horror.

  V was peeled off by another soldier and held by the armpits, feet dangling above the snowy ground.

  The Bloodletter leaped up, his face ruddy, a line of sweat beading above his upper lip. He breathed like a horse ridden hard, clouds of white shooting out of his mouth and nostrils.

  V fully expected to be beaten to death.

  “Bring me my blade,” his father snarled.

  Vishous scrubbed his face. To avoid thinking about what happened next, he thought about how that first time with the soldier had never sat well with him. Three hundred years later it still felt like a violation of the other male, even though that had been the way of it at the camp.

  He looked at Jane curled up next to him and decided that, as far as he was concerned, tonight was when he’d finally lost his virginity. Though his body had done the act in many different ways to many different people, sex had always been about an exchange of power—power that flowed in his direction, power that he fed off of to reassure himself that no one was ever going to get him flat on his back and tied down and unable to fight while shit was done to him.

  Tonight had not fit his pattern. With Jane there had been an exchange: She had given something to him, and he had turned over a piece of himself in return.

  V frowned. A piece, but not everything.

  To do that they would need to go to his other place. And…shit, they would go there. Even though he got a case of the cold clammies just thinking about it, he vowed that before she left his life, he’d give her the one thing he had never let anyone have.

  And would never give to anyone else.

  He wanted to repay the trust she gave to him. She was so strong as a person, as a woman, and yet she put herself in his sexual care—even while knowing that he had hard-core Dom tendencies and she was no match for him physically.

  Her trust brought him to his knees. And he needed to return the faith before she left.

  Her eyes blinked open and met his, and they both spoke at the same time:

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When John woke up the following afternoon, he was afraid to move. Hell, he was afraid to open his eyes. What if it had been a dream? Bracing himself, he lifted his arm, cracked his lids, and…oh, yeah, there it was. Palm as big as his head. Arm longer than his thighbone had been before. Wrist thick as his calf once had been.

  He made it.

  He reached for his cell phone and sent texts to Qhuinn and Blay, who hit him back at a dead run. They were totally pumped for him, and he grinned a big fat-bastard smile…until he realized that he had to use the bathroom, and glanced at the open door. Looking through the jambs, he saw the shower.

  Oh, God. Had he really choked in there last night with Layla?

  He tossed the phone onto the comforter, even though the thing was beeping that there were texts waiting for him. Rubbing his strangely broad chest with his new Shaquille O’Neal hand, he felt like hell. He should apologize to Layla, but for what? Being a lame-ass who went soft? Yeah, that was a conversation he was dying to have, as she was no doubt totally unimpressed with him and his performance.

  Was it better to let it go? Probably. She was so beautiful and sensual and perfect in every way, there was no chance she’d ever think it was her
fault. All he’d do would be embarrass himself into an aneurysm as he wrote what he’d say if he’d had a voice box.

  He still felt like hell, though.

  His alarm clock went off, and it was just too fricking weird to reach over with this man arm and silence the thing. When he stood up it was even more freaky. His vantage point was totally different, and everything seemed smaller: the furniture, the doors, the room. Even the ceiling was shorter.

  Just how big was he?

  As he tried to take a few steps, he felt like one of those circus stilt-walkers: gangly, loose, in danger of falling. Yeah…a circus walker who had had a stroke, because the commands his brain gave weren’t received properly by his muscles and bones. On his way to the bathroom he lurched all over the place, hanging onto drapes, the molding around windows, a dresser, the doorjamb.

  For no particular reason he thought about crossing the river on his walks with Zsadist. As he went along now, the stationary objects he used as crutches were like the stones he jumped one to another to stay out of rushing water, little aids of big importance.

  The bathroom was pitch dark, as the shutters were still down for the day and he’d turned all the lights off after Layla left. With his hand on the switch he took a deep breath, then flipped on the recessed lights.

  He blinked hard, his eyes supersensitive and way more acute than they’d been before. After a moment, his reflection came into focus like an apparition, emerging from the glare, like a ghost of himself. He was…

  He didn’t want to know. Not yet.

  John shut the lights off and went to the shower. As he waited for the hot water to get running, he settled back against the cold marble, wrapping his arms around himself. He had this absurd need to be held at the moment, so it was a good thing he was alone. Although he’d hoped the change would make him stronger, it appeared to have nancied him out even more.

  He thought back to killing those lessers. Right after he’d stabbed them he’d gotten such clarity as to who he was and what kind of power he had. But that had all faded, so much so that he wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt that way.

  He pushed open the shower door and stepped inside.

  Christ, ow. The fine spray was like needles going into his skin, and when he tried to soap up his arm that French-milled stuff Fritz bought stung like battery acid. He had to force himself to wash his face, and though it was cool to have stubble on his jaw for the first time in recorded history, the idea of taking a razor to his puss was utterly repellent. Like drawing a cheese grater down his cheeks.

  He was washing his body off, being as gentle as he could, when he got to his privates. Without thinking much of it he did what he had done all of his life, a quick sweep under his sac then down himself—

  This time the effect was different. He got hard. His…cock got hard.

  God, that word seemed weird to use, but…well, that thing was definitely a cock now, something a man had, something a man used—

  The erection came to a halt. Just stopped swelling and lengthening. The curling ache in his lower belly went away, too.

  He rinsed the soap off himself, determined not to open the can of worms about him and sex. He had enough problems. His body was a remote-controlled car whose antenna was broken; he was going to class, where everyone was going to stare at him; and it dawned on him that Wrath must know about the gun he’d had on him downtown. After all, he’d been brought back here somehow, and Blay and Qhuinn would have had to explain what was doing with the scene. Knowing Blay, the guy would try to protect John about the nine and cop to its being his, but what if that got the guy kicked out of the program? No one was supposed to have weapons when they were out and about. No one.

  When John got out of the shower, toweling off wasn’t an option. Even though it was cold as hell he let himself air-dry as he brushed his teeth and clipped his nails. His eyes were superacute in the dark, so finding what he wanted in the drawers wasn’t a problem. Avoiding the mirror was, though, so he went into his bedroom.

  Opening up his closet, he took out a bag from Abercrombie & Fitch. Fritz had turned up at his door with the thing weeks ago, and when John had taken a gander at the clothes he’d figured the butler had lost his mind. Inside were a pair of brand-new distressed jeans, a fleece the size of a sleeping bag, an XXXL T-shirt, and a pair of size-fourteen Nike Air Shox in a shiny new box.

  Turned out Fritz, as usual, had been right. All of it fit. Even the boat-sized shoes.

  As John stared down at his feet, he thought, man, those Nikes needed to come with PFDs and a frickin’ anchor, they were so big.

  He left his room, his legs working in a gawky gait, his arms swinging loose, his balance off.

  As he got to the head of the grand staircase he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, with its depictions of great warriors.

  He prayed he would be one. But he just couldn’t see how in the hell he’d pull that off.

  Phury woke up to the sight of the female of his dreams. Or maybe he was dreaming?

  “Hi,” Bella said.

  He cleared his throat, and still his voice was reedy as he replied, “Are you really here?”

  “Yes.” She took his hand and sat on the edge of his bed. “Right here. How are you feeling?”

  Shit, he’d worried her, and that was not good for the young.

  With what little energy he had he did a fast mental mop-up, an OxiClean of his brain, sweeping out the dredges of the red smokes he’d fired up, as well as the lethargy of injury and sleep.

  “I’m fine,” he said, bringing his hand up so he could rub his good eye. Not a great idea. In his fist was his drawing of her, crumpled up like he’d been hugging it in his sleep. He shoved the piece of paper under the covers before she could ask what it was. “You should be in bed.”

  “I get to be up a little each day.”

  “Still, you should—”

  “When do the bandages come off?”

  “Ah, now, I suppose.”

  “Would you like me to help?”

  “No.” The last thing they needed was for her to find out he’d been blinded at the same moment he did. “But thank you.”

  “Can I bring you something to eat?”

  Kindness from her hit harder than a tire iron to the ribs. “Thank you, but I’ll call Fritz in a little bit. You should go back and lie down.”

  “I have forty-four minutes left.” She checked her watch. “Forty-three.”

  He pushed himself up on his arms, tugging the sheets higher so less of his chest showed. “How do you feel?”

  “Good. Scared but good—”

  The door swung open without a knock. As Zsadist walked in, his eyes locked on Bella as if he were trying to gauge her vital signs in her face.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, then on both sides of the neck over her veins.

  Phury looked away during the greeting—and realized that his hand had burrowed under the covers and found his drawing. He forced himself to let it go.

  Z’s whole attitude was much more relaxed. “So how are you, my brother?”

  “Good.” Although if he heard that question one more time from either of them, he was going to pull a Scanners, because his head would explode. “Good enough to come out tonight.”

  His twin frowned. “You get cleared by V’s doc?”

  “Not up to anyone but me.”

  “Wrath might have a different opinion.”

  “Fine, but if he disagrees, he’s going to have to chain me down to keep me here.” Phury throttled back, not wanting to get tense with Bella around. “You teaching the first half of tonight?”

  “Yeah, figured I’d make some more progress on firearms.” Z ran his hand down Bella’s mahogany hair, stroking it and her back at the same time. He did this without seeming to notice, and she accepted the touch with the same loving disregard.

  Phury’s chest ached until he had to open his mouth to breathe. “Why don’t I meet you guys down at Firs
t Meal, okay? I’m going to shower, get the bandages off, dress.”

  Bella stood up and Z’s hand moved to her waist and tucked her into him.

  God, they were a family, weren’t they? The two of them together with their young in her belly. And in just over a year, if the Scribe Virgin saw fit, they would stand like this with their infant in their arms. Later, years later, their child would be by their side. And then their son or daughter would be mated, and another generation of their blood would carry the race forward: a family, not a fantasy.

  To hurry them along, Phury shifted around like he was about to get up.

  “I’ll see you down in the dining room,” Z said, his palm sliding around to his shellan’s lower belly. “Bella’s going back to bed, aren’t you, nalla?”

  She checked her watch. “Twenty-two minutes. I’d better get my bath in.”

  Various good-bye-like words were exchanged, but Phury didn’t pay much attention because he was dying for them to leave. When the door finally shut, he reached for his cane, got out of his bed, and went straight to the mirror over his dresser. He eased off the bandage’s tape, then peeled free the layers of gauze. Underneath his lashes were so tangled and matted that he went into the bathroom, ran some water, and rinsed his face a number of times before he could get them apart.

  He opened his eye.

  And saw perfectly.

  His total lack of relief at his fine and dandy sight was eerie. He should have cared. He needed to care. About both his body and himself. He just didn’t.

  Disturbed, he took a shower and shaved, then put his prosthesis on and dressed in his leathers. He was on his way out with his blade and gun holsters in his hand when he paused by the bed. That drawing he’d done was still wadded up in his sheets; he could see the white, crinkled edges in the folds of blue satin.

  He pictured his twin’s hand on Bella’s hair. Then on her lower belly.

  Phury went over, picked up the drawing, and flattened it out on the bedside table. He took one last look at it, then ripped it into small pieces, put the pile in an ashtray, and struck a match head with his thumb. With the flame flaring, he leaned into the paper.