The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  He looked like a king in repose.

  When the mental illness had really grabbed hold of him, his hair and beard had gone white, causing Ehlena to worry that the end-of-life changes were going to start in on him. But after fifty years, he still looked the same, his face unwrinkled, his hands strong and steady.

  It was so hard. She couldn’t imagine life without him. And she couldn’t imagine having a life with him.

  Ehlena closed his door partway and went into her own room, where she showered and changed and stretched out on her bed. All she had was a twin with no headboard, one pillow, and cotton sheets, but she didn’t care about the luxury stuff. She needed a place to lay her tired bones each day and that was it.

  Usually she read a little before falling asleep, but not today. She just didn’t have the energy. Reaching to the side, she turned off the lamp, crossed her feet at the ankles, and laid her arms out straight.

  With a smile, she realized she and her father slept in exactly the same position, didn’t they.

  In the dark, she thought about Lusie and the way she followed through about her father’s cut. Good nursing was about being concerned for the welfare of patients, even after they left. It was about coaching family members as to what follow-up care was needed, and being a resource.

  It wasn’t the kind of job you just dumped because your shift was over.

  She turned the lamp back on with a click.

  Getting up, she went over to the desktop she’d gotten for free from the clinic when the IT systems had been upgraded. The Internet was slow to connect, as always, but eventually she was able to access the clinic’s medical files database.

  She signed in with her password, performed one search…then another. The first was a compulsion, the second a curiosity.

  Saving them both, she shut down the laptop and picked up her phone.

  ELEVEN

  At the razor’s edge of dawn, just before the light began to gather in the eastern sky, Wrath took form in the dense woods at the northern side of the Brotherhood’s mountain. No one had showed back at Hunter-bred, and the day’s imminent rays had forced him to leave.

  Small sticks cracked loudly under his shitkickers, the thin pine fingers brittle in the cold. There was not yet snow to muffle the sounds, but he could smell it in the air, feel that frosty bite deep in his sinuses.

  The hidden entrance to the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s sanctum sanctorum was at the ass end of a cave, far in the back. His hands located the trigger on the stone door by feel, and the heavy portal slid behind the rock wall. Stepping onto smooth black marble pavers, he followed them forward as the door closed behind him.

  At his will, torches flamed up on either side of him, extending far, far, far into the distance and illuminating the massive iron gates that had been installed in the late eighteenth century, when the Brotherhood had turned this cave into the Tomb.

  As he got closer, the gate’s thick slats seemed to his blurry vision to be a lineup of armed sentries, the flickering flames animating what did not in fact move. With his mind, he parted the two halves and continued on, down a long hall fitted from floor to forty-foot ceiling with shelving.

  Lesser jars of all types and kinds were stacked side by side, a display that marked generations of kills made by the Brotherhood. The oldest jars were nothing but crude, hand-thrown vases that had been brought over from the Old Country. With each yard farther, the vessels grew more modern, until you got to the next set of gates and found mass-produced shit made in China and sold at Target.

  There wasn’t a lot of space left on the shelves and he was depressed by that. He had helped build with his own hands this repository of the enemy’s dead, along with Darius and Tohrment and Vishous, the bunch of them laboring for a month straight, working during the day, sleeping on the marble pavers. He had been the one to decide how far down into the earth to go, and he had extended the shelving corridor yards and yards past what he had thought was needed. When he and his brothers had finished erecting everything, and had stacked the older jars, he’d been convinced that they wouldn’t need so much storage space. Surely by the time they had filled even three-quarters of this, the war would be over.

  And here he was, centuries later, trying to find enough room.

  With a dreaded sense of portent, Wrath measured with his bad eyes the last remaining spaces on the original set of shelving. It was hard not to take it as evidence that the war was coming to an end, that the vampire equivalent of the finite Mayan calendar was on these rough-hewn stone walls.

  It was not with victory’s glow of success that he envisioned the final jar being set up next to the others.

  They were either going to run out of race to protect or run out of Brothers to do the protecting.

  Wrath took the three jars out of his jacket and placed them together in a little group; then he stepped back.

  He had been responsible for a lot of these jars. Before he’d become king.

  “I already knew that you have been out fighting.”

  Wrath’s head shot around at the sound of the Scribe Virgin’s commanding voice. Her Holiness was hovering just inside the iron gates, her black robes about a foot off the stone floor, her light shining out from beneath the hems.

  It had once been blindingly bright, that glow of hers. Now it barely cast shadows.

  Wrath turned back to the jars. “So that’s what V meant. About pulling the trigger on me.”

  “My son came to me, yes.”

  “But you already knew. And that’s not a question, by the way.”

  “Yeah, she hates those.”

  Wrath looked over and watched V step through the gates.

  “Well, check this shit out,” Wrath uttered. “The mother and son reunion…is only a moment away.” He let the paraphrased lyric drift. “Not.”

  The Scribe Virgin came forward, moving slowly past the jars. Back in the old days—or, hell, as recently as the year before—she would have assumed control of the conversation. Now she just floated along.

  V made a disgusted noise, like he’d waited long enough for his Mommie Dearest to no-more-wire-hanger his king, and wasn’t impressed that she hadn’t manned up. “Wrath, you didn’t let me finish.”

  “And you think I will now?” He reached up and fingered the lip of one of the three jars he’d added to the collection.

  “You will let him finish,” the Scribe Virgin said, her tone disinterested.

  Vishous strode forward, his shitkickers solid against the floor he himself had helped lay. “My point was, if you’re going to go out, do it with backup. And tell Beth. Otherwise you’re a liar…and you have a better chance of leaving her a widow. Damn it to hell, ignore my vision, fine. But at least be practical.”

  Wrath paced up and back, thinking that the setting for this convo was too fucking perfect: He was surrounded by evidence of the war.

  Eventually, he stopped in front of the three jars he’d gotten tonight. “Beth thinks that I’m going upstate to meet with Phury. You know, to work with the Chosen. The lying sucks. But the idea we only have four Brothers in the field? Worse.”

  There was a long silence, during which the chattering flicker of the torch flames was the only sound.

  V broke the quiet. “I think you need to have a meeting with the Brother hood, and come clean with Beth. Like I said, if you’re going to fight, fight. But do it with full disclosure, true? That way you’re not out alone. And neither are any of us. Right now when rotation hits, someone ends up fighting without a partner. Your coming in legit would solve that.”

  Wrath had to smile. “Christ, if I’d thought you would agree with me, I might have said something sooner.” He looked over at the Scribe Virgin. “But what about the laws. Tradition.”

  The mother of the race turned to face him and in a distant voice said, “So much has changed. What is one more. Be well, Wrath, son of Wrath, and Vishous of mine womb.”

  The Scribe Virgin disappeared like breath in the cold night, dissipating
into the ether as if she’d never been.

  Wrath leaned back against the shelving, and as his head started to pound, he popped up his sunglasses and rubbed his useless eyes. When he stopped, he shut his lids and grew as still as the stone that surrounded him.

  “You look beat,” V murmured.

  Yes, he was, wasn’t he. And how sad was that.

  Drug dealing was a very lucrative business.

  In his private office at ZeroSum, Rehvenge went over the night’s receipts at his desk, meticulously checking off the amounts to the penny. iAm was doing the same over at Sal’s Restaurant, and the first order of business at each nightfall was to meet here and compare results.

  Most of the time they came up with the same total. When they didn’t, he defered to iAm.

  Between the alcohol, drugs, and sex, gross receipts were over two hundred and ninety thousand for ZeroSum alone. Twenty-two people worked at the club on salary, including ten bouncers, three bartenders, six prostitutes, Trez, iAm, and Xhex; costs for them all ran about seventy-five grand a night. Bookies and authorized floor dealers, meaning those drug pushers he allowed to sell on his premises, were on commission, and whatever was left after they’d taken their cut was his. Also, every week or so, he or Xhex and the Moors executed major product deals with a select number of distributors who had their own drug networks either in Caldwell or in Manhattan.

  All told, and after personnel costs, he had roughly two hundred thousand a night to pay the cost of the drugs and alcohol that he sold, cover heat and electricity and capital improvements, and take care of the cleaning crew of seven that came in at five a.m.

  Every year he cleared about fifty million from his businesses—which sounded obscene, and it was, especially considering he paid taxes on only a fraction of it. The thing was, drugs and sex were risky businesses, but the profit potential was enormous. And he needed money. Badly. Keeping his mother in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed and well deserving of was a multimillion-dollar proposition. Then he had his own homes, and every year he traded his Bentley in as soon as the new models were available.

  By far, however, the single highest personal expense he had came in small black velvet bags.

  Rehv reached out over his spreadsheets and picked up the one that had been couriered up from the Big Apple’s diamond district. The deliveries arrived on Mondays now—used to be the last Friday of the month, but with the Iron Mask opening up, ZeroSum’s closed day had switched to Sundays.

  He pulled the satin cord loose and opened the bag’s throat, dumping out a glittering palmful of rubies. Quarter of a million dollars in blood stones. He poured them back into the pouch, tied the cording in a tight knot, and looked at his watch. About sixteen hours before he had to go up north.

  First Tuesday of the month was ransom time, and he paid the princess off in two ways. One was gemstones. The other was his body.

  He made it cost her, though.

  The thought of where he was going and what he was going to have to do made the back of his neck tingle, and he wasn’t surprised when his vision began to change, dark pinks and bloodreds replacing the blacks and whites of his office, his visual field bulldozing out into a flat plane.

  Popping open a drawer, he took out one of his lovely new boxes of dopamine and grabbed the syringe he’d used the last couple of times he’d shot up in the office. Rolling up the sleeve of his left arm, he tourniqueted the middle of his biceps out of habit, not necessity. His veins were so swollen it was as if moles had burrowed under his skin, and he felt a stab of satisfaction at the mess they were in.

  There was no cap on the needle’s head to take off, and he filled the syringe’s belly with the practice of a habitual user. It took him a while to find a vein that was viable, pushing the tiny steel shaft into himself again and again without feeling a thing. He knew he finally hit the right spot when he drew back on the plunger and saw blood mix with the clear solution of the drug.

  As he freed the tourni and started to push his thumb home, he stared at the rot in his arm and thought of Ehlena. Even though she didn’t trust him and didn’t want to be attracted to him and would clearly move heaven and earth not to go out with him, she still wanted to be a savior. She still wanted what was best for him and his health.

  That was what you called a female of worth.

  He was halfway through the injection when his cell phone went off. A quick glance at the screen showed that the number wasn’t one he recognized, so he let the call go. The only people who had his digits were ones he wanted to talk with, and that was a damn short list: his sister, his mother, Xhex, Trez, and iAm. And the Brother Zsadist, his sister’s hellren.

  That was it.

  As he pulled the needle out of his vascular cesspool, he cursed as a beep indicated that voice mail had been left. He got those every once in a while, people leaving bits and pieces of their lives in his little corner of technospace, thinking it was someone else’s. He never called them back, never texted them with a, This is not who you think it is. They’d figure it out when whoever they thought they were calling didn’t return the favor.

  Closing his eyes and easing back in his chair, he tossed the syringe onto the spreadsheets and couldn’t care less if the drug worked.

  Sitting alone in his den of iniquity, in the quiet hour after everyone had left and before the cleaning staff came in, he just didn’t give a shit whether the flat plane of his vision returned to three dimensions. Didn’t care if the full-color spectrum reappeared. Didn’t wonder with each passing second whether or not he was going to get back to “normal.”

  This was a change, he realized. Up until now he’d always been desperate for the drug to work.

  What had turned the tide?

  He let the question hang as he picked up his cell phone and palmed his cane. With a groan, he stood up carefully and walked into his private bedroom. The numbness was coming back fast in his feet and legs, quicker than during the ride in from Connecticut, but then, that was par for the course. The less his symphath urges were triggered, the better the drug worked. And gee, funny, getting tapped to cap the king had riled him up.

  Whereas sitting by himself in a home, of sorts, didn’t.

  The security system was already on in the office, and he triggered a second one for his private quarters, then shut himself in the windowless bedroom he crashed in from time to time. The bathroom was across the way and he dumped his sable duster on the bed before going in and turning the shower on. As he moved around, bone-deep cold settled into his body, emanating from the inside out, as if he’d injected himself with Freon.

  This he did dread. He hated always being cold. Shit, maybe he should have just let himself go. It wasn’t like he was going to be interacting with anyone.

  Yeah, but if he got too far behind in his doses, the catch-up was a bitch.

  Steam billowed free from behind the glass shower door, and he stripped naked, leaving his suit and tie and shirt on the marble counter between the two sinks. Stepping under the spray, he shivered hard, his teeth rattling.

  For a moment, he collapsed back against the smooth marble walls, keeping himself in the center of the four showerheads. As hot water he couldn’t feel cascaded down his chest and abs, he tried not to think about what the following night was bringing and failed.

  Oh, God…did he have it in him to do it again? Go up there and whore himself out to that bitch?

  Yeah, and the alternative was…her reporting him as a symphath to the council and getting his ass deported up to that colony.

  The choice was clear.

  Fuck that; there was no choice. Bella didn’t know what he was, and it would kill her to find out the family lie. And she wouldn’t be the only casualty. His mother would fall apart. Xhex would be livid and get herself murdered trying to save him. Trez and iAm would do the same.

  The whole house of cards would fall.

  Compulsively, he grabbed a bright gold bar of soap from the ceramic holder mounted on the wall and worke
d a froth up between his palms. The shit he used on himself wasn’t some kind of fancy milled stuff. It was rotgut Dial, a disinfectant that was like a pavement grader over the skin.

  His whores used the same. It was what he stocked in their shower rooms, at their request.

  His rule was three times. Three times he went up and down his arms and his legs, his pecs and his abs, his neck and his shoulders. Three times he dipped between his thighs, soaping up his cock and sac. The ritual was stupid, but such were compulsions. He could have used up three dozen Dial bars and still felt vile.

  Funny, his whores were always surprised at the way they got treated. Each time a new one came on, they expected to have to sex him up as part of their employment, and they were always prepared to be beaten. Instead, they got their own private dressing room with a shower, reliable hours, security that never, ever touched them, and this thing called respect—which meant they chose their johns, and if the fuckers who paid for the privilege of being with them messed up even a hair of theirs, all they had to do was say the word and a mountain of shit fell on the offender.

  More than once, he’d had one of the women show up at his office door and ask to speak with him privately. It usually happened about a month into her tenure, and what she said was always the same and always spoken with a kind of confusion that, had he been a normal, would have broken his heart:

  Thank you.

  He wasn’t big on hugging, but he’d been known to pull them into his arms and hold on to them for a short breath. None of them knew that it wasn’t because he was a nice guy; it was because he was one of them. The hard reality was that life had put them all where they didn’t want to be, namely on their backs for people they didn’t want to be fucking. Yes, there were some who didn’t mind the job, but like everyone, they didn’t always want to be working. And God knew the johns always showed up.

  Just like his blackmailer.

  Getting out of the shower was pure, undiluted hell, and he put off the deep freeze as long as he could, huddling under the spray while he argued with himself over the evac. As the debate continued, he heard the water tinkling against the marble and chattering down the brass drain, but his numbed-out body felt nothing except a slight easing of his inner Alaska. When the hot water ran out, he knew only because his shivering got worse and the beds of his fingernails went from pale gray to deep blue.