The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  She needed to hit something, and her best chances were with the masses. If only there were—

  Just her luck. Everyone was behaving themselves.

  Miserable fuckers.

  Eventually, she ended up in the VIP section because she was making the floor bouncers mental as she prowled around, trolling for a throw-down. And more to the point, she had to play muscle on a major deal.

  As she walked past the velvet rope, her eyes went right to the Brotherhood’s table. John Matthew and his buddies were not there, but then, this early, they’d be out hunting for lessers. Deep-throating Coronas would come later in the night, if at all.

  She did not care whether John showed.

  Whatsoever.

  Walking up to iAm, she said, “We ready?”

  The Moor nodded. “Rally’s got the product ready. Buyers should be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Good.”

  Two six-figure deals for coke were being executed tonight, and with Rehv down for the count and Trez up north with him, she and iAm were in charge of the transactions. Although the money was going to change hands in the office, the product was going to be loaded into the cars in the back alley, because four kilos of pure South American dust wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted dancing through the club. Shit, the fact that the buyers were coming in with cash in briefcases was enough of a problem.

  Xhex was just at the office door when she caught sight of Marie-Terese easing up to a guy in a suit. The man was looking at her with awe and wonder, as if she were the female equivalent of a sports car someone had just given him the keys to.

  Light glinted off the wedding band he wore as he reached for his wallet.

  Marie-Terese shook her head and put her graceful hand out to stop him, then pulled the rapt guy to his feet and led the way to the private bathrooms in the back, where the cash would change hands.

  Xhex turned around and found herself in front of the Brotherhood’s table.

  As she looked at where John Matthew usually sat, she thought about Marie-Terese’s most current john. Xhex was willing to bet that SOB, who was about to shell out five hundred dollars to get sucked or fucked or maybe a thousand for both, didn’t look at his wife with that kind of excitement and lust. It was the fantasy. He knew nothing about Marie-Terese, had no clue that two years ago her son had been abducted by her ex-husband and she was working off the cost of getting the kid back. To him, she was a gorgeous piece of meat, something to be played with and left behind. Neat. Clean.

  All the johns were like that.

  And so was Xhex’s John. She was a fantasy to him. Nothing more. An erotic lie he called to mind to jerk off to—which actually wasn’t something she blamed him for, because she was doing the same thing with him. And the irony was that he was one of the better lovers she’d ever had, although that was because she could do whatever she wanted to him for however long she needed to get sated, and there were never any complaints, reservations, or demands.

  Neat. Clean. iAm’s voice came over her earpiece. “Buyers just walked in.”

  “Perfect. Let’s do this.”

  She would get through both of the deals, and then she had a private job of her own to do. Now, that was something to look forward to. By the end of the night, she was going to get exactly the kind of release she needed.

  Across town, in a quiet cul-de-sac in a safe neighborhood, Ehlena was parked in front of a modest colonial, going nowhere fast.

  The key wouldn’t go into the ambulance’s ignition.

  Having gotten what should have been the hardest part of the trip over with, having delivered Stephan safely into the arms of his blooded relations, it was a surprise that getting the goddamn key in the frickin’ ignition was more difficult.

  “Come on….” Ehlena focused on steadying her hand. And ended up watching really closely as the slip of metal skipped around the hole it belonged in.

  She sat back in the seat with a curse, knowing that she was adding to the misery in the house, that the ambulance parked right outside was just another loud, screaming declaration of the tragedy.

  As if the family’s beloved son’s body weren’t enough of one.

  She turned her head and stared at the colonial’s windows. Shadows moved around on the other side of gauze curtains.

  After she’d backed into the driveway, Alix had gone inside and she’d waited in the cold night. A moment later, the garage door had trundled up, and Alix had come forward with an older male who looked a lot like Stephan. She had bowed and shaken his hand, then opened the ambulance’s rear bay. The male had had to clamp a hand over his mouth as she and Alix wheeled the gurney out.

  “My son…” he had moaned.

  She would never forget the sound of that voice. Hollow. Hopeless. Heartbroken.

  Stephan’s father and Alix had carried him home, and just as at the morgue, moments later there had been a wail. This time, though, it had been a female’s higher-pitched mourning call. Stephan’s mother.

  Alix had returned as Ehlena had pushed the gurney into the ambulance’s belly, and he had been blinking fast, like if he was facing a stiff headwind. After paying her respects and saying good-bye to him, she’d gotten behind the wheel and…not been able to start the damn vehicle.

  On the other side of the gauze curtains, she saw two shapes cleave together. And then it was three. And then more came.

  For no evident reason, she thought of the windows in the house she rented for her and her father, all of them covered with aluminum foil, sealing out the world.

  Who would stand over her wrapped body when her life ended? Her father knew who she was most of the time, but he wasn’t connected to her more than rarely. The staff at the clinic were very kind, but that was work, not personal. Lusie was paid to come when she did.

  Who would take care of her father?

  She’d always assumed he would go first, but then, no doubt Stephan’s family had thought along the same lines.

  Ehlena looked away from the mourners and stared out the ambulance’s front windshield.

  Life was too short, no matter how long you lived. When it was their turn, she didn’t think anybody was ready to leave their friends and their family and the things that made them happy, be they five hundred years old, like her father, or fifty years, like Stephan.

  Time was an endless source of days and nights only for the galaxy at large.

  It made her wonder: What the hell was she doing with the time she had? Her job gave her a purpose, sure, and she took care of her father, which was what one did for family. But where was she going? Nowhere. And not just because she was sitting in this ambulance with hands that shook so badly she couldn’t work a key.

  The thing was, it wasn’t that she wanted to change everything. She just wanted something for herself, something that made her know she was alive.

  Rehvenge’s deep amethyst eyes came at her from out of nowhere, and like a camera pulling back, she saw his carved face and his mohawk and his fine clothes and his cane.

  This time, when she reached forward with the key, the thing went in steadily, and the diesel engine came awake on a growl. As the heater blasted cold air at her, she turned down the fan, then put the gearshift in drive and left the house and the cul-de-sac and the neighborhood.

  Which no longer seemed quiet to her.

  Behind the wheel, she was driving and out of it at the same time, caught up in the image of a male she couldn’t have, but at the moment needed like crazy.

  Her feelings were wrong on so many levels. For God’s sake, they were a betrayal of Stephan, even though she didn’t really know him. It just seemed disrespectful to be wanting another male while his body was being mourned by his blood.

  Except she would have wanted Rehvenge anyway.

  “Damn it.”

  The clinic was all the way across the river, and she was glad, because she couldn’t face work right away. She was too raw and sad and angry at herself.

  What she needed was…

&n
bsp; Starbucks. Oh, yeah, that was exactly what she needed.

  About five miles away, in a square that was home to a Hannaford supermarket, a flower shop, a LensCrafters boutique, and a Blockbuster store, she found a Starbucks that was open until two a.m. She pulled the ambulance around to the side and got out.

  When she’d left the clinic with Alix and Stephan, she hadn’t thought to bring her coat, so she huddled into her purse and hotfooted it over the sidewalk and through the door. Inside, the place was as most of them were: red wooden trim, dark gray tile floor, with a lot of windows, stuffed chairs, and little tables. Over at the counter there were mugs for sale, a glass display of lemon squares and brownies and scones, and two humans in their early twenties manning the coffee machines. The smell in the air was hazelnut and coffee and chocolate, and the aroma wiped the lingering herbal bouquet of the death wraps from her nose.

  “C’I help you?” the taller guy asked.

  “Vente latte, foam, no whip. Double cup, double sleeve.”

  The human male smiled at her and lingered. He had a dark brush-cut beard and a nose ring, his shirt splashed with graphics that spelled out TOMATO EATER in drops of what could have been blood or, given the band’s name, ketchup. “You like anything else? The cinnamon scones totally rock.”

  “No, thanks.”

  His eyes stayed on her as he worked her order, and to keep from having to deal with the attention, she went into her purse and checked her phone in case Lusie—

  MISSED CALL. View now?

  She hit yes, praying it wasn’t something about her father—

  Rehvenge’s number came up, although not his name, because she hadn’t put him in her phone. She stared at the digits.

  God, it was like he’d read her mind.

  “Your latte? Hello?”

  “Sorry.” She put her phone back, took what the guy held out to her, and thanked him.

  “I double-cupped just like you wanted. The sleeve, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, you work at one of the hospitals around here?” he said, eyeing her uniform.

  “Private clinic. Thanks again.”

  She left quickly and didn’t waste time getting into the ambulance. Back behind the wheel, she hit the locks on the doors, started the engine, and turned the heater on immediately, because the air coming out was still warm.

  The latte was really good. Superhot. Tasted perfect.

  She got her phone again and went into the received-calls log and fired up Rehvenge’s number.

  She took a deep breath and a long pull on the latte.

  And hit send.

  Destiny had a 518 area code. Who knew.

  TWENTY

  Lash parked the Mercedes 550 under one of Caldwell’s bridges, the black sedan indistinguishable from the shadows thrown by the mammoth concrete supports. The digital clock on the dash told him that showtime was getting close.

  Assuming there had been no fuckups.

  As he waited, he thought about the meeting with the head of the symphaths. In retrospect, he really didn’t like the way the guy made him feel. He fucked chicks. Period. No guys. Ever.

  That kind of shit was for cock jockeys like John and his weak-ass crew.

  Switching tracks in his mind, Lash smiled in the darkness, thinking he couldn’t wait to reintroduce himself to those motherfuckers. In the beginning, right after he’d been brought back by his real father, he’d wanted to rush it. After all, John and his boys no doubt still hung out at ZeroSum, so finding them wouldn’t be a problem. But timing was everything. Lash was still figuring shit out with this new life of his, and he wanted to be solid when he crushed John and killed Blay in front of Qhuinn, then slaughtered the fucker who’d murdered him.

  Timing mattered.

  As if on cue, two cars pulled up between some pylons. The Ford Escort was the Lessening Society’s, and the silver Lexus was Grady’s wholesaler’s car.

  Sweet rims on the LS 600h. Very sweet.

  Grady was the first to get out of the Escort, and when Mr. D and the other two lessers followed, it was like watching the evac of a clown car, given the amount of meat that had been stuffed inside.

  As they approached the Lexus, two men wearing slick winter coats got out of the 600h. In sync, the human males both put their right hands into their jackets, and all Lash could think of was, Better guns than badges coming out of those breast pockets. If Grady had fucked up and those were undercover cops pulling a modern day Crockett and Tubbs, things were going to get complicated.

  But no…no CPD shields, just some conversation on the part of the coats, no doubt along the lines of, Who the fuck are those three ass-wipes you brought with you to a private business transaction?

  Grady looked back at Mr. D with out-of-his-league panic, and the little Texan took the reins, stepping forward with an aluminum briefcase. After he put the case on the trunk of the Lexus, he popped it open to reveal what appeared to be stacks of hundred-dollar bills. In reality, they were just bundles of ones with a single Benji on the top of each stack. The coats looked down—

  Pop. Pop.

  Grady jumped back as the dealers hit the ground like mops, and his mouth opened wide as a toilet bowl. Before he could get a whole lot of oh-my-God-what-did-you-do rolling, Mr. D stepped up into his grille and bitch-slapped his lid shut.

  The two slayers put their guns back into their leather jackets as Mr. D closed the suitcase, went around, and got behind the wheel of the Lexus. While he drove off, Grady looked up into the faces of the pale men like he was waiting to get plugged himself.

  Instead, they just headed back to the Escort.

  After a moment of confusion, Grady followed in a sloppy jog like all his joints had been overoiled, but when he went to open the back door, the slayers refused to let him get in the car. As Grady realized he was getting left behind, he started to panic, his arms flopping, his mouth shouting. Which was pretty fucking dumb, considering he was standing fifteen feet away from two guys with bullets in their brains.

  Quiet would be good right about now.

  Evidently one of the slayers thought the same thing. With a calm hand, he outted his gun and leveled the muzzle at Grady’s head.

  Silence. Stillness. At least from the idiot.

  Two doors shut and the Escort’s engine turned over on a crank and a wheeze. With a buzz of tires, the slayers took off, speckling Grady’s boots and shins with frozen dirt.

  Lash hit the Mercedes’ lights, and Grady spun around, arms going up to shield his eyes.

  There was the temptation to mow him down, but for the moment, the guy’s utility justified his heartbeat.

  Lash started the Mercedes, pulled up to the SOB, and dropped his window down. “Get in the car.”

  Grady lowered his arms. “What the hell happened—”

  “Shut the fuck up. Get in the car.”

  Lash closed the window and waited while Grady flopped into the passenger seat. As the guy put his belt on, his teeth were doing the castanets, and not from the cold. Fucker was the color of salt, and sweating like a tranny in Giants Stadium.

  “You might as well have killed ’em in broad daylight,” Grady stammered as they headed out onto the surface road that ran beside the river. “There are eyes all over the place—”

  “Which was the point.” Lash’s phone rang, and he answered as he accelerated up a ramp and onto the highway. “Very nice, Mr. D.”

  “I think we done good,” the Texan said. “’Cept I can’t see no drugs. Must be in the trunk.”

  “They’re in that car. Somewhere.”

  “We still meetin’ back at Hunterbred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, ah, listen, y’all plannin’ on doin’ anything with this here car?”

  Lash smiled in the darkness, thinking greed was a great weakness for a subordinate to have. “I’m getting it repainted and buying a VIN and tags for it.”

  There was silence, as if the lesser were waiting for more. “Oh, that’ll be go
od. Y’sir.”

  Lash hung up on his disciple and turned to Grady. “I want to know all of the other big retailers in town. Their names, their territories, their product lines, everything.”

  “I don’t know if I got all that—”

  “You’d better find it out then.” Lash tossed his phone into the guy’s lap. “Make the calls you need to. Do the digging. I want every single dealer in town. Then I want the elephant that’s feeding them. The Caldwell wholesaler.”

  Grady’s head fell back against the seat. “Shit. I thought this was going to be, like…about my business.”

  “That was your second mistake. Start dialing and get me what I want.”

  “Look…I don’t think this is…I should probably go home….”

  Lash smiled at the guy, revealing his fangs and flashing his eyes. “You are home.”

  Grady shrank back in the seat, then started pawing for the door handle, even though they were cruising down the highway at seventy miles an hour.

  Lash hit the locks. “Sorry, you’re on the ride now, and there’s no getting off in the middle. Now dial the fucking phone and do me right. Or I’m going to carve you up piece by piece and enjoy every second of the screaming.”

  Wrath stood outside Safe Place in a ball-numbing wind, not caring two shits about the nasty weather. Rising before him like something out of a Leave It to Beaver Rockwell daydream, the house that was a haven to victims of domestic violence was big and rambling and welcoming, the windows covered with quilted drapery, a wreath on the door, the mat on the top step reading WELCOME in cursive letters.

  As a male, he couldn’t go inside, so he waited like lawn sculpture on the hard brown grass, praying that his beloved leelan was inside—and willing to see him.

  After having spent all day in the study hoping that Beth would come to him, he’d finally gone through the mansion searching her out. When he hadn’t found her, he’d prayed she was volunteering here, as she often did.