The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Including, evidently, the antibiotics that Rehv took out of his pocket and swallowed. As well as the fact that a sterilized needle made an appearance next and was put to use.

  “Good,” the male said, as Rehv rolled his sleeve back down and put on his suit coat.

  “Good what.” iAm just stared across the office, all don’t-be-an-ass-you-know-exactly-what-I’m-talking-about.

  He did that a lot. In one glance he spoke volumes.

  “Whatever,” Rehv muttered. “Don’t get a hard-on like I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

  He might be dealing with the infection in his arm, but there was still shit hanging like rotten fringe off all the sides of his life.

  “You sure about that?”

  Rehv rolled his eyes and got to his feet, slipping a bag of M&M’s into the pocket of his sable. “Trust me.”

  iAm was all about the oh-really as his eyes dipped to the coat. “Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.”

  “Oh, shut it. Look, the pills have to be taken with food. You got a ham ’n’ cheese on rye on you? I don’t.”

  “I’da made you some linguine with Sal sauce and brought it over for you. Give me more notice next time.”

  Rehv headed out of the office. “You mind not being thoughtful. Makes me feel like shit.”

  “Your prob, not mine.”

  iAm spoke into his watch as they left the office, and Rehv didn’t waste any time between the club’s side door and the car. When he was in the B, iAm disappeared, traveling as a rolling shadow over the ground, disturbing the pages of a magazine, rattling a tin can that had been abandoned, ruffling loose snow.

  He would get to the meeting location first and open the place while Trez drove over.

  Rehv had set the meeting where it was for two reasons. One, he was the leahdyre, so the council had to go where he said and he knew they would squirm from viewing the location as beneath them. Always a pleasure. And two, it was an investment property he’d acquired, so it was on his turf.

  Always a necessity.

  Salvatore’s Restaurant, home of the famous Sal sauce, was an Italian institution in Caldie, having been in business for over fifty years. When the original owner’s grandson, Sal III, as he had been known, had developed a horrendous gambling habit and run up $120,000 in debt through Rehv’s bookies, it had been a case of tit for tat: Grandson deeded the establishment over to Rehv, and Rehv didn’t crack the third generation’s compass.

  Which, in laymen’s terms, meant that the guy didn’t have all his elbows and his knees shattered until they required joint replacements.

  Oh, and the secret recipe for Sal’s sauce had come with the restaurant—a requirement added by iAm: During the negotiations that had lasted all of a minute and a half, the Shadow had spoken up and said no sauce, no deal. And he’d demanded a taste test to make sure the intel was right.

  Since that happy transaction, the Moor had been running the place, and what do you know, it was turning a profit. Then again, that was what happened when you didn’t cleave off every spare dime and funnel it into piss-poor football picks. Traffic in the restaurant was up, food quality was back where it had been, and the place was getting a serious-ass face-lift in the form of new tables, chairs, linens, rugs, chandeliers.

  All of which were replacements of exactly what had been there before.

  You didn’t fuck with tradition, as iAm said.

  The only interior change was one nobody could see: A mesh of steel had been applied to every square inch of the walls and ceilings, and all the doors but one had been reinforced with the shit.

  No one was dematerializing in or out unless management knew and approved.

  Truth was, Rehv owned the place, but it was iAm’s baby, and the Moor had reason to be proud of his efforts. Even the old-school Italian goombahs liked the food he cooked.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Bentley pulled up under the porte cochere of the sprawling one-story stretch of trademark red-washed brick. The lights were off around the building, even the ones that lit up Sal’s name, although the empty parking lot was illuminated with the orange glow from old-fashioned gaslights.

  Trez waited in the dark with the engine running and the doors of the bulletproof car locked, clearly communicating with his brother in the Shadow way. After a moment he nodded and cut the motor.

  “We’re cool.” He got out and walked around the Bentley, opening the rear door as Rehv palmed his cane and shifted his numb body off the leather seat. As the two of them crossed over the pavers and pulled wide the heavy black doors, the Moor’s gun was out and at his thigh.

  Stepping into Sal’s was like walking into the Red Sea. Literally.

  Frank Sinatra greeted them, his “Wives and Lovers” drifting down from speakers embedded in the red velvet ceiling. Underfoot, the red carpet had just been replaced, and it glowed with the same sheen and depth as freshly spilled human blood. All around, red walls were flocked with a black acanthus-leaf pattern and the lighting was what you’d find in a movie theater, i.e., mostly on the floor. During regular business hours, the hostess stand and the cloakroom were manned by gorgeous dark-haired women dressed in red and black short-and-tights, and all the waiters wore black suits with red ties.

  Over to the side, there was a bank of public telephones from the fifties and two cigarette machines from the Kojak period, and as usual, the place smelled like oregano, garlic, and good food. In the background, there was also the lingering whiff of cigarettes and cigars—even though by law you weren’t supposed to light up in this kind of establishment, in the back room, where the reserved tables were and the games of poker got dealt, management allowed people to light up.

  Rehv had always been a little tight-balled at being around all the red, but he knew as long as he could look into the two dining rooms and see that the tables with their white linens and deep leather chairs receded properly, he was okay.

  “The Brotherhood’s already here,” Trez said as they went down to the private suite where the meeting was going to be held.

  When they walked into the room, there was no talk, no laughter, not even a throat cleared among the other males in the space. The Brothers were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Wrath, who was positioned in front of the one door that was not reinforced with steel—so he could dematerialize free in the blink of an eye if things came to that.

  “Evening,” Rehv said, choosing the head of the long, thin table that had been set with twenty chairs.

  There was a patter of hi-how’re-yas, but the tight knot of linebacker-and-then-some warriors was solely focused on the doorway he’d come through.

  Yup, you fucked with their boy Wrath and you were going to get fed your future—right up your own ass.

  And what do you know, they’d taken on a mascot, evidently. Off to the left, a glowing Oscar statue of a guy stood tall in combats, his blond-and-black hair making him look like an eighties headbanger looking for a backup band. Lassiter the fallen angel didn’t seem any less fierce than the Brothers, however. Maybe it was his piercings. Or the fact that his eyes were all white. Fuck it, the guy’s vibe was just hard-core.

  Interesting. Given the way he was glaring at the doorway with the others, Wrath was clearly on the protected-species list with that angel.

  iAm came in from the back, a pistol in one hand, a tray of cappuccinos on the palm of the other.

  Several of the Brothers took what was offered, although all those dainty cups were going to become gum for their shitkickers’ heels if they had to fight.

  “Thanks, man.” Rehv also took a cappuccino. “Cannoli?”

  “Coming.”

  The instructions for the meeting had been spelled out clearly beforehand. Members of the council had to arrive at the front of the restaurant. If anyone even so much as jogged the handle of another door, they assumed the risk of getting shot. iAm would let them in and escort them down to the room. When they left, it would be through the front again, and cover would be provided for safe dema
terialization. Ostensibly, the security measures were because of Rehv’s “concern over lessers.” The truth was, it was all about protecting Wrath.

  iAm came in with the cannoli.

  Cannoli were eaten.

  More cappuccino was brought out.

  Frank did “Fly Me to the Moon.” Then it was that song about the bar closing and him needing another for the road.

  And the one about three coins in the fountain. And the fact that he had a crush on someone.

  Over by Wrath, Rhage shifted his massive weight in his shitkickers, the leather of his jacket creaking. Next to him, the king rolled his shoulders and one of them popped. Butch cracked his knuckles. V lit up. Phury and Z looked at each other.

  Rehv glanced at iAm and Trez, who were in the doorway. Looked back at Wrath. “Surprise, surprise.”

  Putting his cane to good use, he stood up and did a lap around the room, his symphath side respecting the offensive tactic of this unexpected no-show by the other council members. He didn’t think they’d have the balls—

  A bing-bong sound came from the front door of the restaurant.

  As Rehv turned his head, he heard the soft metallic slide of the safeties coming off the guns in the Brothers’ hands.

  Across the street from the closed gates of Pine Grove Cemetery, Lash walked up to a Honda Civic that was parked in the shadows. When he put his hand on the hood, it was warm, and he didn’t have to go around to the driver’s side to know that the window was busted out of it. This was the car Grady had used to get to his dead ex’s grave site.

  As he heard the sound of boots approaching on asphalt, he palmed the gun in his breast pocket.

  Mr. D was tugging his cowboy hat down as he came over. “Why’d you call us off—”

  Lash calmly leveled his gun at the lesser’s head. “Tell me why I’m not blowing a hole in your motherfucking brain right now.”

  The slayers on either side of Mr. D stepped back. Way back.

  “Because I done found out he was gone,” Mr. D said in his Texas twang. “That’s why. These two had no hide nor hair where he was at.”

  “You were in charge. You lost him.”

  Mr. D’s pale eyes were steady. “I was counting y’all’s money. You want anyone else doing that? Don’t believe so.”

  Shit, good point. Lash lowered his gun and looked at the other two. Unlike Mr. D, who was stick-steady, they were in full fidget. Which told him precisely who had lost the asset.

  “How much money came in,” Lash asked, still glaring at the men.

  “Lot. It’s right there in the Escort.”

  “Well, what do you know, my mood’s improving,” Lash murmured, putting his gun away. “As for why I called you off, Grady’s about to go to jail with my fucking compliments. I want him to be someone’s girlfriend a couple of times and enjoy life behind bars before I kill him.”

  “But what about—”

  “We have the contacts for the other two dealers and we can sell the product ourselves. We don’t need him.”

  The sound of a car approaching the iron gates from inside the cemetery brought all of their heads to the right. It was the unmarked that had been parked around the corner by that new grave and the POS came to a halt, steam rising from its tail pipe in puffs like the engine was farting. And a schlub with dark hair got out. After he unlocked the chain, he threw his back into wrenching aside one half of the Do Not Enters; then he drove through, got out again and closed the place back up.

  There was no one in the car with him.

  He went to the left, red lights fading as he took off.

  Lash glanced back at the Civic, which was the only other way Grady was getting anywhere.

  What the fuck had happened? The cop must have seen Grady, because he’d been walking right for the unmarked—

  Lash stiffened and then pivoted on his boot, the salt that had been sprinkled on the road grinding under his thick sole.

  Something else was in the cemetery. Something that had just chosen to reveal itself.

  Something that registered exactly as that symphath had up north.

  Which was why the cop had driven off. The guy had been willed to.

  “Go back to the ranch with the money,” he said to Mr. D. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Y’sir. Right away.”

  Lash didn’t register the guy’s response much. He was too captivated by what the fuck was going on around that dead girl’s early grave.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Xhex was glad the human mind was clay: It didn’t take long for José de la Cruz’s brain to register the command she gave, and as soon as it did, he put his cold coffee into a cup holder and started the unmarked car.

  Over among the trees, Grady stopped his zombie march, looking like he was shocked as shit that the sedan had even been there. She wasn’t worried the guy would lose his nerve, though. Aching loss and desperation and regret filled out the airspace around him and that grid would soon call him forward to the fresh gravestone with greater resolve than any thoughts she could plant into the fucker’s frontal lobe.

  Xhex waited as he waited…and sure enough, as soon as de la Cruz was gone, those boots that were meant for walking got back in the game, carrying Grady right where she wanted him.

  As he came up to the granite marker, a choked sound left his mouth and it was the first sob of many. Like a pussy, he started to weep, his breath frothing in white clouds as he crouched down over where the woman he’d killed was going to spend the next century decomposing.

  If he liked Chrissy so much, why didn’t he think of that before he snuffed her.

  Xhex stepped out from behind an oak and let her masking go, revealing herself to the landscape. As she approached Chrissy’s murderer, she reached around to the small of her back and unsheathed the stainless-steel blade that she nicely holstered along her spine. The weapon was as long as her forearm.

  “Hi, Grady,” she said.

  Grady flipped himself around like he’d taken a stick of dynamite up the ass and was hoping to extinguish the wick in the snow.

  Xhex kept the knife behind her thigh. “How you doing?”

  “What…” He looked for both of her hands. When he saw only one, he crabbed away from her on his hands and feet, butt dragging over the ground.

  Xhex followed, keeping a good yard between them. Going by the way Grady kept glancing over his shoulder, he was getting ready to do a roll and bolt, and she was going to stay in idle until he—

  Bingo.

  Grady lunged to the left, but she fell upon him, catching his wrist at the top of its arc and letting his momentum carry him against her hold. He ended up facedown with his arm cranked behind his back, completely at her mercy. Which of course she’d been born without. In a quick slash, she knifed across one of his triceps, slicing through thick, fluffy parka and thin, soft skin.

  It was just to get him distracted, and it worked. He howled and went to cover the wound.

  Which gave her plenty of time to grab his left boot and wrench it until he didn’t care so much about what the hell was up with his arm. Grady cried out and tried to relieve the pressure by shifting around, but she planted a knee on the small of his back and kept him in place as she broke his ankle by twisting it until it snapped. Quick dismount and another slash and she incapacitated his other side by slicing the tendons of his thigh.

  Cut the whining in half.

  As Grady was tackled by pain, he lost his breath and quieted down—until she started pulling him over to the grave. He struggled the way he cried, though, with more noise than effect. Once he was where she wanted him, she slit the tendons in his other arm so that as much as he would have loved to bat away her hands, he couldn’t. Then she flipped him over so he had a good view of heaven and hauled up his parka.

  She went for his belt at the same time she showed him her knife.

  Men were funny. No matter how out of it they were, you got something long, sharp, and shiny anywhere near their primary brain and you go
t fireworks.

  “No…!”

  “Oh, yes.” She brought the blade close to his face. “Very much yes.”

  He fought hard even with the pick-apart wounds she’d given, and she paused to enjoy the show.

  “You’re going to be dead before I leave you,” she said as he flopped around. “But you and me are going to spend some quality time together before I take off. Not a lot, mind you. I have to go back to work. Good thing I’m quick.”

  She put her boot on his sternum to immobilize him, popped his button and fly, and yanked his pants down his thighs. “How long did it take for you to kill her, Grady? How long?”

  In full panic, he moaned and thrashed, his blood staining the white snow red.

  “How long, motherfucker?” She sliced through the waistband of his Emporio Armani boxers. “How long did she suffer?”

  A moment later, Grady screamed so loudly, the sound wasn’t even human; it was more the pealing cry of a black crow.

  Xhex paused and looked over at the statue of the robed woman she’d spent so much time staring at during Chrissy’s service. For a moment, the stone face seemed to have changed position, the lovely female looking not up to God, but across at Xhex.

  Except that just wasn’t possible, was it.

  As Wrath stood behind his wall of Brothers, his ears tracked the distant sounds of the front door to Sal’s opening and closing, isolating the subtle turn of hinges in between Sinatra’s scooby-dooby-doos. Whatever they were waiting for had just shown up, and his body, his senses, his heart all downshifted like he was approaching a tight curve and preparing to power through.

  His eyes cranked into better focus, the red room and the white table and the backs of his brothers’ heads becoming slightly clearer as iAm reappeared in the archway.

  An extremely well-dressed male was with him.

  Right, that guy had glymera stamped all over his natty ass. With his wavy blond hair parted on the side, he was rocking The Great Gatsby, his face so perfectly proportioned and balanced that he was downright beautiful. His black wool coat was tailored to fit a lean body, and in his hand, he carried a thin document case.