The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  Rehv turned on his loafers and went back out into the office.

  Funny, she thought to herself, as she picked up one of the steel bands and got ready to crank it around her thigh, she’d never expected to see him like that. Ever.

  Made her wonder who it was. And how much the female knew about him.

  Rehv went to his desk and sat down, phone in his hand. Ehlena had called and left a message, but instead of wasting time to listen to it, he called up her contact info and—

  The call that came through was the only one that would have diverted him from finishing the dial action. He answered and said, “Which Brother am I talking to?”

  “Vishous.”

  “What’s doing, man.”

  “Nothing good, true?”

  The flat tone of the guy’s voice made Rehv think of car accidents. Bad ones that required the Jaws of Life to free bodies. “Tell me.”

  The Brother talked and talked and talked. E-mail. Cover blown. Deportation.

  There must have been a long stretch of silence at that point, because Rehv heard his name. “You there? Rehvenge? Yo, man?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Kind of. He was a little distracted by the dull roar in his head, like the building he was in was caving in all around him.

  “Did you hear what I asked you?”

  “Ah…no.” The roaring sound grew so loud, he was sure the club had been bombed and the walls were crumbling and the roof coming down.

  “I tried to trace the e-mail and I almost think it’s coming from an IP address up north near the colony, if not actually within it. I really don’t think this came from a vampire at all. Do you know anyone up there who might try to blow your cover?”

  So the princess had lost interest in playing blackmail games. “No.”

  Now it was V’s turn to be quiet. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The princess had decided to call him home. And if he didn’t go, she would absolutely e-mail everyone in the glymera and implicate Wrath and the Brotherhood while she revealed Rehv’s secret. Coupled with the affidavit that had been sprung tonight?

  Life as he knew it was over.

  Not that the Brotherhood needed to know that.

  “Rehv?”

  In a dead voice, he said, “It’s just fallout from the Montrag shit. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Xhex’s sharp voice from the bedroom doorway helped him focus, and he looked over at her. As he met her stare, her strong body and sharp gray eyes were as familiar to him as his own reflection, and the same was true with Kim for her…so she knew by the look on his face exactly what was doing.

  The color slowly drained out of her cheeks. “What did she do? What did that cunt do to you?”

  “I gotta go, V. Thanks for calling.”

  “Rehvenge?” the Brother cut in. “Look, buddy, why don’t I keep trying to track it—”

  “Waste of time. No one up there knows. Trust me.”

  Rehv ended the call, and before Xhex could jump in, he dialed voice mail and picked up Ehlena’s message. He knew what she was going to say, though. Knew exactly—

  “Hey, Rehv, I just got a visit from this…female. She was talking a lot of craziness about you. I just…well, I thought you should know. To be honest, she’s freaky. Anyway, maybe you can call me and talk to me about this? I’d really appreciate it. Bye.”

  He deleted the message, hit end, and put the cell phone down on the desk, lining it up with the black leather blotter so that the LG was perfectly vertical.

  Xhex came over, and as she did, there was a sharp knock and someone came in. “Give us a minute, Trez,” he heard her say. “Take Rally with you, and don’t let anyone in here.”

  “What hap—”

  “Now. Please.”

  Rehvenge stared at the phone, only dimly aware of some shuffling and the door clicking shut.

  “You hear that?” he said quietly.

  “Hear what?” Xhex asked as she came and knelt down next to his chair.

  “That sound.”

  “Rehv, what did she do?”

  He looked over into her eyes and saw his mother on her deathbed instead. Funny, both females had the same kind of pleading in their stares. And both were people he wanted to protect. Ehlena was on that list. So was his sister. So were Wrath and the Brotherhood.

  Rehvenge reached forward and cupped the chin of his second in command. “It’s just Brotherhood stuff, and I’m really tired.”

  “The hell it was, and the hell you are.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What.”

  “If I asked you to take care of a female for me, would you make sure that happened?”

  “Yes, fuck, yes. Christ, I’ve wanted to kill that bitch for over twenty years.”

  He dropped his hand, then put his palm out. “On your honor, swear it.”

  Xhex clasped his palm as a male would, not as a touch but as a vow. “You have my word. Anything.”

  “Thanks. Listen, Xhex, I’m going to crash—”

  “But first you’ve got to give me a clue here.”

  “You’ll lock up?”

  She sat back on her heels. “What. The. Fuck. Is going on.”

  “Just Vishous with another hiccup in the road.”

  “Shit, is Wrath having more problems with the glymera?”

  “As long as there is a glymera, he’s going to have them.”

  She frowned. “Why are you thinking of a beach ad from the nineteen eighties?”

  “Because chest medallions are coming back in style. I can just feel it. And quit trying to get into me.”

  There was a long silence. “I’m going to chalk this up to your mom’s passing.”

  “Excellent plan.” He pushed his cane into the floor. “Now, I’m going to get a little sleep. I’ve been up for, like, two days straight.”

  “Fine. But next time, try to block me with something a little less frightening than Deney Terrio in the Bahamas.”

  When he was alone, Rehv looked around. The office had seen a lot of action: Lot of money changing hands. Lot of drugs doing the same. Lot of wiseasses who’d fucked with him, bleeding.

  Through the open door to the bedroom he stared at the apartment he’d spent a good number of nights in. He could just barely see the shower.

  Back before he hadn’t been able to handle the princess’s venom, when he’d been able to go to her and take care of business and still been strong enough to get his own ass home, he’d always washed in that bathroom. He hadn’t wanted to contaminate the family home with what was on his skin, and had needed plenty of soap and hot water and elbow grease before he could go back to see his mother and sister. The irony had been that whenever he’d arrive back at the house, his mother would invariably ask him whether he’d been to the gym, because he “had a healthy glow to his face.”

  He never had been clean enough. But then, ugly deeds were not like dirt—you couldn’t wash them off.

  He let his head fall back and walked through ZeroSum in his mind, picturing Rally’s scale room and the VIP section and the waterfall wall and the open dance floor and the bars. He knew every inch of the club and all the things that happened in it, from what his girls did on their knees and their backs to how the bookies worked their odds to the number of ODs Xhex had dealt with.

  So much dirty business.

  He thought of Ehlena losing her job to bring him the antibiotics he was too much of a shithead to get at Havers’s. See, that was a good act. And he knew this not just because of what he’d taught himself from being around his mother’s people, but because of who he knew Ehlena to be. She was intrinsically good, and therefore she did good things.

  What he had been doing here was not and never had been good, because that was who he was.

  Rehv thought about the club. The thing was, the places of your life, like the clothes you wore and the car you drove and the friends and associates you had, were a produ
ct of the way you lived. And he lived dark and violent and seedy. Was going to die that way, too.

  He deserved where he was going.

  But on the way to the door, he was going to make things right. For once in his life, he was going to do all the right things for all the right reasons.

  And he was going to do them for the short list of people he…loved.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Back across town at the Brotherhood’s mansion, Tohr sat in the billiards room, his ass on the chair that he’d pulled over and angled out so he could see the vestibule’s door. In his right hand, he held a brand-new black Timex Indiglo watch, which he was setting with the correct time and date, and at his left elbow he had a long/tall filled with a coffee-ice-cream milk shake. He was almost finished with the watch and only a quarter of the way through the shake.

  His stomach wasn’t handling the shitloads of food he’d thrown at it all that well, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass. He needed to put on weight fast, so his gut was just going to have to get with the program.

  With a final beep, the watch was tight and he put it on his wrist, staring at the glowing 4:57 a.m. on the face.

  He looked at the vestibule’s door again. Fuck the watch and the eating. What he was really doing was waiting for John to walk through that damn thing with Qhuinn and Blay.

  He wanted his boy home safe. Even though John wasn’t a boy anymore and hadn’t been his since he’d left the kid high and dry a year ago.

  “You know, I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”

  Lassiter’s voice made him pick up the glass and take a draw on the straw so he didn’t lob another pipe-down-sonny at the fucker. The angel loved TV, but suffered from ADD big-time. He was always changing channels. God only knew what he was watching now.

  “I mean, she’s a woman, going it alone in the world. She’s cool, and the clothes are tight. It’s a really good show.”

  Tohr looked over his shoulder. The angel was sprawled on the couch, remote in his hand, head propped up by a needlepoint pillow Marissa had done that said, Fangs For The Memories. And beyond him on the flat-screen was…

  Tohr nearly choked on his shake. “What the hell are you doing? That’s Mary Tyler Moore, motherfucker.”

  “Is that who she is?”

  “Yeah. And no offense, you should not be getting off on that show.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s, like, one step up from a Lifetime movie. You might as well be painting your toenails.”

  “Whatever. I like it.”

  The angel didn’t seem to tweak to the fact that MTM on Nick at Nite was not like MMA on Spike. Any of the Brothers saw this and Lassiter’s ass was going to get spanked.

  “Yo, Rhage,” Tohr called out to the dining room. “Come see what this Lava lamp is into on the tube.”

  Hollywood came in palming a plate piled high with mashed potatoes and roast beef. For the most part, he didn’t believe in vegetables, considering them “a caloric waste of space,” so the green beans that had come with First Meal were noticeably absent from his reheat.

  “What’s he watching—Oh, hey! Mary Tyler Moore. I love her.” Rhage parked it in one of the club chairs next to the angel. “Great clothes.”

  Lassiter shot a see-I-told-ya in Tohr’s direction. “And Rhoda’s kind of hot.”

  The two pounded knuckles. “Feel you.”

  Tohr went back to his milk shake. “You are both an embarrassment to the male sex.”

  “Why, because we’re not all about Godzilla?” Rhage shot back.

  “At least I can hold my head up in public. The two of you should be watching that shit in a closet.”

  “I don’t feel the need to hide my preferences.” Rhage arched his brows, crossed his legs, and extended his pinkie from his fork. “I am who I am.”

  “Please don’t tempt with that kind of opening,” Tohr muttered, hiding a smile by hitting his straw again.

  When there was only silence, he glanced over, ready to keep up the—

  Rhage and Lassiter were both staring at him, cautious approval on their faces.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t look at me like that.”

  Rhage recovered first. “I can’t help it. You’re just so sexy in those baggy-ass pants. I got to get me a pair, ’cause nothing says hotness like wearing what looks like two Heftys stitched together at your racket and balls.”

  Lassiter nodded. “Totally craptastic. Sign my sac up for some of that.”

  “You get that shit from Home Depot?” Rhage tilted his head to one side. “In the trash removal section?”

  Before Tohr could hit back, Lassister jumped in. “Man, I only hope that I can pull off lookin’ like I got a load in my shorts as well as you do. Did you get training? Or is it just a case of lack of ass?”

  Tohr had to laugh. “I’m surrounded by asses. Trust me.”

  “Which would explain why you’re so confident going without one.”

  Rhage tacked on, “Come to think of it, you’re actually built like Mary Tyler Moore. So I’m surprised you don’t like her more.”

  Tohr took a deliberate draw on the milk shake. “I’ma put on some weight just to throw you down for that.”

  Rhage’s smile stayed in place, but his eyes went grave. “Looking forward to it. I’m so looking forward to that.”

  Tohr went back to focusing on the vestibule’s door, closing himself up, ending the banter because abruptly it didn’t feel right.

  Lassiter and Rhage didn’t follow the lead. The pair were a Chatty Cathy combo from hell, riffing off each other and whatever was on the TV and what Rhage was eating and where the angel was pierced and…

  Tohr would have moved if he could have watched the front door from any other—

  The security system let out a beep as the mansion’s outer door was opened. There was a pause and then another beep was followed by a gonging sound.

  As Fritz raced to answer the summons, Tohr sat up straighter, which was pathetic, considering the shape his body was in. Torso height was not going to magically improve the fact that he weighed little more than the chair his nonexistent butt was parked in.

  Qhuinn was the first to stride in, the kid dressed in black, the gunmetal piercings that ran up his left ear and marked his lower lip catching the light. Blaylock was next, dressed all Mr. Preppy in his high-necked cashmere sweater and his slacks. As the pair headed for the stairs, the expressions on them were as different as their clothes. Qhuinn had evidently had a really good night, going by the I-got-laid-and-then-some grin on his piehole. Blay, on the other hand, looked like he’d been to the dentist, his mouth set grimly, his eyes down on the mosaic floor.

  Maybe John wasn’t coming back. But where would he stay—

  When John came into the foyer, Tohr couldn’t help it: He rose from his seat, catching himself on the high back of the chair as he wobbled.

  John’s face had no expression on it at all. His hair was tousled, but not by the wind, and there was a series of scratches on the side of his neck, the kind made by a female’s nails. The scent coming off him was of Jack Daniel’s, multiple perfumes, and sex.

  He looked about a hundred years older than when he’d been sitting by Tohr’s bed doing The Thinker mere nights ago. This was not a kid. This was a full-grown male working off a hard edge in the time-tested ways most guys did.

  Tohr sank back into the chair, expecting to be ignored, but when John reached the bottom step, he put his boot up and turned his head as if he knew someone was watching him. His expression didn’t change at all as he met Tohr’s stare. He just lifted his hand in a half-assed way and kept on going.

  “I was worried you weren’t coming home,” Tohr said loudly.

  Qhuinn and Blay halted. Rhage and Lassiter shut up. Mary’s and Rhoda’s voices filled the void.

  John barely paused as he signed, This isn’t home. It’s a house. And I need a place to stay.

  John didn’t wait for a response, and the set of his shoulders sugges
ted he wasn’t interested in one. Clearly, Tohr could have talked until his tongue was worn to a stump about how the people here cared about John, but nothing would register.

  As the three of them disappeared up the stairs, Tohr finished his milk shake, took the tall glass into the kitchen, and got the thing into the dishwasher without a doggen asking him if he wanted anything else to eat or drink. Beth, however, was stirring a pot of stew and looking as if she were hoping to slip him a bowl so he didn’t stick around.

  The trip up to the second floor was long and hard, but not because he was feeling weak physically. He’d fucked John up but good, and now he was reaping that crop of all the shutout he’d been laying, wasn’t he. Damn it—

  The crash and holler that came through the study’s closed doors sounded like someone had been attacked, and Tohr’s body, frail though it was, responded on instinct, hitting the door hard and throwing it open.

  Wrath was crouched behind the desk, arms out in front of him, the computer and phone and paperwork scattered as if he’d pushed them away, his chair on its side. The wraparounds the king always wore were in one of his hands, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  “My lord—”

  “Are the lights on.” Wrath was breathing hard. “Are the fucking lights on.”

  Tohr rushed around and grabbed onto one of his king’s arms. “Out in the hall, yeah. And there’s the fire. What’s—”

  Wrath’s powerful body started to shake so badly, Tohr had to jack the Brother up. Which required more muscle than he had. Fuck, they were both going down if he didn’t get help. Locking his mouth on his front teeth, he whistled loud and long and then got back with the job of trying not to lose hold of his king.

  Rhage and Lassiter were the first to come running, and they burst through the door. “What the hell—”

  “Turn the lights on,” Wrath hollered again. “Someone turn on the fucking lights!”

  As Lash sat in front of the granite counter at the brownstone’s empty kitchen, his disposition improved greatly. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about the Brotherhood walking off with crates of guns and slayer jars. Or that the Hunterbred apartments had been compromised. Or that Grady had escaped. Or that he had a symphath waiting for him up north who was no doubt cranking out because Lash hadn’t gone up there to murder someone yet.