by J. R. Ward
He polished off what was in his glass and propped his elbows on his knees. Within moments, his head was bobbing, his lids slamming down. When he started to list to the side, he let himself go even though he was unsure which direction he was going in, toward the pillows or the wadded-up duvet.
Pillows.
Shifting his feet up on the bed, he dragged the covers over his hips and had a moment of blissful collapse. Maybe tonight the cycle would break. Maybe this glorious sinking relief would suck him down into the black hole he was hoping for. Maybe he’d . . .
His eyes popped open and he stared into the thick darkness.
Nope. He was exhausted to the point of being jittery, not just wide awake . . . but goosed-in-the-ass alert. As he rubbed his face, he figured this contradictory state of things was the cognitive equivalent to bumblebees being able to fly: Physicists maintained it wasn’t possible, and yet it happened all the time.
Rolling over onto his back, he crossed his arms over his chest and yawned so hard his jaw cracked. Tough to know whether to turn on the light. The darkness amplified the whirling in his skull, but the lamp stung his eyes until he felt like he was crying sand. Usually, he alternated between clicking on the bulb and turning it off.
From out in the hall of statues, he heard Zsadist and Bella and Nalla walk down to their room. As the couple talked about the dinner, Nalla cooed and squeaked in the way babies did when their bellies were full and their parents were right with them.
Blay came down the way next. Aside from V, he was the only other person who smoked in the house, so that was how John knew it was him. And Qhuinn was with the guy. Had to be. Otherwise Blay wouldn’t have lit up outside of his own room.
It was payback for that receptionist at the tat shop and who could blame him?
There was a long silence out there. And then a final pair of boots.
Tohr was heading to bed.
It was obvious who it was by the quiet more than the sound—the footfalls were slow and relatively light for a Brother: Tohr was working on getting his body back into shape, but he hadn’t been cleared for fieldwork, which made sense. He needed to put on another fifty pounds of muscle before he had any business going toe-to-toe with the enemy.
There wouldn’t be anyone else coming down. Lassiter, a.k.a. Tohr’s golden shadow, didn’t sleep, so the angel usually stayed down in the billiard room and watched highbrow television. Like paternity tests on Maury and The People’s Court with Judge Milian and Real Housewives marathons.
Silence . . . silence . . . silence . . .
When the sound of his heartbeat started to annoy him, John cursed and stretched up, turning on the light. As he settled back against the pillows, he let his arms flop down. He didn’t share Lassiter’s fascination with the boob tube, but anything was better than the quiet. Fishing around the empty bottles, he found the remote, and when he hit the on button, there was a pause like the thing had forgotten what it was used for—but then the picture flared.
Linda Hamilton was running down a hallway, her body bouncing with power. Down at the far end, an elevator was opening . . . revealing a short dark-haired kid and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
John hit the power button and killed the image.
Last time he’d seen that movie had been when he and Tohr had watched it together . . . back when the Brother had taken him out of his sad pitiful exisitence and shown him who he really was . . . back before all the seams in both their lives had gotten yanked apart.
At the orphanage, in the human world, John had always been aware he was different . . . and the Brother had given him the “why” that evening. The flash of fangs had explained it all.
Now, naturally, there had been a shitload of anxiety that came with finding out you weren’t who or what you’d always assumed you were. But Tohr had stuck by his side, just chilling and watching TV, even though he’d been on rotation to fight and also had a pregnant shellan to look after.
Kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Coming back to reality, John pitched the remote onto the side table and it bounced around, knocking over one of the empties. As the last half inch of bourbon splashed out, he reached across and picked up a shirt to mop up the mess. Which, considering what a shambles the rest of the room was in, was like backing up a Big Mac and fries with a Diet Coke.
But whatever.
He wiped off the tabletop, lifting the bottles one by one, and then opened the little drawer to swipe across the—
Tossing his T-shirt onto the floor, he reached in and picked up an ancient leather-bound book.
The diary had been in his possession for about six months now, but he hadn’t read it.
It was the one thing he had of his father’s.
With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, he opened the front cover. The pages were made of vellum and they smelled old, but the ink was still totally legible.
John thought of those notes he’d written to Trez and iAm back at Sal’s and wondered if his and his father’s handwriting were at all similar. As the entries in the diary were done in the Old Language, there was no way of knowing.
Focusing his tired eyes, he started out just examining how the characters were formed, how the ink strokes whipped about to form the symbols, how there were no mistakes or cross-outs, how even though the pages were not lined, his father had nonetheless made neat, even rows. He imagined how Darius might have bent over the pages and written by candlelight, dipping a quill pen. . . .
An odd shimmer went through John, the kind that made him wonder whether he was going to have to be sick . . . but the nausea passed as an image came to him.
A huge stone house not unlike the one they were living in now. A room kitted out with beautiful things. A hurried entry made on these pages at a desk before a grand ball.
The light of candle, warm and soft.
John shook himself and kept turning the pages. Sometime along the way he started not just measuring the lines of characters, but reading them. . . .
The color of the ink changed from black to brown when his father wrote about his first night in the warrior camp. How cold it was. How scared he was. How much he missed home.
How alone he felt.
John empathized with the male to the point where it seemed as though there was no separation between the father and the son: In spite of the many, many years and an entire continent of distance, it was as though he were in his father’s shoes.
Well, duh. He was in the exact same situation: a hostile reality with a lot of dark corners . . . and no parents to back him up now that Wellsie was dead and Tohr was a living, breathing ghost.
Hard to know when his eyelids went down and stayed there.
But at some point he fell asleep with what little he had of his father held reverently in his hands.
EIGHT
1671, SPRINGTIME,
THE OLD COUNTRY
Darius materialized in a stretch of thick forest, taking form beside the entrance of a cave. As he scanned the night, he listened for any sounds worthy of notice. . . . There were deer tiptoeing around down by the quietly running stream, and the breeze whistled through the pine needles, and he could hear his own breathing. But there were no humans or lessers about.
A moment longer . . . and then he slipped beneath the overhang of rock and walked into a natural room created aeons ago. Deeper and deeper he went, the air thickening with a smell he despised: The musty dirt and cold humidity reminded him of the war camp—and even though he’d been out of that hellish place for twenty-seven years, the memories of his time with the Bloodletter were enough to make him recoil even now.
At the far wall, he ran his hand over the wet, uneven rock until he found the iron pull that released the hidden door’s locking mechanism. There was a muffled squeal as hinges turned and then a portion of the cave slid to the right. He didn’t wait for the panel to fully retract, but stepped through as soon as he could wedge his thick chest in laterally. On the other side, he hit a second l
ever and waited until the section was secured back in place.
The long pathway to the Brotherhood’s sanctum sanctorum was lit with torches that burned ferociously and cast hard-lined shadows that jerked and spasmed on the rough floor and ceiling. He was about halfway down when the voices of his brothers reached his ears.
Clearly, there were a lot of them at the meeting, given the symphony of bass, male tones that overlapped and competed for airspace.
He was probably the last to arrive.
When he got to the iron-barred gate, he took a heavy key from his breast pocket and pushed it into the lock. Opening the way took strength, even for him, the huge gate swinging free of its anchor only if he who sought to enter could prove himself worthy of forcing it wide.
When he got down into the wide-open space deep in the earth, the Brotherhood was all there and, with his appearance, the meeting commenced.
As he took a stand next to Ahgony, the voices silenced and Wrath the Fair regarded the assembled. The Brothers respected the race’s leader, even if he was not a warrior among them, for he was a regal male of worth whose sage council and prudent restraint were of great value in the war against the Lessening Society.
“My warriors,” the king said. “I address you this eve with grave news and a request. A doggen emissary came unto my private home during the sunlight and sought a personal audience. After refusing to present his cause unto mine own attendant, he broke down and wept.”
As the monarch’s clear green eyes circled the faces, Darius wondered where this was leading. Nowhere good, he thought.
“It was then that I interceded.” The king’s lids lowered briefly. “The doggen’s master had sent him forth unto me with the worst possible news. The unmated daughter of the family is missing. Having taken an early retire, all appeared well with her until her maid brought forth a midday repast in the event she was of a mind for sustenance. Her room was empty.”
Abgony, the lay leader of the Brotherhood, spoke up. “When was she last seen?”
“Prior to Last Meal. She came unto her parents and informed them she had no appetite and would be requiring a lie-down.” The king’s gaze continued around. “Her father is a righteous male who has rendered unto me personal favors. Of greater weight, however, is the service he has offered unto the race as a whole as leahdyre of the Council.”
As curses echoed around the cave, the king nodded. “Verily, it is the daughter of Sampsone.”
Darius crossed his arms over his chest. This was very bad news. Daughters of the glymera were like fine jewels to their fathers . . . until such time as they were passed unto the care of another male of substance, who would treat her thusly. These females were watched over and cloistered. . . . They did not just disappear out of their families’ houses.
They could be taken, however.
Like all things of rarity, well-bred females were of very high value—and as always when it came to the glymera, the individual was less important than the family: Ransoms were paid not to save her life, but her bloodline’s reputation. Indeed, it was not unheard-of for such a virginal female to be abducted and held for money, the sole leverage being social terror.
The Lessening Society was not the only source of evil in the world. Vampires had been known to prey upon their own.
The king’s voice resonated around the cave, deep and demanding. “As my private guard, I look to you to provide redress of this situation.” Those royal eyes locked on Darius. “And there is one among you whom I shall ask to go forth and right this wrong.”
Darius bowed low before the request was put out. As always, he was fully prepared to discharge any duty for his king.
“ Thank you, my warrior. Your statesmanship shall be of value under the roof of that now broken home, as shall your sense of protocol. And when you discover the malfeasor, I am confident of your ability to ensure an appropriate . . . outcome. Avail yourself of those who stand shoulder to your shoulder and, above all, find her. No father should have to bear this empty horror.”
Darius couldn’t agree more.
And it was a wise assignment made by a wise king. Darius was a statesman, true. But he had a particular commitment to females after having lost his mother. Not that the other Brothers wouldn’t have given themselves over with similar dedication—except for Hharm, perhaps, who had a rather dim view of female worth. But Darius was the one who would feel this responsibility most and the king was nothing if not calculating.
That being said, he was going to need help and he glanced around his brothers to determine who he would pick, sifting through the grim, now familiar faces. He stopped looking when he saw a stranger’s visage among them.
Across the altar, the Brother Hharm was standing beside a younger, thinner version of himself. His boy was dark haired and blue eyed in the manner of the sire, and shared the potential of the broad shoulders and wide chest that was characteristic of Hharm. But there the similarity ended. Hharm was lounging with an insolent lean against the wall of the cave—which was not a surprise. The male preferred combat to conversation, having little time or attention span to spare for the latter. The boy, however, was engaged to the point of transfixion, his intelligent eyes locked on the king in awe.
His hands were behind his back.
In spite of his outward appearance of calm, he was twisting those hands where no one could see, the movement in the tops of his forearms belying his nervous churning.
Darius could understand how the boy felt. After this address, they were one and all going out into the field and Hharm’s son would be tested for the first time against the enemy.
He was not properly armed.
Fresh from the war camp, his weapons were no better than Darius’s had been . . . just more of the Bloodletter’s castoffs. Which was deplorable. Darius had had no sire to provide for him, but Hharm should have taken care of his boy, giving him well-balanced, well-made instruments that were as good as his own.
The king raised his arms and looked up unto the ceiling. “May the Scribe Virgin look upon those herein assembled with all grace and blessing as these soldiers of worth go out unto the fields of conflict.”
The war cry exploded from the Brothers, and Darius joined in with all his breath, the roar echoing and rebounding and continuing as a chant started up. As the thundering sound rose higher and higher, the king held his palm out to the side. From the shadows, the young heir to the throne came forward, his expression far older than his seven years. Wrath, son of Wrath, was, like Tohrment, the spitting image of his sire, but there the comparison between the two pairs ended. The regent king was sacred, not just to his parents, but to the race.
This small male was the future, the leader to come . . . evidence that in spite of the affronts committed by the Lessening Society, the vampires would survive.
And he was fearless. Whereas many a wee one had shrunk back behind a parent when facing a single Brother, the young Wrath stood his own, staring up at the males before him as if he knew, regardless of his tender age, that he would command the strong backs and fighting arms of those before him.
“Go forth, my warriors,” the king said. “Go forth and wield thy daggers with lethal intent.”
Bloodythirsty things to say in front of tender ears, but in the midst of the war, there was no advantage to shielding the next generation of royalty. Wrath, son of Wrath, would never be out in the field—he was too important to the race—but he would be trained so he could appreciate what the males under his authority were facing.
As the king stared down upon his begotten issue, the elder’s eyes misted with pride and joy and hope and love.
How different Hharm and his son were. That young was beside his blooded sire, but for all the attention that was paid to him, he might have stood next to a stranger.
Ahgony leaned into Darius. “Someone needs to watch o’er that boy.”
Darius nodded. “Aye.”
“I fetched him from the war camp this night.”
Darius
glanced over at his brother. “Indeed? Where was his sire?”
“Betwixt the legs of a maiden.”
Darius cursed under his breath. Verily, the Brother was of brutish constitution in spite of his breeding and courtesy of his base instincts, he had sons aplenty, which may have explained though certainly not excused his thoughtlessness. Of course, his other sons were not eligible for the Brotherhood because their mothers were not of Chosen blood.
However, Hharm appeared to be unconcerned.
As the poor boy stood so separate, Darius remembered well his own first night in the field: how he’d been tied to no one . . . how he’d feared facing the enemy with nothing but his wits and what little training he’d had to fortify his courage. It wasn’t that the Brothers had cared naught how he fared. But they had had to watch after themselves and he’d had to prove he could hold his own.
This young male clearly was in the same predicament—it was just that he had a father who should have eased his way.
“Be well, Darius,” Ahgony said as the royals went in among the Brothers, clasping palms and preparing to take their leave. “I am escorting the king and the prince.”
“Be well, my brother.” The two embraced quickly and then Ahgony joined the Wraths and went with them out of the cave.
As Tohrture stepped up and began apportioning territories for the night, pairs started to form and Darius looked through the heads at Hharm’s son. The boy had faded back against the wall and was standing stiffly, still with those hands behind his back. Hharm seemed uninterested in anything other than trading hyperbole with the others.
Tohrture put two fingers up to his mouth and whistled. “My brothers! Attention!” The cave went stone silent. “ Thank you. Are we clear on territories?”
There was a collective affirmation and the Brothers started to leave—and Hharm didn’t even look back at his son. He just went for the exit.
