The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8

by J. R. Ward

  In the wake, the boy brought his hands forward and rubbed them one into the other. Stepping forward, he said his father’s name once . . . twice.

  The Brother turned back, his expression like that of one confronted by an unwelcome obligation. “Well, come on, then—”

  “If I may,” Darius said, stepping between them. “It would be my pleasure to have him aid me in my duty. If it would not offend.”

  Truth was, he cared naught if it offended. The boy needed more than his father would give him and Darius was not the kind to sit aside while a wrong unfolded.

  “You think I cannae take care of my blood?” Hharm snapped.

  Darius turned to the male and went nose-to-nose with him. He preferred peaceful negotiation when it came to conflict, but with Hharm, there was no reasoning. And Darius was well endowed to meet force with force.

  As the Brotherhood froze around them, Darius dropped his voice even though all assembled would hear every word. “Give me the boy and I will deliver him whole unto the dawn.”

  Hharm growled, the sound like that of a wolf amid fresh blood. “As shall I, brother.”

  Darius leaned in closer. “If you take him out to fight, and he dies, you shall carry that shame upon your lineage fore’ermore.” Although for truth it was hard to know whether the male’s conscience would be affected. “Give him to me and I will save you that burden.”

  “I never liked you, Darius.”

  “And yet back in camp you were more than willing to service those I bested.” Darius flashed his fangs. “Given how much you enjoyed that, I should think you’d hold me in kinder regard. And know this—if you do not allow me to o’ersee the boy, I shall take you down to this floor at our feet and beat you until you relent unto me.”

  Hharm broke eye contact, lifting his gaze above Darius’s shoulder as the past sucked the Brother down. Darius knew the moment that he had been drawn into. It was the night when Darius had won against him back at the camp—and as Darius had refused to redress the deficiency, the Bloodletter had. Brutal was a pale word to describe that session, and though Darius was loath to bring it up, the boy’s safety was a worthy end for the unworthy means.

  Hharm knew who would win in a contest of fists.

  “Take him,” the male said flatly. “And do what you will with him. I hereby renounce him as my son.”

  The Brother pivoted, strode out. . . .

  And took all the air from the cave with him.

  The warriors watched him go, their silence louder than the war cry had been. To disavow offspring was antithetical to the race, as much as daylight would be to a family meal: it was ruination.

  Darius went over to the young male. That face . . . Dearest Virgin Scribe. The boy’s frozen gray face wasn’t sad. Wasn’t heartbroken. Wasn’t even ashamed.

  His features were a veritable death mask.

  Putting out his palm, Darius said, “Greetings, son. I am Darius, and I shall function as your fighting whard.”

  The young’s eyes blinked once.

  “Son? We shall go anon to the cliffs.”

  Abruptly, Darius was subjected to a sharp regard; the boy was clearly searching for signs of obligation and pity. He would find none, however. Darius knew with precision the dry, hard earth upon which the boy’s boots stood, and therefore he was well aware that any kind of softness offered would only result in further disgrace.

  “Why,” came a hoarse question.

  “We go anon to the cliffs to find that female,” Darius said with calm. “That is why.”

  The boy’s eyes bored into Darius’s. Then the young placed his hand upon his breast. With a bow, he said, “I shall endeavor to be of service rather than weight.”

  It was so hard to be unwanted. Harder still to hold one’s head up after such an affront.

  “What is your name,” Darius asked.

  “Tohrment. I am Tohrment, son of . . .” The throat was cleared. “I am Tohrment.”

  Darius stepped in beside the young male and put his palm on a shoulder that had yet to fill out to its fullest potential.

  “Come with me.”

  The boy followed with purpose . . . out of the audience of the Brotherhood . . . out of the sanctuary . . . out of the cave . . . into the night.

  The shift within Darius’s chest happened sometime between that initial footstep forward and the moment they dematerialized together.

  Verily he felt for the first time as if he had a family of his own . . . because even though the boy wasn’t his by blood, he had assumed care of him.

  Accordingly, he would go before a blade intended for the younger if it came down to that, sacrificing himself. Such was the code of the Brotherhood—but only toward one’s brothers. Tohrment was not yet among that number; he was but an initiate by virtue of his bloodline, which gained him access into the Tomb, and nothing further. If he failed to prove himself, he would be barred forever therein.

  Indeed, for all the code required, the boy could well be slain on the field and left for dead.

  But Darius would not permit that.

  He’d always wanted a son of his own.

  NINE

  TWENTY MILES OUTSIDE OF CHARLESTON,

  SOUTH CAROLINA

  “Holy . . . shit. They got some kind of trees here.”

  Well, yeah, that summed it up. As the Paranormal Investigators satellite-link van eased off Rural Route SC 124, Gregg Winn braked and leaned forward over the steering wheel.

  Fucking . . . perfect.

  The plantation house’s entrance was marked on both sides by live oaks the size of RVs and Spanish moss hung off all those massive branches, swaying in the soft breeze. Down at the end of the framing alley, about half a mile away, the columned mansion sat pretty as a lady in a chair, the noontime sun painting her face in lemon yellow light.

  From the back, PI’s “host,” Holly Fleet, leaned in. “Are you sure about this?”

  “It’s a Band B, right?” Gregg hit the gas. “Open to the public.”

  “You called four times.”

  “They didn’t say no.”

  “They didn’t get back to you.”

  “Whatever.” He needed to make this happen. PI’s prime-time specials were on the verge of breaking through to the next advertising-dollar level at the network. They weren’t in American Idol territory, true, but they’d kicked the shit out of the most recent Magic Exposed episode, and if that trend continued, the money was going to get thicker than blood.

  The long drive up to the house was like a trail that led not just deeper into the property, but backward in time. For God’s sake, as he glanced around the grass-covered grounds, he expected to see Civil War soldiers and antebellum Vivien Leighs strolling beneath the scarved trees.

  The gravel lane took visitors directly to the formal front enterance and Gregg parked off to the side in case any other cars needed to pass by.

  “You two stay here. I’m going in.”

  As he stepped out from behind the wheel, he covered up his Ed Hardy shirt with a black windbreaker and pulled the cuff down over his gold Rolex. The van with its PI logo of a magnifying glass over a black, shadowy ghost was flashy enough, and no doubt the house was owned by a local. Thing was, Hollywood style wasn’t necessarily a value-add outside of L.A.—and this gracious place was about as far from plastic surgery and spray tans as you could get.

  His Prada loafers shifted through the stone confetti of the driveway as he walked over to the entry. The white house was a simple three-story box with porches on the first and second floors and a hip roof with dormers, but the elegance of the proportions and the sheer size of the damn thing were what put it so solidly in mansion territory. And to top off the grande dame routine, all the windows were framed on the inside by jewel-toned drapes, and through the leaded glass, he could see the chandeliers hanging from high ceilings.

  Hell of a bed-and-breakfast.

  The front door was big enough to belong on a cathedral and the knocker was a brass lion’s
head that seemed nearly life-size. Lifting the weight, he let it fall back into place.

  While he waited, he checked to make sure Holly and Stan were where he’d left them. Backup was the last thing he needed when he was on what amounted to a sales call—especially when the hello-my-name-is was an unwelcome one. And the truth was, if they hadn’t just been on an assignment up in Charleston, he might not have tried a face-to-face, but for a half-hour drive that wasn’t even out of their way, it was worth the effort. They weren’t due to start setup for the special in Atlanta for a couple of days, so there was time for this. More to the point, he would kill to—

  The door swung wide and he had to smile at what was on the other side. Man . . . it just kept getting better. The guy had English butler stamped all over him, from his shiny shoes to his black waistcoat and blazer.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” And he had an accent. Not quite British, not quite French—high-class European. “How may I help you?”

  “Gregg Winn.” He put out his hand. “I think I’ve called you a couple of times? Not sure you’ve gotten the messages.”

  The butler’s shake was fast. “Indeed.”

  Gregg waited for the man to continue. When there was nothing coming, he cleared his throat. “Ah . . . I was hoping you’d allow us to do some investigating of your lovely house and grounds. The Eliahu Rathboone legend is pretty remarkable, I mean . . . the reports from your guests are amazing. My team and I—”

  “Permit me to interrupt. There will be no filming or recording on the premises—”

  “We would pay.”

  “—at all.” The butler smiled tightly. “I’m sure you can understand that we prefer our privacy.”

  “Quite frankly, I don’t. What’s the harm in allowing us to poke around?” Gregg dropped his voice and leaned in. “Unless, of course . . . you’re making those footsteps yourself in the middle of the night? Or suspending a candle in that upstairs bedroom by fishing wire?”

  The butler’s face didn’t change, and yet he reeked of disdain. “I believe you were on your way.”

  Not a comment. Not a suggestion. A demand. But fuck that, Gregg had dealt with tougher stuff than some nancy in a penguin suit.

  “You know, you must get a lot of traffic as a result of those haunting stories.” Gregg lowered his voice even further. “Our TV audience is huge. If you think you’re getting visitors now, imagine what it would do for your business if you went national. And even if you are cooking up the Rathboone stuff yourself, we can work with you, rather than against you. If you know what I mean.”

  The butler stepped back and began to close the door. “Good day, sir—” Gregg put his body in the way. Even if he hadn’t wanted to check out the stories badly, the whole no thing just wasn’t his bag. And as usual, getting shut out sharpened his interest like nothing else.

  “We’d like to stay the night, then. We’re doing workups on some of the neighboring Civil War sites and need a place to crash.”

  “I’m afraid we’re full.”

  At that moment, like a gift from God, a couple came down the gracious stairway, their suitcases in hand. Gregg smiled as he looked over the butler’s shoulder.

  “Not as full as you were.” Shifting through his deck of personality cards, he put forth his best I’m-going-to-be-no-trouble expression. “No is no, I get that. So we won’t record anything, audio or video. Swear on my grandmother’s life.” Lifting his hand in greeting, he said loudly, “Hey, you guys—enjoy your stay?”

  “Oh, my God, it was incredible!” the girlfriend, wife, casual lay, whatever said. “Eliahu is real!”

  The boyfriend, husband, wanted-to-score nodded. “I didn’t believe her. I mean, ghosts—come on. But yeah . . . I heard the thing.”

  “We saw the light, too. Have you heard about the light?”

  Gregg put his hand over his chest in shock. “No, what light? Tell me everything. . . .”

  As they launched into a detailed recitation of all the “incredibly amazing things” that were so “incredible and amazing to witness” during their “incredible . . . ,” the butler’s eyes narrowed into slits. Clearly, his manners overrode his urge to kill as he stepped aside to let Gregg meet up with the departing pair, but the temperature in the foyer had dropped into chilly land.

  “Wait—is that . . .” The male guest frowned and leaned to the side. “Holy crap, are you with that show—”

  “Paranormal Investigators,” Gregg filled in. “I’m the producer.”

  “Is the host . . .” The guy glanced at his lady friend. “Is she here, too?”

  “Sure is. You want to meet Holly?”

  The guy put down the suitcase he was carrying to tuck in his polo shirt a little more tightly. “Yeah, could I?”

  “We were just leaving,” his other half interjected. “Weren’t we. Dan.”

  “But if I—we—have the chance to—”

  “Get on the road now, we’ll be home by nightfall.” She turned to the butler. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Griffin. We’ve had a lovely stay.”

  The butler bowed with grace. “Please do come again, madam.”

  “Oh, we will—this is going to be a perfect place for our wedding in September. It’s incredible.”

  “Just amazing,” her fiancé tacked on, like he wanted to be back on her good side.

  Gregg didn’t push the meet-and-greet with Holly as the pair went out the front door—even though the guy paused and looked over as if he were hoping Gregg would follow them.

  “So I’ll just go get our bags,” Gregg said to the bulter. “And you can get our room ready, Mr. Griffin.”

  The air around the man seemed to warp. “We have two rooms.”

  “That’s fine. And because I can tell you’re a man with standards, me and Stan will bunk together. For propriety’s sake.”

  The butler’s brows lifted. “Indeed. If you and your friends would be good enough to wait in the drawing room to your right, I shall have the housekeepers ready your accommodations.”

  “Fantastic.” Gregg clapped the man on the shoulder. “You won’t even know we’re here.”

  The butler pointedly stepped back. “A word of caution, if I may.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Do not go up to the third floor.”

  Well, wasn’t that an invitation . . . and a line right out of a Scream movie. “Absolutely not. I swear to it.”

  The butler went off down the hall and Gregg leaned out of the front door, motioning for his crew. As Holly got out, her double-Ds bounced under the black T-shirt she was wearing, and her Sevens were so low-cut her flat, tanned belly flashed. He’d hired her not for her brains, but for her Barbie dimensions, and yet she’d proven to be more than he’d expected. Like a lot of dummies, she wasn’t completely stupid, just largely so, and she had an eerie ability to position herself where it would most suit her advancement.

  Stan slid the van’s side panel back and stepped out, blinking hard and shoving his long, straggly hair out of the way. Perpetually stoned, he was the perfect person for this kind of work: technically adept, but mellow to the point where he took orders well.

  Last thing Gregg wanted was an artiste running the camera lenses.

  “Get the luggage,” Gregg called over to them. Which was code for, Bring not only your overnight bags but the small-scale equipment.

  This wasn’t the first site he’d had to talk his way into.

  As he ducked back inside, the couple who had departed were driving past in their Sebring convertible, the guy watching Holly bend into the van instead of where he was going.

  She tended to have that effect on men. Another reason to keep her around.

  Well, that and she had no problem with casual sex.

  Gregg walked into the drawing room and did a slow around-the-world. The oil paintings were museum quality, the rugs were Persian, the walls were hand-painted with a pastoral scene. Sterling-silver candlesticks were on every surface and not one piece of furniture had been made in
the twenty-first or twentieth . . . or maybe even nineteenth century.

  The journalist in him sat up and hollered. B and Bs, even first-rate ones, weren’t kitted out like this. So there was something going on here.

  Either that or the Eliahu legend was putting a helluva lot of heads on those pillows every night.

  Gregg went over to one of the smaller portraits. It was of a young man in his mid-twenties, and painted in another time, another place. The subject was seated in a stiff-backed chair, his legs crossed at the knees, his elegant hands off to one side. Dark hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon, revealing a face that was a stunner. The clothes were . . . Well, Gregg was no historian, so who the fuck knew, but they sure as hell looked like what George Washington and his ilk wore.

  This was Eliahu Rathboone, Gregg thought. The secret abolitionist who had always left a light on to encourage those who needed to escape to come his way . . . the man who had died to protect a cause before it even took root up in the North . . . the hero who had saved so many, only to be cut down in the prime of his life.

  This was their ghost.

  Gregg made a frame with his hand and panned around the room before zeroing in on that face.

  “Is that him?” Holly’s voice came from behind. “Is that really him?”

  Gregg beamed over his shoulder, his body positively tingling. “And I thought the pictures on the Internet were good.”

  “He’s, like . . . gorgeous.”

  And so were his backstory and his house and all of those people who left here talking about hauntings.

  Fuck the Atlanta trip to that asylum. This was their next live special.

  “I want you to work on the butler,” Gregg said softly. “You know what I mean. I want access to everything.”

  “I’m not sleeping with him. I draw the line at necrophilia and that one is older than God.”

  “Did I ask you to get on your back? There are other ways. And you have tonight and tomorrow. I want to do the special here.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “We’re broadcasting live from here in ten days.” He walked over to the windows that faced out toward the alley of trees, and with every step he took, the floorboards creaked.