by J. R. Ward
A shame the way the evening was going to have to end.
“That’s a bit quick, is it not?”
Throe turned to the gentlemale who had spoken. “I beg your pardon.”
“Your sherry is too fine to take that fast.” The male smiled smoothly. “But I suppose we all have our different ways of doing things.”
Altamere, Throe thought. The male’s name was Altamere.
“Cat got your tongue, old friend.” Altamere put his hand on Throe’s shoulder and pushed down. “Although old is a bit of a stretch for us, isn’t it. You have only just arrived.”
Throe narrowed his eyes. “Our bloodlines have mingled for centuries.”
“But not you and I. You’re a newcomer here in Caldwell. An upstart, as it were.” The male indicated the grand room. “Tell me, where is the true master of this house. Does he know you’re using his estate for your own purposes? Or will he be joining us.”
Throe smiled coldly. “No, he will not.”
“A squatter playing sire.” The male leaned in. “Such a cliché.”
“Will you excuse me?” Throe said. “I must go check on the meal.”
“Why? Because you cooked it for us?”
As the male smiled slyly, Throe put his glass down on the makeshift bar. “Your son is in the training center program, isn’t he. Don’t you find that beneath you? I mean, fighting is no longer something that people in our class do. Unless you’re trying to teach him a lesson in social humility?”
The male clamped his teeth together. “It is Rexboone’s honor to serve the race. And with our sons dying in downtown Caldwell, I would say it’s an excellent skill for a male of my class to have.”
Nice little dig there, wasn’t it.
Now Throe was the one leaning in. “If you truly believed that, you would announce that he’s in training. That he’s fighting. That he’s working for the Brotherhood. The only way I found out was through the female that plays tennis with your shellan. Not exactly shouting it from the rooftops, are you.”
As the male’s pale eyes shot across the way and locked on his mate, Throe felt a stab of satisfaction at causing mated strife. After all, the aristocracy was centuries away from any fighting tradition. In this modern era, it was shameful to have any male in one’s bloodline wield a gun in defense of the species.
“Things get around in society, don’t they,” Throe murmured as he turned away. “It’s hard to keep secrets. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Walking out of the rear of the room, he went into the study which he had deliberately kept dark—and all he wanted to do was stab the fucker himself.
But that was not how things were going to go.
“Come here,” he commanded into the darkness.
His favorite shadow, the one that he had tasked to protect himself, materialized beside him, a bobbing void with the slightest shimmer denoting its contours.
“You see that male?” He pointed to Altamere. “That is the one they start with. Are we clear?”
More bobbing, not that he’d expected any kind of disagreement. And to hell with waiting for the remaining two people to arrive. It wasn’t as if they were going to make it to the table, anyway.
Throe checked his watch.
Regarded his guests for one last time.
“I think now. I think we shall commence . . . now.”
John Matthew had been paired with Qhuinn and Blay on the stakeout of the party, the three of them clustered halfway down the flank of the house in the dark wedge between spotlights that shined out onto the rolling, snow-covered lawn. They were to wait for a signal to infiltrate, and as he watched the people circulate in a room that was so elegant, he wouldn’t have wanted to try to sit in a chair there, he really hoped these fancy types weren’t planning to make a move on Wrath.
John had dispatched a lot of lessers back to the Omega. But he hadn’t killed members of the species before. Not that he would hesitate if they were committing treason.
Tohr’s directive was clear. If the signal was given, the Brotherhood and the fighters on the property were going to burst in and take the assembled guests into custody. Things were only going to get deadly if somebody did something stupid.
Throe, on the other hand, was a different story—
John frowned and leaned forward. Speak of the devil. The host with the most had just taken his leave of the gathering and walked into a totally dark room. Silhouetted in the light streaming in from the parlor, his dark form tilted forward, as if he were speaking to someone.
Tapping Qhuinn on the shoulder, John pointed to the window.
“Yeah,” the Brother whispered. “I see it, too. What the hell?”
A sense of foreboding had John reaching for his gun; he had a really bad feeling about all this: Throe was not alone in that room. And yet there didn’t seem to be a corporeal figure with him.
When the male returned to the party, John moved with him, tracking the aristocrat from window to window. Coming up to V and Murhder, John tapped them both.
Something’s wrong—
The attack happened in slow motion. One moment, the cocktail party was in full swing, people talking and gesturing with the exaggerated politeness of the glymera—the next, a figment of John’s nightmares wafted into the room.
A shadow.
Vishous barked into his shoulder mic. “Now. Now. Now!”
Without thinking, John took two running strides and leaped into the air, tucking his head and rolling forward such that his leather-covered shoulders shattered the glass. Swinging his feet over his head to complete the somersault, he landed on his boots with his gun up.
But it was too late for the male who was attacked. Before John could squeeze off a round of the Brotherhood’s sacred bullets, the shadow entity lashed out at a guest, piercing him through the chest, the male’s screams bloodcurdling until they were cut off by a throat slash.
Blood flew from an open artery in the aristocrat’s neck, the arc as graceful as the violence was terrible.
John set his position, leveled his gun . . . and squeezed off two rounds as soon as he got a clear shot. But that was all he could do. In the panic typical of laypeople, the party guests fell into a disorganized scramble, tripping over gowns, over each other, running in all directions like the spooked sheep they were.
He’d hit the entity at least once, though: Its high-pitched squeal cut through even the yelling and the pounding of feet.
And then the shadow turned on him.
As the crowd scattered away, John smiled. And pulled his trigger again. Two more times. A sixth—
With each bullet, the shadow was forced back, the slugs of lead that were treated with holy water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain driving the entity into a retreat. Even as fins licked out of its translucent black core, and those knives flew around, John was too dominant as he pursued the thing.
Smaller. The outer edges of the shadow were shrinking in, its size diminishing. And fortunately, the crowd and the other fighters were staying out of range, so he had the room he needed to finish the damn thing off.
John kicked out the clip he’d emptied. Slammed in a new one.
He was careful not to get too close.
He had no intention of getting stung—
“John! Watch out!”
Before he could look in the direction of the voice, a massive body tackled him, throwing him off his shitkickers. He kept shooting even as he headed for the floor, focusing only on his target. Just before he slammed into the carpet, the shadow became lit from the inside, an evil glow emanating from the center of its bulbous form. In the blink of an eye, that glow rippled outward—
John hit the floor with Murhder on top of him, the breath exploding out of his lungs . . . at the same time the shadow blew apart, a black wash, part tar, part congealed blood, spackling the previously perfect wall behind it as well as the rug, a painting, a sofa.
It was like sewer sludge had been blown out of a cannon.
John could only stare at the spectacle. And it was as his brain replayed frame by frame what had gone down that he recalled seeing another shadow coming at him from the side.
Murhder had undoubtedly saved his life.
For the second time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Standing on the far side of the parlor, next to the guns and knives he had discreetly stashed in a bookcase, Throe had been ready to arm himself to defend his guests against the “threat.” But just as he was about to reach for the weapons, he heard the sound of breaking glass—at the exact moment one of his shadows attacked Altamere.
He could not comprehend what had shattered and why such a thing would occur.
And then it was all too clear.
His plan, to be the “defender” of the aristocrats in the face of the shadows, to be the one to save these useless members of the glymera so they would back him, to set the stage for an overthrow of the King after the Brotherhood had not rescued their targeted sons, was utterly shattered—just like the glass of the windows the Brothers and fighters broke through to jump into the room from the outside.
Throe hit the ground so he didn’t get struck by the cross fire, and he watched with stunned disbelief as the Brotherhood took over the attack, protecting the civilians, engaging the shadows . . . saving lives.
Throe didn’t stick around for more than a minute.
Scrambling across the carpet on his belly, he pushed with his slippery tuxedo shoes and dragged himself forward with his bare palms to go around the corner and get away from the chaos. As soon as he was in the foyer, he jumped up into a crouch, put his arms over his head, and ran for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, the gunfire, the screams, the squeals, receded some as he made it to the second story.
When he got to the master bedroom, he took out his key. Vampires could unlock anything but copper with their minds which was why the master of the house had made sure his suite was properly protected.
Throe dropped his keys. Fumbled them again—
Finally, he was through the door and he wheeled around to slam the heavy oak panels shut with his palms—
Throe froze as a strange breeze brushed over his hair.
A breeze that had a pull to it.
As his instincts pricked in alarm, a nauseous fear goosebumped his skin and his breath got short.
Don’t look behind yourself, a voice deep inside his head ordered him. Get out of here, now!
Throe didn’t waste a heartbeat. He didn’t care what was on the other side, he grabbed for the doorknob—
“Ow!” Retracting his palm, he shook out a sensation of burning. “What the hell?”
Ripping off his tuxedo jacket, he wrapped his hand up and—
A hollow moaning sound rippled through the room, and the lights flickered. And even though he knew he should not look, should never look, he found his head cranking to the side.
When he saw what was behind him, Throe screamed.
Murhder didn’t jump off of John, even though he knew damn well he was crushing the male. With this many guns being discharged? You made any quick vertical moves and you lost your fucking head.
Bullets whistled by, taking out lamps, turning oil paintings to sieves, blowing up porcelain bowls and gold-speckled plates. Grabbing John by the shoulder, he rolled the two of them out of the way, taking cover behind a sofa the color of a buttercup.
Jesus, it was like Die Hard only shot in a museum instead of a high-rise. And what the fuck were those shadow things?
Murhder took aim at the nearest one, which was lashing out at Rhage, and as he pulled the trigger on a gun for the first time in twenty years, his aim was really fucking bad. He ended up drilling a crystal sconce to the left of the fireplace, the lightbulbs exploding into sparks as they vaporized.
He didn’t make that mistake twice.
Finding a groove, he squeezed off multiple rounds, and thus gave Rhage the chance to rescue two females who were holding each other and cowering behind a silk armchair. With the brother as protection, they ran off, high heels twisting ankles, their gowns held up to their waists, their once-neat chignons now birds’ nests full of tangles.
John swung his own muzzle around, and doubled down on the shadow that Murhder was working on, discharging his own bullets—
There was an unholy squeal, a sound higher than a piccolo’s best note and louder than a jet engine. And then the entity blew apart like the first one had, oily mud flying out and hitting the mantelpiece as well as what was left of the window Murhder had broken with his own body.
It was like someone slinging fresh cow flops around.
Two more to go.
Except . . .
The remaining shadows weren’t attacking anything. The entities were side by side and stationary in the archway of the darkened study beyond, like smog balloons tethered to a fixed point in the floor.
He and John leveled muzzles on their direction.
Nobody moved: Not them. Not their targets.
That was not true elsewhere in the house. The other brothers and fighters were rushing to get the guests to secured locations, all kinds of shuffling feet, hushed voices full of fear, and barked orders radiating into the parlor from a distance.
“We need to kill them now,” Murhder said softly. “It’s the only—”
Poof! Poof!
The entities disappeared, one after another.
As a scream lit off somewhere on the second floor.
Throe tried for the doorknob again, but it burned through the tuxedo jacket—and then getting out of the bedroom suite was no longer an option. What started out as a breeze morphed into a vacuum, the pull dragging him away from the door—
He dropped to his knees. Grabbed onto anything that he went by: A spindly chair. The edge of a side table. The bureau. He fought and clawed, churned his legs, locked eyes on the door into the bathroom as if that would give him a redirection.
He did not want to look again. But once more, his head turned as if controlled by someone else.
The Book had opened itself on the writing desk, and the perfectly cylindrical black void had reappeared, that which Throe had witnessed previously happening anew, that which should have been no deeper than the three-foot drop to the bedroom floor under the blotter funneling into an unfathomable depth—
Something stung his hand. And then his other one.
He swung his head back around. Two of his shadows were before him, and they were lashing out, punishing his grips as he tried to keep himself in the realm of reality.
Throe screamed one last time as he lost all purchase against the powerful draw.
And then his body was sucked feet-first into the void.
Falling. He was falling, the cold damp air becoming more and more frigid. Colder, faster, colder . . . faster. Ice forming on his upraised hands, his eyelashes, his cheeks.
As his velocity continued to increase, his tuxedo frayed off his body, the fibers brittle from the indescribable freeze, the speed of the fall, the pressure that began to bear down on him. Naked . . . he was naked now, his skin frosting over, turning black.
And then fraying as his clothes had.
His flesh was next. That which had contained his insides stripped off his bones, and though his eyes disintegrated, he could somehow still see the white of his skeleton—until that turned black as well.
All of his corporeal form was torn away, nothing but his spirit remaining.
And that was when he landed at some kind of bottom, sure as if he still had a physical body, pain lancing through him as if vital organs had been pulverized and his spine destroyed from the impact.
Throe lay on his back, and stared up at a circular stone construction that glistened in torchlight. A well. He was at the bottom of a well.
And that was not torchlight. His path, his descent, had left a glow in the darkness and he traced its path until it seemed to disappear at some far-off place way up above—
Metal clanking brought his head up, and he
looked down his naked body which had somehow regenerated. Shackles had clamped on his wrists and his ankles.
“What . . . what is this?” His voice was hoarse. “What e’er is this?”
He pulled at the metal bands and found no give in them at all. He was on some kind of ancient wooden table, the stains of which made him more than merely squeamish.
“Where am . . .”
He did not finish the thought.
A woman entered from the walling, as if there was a break somewhere therein. She was naked and gloriously so, her high firm breasts and perfect nipples, her flat stomach and lovely hips, her long legs and hairless sex, the very picture of beauty. And it was only after he had made his impression of her body that he looked at her face.
She had brunette hair that curled, long and luscious, around her shoulders, and her features were bold and arresting.
Her smile was paradise. And so was the sound of her voice: “Welcome.”
“Who are you?” As he felt himself harden, she looked at his erection. “Is this a dream?”
The woman came over to him and trailed her fingers up the inside of his thigh. “No, this is a trade.”
“. . . what?”
The female stroked his arousal, her touch going through his body, his blood thickening instantly. As he moaned, she smiled again.
“A trade,” she murmured as her hand went up and down his shaft, nice and slow.
The pleasure she called out from him seemed familiar. In fact . . . her scent was familiar. He knew her. Somehow, he knew—
The Book.
She was the Book.
“That’s right,” she said. “And I have enjoyed our dalliances even though I was only able to participate up to a point.”
Dread, fast and powerful as the lust, came onto him like the pall of death, but somehow did not cancel the erotic swell that was taking him to the very knife edge of release.
Throe struggled, but there was no getting free. Not of the terror that curdled his gut, not of the orgasm that was just about to explode out of him, not of his restraints.
