Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  His second was that he was going to take out as many as he could before they finally finished the job on him.

  With a battle cry, Qhuinn exploded out of his bed, his naked body going on the attack with such power, he actually plowed over the first two males. Spinning with his legs, he kicked and punched at anything that came at him, and there was a brief satisfaction as his targets cursed and jumped out of range—

  Something locked around his chest from behind, and swung him around with such force, his feet popped off the ground and flew in a crazy circle—

  Hellllllllllo, wall.

  The impact was a three-point bulletin to his fight-back bright idea, his face, torso, and hips slamming into the plaster so hard, he no doubt left a cartoon-style 3-D rep of himself on the shit.

  Instantly, he palmed the flat plane, prepared to shove his way off—

  The grip that latched onto his nape and held him in place might as well have been steel. There was literally no give in the flesh and bone, even as he strained, his body refusing to be dominated—

  “Chill, asswipe. Just fucking chill before I’m forced to hurt you.”

  The sound of Vishous’s voice made no fucking sense.

  And then abruptly, from out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that a ring had formed around him, all those black robes surrounding him, just like that grip on his neck.

  But they were not attacking.

  “Just relax,” V said into his ear. “Breathe for me, come on, now—just breathe easy. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  The talking helped, that cool, calm voice reaching through the fight-or-flight response and turning down the volume on his panic’s roar.

  In the aftermath, Qhuinn started to shake, his muscles processing the adrenaline. “Vishous?”

  “Yup. It’s me, buddy. You need to keep breathing.”

  “Who…else?”

  “Rhage.”

  “Butch.”

  “Phury.”

  “Zsadist.”

  “Tohr.”

  The voices all matched the names, those deep, serious, no-bullshit tones sinking into his brain, helping to ground himself in a reality that didn’t involve the past.

  And then the last one was the final rung of the ladder that got him out of that mental tailspin and back to what was real. “Wrath.”

  Qhuinn went to jerk his head toward the king, but the impulse got him nowhere.

  “I’m going to let you go, buddy, okay?” V said. “You gonna mind your manners?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On three. One. Two. Three—”

  Vishous leaped back and landed in a hand-to-hand combat pose: arms up, fists ready, stance stable. In spite of the fact that the Brother’s face was covered by the hood, Qhuinn could just picture the expression: No doubt that if Qhuinn made any move, he’d be reintroduced to the wall—and that acquaintance had already been well and truly made, fuck him very much.

  He felt about six inches flatter.

  With a curse, Qhuinn turned around slowly, keeping his hands where the Brotherhood could see them. “Are you kicking me out of the house?”

  He had no clue what the hell he’d done, but with his history of pissing people off—on purpose and by default? Could be anything.

  “No, you idiot,” V said with a laugh.

  Facing the lineup of hooded, solemn figures, he searched where the faces were, making contact, reminding himself that these were the guys he had fought with side by side, that they’d always had his back, that they’d worked together.

  So what the hell was going—

  The third figure from the left lifted his arm, a long finger extending out and pointing to the dead center of Qhuinn’s chest.

  Instantly, Qhuinn was back in the carcass of the Cessna, the in-flight drama over, Zsadist alive and well, the goal reached…that male singling him out as he was now.

  In the Old Language, Wrath said, “You shall be asked a question. You shall be asked it only once. Your answer shall stand the test of time, extending out from this moment unto your bloodline forever more. Are you prepared to be asked.”

  Qhuinn’s heart began to thunder. Eyes bouncing around, he couldn’t believe that this was…

  Except…how was it possible? Based on his bloodlines and his defect, it wasn’t legal for someone like him to—

  From out of nowhere, the image of Saxton working in that library for all those nights hit him.

  Holy…fuck.

  So many questions: Why him? Why now? What about John Matthew, whose chest already, magically, bore the marking of the Brotherhood?

  As his mind raced, he knew he had to answer, but shit, he couldn’t—

  With a sudden clarity, he thought of his daughter, picturing that image that he’d seen in the door to the Fade.

  Qhuinn looked at each of the hoods again. How ironic, he thought. Nearly two years ago, an Honor Guard of black robes had been sent to him to make sure he knew his family didn’t want him. And now, here these males were, come to draw him into a different kind of fold—that was every bit as strong as that of blood.

  “Hell, yeah,” he said. “Ask me.”

  * * *

  Blay’s first clue that something big was up was the sound of footfalls going by his room: He was in front of his mirror, shaving, when he heard them come down the hall of statues, heavy, repetitive—a lot of them.

  Had to be the Brotherhood.

  Then, as he bent over the sink to rinse the residual shaving cream off his cheeks, something hard dropped to the floor next door—or was thrown at a wall. In what sure as shit seemed like Qhuinn’s room.

  Cranking off the hot and cold mix, he snagged a towel and wrapped it around his hips as he jogged out of his suite and headed down to—

  Blay skidded to a halt. Qhuinn’s room was dark, but the light from the corridor shone in…on a circle of black robes that surrounded the guy. As he was held face-first against the wall.

  Blay’s only thought was that a second Honor Guard had come for the fighter—even though he knew damn well that it was the Brotherhood under all those robes. Had to be, right?

  Vishous’s voice solved that one, the male’s words slow and even.

  Then Qhuinn was released. As he turned around, he was white as a sheet, shaking as he stood naked in the center of that circle of hooded figures.

  Wrath cut through the silence, the king’s deep baritone filling the darkness. “You shall be asked a question. You shall be asked it only once. Your answer shall stand for the test of time, extending out from this moment unto your bloodline forever more. Are you prepared to be asked.”

  Blay put his dagger hand up to his mouth as the thing fell open. This couldn’t be…could it? They were inducting him into the Black Dagger Brotherhood?

  Instantly, he put it all together—Saxton working for all those months; Qhuinn’s acts of heroism; John getting informed that the guy was no longer his ahstrux nohtrum.

  Wrath must have changed the Old Laws.

  Holy fucking shit.

  “Hell, yeah. Ask me.”

  Blay had to smile as he ducked away and went back to his room. Leave it to Qhuinn to be blunt.

  As he shut his door, he stayed against it, waiting. Moments later, those heavy footsteps came again, filing past his room, going down the hall, disappearing…changing history forever.

  In all the aeons of the Brotherhood, there had never been anyone inducted who wasn’t the son of a Brother and a female of Chosen blood. Qhuinn was technically an aristocrat —even with him forsaken by his family, and with his “defect,” his lineage was what it was. But he didn’t have the kind of DNA credentials—or the warrior name—that the others did.

  And yet, assuming he lived through the ceremony, he would return to the mansion as a male among equals, forsaken no more.

  It was good that Luchas was alive to see this. That was going to matter.

  Blay got dressed, and when he checked his phone, he saw the group text that had gone out from
Tohr, saying that no one was going out into the field tonight—and that they were getting a pair of new roommates: The Shadows were coming to stay at the mansion.

  Cool. Given the disquiet with the aristocracy, and that attempt on Wrath’s life? Nothing better than having those two killers under the roof. Coupled with Lassiter’s antics, that meant the king had a trio of guys with extra skills protecting him.

  With any luck, Trez and iAm would be permanent fixtures.

  Leaving his room, he jogged down the stairs and was not surprised to find the doggen running around, setting up a feast.

  How long was it going to take, he wondered.

  And man, he wished he had something to occupy the time.

  Wandering into the billiards room, because he knew better than to approach Fritz with an offer to help with the preparations, he picked up a cue and racked a set of balls. As he was chalking the tip, the bell at the vestibule’s door went off.

  “I’ve got it,” he hollered out as he took his cue with him, striding over to the security check-in screen.

  Saxton was on the stoop, the male looking rested and healthy.

  Blay opened the way in. “Welcome back.”

  There was a moment of surprise on the other male’s face, but he recovered fast with a smile. “Hello.”

  Blay wasn’t sure whether they should embrace or not. Did they shake?

  “We need to stop this awkwardness,” Saxton announced. “Come here.”

  “I know, right?”

  After a quick hug, Blay grabbed the male’s matching Gucci bags, and the pair of them hit the grand staircase, ascending side by side.

  “So how was the vacation?” Blay asked.

  “Wonderful. I went to my aunt’s—the one who still talks to me? She has a place down in Florida.”

  “Dangerous place for vampires. Not a lot of basements.”

  “Ah, but she lives in a stone castle.” Saxton nodded around at the foyer. “Not unlike this one. The evenings were warm, the ocean was wonderful, and the nightlife was—”

  As Saxton stopped short, Blay glanced over. “It’s all right, you know. I’m glad you had a good time. Honest.”

  Saxton regarded him steadily, and then murmured, “You’ve been busy yourself, haven’t you.”

  Damn redheaded coloring. Any blush had always shown—and right now, his face was on frickin’ fire.

  As they took a left in front of Wrath’s study and headed down the hall of statues, Saxton laughed a little. “I’m happy for you—and I’m not going to ask any questions.”

  He knew the “who,” Blay thought. “Yeah. So.”

  “How about you fill me in on the gossip,” Saxton said as they went into the male’s room. “I feel like I’ve been gone forever.”

  “Well…brace yourself.”

  Luchas. Trez and iAm. Qhuinn and the induction.

  By the time Blay was finished downloading, Saxton was sitting on his bed with his mouth hanging open.

  “But you knew about the Qhuinn thing, didn’t you,” Blay said as he finally stopped reporting.

  “Yes, I did.” Saxton straightened his bow tie, even though the tight knot was perfectly symmetrical. “And I have to say, even though I don’t know as much as you do about how he is in the field, everything that I’ve heard suggests it is an honor well placed. I understand he played a big role in getting Wrath safe when the assassination was attempted?”

  “He’s brave, that’s true.”

  Among many other things.

  As Blay looked out into the hall and pictured those hooded figures clustered around his friend, all he could think of was…what the hell were they going to do to him?

  SEVENTY

  Qhuinn had no clue where he was.

  Before they’d left his room, he’d been given a black robe and instructed to put the hood up, lock his eyes on the floor and keep his hands clasped behind his back. He was not to speak unless spoken to, and it was made clear that how he acted was part of what he’d be judged on.

  No being an asshole or a pussy.

  He could do that.

  Next stop after getting led down the grand staircase had been V’s Escalade; he knew by the tang of Turkish tobacco and the sound of the engine. Short drive, executed slowly. And then he was told to get out, cold air seeping under the hood of his robe as well as the hem.

  His bare feet traversed an icy-cold, frozen stretch of earth, and then hit smooth, hard-packed dirt that had no snow on it. Going by the acoustics, it was clear they were heading through a corridor or maybe a cave…? It wasn’t long before he was jerked to a stop, heard some kind of gate was opened, and then found himself on a decline. A little later, he was yanked to a halt a second time, and then there was another whisper, as if one more barrier of some sort was being cleared.

  Smooth marble under his bare feet now. And the shit was warm. There was also a mellow light source—candlelight.

  God, his heartbeat was loud in his ears.

  After a number of yards, he was again pulled to a stop, and then he heard shifting fabric everywhere around him. The Brothers disrobing.

  He wanted to look up, see where they were at, find out what was doing, but he did not. As instructed, he kept his head down and his eyes on the—

  A heavy hand landed on the nape of his neck, and Wrath’s voice boomed in the Old Language. “You are unworthy to enter herein as you stand now. Nod your head.”

  Qhuinn nodded.

  “Say that you are unworthy.”

  In the Old Language, he replied, “I am unworthy.”

  From all around him, the Brothers let out an explosive shout in the Old Language, a disagreement that made him want to thank them for having his back.

  “Though you are unworthy,” the king continued, “you desire to become as such this night. Nod your head.”

  He nodded.

  “Say that you wish to become worthy.”

  “I wish to become worthy.”

  This time the tremendous shout from the Brothers was one of approval and support.

  Wrath continued. “There is only one way to become worthy, and it is the right and proper way. Flesh of our flesh. Nod your head.”

  Qhuinn nodded.

  “Say that you wish to become flesh of our flesh.”

  “I wish to become flesh of your flesh.”

  As soon as his voice faded, a chanting started up, the deep voices of the Brotherhood mingling until they formed a perfect chord and a perfect cadence. He did not join in, because he had not been told to do so—but as someone stepped in front of him, and somebody fell in line behind him, and then the whole group started weaving side by side, his body followed their lead.

  Moving together, they became one unit, their powerful shoulders shifting back and forth to the rhythm of the chanting, their weight tick-tocking on their hips—the lineup of them beginning to move forward.

  Qhuinn started chanting. He didn’t mean to; it just happened. His lips parted, his lungs filled, and his voice joined the others….

  The instant it did, he started to cry.

  Thank fuck for the hood.

  All of his life he had wanted to belong. Be accepted. Be one among a many that he respected. He had wanted it with such a need that the denial of any and all unity had nearly killed him—and he had survived only by revolting against authority, customs, norms.

  He hadn’t even been aware of giving up on ever finding this communion.

  And yet now here he was, somewhere in the earth, surrounded by males who had…chosen him. The Brotherhood, the most respected fighters in the race, the most powerful soldiers, the elite of the elite…had chosen him.

  No accident of birth, this.

  To have been considered a curse, but be embraced here and now? Abruptly, he felt as if he were whole in a way that he had never been before—

  All at once the acoustics changed, their collective chanting richocheting around, as if they had entered a tremendous space with a lot of loft.

  A hand
on his shoulder brought him to a halt.

  And then the chanting and the movement stopped, the final strains of their voices drifting away.

  Somebody grabbed onto his arm and drew him forward. “Stairs,” Z’s voice said.

  He went up about six of them, and then there was a straightaway. When he was stopped, it was with his chest and his toes against what seemed to be a marble wall of the same sort of rock the floor was made of.

  Zsadist walked off, leaving him where he was.

  His heart banged against his sternum.

  The king’s voice was loud as thunder. “Who proposes this male?”

  “I do,” Zsadist answered.

  “I do,” Tohr echoed.

  “I do.”

  “I do.”

  “I do.”

  “I do.”

  Qhuinn had to blink repeatedly as, one by one, every single Brother spoke up. Every single fucking one of the Brothers proposed him.

  And then came the last.

  The voice of the king resonated loud and clear: “I do.”

  Fuck him, he needed to blink more.

  Then Wrath continued, his aristocratic inflection of the Old Language backed up by a warrior’s strength. “On the basis of the testimony of the assembled members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, and upon the proposals by Zsadist and Phury, sons of the Black Dagger warrior Ahgony; Tohrment, the son of the Black Dagger warrior Hharm; Butch O’Neal, blooded relation of mine own line; Rhage, the son of the Black Dagger warrior Tohrture; Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter; and mine own as Wrath, son of Wrath, we find this male before us, Qhuinn, son of no one, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, and further, as the laws have been reconstructed to provide that this is right and proper, I have waived all requirements of lineage. We may now begin. Turn him. Unveil him.”

  Before anyone came over to him, Qhuinn squared his shoulders, and managed a quick brush under his eyes—so he was a male once more as he was pivoted around and the robe was taken from him—