by J. R. Ward
They didn't even associate with soldiers.
Daughters like her were trained in needlepoint, classical music and singing, manners, and running vast households filled with doggen. They were expected to know the complicated social calendar and the festival cycles, keep up with the wardrobe requirements of all of that, and know the difference between Van Cleef & Arpels, Boucheron and Cartier. They were cloistered, protected, and cherished as all jewels were.
The only dangerous thing they were permitted to do? Breed. With a hellren chosen by their family to ensure the sanctity of their bloodlines.
It was a miracle her father was letting her do this.
He had certainly not been on board when she'd first shown him the application--but he'd had a change of heart and let her apply to the program: The raids of a couple of years ago, when so many vampires had been killed by the Lessening Society, had proved what a dangerous place Caldwell, New York, could be. And she'd told him that she didn't want to go out and fight in the war. She just wanted to learn to defend herself.
Once she'd framed it in terms of her safety? That was when her father had changed his tune.
The real truth was that she just wanted something that was hers. An identity that came from a place other than what her birthright had forced on her.
Plus Peyton had told her she couldn't do it.
Because she was female.
Screw that.
Paradise checked those closed doors again. "Come on. . . ."
Pacing around, she eventually wandered out into the foyer, but she didn't want to get too close to where the males were meeting--as if that might jinx things.
God, what were they talking about in there?
Usually the King left right after the last audience of the night. If he and the Brotherhood had any private business or stuff about the war to deal with, it was handled back at the First Family's residence, a place so secret that not even her father had been invited to go there.
So yeah, this had to be about her.
Back in the waiting area, she went to the desk and counted the hours she had sat at it. She'd only had the job a couple of months, but she'd liked the work--to a point. In her absence, assuming she stayed in the BDB training program, a cousin of hers was taking over, and she'd spent the last seven nights showing the girl the ropes, clarifying the procedures Paradise had put into place, making sure that the transition was going to go smoothly.
Sitting back down in her chair, she opened the middle drawer and took out her application--as if that could somehow reassure her that this was all going to still happen.
As she held the paperwork in her hands, she wondered who else was going to be at the orientation tomorrow . . . and thought of the male who'd shown up here at the audience house, looking for a printed-out version of the application.
Tall, big shoulders, deep voiced. Wearing a Syracuse baseball cap, and jeans that had been worn out from what looked like actual work.
The community of vampires was a small one, and she'd never seen him before--but maybe he was just a civilian? That was another change in the training program. Before now, only males from the aristocracy were invited to work with the Brotherhood.
He had given her his name, but refused to shake her hand.
Craeg. That was all she knew.
He hadn't been rude, though. In fact, he'd been supportive of her applying.
He'd also been . . . captivating in a way that had shocked her--to the point where she'd waited for weeks to see if he brought the application back. He hadn't. Maybe he'd scanned it and sent the thing in that way.
Or maybe he'd decided not to try for the program after all.
It seemed crazy to be disappointed that she might never see him again.
As her phone went off with a chirp, she jumped and went for the thing. Peyton. Again.
She would see him at the orientation tomorrow night--and that would be soon enough. After that fight they'd had about her joining the program, she'd had to pull away from the friendship.
Then again, if the Brotherhood was putting their foot down in there with her father? That righteous indignation she felt toward the guy was going to be a moot point. But come on, females were allowed to apply.
The problem was, she was not a "normal" female.
FFS, she did not know what she was going to do if her father took it all back. Surely the Brotherhood wouldn't wait until the last minute to deny her a spot, though.
Right?
*
Across town, Marissa, mated shellan of the Black Dagger Brother Dhestroyer, a.k.a. Butch O'Neal, sat back in her desk chair at Safe Place. As the thing let out a creak, she tapped her Bic pen on the OfficeMax calendar blotter and shifted the phone receiver to her other ear.
Cutting into the stream of blabbering, she said, "Well, I certainly appreciate the invitation, but I can't--"
The female on the other end didn't miss a beat. She just kept on talking, her aristocratic intonation sucking up all the bandwidth--until it was a wonder that the entire zip code didn't suffer an electrical brownout. ". . . and you can understand why we need your help. This is the first Twelfth Month Festival Ball that has been held since the raids. As the shellan of a Brother, and a member of a Founding Family, you would be a perfect chair of the event--"
Giving her no another shot, Marissa cut in, "I'm not sure you're aware of this, but I work full-time as the director of Safe Place and--"
". . . and your brother said that you would be a good choice."
Marissa fell silent.
Her first thought was that she found it highly unlikely that Havers, the race's physician and her very, very, very estranged next of kin, had recommended her for anything other than an early grave. Her second was more along the lines of a calculation . . . how long had it been since she had spoken to him? Two years? Three? Not since he'd thrown her out of their house, about five minutes before dawn, when he'd found out she was interested in a mere human.
Who had actually turned out to be Wrath's cousin and the embodiment of the Dhestroyer legend.
How ya like me now, she heard in her head.
"So you just have to chair the event," the female concluded. As if it were a done deal.
"You must needs forgive me." Marissa cleared her throat. "But my brother is not in a position to proffer my name for anything, as he and I haven't seen each other for quite some time."
When a whole boatload of nothing-but-quiet came over the connection, she decided she should have aired her family's dirty laundry about ten minutes ago: Members of the glymera were supposed to observe rigid codes of behavior--and exposing the colossal rift in her bloodline, even though it was well-known, was something that was simply not done.
Far more appropriate for others to whisper about it behind your back.
Unfortunately, the female recovered and changed tactics. "At any rate, it is vitally important for all members of our class to resume the festivals--"
A knock on the door to her office brought Marissa's eyes around. "Yes?"
Over the phone, the female said, "Wonderful! You can come to my estate--"
"No, no. There's someone who needs me." She spoke up louder. "Come on in."
The moment she saw the expression on Mary's face, she cursed. Not good news. Rhage's shellan was a consummate professional, so for her to look like that? It was really a problem--
Was that blood on her shirt?
Marissa dropped her tone and cut the politeness. "My answer is no. My job requires all my time. Besides, if you're this passionate, you should take the job. Good-bye."
Dropping the phone back in the cradle, she got to her feet. "What's going on?"
"We've got an intake who needs medical assistance STAT. I can't reach Doc Jane or Ehlena anywhere. I don't know what to do."
Marissa rushed around the desk. "Where is she?"
"Downstairs."
The pair of them hit the stairwell at a run, Marissa in the lead. "How did she come to us?"
&nb
sp; "I don't know. One of the security cameras picked her up out on the lawn, crawling."
"What?"
"My cell phone went off with an alert, and I ran out there with Rhym. We carried her into the parlor."
Rounding the corner at the bottom, Marissa skidded on one of the throw rugs. . . .
And stopped altogether.
When she saw the condition of the female on the sofa, she put one hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear God . . ." she whispered.
Blood. There was blood everywhere, on the floor in drips, soaking through white towels pressed to wounds, pooling under one of the female's feet on the carpet.
The girl had been beaten so badly there was no way to identify her, her features so swollen that, if she hadn't had long hair and a torn skirt, you wouldn't even have known what sex she was. One arm was clearly dislocated, the limb hanging badly from the shoulder . . . and she had only the left high-heeled shoe on, her stockings shredded.
Her breathing was bad, very bad. Nothing but a rattling in her chest, as if she were drowning in her own blood.
Rhym, the intake supervisor, looked up from where she had crouched by the couch. Through the tears in her eyes, she whispered, "I don't think she's going to live. How can she live . . . ?"
Marissa had to pull herself together. It was the only option. "Doc Jane and Ehlena are both unreachable?" she said in a hoarse voice.
"I've tried the mansion," Mary replied. "The clinic. Their cell phones. Two times in all places."
For a split second, Marissa was terrified about what that meant for her own life. Were the Brothers in medical trouble? Was Butch okay?
That lasted only a moment. "Give me your phone--and get the residents into the Wellsie annex. I want everyone there in case I have to bring a male in."
Mary tossed over her phone and nodded. "I'm on it."
Safe Place was exactly that--a safe place for female victims of domestic violence to come for shelter and rehabilitation with their young. And after Marissa had spent countless, useless centuries in the glymera, being nothing but the unclaimed betrothed of the King, she had found her calling here, in service to those who had been at best verbally abused, at worst, horrifically treated.
Males were not allowed inside.
But to save the life of this female here, she would break that rule.
Answer your phone, Manny, she thought as the first ring sounded. Answer your damn phone. . . .
Chapter Two
It wasn't the whole Black Dagger Brotherhood.
In fact, there were only two Brothers with the King.
As Abalone, First Adviser to Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, entered the audience room to stand before his ruler, he was acutely aware of the other males. He had never known any of those warriors to be aught than protective and civilized, but considering he was about to turn his only blooded offspring over to them, their more obvious attributes were like screams in the night.
The Brother Vishous was staring at him with diamond eyes that didn't blink, those tattoos at his left temple seeming properly sinister, his muscle-roped body clad in leather and stung with weapons. By his side was Butch, a.k.a. the Dhestroyer--a former human with a Boston accent who had been infected by the Omega and left for dead--only to become one of the few to survive a jump-started transition.
The two of them were rarely apart, and it was tempting to assign them bad-cop, good-cop roles. Right now, though, the paradigm had shifted. Butch, the male who tended to smile and talk to people, seemed like the one it would be best to avoid in a dark alley: His hazel stare was narrow and unwavering.
"Yes?" Abalone asked his King. "May I be of service in some manner?"
Wrath stroked the boxy blond head of his guide dog, George. "My boys here need to talk to you."
Ah, Abalone thought. And he suspected what this was about.
Butch smiled for a split second. Like he wanted to preemptively take the sting from whatever was going to come out of his mouth. "We want to make sure you're aware of what's involved in the training program."
Abalone cleared his throat. "I know that this is very important to Paradise. And I'm hoping there are some self-defense courses offered. I should like her to be . . . safer."
That potential benefit had been the only thing that had helped him through the clash between what he had expected for her and her life, and what she seemed to be choosing to do.
When there was no response, Abalone looked back and forth between the Brothers. "What are you not telling me?"
Vishous opened his mouth, but the Brother Butch raised his palm and shut him up. "Your role here with Wrath comes first."
Abalone recoiled. "Are you saying that Paradise is ineligible because of my position here? Dearest Virgin Scribe, why didn't you tell us--"
"We need you to understand that what's going to happen is not all book learning. This is a preparation for war."
"But the candidates don't necessarily have to go fight down in the alleys during the program, correct?"
"What we're worried about is here." The Brother indicated the room. "We can't have anything affect your relationship with Wrath and what you do for the King. Paradise is as welcome as anyone else in the program, but not if the prospect of her dropping out or being cut could create tension between us."
Abalone exhaled in relief. "Do not worry about that. She succeeds or fails on her own merits. I expect no special treatment for her--and if she cannot keep up? Then she should be dismissed."
In fact, although he would never say it aloud, he both prayed for, and expected, that to be the case. He did not look forward to Paradise being disappointed in herself or her efforts, but . . . the last thing he wanted for his daughter was her being exposed to any ugliness--or, God forbid, actually trying to fight in the war.
He couldn't even fathom that last one.
"Worry not," he reiterated, glancing at the Brothers and at the King. "All shall be well."
The Brother Butch stared at Vishous. Then looked back. "You read the application, right?"
"She filled it out."
"So you didn't read it?"
"This is something she's doing independently--as her father and ghardian, was I supposed to sign it?"
Vishous lit a hand-rolled. "You might want to be prepared, true?"
Abalone nodded. "I am. I promise you, I am."
Paradise was a female gently raised in the proper traditions of the aristocracy. She'd been working on her physical conditioning for the last two months--quite diligently, actually--and he could feel the excitement rolling off of her as she wound up her duties here and prepared to exit her position. There was, however, a very good chance that after the orientation tomorrow evening, when the real work started, she would find herself either bowing out . . . or being asked to leave.
It was going to kill him to see her fail.
But better that than her dying out in the field just to prove the point that she was so much more than what her aristocratic station dictated.
As the pair of Brothers continued to look at him, Abalone lowered his head. "I know this is not going to go well for her. I am more than braced for that. I am not naive."
After a moment, Butch said, "Okay. Fair enough."
"Is there aught else, my lord?" Abalone asked the King.
When Wrath shook his head, Abalone bowed to each of them. "Thank you for your concern. Paradise is my most precious one--all that is left of my beloved shellan. I know she shall be in kind and fair hands on the morrow."
As he turned to leave, the Brothers remained grim, but then again, he was not privy to what was going on with the war--and there was always something. The fighting and the strategy were nothing he had ever been involved with, and for that he was grateful.
Just as he would be if Paradise left that program.
Verily, he wished her mahmen were still alive. Perhaps this all would be moot if his shellan had been present to talk some sense into the girl.
Opening the double doors, he heard a
clattering in the waiting area. "Paradise?"
He strode across the foyer, and as he rounded the corner into the parlor, his daughter straightened from picking up red pens that had been knocked off the desk.
"Is all well?" he asked.
Her eyes met his. "Is it? Are you allowing me to go tomorrow night?"
Abalone smiled--and tried to keep the sadness out of his eyes, his voice. "Of course. You're in the program, that was decided months ago."
She ran over and embraced him, holding on tight, as if she had been convinced she was going to be denied what she wanted so badly.
Embracing his daughter, Abalone was vaguely aware of the Brothers and the King leaving out the front door. He paid them no mind.
He was too busy wishing he could save his daughter from any and all disappointment. That was not among the parenting skills he had been granted upon her birth, however.
Oh, how he wished his shellan were here with them instead of in the Fade.
She would have handled all of this better.
*
Standing over the horrifically injured female, Marissa closed her eyes as she got Manny's voice mail for the third time. What the hell was going on at the clinic?
Just as she was about to redial, her phone began to ring. "Thank God--Manny? Manny?"
Something about the tone of her voice caused the wounded female to stir, her bloody face moving against the sofa cushions. God, the sound of that wheezing rattle was enough to make the heart skip beats.
"No, it's Ehlena," said the voice in her ear. "Manny and Jane are doing emergency surgery on Tohr. He has a compound fracture of the femur and I have to head back into the OR. Is there something wrong?"
"How long are they going to be?" she asked.
"They just started."
Marissa closed her eyes. "Okay, please have them call me when they can? I've got a . . ." She turned away and dropped her voice. "I have a trauma case that's just come in here. I don't know if we have a lot of time."
Ehlena cursed. "We can't spare anyone here. Can you call Vishous? With his medical training, he may be able to stabilize things."
Marissa tried to imagine that Brother walking through the house. Not her first choice, and not because she didn't trust the male. Her hellren's best friend was a stellar vampire all the way around.
His appearance was just terrifying.
