The Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4

by J. R. Ward

  If he’d been a gentleman, he’d have left her alone.

  Yeah, and when was the last time he’d lived up to his pedigree?

  Rhage appeared in front of him. The vampire was wearing a long black trench coat over his leathers, and the contrast with his fair-haired beauty was no doubt a stunner. It was well-known that the brother used his looks against the opposite sex mercilessly, and that after a night of fighting, his favorite way to wind down was with a female. Or two.

  If sex were food, Rhage would have been morbidly obese.

  But he wasn’t just a pretty face. The warrior was the best fighter the brotherhood had, the strongest, the quickest, the surest. Born with an overload of physical power, he preferred to meet lessers bare-handed, saving the daggers only for the end. Maintained that it was the only way to get any job satisfaction. Otherwise, the fights didn’t last long enough.

  Of all the brothers, Hollywood was the one the young males in the species talked about, worshiped, wanted to be. Except that was because his fan club only saw the glossy surface and the smooth moves.

  Rhage was cursed. Literally. He’d gotten himself in some serious trouble right after his transition. And the Scribe Virgin, that mystical force of nature who oversaw the species from the Fade, had given him one hell of a punishment. Two hundred years of aversion therapy that kicked in whenever he didn’t keep himself calm.

  You had to feel sorry for the poor bastard.

  “How we doing tonight?” Rhage asked.

  Wrath closed his eyes briefly. A blurry image of Beth’s body arching, caught as he’d looked up from between her legs, sliced through him. As he pictured himself tasting her again, his hands curled into fists, his knuckles cracking.

  I’m hungry, he thought.

  “I’m good to go,” he said.

  “Hold up. What’s that?” Rhage demanded.

  “What’s what?”

  “That expression on your face. And Christ, where’s your shirt?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What the…I’ll be damned.” Rhage laughed. “You got some grind tonight, didn’t you?”

  Beth was not a grind. No way, and not only because she was Darius’s daughter.

  “Zip it, Rhage. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Hey, I’m the last one to criticize. But I gotta ask, was she any good? Because you don’t look particularly relaxed, my brother. Maybe I need to teach her a few things and then have her give you a try again—”

  Wrath calmly introduced Rhage’s back to the wall, almost taking out a mirror with the male’s shoulders. “You will shut the shut up or you will be six inches shorter. Your pick, Hollywood.”

  His brother was just playing, but there was something un-holy about taking that experience with Beth and getting it anywhere near Rhage’s sex life.

  And maybe Wrath was feeling just a little possessive.

  “Have we made our choice?” he drawled.

  “I’m feeling you.” The other vampire grinned, his teeth a flash of white in his striking face. “But come on, lighten up. You don’t usually waste time with the females, and I’m just glad to know you got off, that’s all.”

  Wrath let go.

  “Although Jesus, she couldn’t have been all that—”

  Wrath unsheathed a dagger and buried the thing into the wall an inch from Rhage’s skull. The sound of steel punching through plaster had a nice ring to it, he thought.

  “You do not push me on this one. Got it?”

  The brother nodded slowly as the dagger handle vibrated next to his ear. “Ah, yeah. I’m thinking we’re clear on that.”

  Tohrment’s voice cut through the tension. “Whoa! Rhage, you been poppin’ shit again?”

  Wrath stayed still for one more moment, just to make sure the message had gotten through. Then he yanked the knife out of the wall and stepped back, prowling around the room as the other brothers arrived.

  When Vishous came in, Wrath took the warrior aside. “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Human male. Billy Riddle. I want you to work your computer magic. I need to know where he lives.”

  V stroked his goatee. “He in town?”

  “I think so.”

  “Consider it done, my lord.”

  When they were all there, even Zsadist, who’d graced them with being on time, Wrath got the ball rolling.

  “What do we have from Strauss’s phone, V?”

  Vishous whipped off his Sox cap and dragged a hand through his dark hair. He spoke as he repositioned the hat. “Our boy liked to hang with muscleheads, military wannabes, and Jackie Chan fans. We’ve got calls to Gold’s Gym, a paintball arena, two martial-arts places. Oh, and he liked cars. There was a mechanics shop in the log, too.”

  “Any personals?”

  “Couple. One to a landline that was disconnected two days ago. The others were cellular, untraceable, not local. I tried them all repeatedly and no one picked up. Ain’t caller ID a bitch?”

  “You check his priors online?”

  “Yeah. Typical juvie shit with a violent edge. He fits the lesser profile perfectly.”

  “What about his home?” Wrath looked over his shoulder at the twins.

  Phury glanced at his brother and then did all the talking. “Three-room apartment over the river. Lived alone. Didn’t have a lot of shit. Couple of guns under the bed. Some silver ammo. Kevlar vest. Porn collection he obviously wasn’t using anymore.”

  “Did you grab his jar?”

  “Yeah. It’s back at my place. I’ll take it to the tomb later tonight.”

  “Good.” Wrath regarded the group. “We split up. Case the businesses. I want to get inside those buildings. We’re looking for their center of ops in this area.”

  He paired up the brothers, taking Vishous with him. He told the twins to go to Gold’s and the paintball arena. Gave Tohr and Rhage the martial-arts joints. He and Vishous were going to scope out the mechanics shop, and he hoped they’d get lucky.

  Because if someone were going to wire a bomb to a car, wouldn’t a hydraulic lift be handy?

  Before they all left, Hollywood came over, looking un-characteristically serious.

  “Wrath, man, you know I can be an asshole,” Rhage said. “Didn’t mean to offend. Not going there again.”

  Wrath smiled. The thing with Rhage was, he had piss-poor impulse control. Which explained both his fly mouth and his sex addiction.

  And the problem was bad enough when he was himself. Forget about the minute the curse flipped his psycho switch and the beast came roaring to life.

  “I’m serious, man,” the vampire said.

  Wrath clapped his brother on the shoulder. On the whole, though, the SOB was a total keeper. “Forgiven, forgotten.”

  “Feel free to hammer me anytime.”

  “Believe me, I do.”

  Mr. X drove to an alley downtown that was unlit and open to streets at both ends. After parking the minivan face out behind a Dumpster, he threw Cherry Pie over his shoulder and walked twenty yards away from the car. She moaned a little as she bounced on his back, as if she didn’t want her high disturbed by movement.

  He laid her out on the ground, and she didn’t fight him as he slit her throat. He watched for a moment as her glossy blood seeped from her neck. In the darkness it looked like Quaker State motor oil. He put his finger down, getting some on the tip. His nose detected all manner of disease, and he wondered if she’d known she had an advanced case of hep C. He figured he was doing her a favor, sparing her an unpleasant, creeping death.

  Not that killing her would have bothered him had she been perfectly healthy.

  He wiped his finger on the edge of her skirt and then moved away to a pile of debris. An old mattress was just the ticket. Propping it up against the brick, he settled into the juncture, unbothered by the stinky, sweaty smell of the thing. He took out his dart gun and waited.

  Fresh blood brought out civilian vampires like crows to roadkill.
>
  And sure enough, not long thereafter a figure appeared at the end of the alley. It looked left and right and then rushed forward. Mr. X knew that what approached had to be who he was after. Cherry was well concealed in the darkness. There was nothing to draw anyone in her direction except for the subtle scent of her blood, something human noses could never have picked up.

  The young male was greedy in his thirst, and he fell upon Cherry like someone had laid out a buffet for him. Busy drinking, he was taken by surprise when the first dart popped out of the gun and went into his shoulder. His immediate instinct was to protect his food, so he hauled Cherry’s body behind some mangled trash cans.

  When the second dart hit him, he wheeled around and leaped up, eyes trained on the mattress.

  Mr. X tensed, but the male came forward with more aggression than competence. His body was disorganized in its movements, suggesting he was still learning how to control his limbs after his transition.

  Two more darts didn’t slow him down. Clearly the Demosedan, a horse tranquilizer, wasn’t enough to do the job. Forced to engage the male in a fight, Mr. X stunned him easily by kicking him in the head. The male let out a howl of pain as he went down to the dirty asphalt.

  The commotion attracted attention.

  Fortunately, it was only two lessers, not curious humans or, even more annoying, the police. The lessers stopped at the end of the alley and, after quick consultation, moved in to investigate.

  Mr. X cursed. He was not prepared to reveal himself or what he was doing. He needed to work the kinks out of the information-gathering strategy before he came forward with it and assigned his lessers roles. After all, a leader should never delegate that which he had not done before and done well.

  There was also a matter of self-interest. There was no telling who among the slayers might try to go around him to the Omega, either copping the idea as his own or bitching about preliminary failures. God knew the Omega was always receptive to initiative and new directions. And would have benefited from some Ritalin when it came to loyalty.

  Even more to the point, the Omega’s version of a pink slip was quick and horrific. As Mr. X’s former superior had learned three nights ago.

  Mr. X plucked out the darts from the body. He would have preferred killing the vampire, but there wasn’t enough time. Leaving the male still moaning on the ground, Mr. X sprinted down the alley, sticking to the wall. He kept the minivan’s headlights off until he’d slid into traffic.

  Chapter Eleven

  Beth’s alarm clock went off, and she slapped it into silence. The buzzing was redundant. She’d been up for at least an hour, her mind humming like a lawn mower. With the dawn’s arrival the hot night’s mystery had faded, and she was forced to face what she had done.

  Unprotected sex with a total stranger was one hell of a wake-up call.

  What had she been thinking? She’d never done that before. She’d always been safe. Thank God she was on the pill to regulate her sporadic periods, but as for the other implications, her stomach rolled.

  When she saw him again she’d ask him if he was clean, and pray the answer was the one she wanted to hear. As well as honest.

  Maybe if she’d had more dating practice, she would have had some protection ready. But when was the last time she’d slept with anyone? A long time. Longer than the shelf life of a box of condoms.

  The extended dry spell in her sex life was as much from lack of interest as any kind of morals thing. Men just weren’t that high on her list of priorities. They ranked somewhere down around getting her teeth cleaned and having her car serviced. And she didn’t have a car anymore.

  She’d often wondered if there was something wrong with her, especially as she watched couples walk by on the street hand in hand. Most people her age were dating wildly, trying to find altar material. Not her. She just hadn’t had any burning desire to be with a man, and had even considered the possibility that she was a lesbian. Trouble was, she wasn’t attracted to women.

  So last night had been a revelation.

  She stretched, a delicious tightness coiled in her thighs. Closing her eyes, she felt him inside of her, his thickness surging and retreating until that final moment when his body had convulsed into hers with a powerful rush, his arms crushing her against him.

  Her body arched involuntarily, the fantasy strong enough to have her throbbing between her legs. Echoes of those orgasms made her bite her lip.

  With a groan she got to her feet and headed for the bathroom. When she saw the shirt he’d ripped off his chest in the wastebasket, she picked it up and held it to her nose. The black fabric smelled like him.

  The throbbing got worse.

  How did he and Butch know each other?

  Was he on the force? She’d never seen him before, but there were a number of them she didn’t know.

  Vice, she thought. He must be a vice cop. Or maybe a SWAT team leader.

  Because he was definitely the kind of man who looked for trouble and served asses up on a plate when he found it.

  Feeling as if she were sixteen, she shoved the shirt under her pillow. And then saw the bra he’d taken off her on the floor. Good lord, the front had been cut apart, sliced by something sharp.

  Weird.

  After a quick shower, and a faster breakfast of two oatmeal cookies, a handful of Pepperidge Farm goldfish, and a juice box, she walked down to the office. She’d been in her cube staring at her screen saver for a half hour when her phone rang. It was José.

  “We had another busy night,” he said, yawning.

  “Bomb?”

  “Nope. Dead body. Prostitute was found with her throat cut over on Third and Trade. If you come down to the station you can see the pictures, read the reports. Off the record, of course.”

  She was out on the street two minutes after she’d hung up the phone. She figured she’d hit the station first and then head over to the Wallace Avenue address.

  She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t aching to see her midnight visitor again.

  As she walked to the precinct house, the morning sun was unmercifully bright, and she dug into her purse for her shades. When they weren’t enough to cut the sting, she shielded her eyes with her hand. It was a relief to get inside the cool, dim police station.

  José wasn’t in his office, but she found Butch coming out of his.

  He smiled at her dryly, the corners of his hazel eyes wrinkling. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Heard you have a new case.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Care to comment, Detective?”

  “We issued a statement this morning.”

  “Which no doubt said absolutely nothing. Come on, can’t you spare a few words for me?”

  “Not if we’re on the record.”

  “How about off?”

  He took a piece of gum out of his pocket and methodically unwrapped it, folding the pale slice into his mouth and biting down. She seemed to remember him smoking at some point, but hadn’t seen him lighting up recently. Which probably explained all that Wrigley’s.

  “Off the record, O’Neal,” she prompted. “I swear.”

  He nodded his head over his shoulder. “We need a closed door then.”

  His office was about the size of her cubicle at the paper, but at least it had a door and a window. His furniture was not as good as hers, though. His desk was an old wooden one that looked as if it had been used as a carpenter’s workbench. There were hunks out of the top, and the varnish was so scratched it absorbed the fluorescent light as if thirsty.

  He tossed a file at her before sitting down. “She was found behind a bunch of trash cans. Most of her blood ended up in the sewer, but the coroner thinks he found traces of heroin in her system. She’d had sex that evening, but that’s not exactly news.”

  “Oh, my God, this is Mary,” Beth said, looking at a gruesome picture and sinking into a chair.

  “Twenty-one years old.” Butch cursed under his breath. �
��What a fucking waste.”

  “I know her.”

  “From the station?”

  “Growing up. We were in the same foster home for a little while. Afterward, I’d run into her sometimes. Usually here.”

  Mary Mulcahy had been a beautiful little girl. She’d been in the home with Beth for only about a year before she’d been sent back to her birth mother. Two years later she was back in state custody after having been left alone for a week at the age of seven. She’d said she’d lived on raw flour after the rest of the food had run out.

  “I’d heard you’d been in the system,” Butch said, getting thoughtful as he looked at her. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “Why do you think? No parents.” She closed the file and slid it onto the desk. “Did you find a weapon?”

  His eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. He seemed to be debating whether to take her lead and let the subject drop.

  “Weapon?” she prompted.

  “Another throwing star. Had traces of blood on it, but not hers. We also found some powdered residue in two different places, as if someone had lit off flares and put them on the ground. Hard to imagine the killer’d want to draw attention to the body, though.”

  “You think what happened to Mary and the car bomb are related?”

  He shrugged, a careless lift of his broad shoulders. “Maybe. But if someone was really doing a payback on Big Daddy, they’d have hit higher up the food chain than her. They’d have gone after the pimp himself.”

  Beth closed her eyes, envisioning Mary as a five-year-old, a headless Barbie doll in a tattered dress tucked under her arm.

  “Then again,” Butch said, “maybe this is just getting started.”

  She heard his chair move and looked up as he came around the desk to her.

  “You got any plans for dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah. You and me.”

  Hard-ass was asking her out? Again?

  Beth stood, wanting to be on an equal footing with him. “Ah, yes—no, I mean, thanks, but no.”

  Even if they didn’t have a professional relationship of sorts, she had other things in mind. Imagine that. Keeping her calendar open just in case the man in leather wanted to see her tonight as well as this morning.