Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (141 page)

was Qhuinn. And man, the male looked more than ready to fuck some shit up, his eyes grim, his body

taut as a bowstring in its black leather.

For a moment, a fissure of pure, sexual awareness shot through Blay.

To the point that a totally inappropriate fantasy occurred to him: namely, he and Qhuinn ducking

into the pantry for a quick, clothes-stay-on fuck.

With a groan, he refocused on the king. Which was only appropriate. Wrath was what mattered

here, not his frickin’ love life….

A feeling of unease replaced the lust.

Were he and Qhuinn ever going to be together again?

God, what a strange thought. It wasn’t like the sex was a good idea emotionally. Arguably, it was

an extremely bad one.

But he wanted more of it. God help him.

“All right, let’s do this,” Tohr spoke up. “Everyone know where we’re going?”

It was a troubling relief to have the grave nature of the assignment in front of them clear his brain of everything but the commitment to save Wrath’s life…even if it cost him his own.

That was better than worrying about the Qhuinn shit, though.

For certain.

FIFTY-ONE

Qhuinn took form on a snow-covered terrace, and as everyone in the Brotherhood but Butch

materialized alongside of him, he was not surprised by all the swank. The estate that the

Council meeting was being held at was your standard
glymera
setup: lot of land that had

been cleared and landscaped. Little cottage down by the entrance that looked like it belonged

on a postcard of the Cotswalds. Big-ass mansion that, in this case, was made of brick and had dentil molding, shiny shutters, and slate roofing.

“Let’s do this,” V said, walking over to a side door.

The instant he pounded on it, the thing opened, as if that, along with so much, had been

prearranged. But oh, man, if this was their hostess? The female who stood in the doorway was

dressed in a long dark evening gown that was cut down to her navel, and she had a ring of diamonds

around her throat the size of a Doberman’s collar. Her perfume so heavy it was like a slap in the

sinuses—in spite of the fact that he was still outdoors.

“I’m ready for you,” she said in a low, husky voice.

Qhuinn frowned, thinking that even in that designer whatever it was, the chick came off as a tart.

Not his problem, though.

As he filed in with the others, the room they entered was some kind of conservatory, the oversize

potted green things and grand piano suggesting many an evening with guests staring up at some opera singer yodeling in the corner.

Gag.

“This way,” the female announced with a flourish of a hand that sparkled.

In her wake, that perfume—maybe it was more than sprays from a single source, like a layering of

all kinds of crap?—nearly colored the air behind her, and her hips were doing double duty with every step, like she was hoping they were all looking at her ass and wanting a piece of it.

Nope. As with the others, he was searching every nook and cranny, ready to shoot and ask

questions after the body dropped.

It wasn’t until they came out to the front hall, with its oil paintings spotlit from the ceiling, and its dark red Oriental rugs, and the…

Shit, that mirror was exactly like the one that had hung in his parents’ house. Same position, same floor-to-ceiling, same curlicue gold leafing.

Yeah, he had the creeps. Bad.

The whole house reminded him of the mansion he’d grown up in, everything in its place, the decor

far, far, far from middle-class, yet not anything gaudy and Trumpilicious. Nah, this shit was that subtle blend of old wealth and classic sense of style that could only be bred, not taught.

His eyes searched out Blay.

The guy was doing his job, staying tight, checking the place out.

Blay’s mom and pops hadn’t been quite this rich. But his home had been so much nicer on so

many levels. Warmer—and that hadn’t been about the HVAC systems.

How were Blay’s parents? he wondered abruptly. He’d spent almost more time under their roof

than his own, and he missed them. The last time he’d seen them…God, long time. Maybe that night of

the raids, when Blay’s father had gone from Mr. Suit accountant to serious ass-kicker. After that, the pair of them had moved out to their safe house, and then he and Blay had completely fallen apart.

He hoped they were well—

The image of Blay and Saxton standing chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, in Blay’s bedroom sliced into

his brain.

God…damn…that had hurt.

And man, karma was good at its job.

Replugging into reality, he followed that double-jointed pelvis and the Brotherhood into a huge

dining room that had been set up to Tohr’s specifications: All the drapery had been pulled across the bank of windows that overlooked the back gardens, and the flap door that he figured led into the

kitchen had been barricaded by a weighty antique sideboard. Whatever table had sat in the center of the room had been removed, and twenty-five matching mahogany chairs with red silk seats had been

lined up in rows facing a marble fireplace.

Wrath was going to stand in front of the mantel to make his address, and Qhuinn went over and

checked that the steel flue was closed. It was.

On either side of the fireplace, there were two sets of paneled doors that opened into an old-

fashioned receiving salon. He and John Matthew and Rhage did a walk-through of the room, closed

the thing off, and then he took up res in front of the entrance on the left, and John Matthew did the same on the right.

“I trust all is to your liking?” the female said.

Rehv went over to the fireplace and turned to face all the empty chairs. “Where’s your
hellren
?”

“Upstairs.”

“Get him down here. Now. Otherwise, if he moves through the house, he’s liable to get shot in the

chest.”

The female’s eyes flared, and this time when she walked off, there was no exaggeration to her

hips, no check-me-out toss of the hair over the shoulder. Clearly the we’re-not-fucking-around

message had been received, and she wanted whoever her mate was to live through the night.

In the wait that followed, Qhuinn kept his gun in his palm, his eyes on the room, his hearing fine-

tuned for something, anything out of order.

Nothing.

Which suggested their host and hostess had followed orders—

A strange prickling unease tickled its way up his spine, causing him to frown and go from high

alert to DEFCON I. On the far side of the fireplace, John seemed to catch the same gist, his gun

lifting, his eyes narrowing.

And then a cold mist hit Qhuinn’s ankles.

“I’ve asked a couple of special guests to join us,” Rehv said dryly.

At that moment, two columns of haze pulled up from the floor, the disturbance of air molecules

finding forms…that Qhuinn instantly recognized.

Thank fuck.

With Payne out of commission for whatever reason, he’d been feeling like they were a little light

on coverage, even recognizing the skills in the Brotherhood. But as Trez and iAm appeared, he took a deep breath.

Now that was a pair of straight-up killers, the kind of thing you really didn’t want against you in any kind of fight. The good news was that Rehvenge had long been aligned with the Shadows, and

Rehv’s connection with the Brotherhood and the king meant that the two brothers were obviously

willing to come and play a little backup.

Qhuinn stepped up to say hello to the pair, greeting them as the others did with a palm join, a

quick pull, and a clap on the back. “Hey, my man…”

“What’s doing…”

“How you been…”

After the hi-how’re-yas were done, Trez glanced around. “Okay, so we’re just going to stay outta

sight unless you need us. But rest assured, we’re here.”

After a course of thank-yous from the Brothers, Rehv said a couple of private words to the

Shadows…and then the two were gone, misting out of their forms and seething around the floors, that cold draft now a reassurance.

Perfect timing. Less than a minute later, the hostess came back with a diminutive older male at her side. Given the way vampires aged, with a rapid acceleration of physical decline toward the end of

the life span, Qhuinn guessed the guy had five years left. Ten at the very most.

Some introductions were made, but Qhuinn didn’t care about that shit. He was more worried

about whether the rest of the house was empty.

“Any
doggen
here?” Rehv demanded as the female settled her geezer into one of the dining chairs.

“As you have requested, they are all gone for this part of the evening.”

V nodded to Phury and Z. “The three of us’ll search the premises. See if that’s right.”

Even though Blay trusted himself, the Brotherhood, and John Matthew, and Qhuinn, he felt a lot better knowing the Shadows were around. Trez and iAm were not just awesome fighters, and inherently

dangerous to anyone they declared an enemy; they had a striking advantage over the Brotherhood.

Invisibility.

He wasn’t sure whether they could actually engage while in that state, but it didn’t matter. Anyone who broke in here—like, say, the Band of fucking Bastards—would make an engagement assessment

that included only the visible hard bodies in the room.

Not those two brothers.

So this was good.

At that moment, V returned with Phury and Z from their walk-around—and Butch was with them,

suggesting the Brother had just arrived via car. “Clear.”

There was a brief pause. And then, as prearranged, Tohr went to the front door and opened the

way in for Wrath.

Showtime, Blay thought, his eyes flicking in Qhuinn’s direction before he snapped himself back

into focus.

Tohr and the king entered the dining room side by side, their heads together as if they were in

deep conversation about something important, the Brother’s hand on Wrath’s forearm like the guy was trying to drive some point home.

It was all an act for the host and hostess.

Tohr was, in fact, leading Wrath by that hold on the arm, taking him over to the fireplace,

positioning him right in the middle of the mantelpiece. And that conversation? It was about where the two aristocratic hosts were sitting, where the chairs were aligned, where the Brothers and the fighters were—and the two Shadows as well.

While Wrath nodded, the king deliberately moved his head around as if his keen eyes were taking

the details of the room in. And then he acknowledged the host and hostess as they were brought

forward to kiss his huge black diamond ring.

After that, the crème de la crème of the
glymera
began to arrive.

From his assigned spot at the back of the room by the wall of windows, Blay got a good look at

each one. Jesus, he could remember some of them from his life back before the raids, before he’d

started living at the mansion and fighting with the Brothers. His parents had not been on a par with these males and females, but rather on the periphery—still, his family’s bloodlines had been good

ones, and they had been included in many festival celebrations at the big houses.

So these folks were not unknown to him.

But he sure as hell couldn’t say he’d missed them.

In fact, he had to laugh to himself as a number of the females frowned and looked down to their

delicately clad feet, Louboutins being lifted and shaken…as if the chill of the Shadows were

registering.

When Havers arrived, the race’s healer looked a little frazzled. No doubt he was nervous about

seeing his sister again, and he had reason to be. From what Blay understood, Marissa had kicked his ass across the room at the last formal meeting of the Council.

Blay was sorry he’d missed that one.

Marissa arrived shortly after her brother, and Butch went over to her, greeting her with a lingering kiss before leading her, with a proud and protective arm, to a seat in the corner right next to where he was stationed. After the cop helped her into her chair, he stood beside her, big, broad, and mean-looking…especially as he locked eyes with Havers and smiled with fangs bared.

Blay found himself envying the couple a little. Not about the familial estrangement, for sure. But

God…to be able to be seen with your mate in public, show your love for them, have your relationship respected by everyone else? Heterosexual couples took that for granted because they never knew

anything different. Their unions were sanctioned by the
glymera
, even if the pairs were not in love, or were cheating on each other or were otherwise a fraud.

Two males?

Hah.

Just one more reason to resent the aristocracy, he supposed. Although in reality, he had the sense