Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (147 page)

had cured him of being faithful.

Kind of made Qhuinn want to strangle his cousin again. And the only thing that stopped him from

going and finding the slut was that in this case, the situation worked for Qhuinn.

“I want to be with you, too,” he said.

“I’ll come to your room after dawn.”

Qhuinn didn’t want to ask. Had to. “What about Saxton?”

“He’s gone on vacation.”

Reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally. “For how long?”

“Just a couple of days.”

Too bad. Any chance of an extension…for like a year or two? Maybe forever?

“Okay, it’s a—” Qhuinn stopped himself before he finished that with
date
.

There was no sense kidding himself. Saxton was away. Blay wanted to get laid. And Qhuinn was

more than willing to supply the male with what he wanted.

That construct was
not
a date. But fuck it.

“Come to me,” he said in a growl. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Blay nodded, like they’d made a pact, and then he was the one who left first, his body shifting

with aggression as he walked by and went through the door.

Qhuinn watched the guy go. Stayed behind. Nearly shut himself in just so he could pull himself

together.

Suddenly, he was fucked in the head, in spite of the promise that they’d be hooking up in a matter

of hours: That expression on Blay’s face haunted him, to the point where his chest started to ache.

Shit, maybe this current series of hookups was just a further evolution of the bad spots they’d been in before, a new facet of their collective unhappiness.

It had never dawned on him that they weren’t good for each other. That there wouldn’t be, in the

future, some kind of meeting of the minds now that he’d opened himself after all these years.

Curling up a fist, he slammed it into the doorjamb, the imprint of the molding biting back into the heel of his hand.

As pain flared and then thumped, for some reason, he thought of punching that flatbed’s dashboard

and screaming to get out. Felt like that had been a lifetime ago.

But he wasn’t turning back. If sex was what he could have, he was going to take it. Besides, what

Blay had done for Layla?

Surely that meant something. The guy had cared enough to change the course of Qhuinn’s entire

life.

Not that Blay hadn’t done that long ago.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Assail took form beside a babbling brook that remained ice-free thanks to its constant

movement.

The house before him was one he had been to only one prior time, a brick Victorian with

the period’s quintessential gingerbread motifs marking its porches and doorways. So quaint.

So homey. Especially with those long four-paned windows made of leaded glass, and the curls of

smoke lazying out of not one, but three of its four chimneys.

Which seemed to indicate its owner was back home for the night.

Fine timing, as it were: Dawn was coming soon, so it was logical to batten down one’s personal

hatches for the sun. Secure one’s environment. Prepare for the hours that one needed to stay inside to protect oneself from harm.

Assail stalked across the pristine snow, leaving tracks with deep tread. No loafers for this job.

No business suit, either.

No Range Rover for his burglar to follow.

Coming up the side lawn, he went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the very receiving

room into which the master of the house had, not so very long ago, welcomed certain members of the

Council…along with the Band of Bastards.

Assail had been numbered among the males at that meeting. At least until it had become clear that

he had to remove himself or get drawn into precisely the kind of discourse and drama he was

uninterested in.

At the glass, he looked inside.

Elan, son of Larex, was at his desk, a landline telephone up to his ear, a brandy snifter at his

elbow, a cigarette smoldering in a cut-crystal ashtray beside him. As he leaned back in his leather club chair and crossed his legs at the knees, he appeared to be in a state of relaxation and self-satisfaction akin to that of postcoital bliss.

Assail made a fist, the black leather of his glove creaking ever so subtly.

And then he dematerialized into the very room, re-forming directly behind the male’s chair.

On one level, he couldn’t believe that Elan didn’t fortify his abode with greater security—a fine

steel mesh over the windows and within the walls, for example. Then again, the aristocrat clearly

suffered from a lack of appropriate risk assessment—as well as an arrogance that would grant him a

greater sense of safety than he actually possessed.

“…and then Wrath shared a story about his father. I must confess, in person, the king is quite…

ferocious. Although not enough to change my course, naturally.”

No, Assail was going to take care of that.

Elan leaned forward and reached for the cigarette. The thing was screwed onto one of those old-

fashioned holders, the kind that females tended to use, and as he brought the end to his lips to take a drag, the tip extended out past the edge of the chair.

Assail unsheathed a shiny steel blade that was as long as his forearm.

It had e’re been his preferred weapon for this sort of thing.

His heart rate was as steady as his hand, his breathing even and regular whilst he loomed behind

the chair. With deliberation, he stepped to one side, positioning himself so that his reflection

appeared in the window opposite the desk.

“I am not aware whether it was the entire Brotherhood. How many of them are left? Seven or

eight? This is part of the problem. We do not know who they are anymore.” Elan tapped his cigarette, the small stack of ash falling into the belly of the ashtray. “Now, whilst I was at the meeting, I

instructed a colleague of mine to be in touch with you—I beg your pardon? Of course I gave him your number, and I resent the tone in your— Yes, he was here at the meeting at my home. He is going to—

No, I shan’t do it again. Shall you cease interrupting me? I think so, yes.”

Elan took a drag and released the smoke in a rush, his annoyance manifested in his breath. “May

we move on? Thank you. As I was saying, my colleague shall be in touch with regard to a certain

legal provision which may help us. He has explained it to me, but as it is rather technical, I assumed you would wish to question him yourself.”

There was a rather long pause. And when Elan spoke next, his tone was calmer, as if placating

words had soothed the ruffled feathers of his ego. “Oh, and one last thing. I took care of our little problem with a certain ‘business-minded’ gentlemale—”

Assail deliberately curled up his fist.

As that leather once again let out its quiet sound of protest, Elan straightened in his seat, his

crossed foot returning to the floor, his spine stretching upward such that his head appeared over the back of the chair. He looked left. Looked right.

“I must needs go—”

At that moment, Elan’s eyes went to the window across from him, and he saw the reflection of his

killer in the glass.

As Xcor stood in an insulated room with a proper heating system, he had to admit he preferred

Throe’s newest choice of living quarters over that warehouse dungeon they had been in previously.

Mayhap he would thank the Shadow who had intruded, if their paths e’er crossed anew.

Then again, perhaps the sense of warmth in his body was his temper flaring, and not a function of

good, operational ductwork: The aristocrat on the other end of his cellular phone was testing his last nerve.

He did
not
want to be contacted by anybody else on the Council. Managing one member of the

glymera
was quite enough.

Although he typically took a pacifying approach with Elan, his wrath licked out. “Do not give my

number to anyone else.”

Elan and he went back and forth a bit, the aristocrat’s own ire rising.

Which was, of course, no good. One wanted a usable tool in one’s hands. Not something with a

prickly grip.

“My apologies,” Xcor murmured after a bit. “It is just that I prefer to deal with decision makers

only. That is why I contact you and you alone. I have no interest in the others. Only you.”

As if Elan were a female and theirs was a romantic liaison.

Xcor rolled his eyes as the aristocrat fell for it, and resumed his discourse. “…and one last thing.

I took care of our little problem with a certain ‘business-minded’ gentlemale—”

Instantly, Xcor’s attention picked up. What in Fate’s name had the idiot done now?

In truth, this could be monstrously inconvenient. Say what one would about Assail’s failure to see

the light around Wrath’s dethroning, that particular “gentlemale” was not cut from Elan’s fragile,

rippable silk. And as much as Xcor detested dealing with the son of Larex, he had invested

considerable time and resources in the relationship. ’Twould be a shame to lose the miscreant now,

and have to establish yet another conduit within the Council.

“What did you say?” Xcor demanded.

Elan’s tone changed, wariness creeping in. “I must needs go—”

The scream that blared through the phone was so loud and high-pitched, Xcor ripped the cell

away from his ear and held it outward.

At the sound, his fighters, who were lounging around the room in various positions, turned their

heads in his direction, playing witness, as he did, to Elan’s murder.

The caterwauling went on for quite some time, but there was no begging for mercy—either

because his assailant was working quickly, or because it was very clear, even to a dying male, that there would be none from the attacker.

“Messy,” Zypher remarked as yet another crescendo vibrated out of the phone. “Very messy.”

“Still has an airway,” another pointed out.

“Not for long,” another chimed in.

And they were right. No more than a moment later, something hit the floor hard and that was the

end of the sounds.

“Assail,” Xcor said sharply. “Pick up the fucking phone.
Assail.
”

There was a rustling, as if the receiver Elan had been speaking into had been retrieved from

wherever it had fallen to. And then there was the sound of raking breath on the line.

Which suggested Elan might well be in pieces.

“I know this is you, Assail,” Xcor said. “And I can only guess that Elan o’erstepped and the

indiscretion got back to your ears. However, you have taken my partner from me, and that cannae go

un
ahvenged
.”

It was a surprise when the male answered, his voice deep and strong. “Back in the Old Country,

provisions were made for affronts against one’s reputation. Surely you not only recall them, but you shall not deny me my right of retribution in the New World.”

Xcor bared his fangs, though not because he was frustrated with the one he was speaking to.

Fucking Elan. If the dumb bastard had just stuck to being an informant, he’d still be alive—and Xcor could have had the satisfaction of killing him at the end of all of this.

Assail continued. “He stated unto representatives of the king that I was responsible for your rifle shot, the one that was discharged upon my property without my knowledge or permission—and,” he

cut in before Xcor could speak, “you are well aware of exactly how little I had to do with that attack, are you not.”

Back in the Bloodletter’s time, this conversation would never have occurred. Assail would have

been hunted down as an obstructionist and eliminated for both purpose and sport.

But Xcor had learned his lesson.

As his eyes went to Throe, standing so tall and elegant among the others, he thought, aye, he had

learned that there was an appropriate place and time for certain…standards, he believed the word

was.

“I meant what I said unto you, Xcor, son of the Bloodletter.” As Xcor flinched at the reference, he was glad this conversation was occurring over the phone. “I have no interest in either your agenda or the king’s. I am a businessman only—I am resigned from the Council, and I am unaligned with you.

And Elan attempted to make a traitor out of me—something which, as you well know, comes with a

price on one’s head. I took Elan’s life because he tried to take mine. It is entirely lawful.”

Xcor cursed to himself. The male had a rather good point. And whereas Assail’s rigid neutrality

had at first seemed unbelievable, now Xcor was beginning to…well,
trust
was not a word he used with anyone other than his soldiers.

“Tell me something,” Xcor drawled.

“Yes?”

“Is his piggish head still attached to that weak little body of his?”

Assail chuckled. “No.”

“Do you know that is among my favorite ways of killing?”