Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (154 page)

Thank fuck V had come out when he had.

Otherwise, three little words would have leaked from his mouth. And undoubtedly doomed him in

ways he couldn’t even guess at.

Bad time. Bad place.

For that kind of thing.

Forever.

SIXTY-FIVE

As iAm paced around the apartment, he kept his gun on him—even though it was highly

unlikely that there would be a round two with some naked bimbo jacking her way into his

and his brother’s home-sweet-home.

Goddamn it, he wanted some red smoke. Just to take the edge off.

Because, right now? He was on the edge of violence.

The good news, he supposed, was that he didn’t really have a target, and that was effectively

keeping him in check: That migraine was beating the hell out of his brother. And that poor, used-up woman that had been frog-marched out of here? She was already being tortured on too many levels to

count. Now, the security guard was an excellent candidate—but the motherfucker had gotten off an

hour ago, and iAm wasn’t going to leave Trez in a vulnerable state just so he could issue a correction to an imbecile—

Off in the distance, he heard a whispering through the plumbing pipes.

It was the toilet in Trez’s bathroom being flushed. Again.

And then came the muttered cursing, and the creak of the bed frame as Trez resettled into his bed.

Poor. Bastard.

iAm went over to the huge windows that faced the river, and stopped to stare across the water at

Caldwell’s opposite side. Putting his hands on his hips, he ran through the places they could move to.

Short list. Hell, one of the main benes of the Commodore had been its security; they hadn’t even

bothered with turning the alarm on.

Which had been a mistake.

They needed someplace safe. Secure. Impregnable.

Especially if his brother continued with the hit-it-and-quit-it shit, and AnsLai kept doing

“diplomatic” drive-bys.

iAm resumed his pacing. It was impossible to ignore the fact that his brother was getting worse.

The sexual stuff had been going on for years—and for the longest time, iAm had just chalked it up to a healthy male’s drive for mating.

Something that he had often thought he lacked.

Then again, his brother had been fucking enough females for the both of them.

In recent months, however, it had become clear that there was an addiction process at work—and

that had been even before the high priest had started showing up. Now that things seemed to be

coming to a head with AnsLai? The s’Hisbe’s machinations were just going to put more pressure on

his brother, and that was going to make him act out even more.

Shit. iAm felt like he was standing in front of a train crossing, triangulating the speed of the

locomotive’s engine with the approach of an oncoming car…and seeing the carnage that was going to

result. The metaphor was also apt when it came to the helplessness he felt because he couldn’t put the brakes on either force: He wasn’t behind the wheel or in the engineer’s seat. All he could do was sit back and watch.

Or scream at the side of the road was more like it.

Where the
hell
could they go—

Frowning, he lifted his eyes up from the view, up past the molding, up to the ceiling.

After a moment, he took out his cell phone and made a call.

When he hung up, he went down to his brother’s room. Opening the door a crack, he said into the

dense, black silence, “I’m going out for a second. Won’t be long.”

Trez’s moan could have meant anything from, “Cool,” to, “Oh, God, not so loud,” to, “Have fun,

I’m going to hang here and hurl some more.”

iAm walked fast. Out of the apartment. To the elevator.

Inside of which, he hit the button marked “P” for “Penthouse.”

When the doors slid open, there were two choices: One direction took him to the Brother

Vishous’s place. The other to his old friend’s.

He strode down and rang Rehvenge’s bell.

When the
symphath
opened up, Rehv appeared as he always was: mohawked, purple-eyed, mink

clad. Dangerous. Little bit evil.

“Hey, my man, how you be,” the male said as they embraced and clapped each other on the

shoulder. “Come in.”

As iAm entered the Reverend’s private space for the first time in a good year or so, he found that

nothing had changed, and for some reason, that was a relief.

Rehvenge went over to a leather sofa and sat down, propping his cane up next to him and crossing

his legs at the knees. “What do you need?”

As iAm tried to put together the right words, Rehv swore a little. “Man, I knew this wasn’t a

social call—but I didn’t expect your emotions to be a fucking mess.”

Ah, yes, the sin-eater way meant that there was no hiding anything from the male.

Still, it was difficult to speak of it all. “I’m not sure you’re aware of what’s been going on with Trez?”

Rehv frowned, his dark brows narrowing that intense, violet stare. “I thought the Iron Mask was

doing good business. You boys in trouble? I’ve got plenty of cash if you need—”

“Business is great. We’ve got more money than we can spend. The issue is my brother’s

extracurricular activities.”

“He’s not into drugs, is he,” Rehv said darkly.

“Women.”

Rehv laughed and brushed that off with the flick of a dagger hand. “Oh, if that’s all it is—”

“He’s completely out of control—and one of them magically appeared in his bed tonight. We got

home and there she was.”

Rehv went back to the frowning. “In your apartment? How the fuck did she get in?”

“The lowest common denominator with a security guard.” iAm paced around the modern room,

dimly noting that the view was, in fact, better from this height. “Trez has been fucking anything that moves for years, but lately he’s been so reckless—not wiping memories, hitting ’em more than once,

not worrying about consequences.”

“What the
hell
is wrong with him?”

iAm turned and faced the half-breed who was the closest thing to family he had outside of his

flesh and blood. Matter of fact, he trusted the guy more than ninety-nine percent of his own bloodline.

“Trez is mated.”

Long silence. “Excuse me?”

iAm nodded. “He’s mated.”

Rehv got up off that couch. “Since when?”

“Birth.”

“Ohhhhhh.” Rehv whistled softly. “So it’s a s’Hisbe thing.”

“He was promised to the queen’s first daughter.”

Rehv was silent for a while. Then he shook his head. “That would make him the future king,

would it not.”

“That’s right. And even though we are a matriarchal society, that is not an irrelevancy.”

“Check us out,” the male murmured. “He and I and Wrath. Quite the trifecta.”

“Well, it’s different for the s’Hisbe, of course. The queen is the one who dictates everything for

us.”

“So what’s he still doing on the outside. With all us UnKnowables?”

“He doesn’t want anything to do with the s’Hisbe.”

“Has he got a choice?”

“No.” iAm glanced over at the wet bar in the corner. “Mind if I have a drink?”

“Are you kidding me? I’d be getting hammered if I were you.”

iAm wandered over, considered his options, and ended up picking a decanter that had a little

necklace reading
Bourbon
around its throat. He went straight up, and as he took a pull off the rim of a cut-crystal glass, he savored the burn over his tongue. “Nice.”

“Parker’s Heritage Collection, Small Batch. The best.”

“I didn’t think you were a big drinker.”

“That’s no excuse for not knowing what you serve your guests.”

“Ah.”

“So what’s the plan?”

iAm tilted his head back, emptied the glass into his mouth and swallowed hard. “We need

somewhere safe to stay. And not just because of the women thing. We had a visit by the high priest

this past week—and given we’re on the outside, that means they’re getting serious back home.

They’re looking for him—and if they find him? I’m afraid he’s going to kill the s’Hisbe’s

representative. Then we’ve really got a problem.”

“You think he’d take it that far?”

“Yes, I do.” iAm poured a refill. “He’s not going back there, and I need time to figure out how to

resolve the conflict before something disastrous happens.”

“You guys want to move into my house up north?”

iAm downed his second bourbon on a oner. “No.” He leveled his eyes. “I want us to move into

the Brotherhood compound.”

As Rehv cursed long and low, iAm poured himself a third. “It’s the safest place for us.”

Xcor was covered in
lesser
blood and sweat as he returned to his new lair. His fighters were still downtown, engaging with the enemy, but he had had to pare off and seek shelter.

Damn cut on his arm.

The house that Throe had found them was located in a modest neighborhood full of modest homes

with two-car garages and swing sets in their backyards. Among its advantages was that it was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, and there was an empty building lot on one side and a Caldwell Sewer

Department processing unit on the other.

They had it for three months, with an option to buy.

As he dematerialized through the heavily draped windows of the family room, he scoffed at the

padded sofa that formed an L, its tufted cushions like rolls of fat, its color akin to beef stew.

Although he appreciated working heat, the fact that the facility had come “furnished” was

annoying to him. He feared he was alone in this, however: Over the past few days, he’d oft caught one or another of his soldiers reclining on that godforsaken monster, their heads lying back, their legs stretched out in comfort.

What was next? Throw blankets?

Stalking up the narrow staircase, he missed the doom and gloom of the castle they still owned

back in the Old Country. Longed for the heft of the stone that had surrounded them, and the

impregnable nature of the layout, with its moat and high walls. Mourned, too, the fun they had had

spooking the villagers, giving physical presence to the stuff of myth.

Good times, as they said here in the New World.

On the second floor, he refused to look into the bedrooms. The pink of the one in front burned his

eyes, and the sea foam green of the other was another assault on the senses as well. And there was no relief to be had as he walked into the master bedroom. Flowered wallpaper, everywhere. Even on the

bed, and across the windows, and all over that chair in the corner.

At least his combat boots crushed the thick carpet, leaving tread prints like bruises on his way to the bath.

For godsakes, he was not even sure what color to call the scheme in here.

Raspberry?

Shuddering, he wanted to keep the lights over the sink off, but with the rosebud curtains drawn,

the illumination from the streetlamps below was drowned out completely, and he needed to see what

he was doing—

Oh, dearest Fates.

He’d forgotten about the lace shades on the sconces.

Indeed, in any other environment, the twin red glows might have suggested something of a sexual

nature. But not in this land of nicey-nicey. Here, they were a set of gumdrops glowing on the wall.

He nearly choked from the estrogen.

In a fit of self-preservation, he popped both of the offenders free of their lightbulbs and put them under the sink. The glare was offensive to his retinas, but it was the difference between cursing and hand-wringing: Always, he would choose the former.

Removing his scythe first, he placed her on the counter between the twin sinks. Next, he took off

her halter, then stripped his coat, his daggers and his guns from his body. The undershirt he wore was stained from long nights of fighting, but it was cleaned regularly—and would be used again. Clothes, after all, were naught but the hides vampires had not been given at birth.

They were not for personal decoration—at least, not for him.

Turning to the mirror, he muttered at the sight of himself.

The slayer that he’d been fighting hand-to-hand had been viciously good with a knife, likely the

result of its former life on the streets, and what a rush to combat with one of fine skills. He had won, of course, but it had been a bracing battle.

Unfortunately, however, he’d taken home a lovely souvenir of the conflict: The gash ran up the

front of his biceps and around to the side, terminating at the top of his shoulder. Quite nasty. But he’d had worse.

And accordingly, he knew how to treat himself. Lined up upon the counter were the various and

sundry items that he and his fighters required from time to time: a bottle of CVS rubbing alcohol, a BIC lighter, several sewing needles, a spool of black nylon fishing line.