Lover Eternal: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood (37 page)

"S'okay, my brother," Rhage murmured. "But you need to finish.
Now
."

 

Z panted and swayed, sweat rolling into his eyes and down the scar on his face.

 

"Do it."

 

"Brother," Z whispered, lifting the whip over his shoulder.

He didn't swing it for momentum, probably couldn't have coordinated his arm that well at this point. But he was strong, and the weapon sang as it traveled through the air. The chains and danglers streaked across Rhage's stomach in a blaze of needles.

Rhage's knees gave out and he tried to catch himself with his arms, only to find that they too refused to hold him. He fell to his knees, palms landing in his own blood.

 

But at least it was over. He took long breaths, determined not to pass out.

Abruptly a rushing sound cut through the sanctuary, something like metal against metal. He didn't think much about it. He was busy talking to his stomach, trying to convince it that dry heaves were in fact not a really good plan.
When he was ready, he crawled on his hands and knees around the altar, taking a breather before he tackled the steps. As he glanced ahead, he saw that the brothers had lined up again. Rhage rubbed his eyes at what was before him, getting blood on his face.

This was not part of the ritual
, he thought.

Each one of the brothers had a black dagger in his right hand. Wrath started the chant and the others carried it until their voices were loud shouts reverberating around the sanctorum. The buildup didn't stop until they were almost screaming, and then their voices cut off abruptly.

As a unit, they slashed their daggers across their upper chests. Zsadist's cut was the deepest.
Chapter Thirty
Mary was downstairs in the billiard room, talking to Fritz about the history of the house, when the
doggen's
ears picked up a sound she hadn't heard.

 

"That would be the sires returning."

 

She went to one of the windows just as a pair of headlights swung around the courtyard.

The Escalade came to a stop, its doors opened, and the men got out. With the hoods on their robes down, she recognized them from the first night she'd come to the mansion. The guy with the goatee and the tattoos at one of his temples. The man with the spectacular hair. The scarred terror and the military officer. The only one she hadn't seen before was a man with long black hair and sunglasses.

God, their expressions were bleak. Maybe someone had been hurt.

 

She searched for Rhage, trying not to panic.

The group milled around and condensed at the back of the SUV just as someone came out of the gatehouse and held the door open. Mary recognized the guy between the jambs as the one who'd caught the football in the foyer.

With all of the big male bodies crowded in a tight circle at the rear of the Escalade, it was hard to tell what they were doing. But it seemed like some kind of heavy weight was being shifted among them…

 

A blond head of hair caught the light.

 

Rhage
. Unconscious. And his body was being carried toward that open door.

 

Mary was out of the mansion before she realized she was running. "Rhage! Stop! Wait!" Cold air streaked into her lungs. "Rhage!"

 

At the sound of her voice, he jerked and threw a limp hand out to her. The men stopped. A couple of them cursed.

 

"Rhage!" She ground to a halt, kicking up pebbles. "What… oh…
lord
."

 

There was blood on his face, and his eyes were unfocused from pain.

 

"Rhage…"

 

His mouth opened. Worked soundlessly.

 

One of the men said, "Shit, we might as well take him to his room now."

 

"Of course you'll take him there! Was he hurt fighting?"

No one answered her. They just changed direction and muscled Rhage through the mansion's vestibule, across the foyer and up the stairs. After they'd laid him on his bed, the guy with the goatee and tattoos on his face smoothed Rhage's hair back.

"Brother, maybe we could bring you something for the pain?"

 

Rhage's voice was garbled. "Nothing. Better this way. You know rules. Mary… where's Mary?"

She went to the bedside and took his slack hand. As she pressed her lips to his knuckles, she realized the robe was in perfect condition, with no rips or tears. Which meant he hadn't had the thing on when he'd been hurt. And someone had put it back on him.

With a horrible intuition, she reached for the braided leather tie around his waist. She loosened it and pulled the edges or the robe open. From his collarbones to his hips he was covered with white bandages. And blood had welled through, a bright, shocking red.

Afraid to look, needing to know, she gently untaped one corner and lifted.

 

"Dear
God
." She swayed and one of the brothers caught her. "How did this happen?"

 

When the group remained silent, she pushed whoever was holding her up away and looked at them all. They were un-moving, staring at Rhage…

 

And in as much pain as he was.
Sweet Jesus, they couldn't have
…

 

The goateed one met her eyes.

 

They did.

 

"You did this," she hissed. "You did this to him!"

 

"Yes," said the one with the sunglasses. "And it's none of your business."

 

"You
bastards
."

 

Rhage made a sound and then cleared his throat. "Leave us."

 

"We'll be back to check on you, Hollywood," said the guy with long multicolored hair. "Do you need anything?"

 

"Other than a skin graft?" Rhage smiled a little and then winced as he shifted on the bed.

 

While the men went out the door, she glared at their strong backs. Those
goddamned… animals
.

 

"Mary?" Rhage murmured. "
Mary
."

 

She tried to pull it together. Getting all worked up over those thugs wasn't going to help Rhage right now.

 

She looked down at him, choked back her fury, and said, "Will you let me call that doctor you talked about? What was his name?"

 

"No."

 

She wanted to tell him to lose the tough-guy-bearing-pain-nobly crap. But she knew he'd fight her, and an argument was the last thing he needed.

 

"Do you want the robe off or on?" she asked.

 

"Off. If you can stand the sight of me."

 

"Don't worry about that."

She untied the leather belt and peeled the black silk off him, wanting to scream as he rolled back and forth to help her while grunting in pain. When they were finished getting the thing out from under him, blood seeped down his side.

That beautiful duvet was going to be ruined, she thought, not giving a shit.

 

"You've lost a lot of blood." She rolled up the heavy robe.

 

"I know." He closed his eyes, head sinking into the pillow. His naked body was going through a series of flickering seizures, the trembling in his thighs, stomach, and pectorals making the mattress jiggle.

 

She dumped the robe in the tub and came back. "Did they clean you before they dressed the wounds?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"I probably should check at some point."

 

"Give me an hour. By then the bleeding will stop." He took a deep breath and grimaced. "Mary… they had to."

 

"What?" She leaned down. "They had to do this. I don't…" Another breath was followed by a groan. "Don't be angry with them."

 

Screw. That.

 

"Mary," he said strongly, his dull eyes focusing on her. "I gave them no choice."

 

"What did you do?"

 

"It's over. And you are not to be angry with them." His stare fuzzed out again.

 

As far as she was concerned, she could be anything the hell she wanted at those bastards.

 

"Mary?"

 

"Don't worry." She stroked his cheek, wishing she could wash the blood off of his face. When he flinched at the light contact, she pulled back. "Won't you please let me get you something?"

 

"Just talk to me. Read to me…"

There were a few contemporary books on the shelves next to his DVD wasteland, and she went over to the hardcovers. She grabbed a Harry Potter, the second one, and pulled a chair up next to the bed. It was hard to concentrate at first because she kept measuring his respiration, but eventually she found a rhythm and so did he. His breathing slowed and the spasms stopped.

When he was asleep, she closed the book. His forehead was wrinkled, his lips pale and tight. She hated that the pain was with him even in the rest he'd found.

 

Mary felt the years peel away.

 

She saw her mother's yellow bedroom. Smelled disinfectant. Heard labored, desperate breaths.

 

Here she was again, she thought. Another bedside. Another's suffering. Helpless.

 

She looked around the room, eyes landing on the
Madonna and Child
over the dresser. In this context the painting was art, not icon, part of a museum-quality collection and used only as decoration.

 

So she didn't have to hate the damn thing. And she wasn't scared of it, either.

The Madonna statue in her mother's room had been different. Mary had despised it, and the instant Cissy Luce's body had left the house, that piece of plaster had been in the garage. Mary hadn't had the heart to break it, but she'd wanted to.

The next morning she'd taken the thing to Our Lady and dropped it off. Same with the crucifix. As she'd driven out of the church's parking lot, the triumph she'd felt, the veritable
fuck you
to God, had been heady, the only good feeling that came to her for a long time. The rush hadn't lasted, though. When she'd returned to the house, all she'd seen was the shadow on the wall where the cross had been and the dust-free spot on the floor where the statue had stood.

Two years later, to the very day she'd dropped those objects of devotion off, she'd been diagnosed with leukemia.
Logically she knew she wasn't cursed because she'd dumped the things. There were 365 days to hit on the calendar, and like a ball on a roulette wheel, the announcement of her disease had had to land on one of them. In her heart, though, she sometimes believed otherwise. Which made her hate God even more.

Hell
… He didn't have time to spare a miracle for her mother, who'd been faithful. But He went out of His way to punish a sinner like her.
Go figure
.

 

"You ease me," Rhage said.

 

Her eyes snapped to his. She cleared her head by taking his hand. "How are you?"

 

"Better. Your voice soothes me."

 

It had been the same with her mother, she thought. Her mother had like the sound of her talking, too.

 

"You want something to drink?" she asked.

 

"What were you thinking about just now?"

 

"Nothing."

 

He closed his eyes.

 

"Would you like me to wash you?" she said.

 

When he shrugged, she went to the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp washcloth and a dry bath towel. She cleaned his face and gently worked around the edges of the bandages.