Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (143 page)

this was just date conversation.

“I guess you could call it criminal justice.”

“Oh, you’re into the law.”

“I’m very familiar with it, yes.”

“That’s cool.” Mark cleared his throat. “So…you look really good.”

“Thanks. I think it’s my trainer.”

“Oh, somehow I think you’d be doing fine without me.”

As they fell into an uncomplicated back-and-forth, she actually started to relax—and then their

dinners arrived and they got another round of beer. It was so…normal being in the bar, doing the one-on-one thing, getting to know somebody else.

The exact opposite of what she’d played witness to the night before.

Sola shivered as images came back to her…the candlelight, that black-haired man looming over

the half-naked woman like he was going to devour her, the two of them unleashed and

uninhibited….Then those glittering eyes looking up and meeting her own through the glass as if he’d known all along that she was watching.

“You okay?”

Sola forced herself to focus. “Sorry, yes. You were saying?”

As Mark resumed talking about his training for the Iron Man, she found herself back in the cold

outside of that cottage, watching that man and that woman.

Shoot. She’d engineered this date only because she’d wanted an outlet. It wasn’t because she

particularly cared about Mark, as nice as he was.

In fact, maybe she had done this because her personal trainer happened to be really tall, and really well built, with very dark hair and very pale eyes.

When guilt rang her bell, she thought, oh, for chrissakes. She was an adult. Mark was an adult.

People had sex for all kinds of different reasons—just because she didn’t want to marry the guy didn’t mean she was breaking some cardinal rule…except, crap. Her grandmother’s morality aside, and his

shiny, pearly whites and big shoulders to the contrary, she wasn’t actually attracted to Mark.

She was attracted to the man Mark reminded her of.

And that was what made this wrong.

FIFTY-THREE

Even though Qhuinn was hardly an arbiter of taste when it came to meetings of the Council, it

was pretty damn clear to him that the assembled group had come to the house expecting one

thing, only to get something else entirely.

Wrath didn’t waste or mince words and, after laying the smack-down, wrapped things up

within five or ten minutes.

This was a good thing, actually. The faster he finished, the quicker they could get him home.

“In closing,” the king said in his bass voice, “I appreciate the opportunity to address this august group.”

In this case, “august” clearly meant “a-hole-ish.”

“I have other commitments at this time.” Namely, staying alive. “So I will be departing. However,

if you have any comments, please direct them to Tohrment, son of Hharm.”

A blink of the eye later and the king left the building with V and Zsadist.

In the wake of the departure, all the fancy-pants in the dining room stayed sitting in their chairs, shock and now-what playing across their attractive features. Clearly, they had expected more…but

also less. Kind of like children who had pushed their parents too far and finally gotten a wooden

spoon on the ass.

From Qhuinn’s perspective, it was pretty fucking amusing, actually.

The party finally began to break up after the hostess rose to her feet and yammered on about what

an honor it was to have had all the yada, yada, yada.

Qhuinn cared about one and only one thing.

And that was the text that came through on his phone about a minute later: Wrath was home safe.

Exhaling slowly, he put his cell back in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and thought about

setting off a couple of rounds into the floorboards to get this bunch of stiffs to dance a little. He’d probably get in trouble for that, though.

Bummer.

The crowd started to file out shortly thereafter, to the clear dissatisfaction of the hostess, as if she had gotten dressed up and rearranged her house with the expectation of a long, socially prominent

evening—only to find that all she got were two seconds of celebrity and a bucket of KFC for eats.

Sorry, lady.

Tohrment lorded over the exodus, standing in front of the fireplace, nodding his head, saying a

few words. In this delegation, Wrath had made a wise choice. The Brother had the appearance of an

ass-kicker, with all his weapons, but he’d always been willing and internally inclined to be a

peacemaker, and that was no different tonight.

He was especially nice to Marissa when Butch’s mate left, his face showing a flash of genuine

affection as he hugged her and nodded as the cop escorted her out. That slice of real was immediately replaced by his professional mask, however.

Eventually, the hostess helped her ancient
hellren
to his feet, and made some noise about taking him upstairs.

And then there was only one.

Elan, son of Larex, lingered before the bank of draped windows.

Qhuinn had had an eye on the guy the whole time, counting exactly how many of the Council

members came up to him, shook his hand, murmured in his ear.

Each and every one.

So it was not exactly a surprise that instead of leaving like a good little boy, he made his way up to the fireplace like he wanted an audience.

Great.

As Elan approached Tohr, the closer he got, the more he had to lift his chin to keep eye contact

with the Brother.

“It was quite an honor to have an audience with your king,” the gentlemale said gravely. “I hung

on his every word.”

Tohr murmured something in return.

“And I’ve been struggling with something,” the aristocrat hedged. “I was hoping to speak with

him directly about this, but…”

Yeah, don’t hold your breath for that, buddy.

Tohr stepped in to fill the silence. “Anything you tell me will go straight to the king’s ears,

without filter or interpretation. And the fighters in this room are sworn to secrecy. They will die before they repeat a word.”

Elan glanced over at Rehv, clearly expecting a similiar pledge from the male.

“The same goes for me,” Rehvenge muttered as he leaned into his cane.

Abruptly, Elan’s chest puffed up as if this kind of personalized attention was more what he’d been

hoping for out of the meeting. “Well, this has lain heavily upon my heart.”

Certainly not your pecs, Qhuinn thought. You’re built like a ten-year-old boy.

“And that is,” Tohr prompted.

Elan crossed his arms behind the small of his back and paced a bit—as if he were taking time

with his words. Something told Qhuinn that they had been prepared beforehand, however—though he

couldn’t have said what it was.

“I expected your king to address a certain rumor that I have heard.”

“Which is?” Tohr said in an even tone.

Elan stopped. Turned. Spoke clearly. “That he was shot back in the fall.”

No one showed any reaction. Not Tohr or Rehv. Not the remaining Brothers in the room.

Certainly not Qhuinn or his boys.

“What is your source for this?” Tohr asked.

“Well, in all honesty, I thought he would be here tonight.”

“Really.” Tohr glanced at the empty chairs and shrugged. “You want to tell me what you heard?”

“The male made reference to a visitation by the king. Similar to when Wrath came and saw me at

my home over the summer.” This was reported with self-importance, as if that was the highlight of

Wrath’s year, right there. “He said that the Band of Bastards shot at the king whilst on his property.”

Again with the no reactions.

“But obviously, your king survived.” The pause suggested Elan was expecting details to be filled

in. “He’s doing rather well, as a matter of fact.”

There was a long silence, as if both sides of the conversation were expecting the other to put the

quiet to good use.

Tohr cocked his brows. “With all due respect, you haven’t told us much of anything, and gossip

has been going on since the beginning of time.”

“But here’s the odd thing. He also talked to me about it before it occurred. I didn’t believe him,

however. Who would arrange for an assassination attempt? It seemed…simply the boasting of a male

otherwise dissatisfied with the way things were being handled. Except then, a week later, he said that the Band of Bastards had followed through, that Wrath had been shot. I didn’t know what to do. I had no way of getting in touch with the king personally, and no way to verify that the individual was

speaking the truth. I let it all go—until this meeting was called. I wondered if maybe it was…well. It clearly wasn’t, but then I wondered why he wasn’t here.”

Tohr stared down at the smaller male. “It would help if you gave us a proper noun.”

Now, Elan frowned. “You mean you don’t know who is on the Council?”

As Rehv rolled his eyes, Tohr shrugged. “We have better things to do than worry about

Rehvenge’s membership.”

“In the Old World, the Brotherhood knew who we are.”

“There’s an ocean between us and the motherlands.”

“More’s the pity.”

“That’s your opinion.”

Qhuinn took a step forward, with the intention of stepping in, in the event the Brother locked

hands on the SOB’s skinny neck: Someone should probably catch the head before it bounced all over

their hosts’ rugs. And the deadweight of the body.

Seemed only hospitable.

“So who are you talking about,” Tohr pressed.

Elan looked around at the still, deadly males who were focused on him. “Assail. His name is

Assail.”

Deep in downtown Caldwell, where the darkened streets formed a rats’ maze, and the sober humans

were few and very far between, Xcor swung his scythe in a fat circle about five and a half feet up

from the slushy, black-stained ground.

The
lesser
was caught in the neck, and the head, now freed from its spinal tether, flew chin over temple, chin over temple, through the cold, gusty wind. Black blood spiraled out from the severed

arteries as the rudderless lower half of the body collapsed forward into a pratfall.

And that was that.

Rather disappointing, really.

Spinning around, he held his beloved over his shoulder so that she curled behind him protectively,

watching his back as he braced himself for whatever was coming next. The alley he had entered to

chase that now incapacitated slayer was open at the far end, and behind him, the three cousins were stationed shoulder-to-shoulder should more arrive from that direction—

Something was coming.

Something was…on a fast approach, the din of an engine growing louder and louder and—

The SUV skidded into the alley, its tires finding little or no purchase on the icy roadway. As a

result of the lack of traction, the vehicle slammed into the wall, its high-beams blinding Xcor.

Whoever was behind the wheel didn’t hit the brakes.

The engine roared.

Xcor faced off at the vehicle and closed his eyes. No reason to keep his lids peeled, as his vision had ceased to function. No real concern who was driving, whether it was slayer, vampire or human.

They were coming at him, and he was going to stop that. Even though it was probably easier to get

out of the way.

He had never particularly cared for easy, however.

“Xcor!” someone yelled.

Grabbing a deep breath of that icy air, he let out a battle cry as he tracked the approach, his senses reaching out and positioning the SUV in space as it traveled forward. His scythe disappeared in a

moment, and his guns, eager to participate, came out in both palms.

He waited another twenty feet.

And then he started pumping off rounds.

With his silencers on, the bullets made only impact sounds as they blew out the front windshield,

pinged off the grille, took out a tire….

At which point those blinding headlights swung away, the back end of the vehicle hinging around,

the overall trajectory unchanged thanks to that tremendous acceleration—even as everything went

haywire.

Just before the side panel took him out, Xcor leaped off the ground, his boots springing up, the

roof just barely going under their treads as three thousand pounds plus of out-of-control streaked

beneath his airborne body.

As Xcor’s combats landed back on the ground, the end of the car’s forward momentum came at

the expense of a Dumpster, the trash receptacle stopping the vehicle better than any set of brakes

could.

Xcor wasted no time in closing in, both guns up, triggers ready. Although he had discharged a

number of rounds, he knew he had at least four left in each gun. And his soldiers had once again fallen in behind him.

Coming up to look inside, he didn’t care what he found: one of his own kind, a man or a woman, a