The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(108)
Author: J.R. Ward

He brought his jaw back to level. “You don’t get it, leelan. It’s over.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

There was a long moment … and then he reached out and crushed her to him, holding her so tightly she could feel her very bones bend.

“I’m not strong enough for this,” he whispered in her ear—like he didn’t want anyone to hear that coming out of his mouth. Ever.

Running her hands up his powerful back, she held him just as hard. “But I am.”

It was forever.

Wrath waited in the hidden room that smelled like earth and spice for forever. In the blackness, his thoughts were loud as screams, vivid as lightning, indelible as an inscription in stone.

And just when he thought it would never happen, that he and his silent, stewing companion would be always in the dark, literally and figuratively, there was a rasping sound and the camouflaged panel began to slide back.

“No matter what occurs,” he whispered to the Brother, “you are not to interfere. I hereby command you thus, and hear me well.”

Tohrture’s response was no louder than a breath: “As you wish.”

The flickering light of a torch cast only shallow illumination, but it was more than enough for Wrath to identify the male: a cleric who was on the periphery of court … but whose father had been a healer for the race.

A keeper of herbs and potions.

The male was muttering under his breath. “…make more in a night’s time. Cannae do that which is impossible…”

As the male went for the worktable, Wrath’s body acted without benefit of his mind. Springing forth from the shadows in a sloppy fashion, he grabbed upon the thin upper arm, putting his strength into the effort without any finesse. In response, there was a high-pitched yelp of surprise, but then that torch swung about and Wrath nearly lost his hold as the open flames flashed close to his eyes.

“Shut the door!” Wrath called out as he attempted to catch the cleric around the waist.

Even though there was no comparison in their sizes, with Wrath twice as big, the cleric’s robes were slippery to hold on to and the thrashing of his prey difficult to control. And that torch was a danger as both sought to control it: With shadows racing across the walls and the cauldron and the table, Wrath found his hands getting burned as he attempted to—

And then the cape he’d used to hide his identity was afire.

As a searing heat flashed up his side and headed for his hair, he jumped back and fumbled for his dagger for to cut the fabric free—except the blade was under his cloak. All he could do was feel the outline of the hilt in its holster.

Leaping back, he went to pull the voluminous wieght fabric o’er his head, but had to retract his hand with a shout of pain. In the next heartbeat, flames were all over him, and though he tried to bat them away, it was like fending off a cloud of wasps. Flailing, blinded by agony and heat, great woofs! of sound bracketing his ears, he realized …

He was not going to emerge alive from this.

Breath short, heart pounding, soul screaming from the unfairness of it all, he wished he was a different male, a male of the sword, not of the pen, one who could dominate another with alacrity and confidence—

The deluge came from above and it was foul-smelling, foul-tasting—and so viscous, it was more wet wool blanket than liquid. With a hiss and fizzle, and a stench that made his eyes water even more, the flames were gone, the fire out, the mad flailing over.

A great clatter ensued as Tohrture tossed the weighty cauldron aside. “Drink not, my lord! Spit it out if you have partaken!”

Wrath bent over and expelled what had been caught between his lips. And when a rag was shoved into his hands, he was able to clear the dripping sting from his eyes.

Bracing his palms on his thighs, he breathed deeply in hopes that he would stop panting, his exertion making his head spin. Or mayhap that was the smoke. The pain. That mess that had been dumped upon him.

After a moment, he realized that the light had become steady and he glanced in the direction of the illumination. The Brother had captured control of the torch … as well as subdued the cleric, the male down and curled in on himself, his legs flopping about.

“How did you—” A round of coughing cut off Wrath’s inquiry. “What did you wrought unto him.”

“I cut the tendons behind his knees so that he cannot run.”

Wrath recoiled at the thought. But the utility was well apparent.

“He is yours to do with what you will, my lord,” Tohrture said, stepping back.

As Wrath looked over at the cleric, it was hard not to contrast the Brother’s calm demeanor and successful effort with his own frazzled, frothing mess of a self: For Tohrture, the effect had been but the work of a moment to accomplish.

Shuffling over to the compromised male, he forced the cleric onto his back, and there was a slice of satisfaction as those eyes peeled wider when Wrath’s identity became apparent.

“Whom do you serve,” Wrath demanded.

The reply was a sputter that went nowhere, and before Wrath knew what he was doing, he gripped the cleric’s dress and hauled him up off the packed dirt. Shaking him, that loose head flopping this way and that, Wrath was struck by a deep, abiding need to kill.

There was no time to examine the foreign emotion, however.

Dragging the male higher so they were nose-to-nose, Wrath growled, “If you tell me who else, I will spare your young shellan and your son. If I find out there is even one that you leave out? Your family will be bound hand and foot, hung in my great hall by the ankles, and left to expire over time.”

Whilst Tohrture smiled a bloodthirsty grin, the cleric’s face went e’er paler.

“My lord…” the male whispered. “Spare me as well—spare me and I will tell you all.”

Wrath stared into those pleading eyes, watching tears well and fall … and thought about his shellan, his father.

“Please, my lord, show me mercy—I beg of you—show me mercy!”

After a long moment, Wrath inclined his head once. “Proceed.”

In a shaky rush, names came forth, and Wrath recognized them all.

It was the entire composite of his advisers, starting with Ichan and ending before Abalone—who had already proved where his loyalties lay—

The inner vibration of violence began to ratchet up as soon as the final name was uttered and the cleric fell quiet—and the urge to kill would not be denied.

His hand was trembling as it fumbled for the hilt of his dagger, and he withdrew his weapon with herky-jerky motions, the angle wrong for removal, the blade getting caught in its sheath.