The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(18)
Author: J.R. Ward

Defilers of virgins. Sources of evil that slept in coffins. Monsters of the night.

Such pish—although the latter did indeed pertain to himself.

And in truth, it felt good to do something similar here in Caldwell, rather as a dog marks its territory. Enjoyable, too, to give the irrelevance on that kitchen island something to haunt his memory during all his upcoming days in prison.

One needed to take one’s amusement where one found it.

FIVE

When John Matthew had hit the mansion’s magnificent staircase, the last thing on his mind had been the past.

As he’d ascended, he’d been focused on, in order of importance: getting his shellan naked before Last Meal; getting her naked in their bedroom; annnnnd getting his shellan naked and underneath him in their bedroom before Last Meal.

Whether or not he was fully clothed? Not a big concern except for the below-the-waist stuff. And if push came to shove, he could totally punt on the bedroom part—provided wherever they ended up offered even a semblance of privacy.

So, yup, on his way to the second floor, he was very much plugged into the present and the presence of Xhex—who, if everything had gone to plan, had left the Iron Mask about fifteen minutes ago and was now covering the “naked” and “bedroom” part of his preoccupation.

Fate offered a diversion, however.

As he arrived on the upper landing, the double doors to Wrath’s study were open, and through them he saw a familiar tableau: the King seated behind his ornate desk; the queen in his lap; George, the golden retriever, at their feet; Saxton, Blay’s former flame and Wrath’s current solicitor, sitting off to the side on a sofa. As usual, the acre-size desktop was littered with paperwork, and Wrath’s mood was in the shitter.

In fact, that grim expression was part and parcel of the room, just like the antique French furniture that struggled to support the Brothers during meetings and the pale blue walls that seemed better suited to the boudoir of some chick named Lisette or Louisa.

But what did he know from Extreme Home Makeover.

Pausing to offer the four of them a wave, he intended to carry on to his room, find his mate, take her in a variety of positions—and then go down freshly showered to the final meal of the day.

Instead … just before he turned away … he met the eyes of his half sister, Beth.

The instant the connection was made, some combination of neurons fired in his brain, and the electrical load was too much for his motherboard: Without warning, he went into a free fall, his weight listing backward as the seizure took over his muscles, rendering them at first spastic and then utterly rigid.

He blacked out before he hit the ground …

… and when he regained consciousness, the first thing that registered was the ow-ow-ow of his head and his ass.

Blinking slowly, he discovered that at least he could see, the ceiling above coming into clear focus first before a lineup of concerned faces registered. Xhex was right by his side, his dagger hand in between her palms, her brows down as if she’d wanted to come into the midnight of his pass-out and drag him back to her.

As half-symphath, maybe she could do that. Maybe that was the reason he’d returned so quickly? Or had he lost consciousness for hours?

Doc Jane was next to her, and on his other side were Qhuinn and Blay. Wrath was down at his feet with Beth—

The moment his sister’s presence registered, the electrical activity started up again, and as a second go-around with the nightie-nights threatened, all he could think was, Damn it, this hadn’t happened for so long.

He’d assumed this shit was over with.

Seizures had never been a problem for him until he’d met Beth for the first time—and after that there had been other episodes, always out of the blue, never with any kind of pattern he could discern. The only good news? They hadn’t ever happened during fighting and had not endangered his life—

Unbidden, his body drew upward, his torso lifting itself off the carpet sure as if there were a rope tied to his rib cage and somebody far above was hauling him up.

“John?” Xhex said. “John, lie back.”

Something welled inside his chest, some kind of cresting emotion that was both out of his reach and utterly visceral. Reaching for Beth, he willed her to take his hand—and as she crouched down and did, his mouth started moving, his lips and tongue finding unfamiliar patterns over and over again … even as no sound broke through his muteness.

“What is he trying to say?” Beth demanded. “Xhex? Blay?”

Xhex’s expression became impassible. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

John frowned and thought, Bullshit. And yet he didn’t know what it was any more than Beth did—and he certainly couldn’t seem to stop the communicating.

“John, whatever it is, it’s all right.” His sister squeezed his hand. “You’re okay.”

Looming above his shellan, Wrath’s face shifted into an implacable mask—as if he’d picked up on some vibe and didn’t like it.

Suddenly, John could feel his mouth moving in a different pattern, other things getting expressed now; although damned if he had a clue what they were. Meanwhile, Beth was frowning … so was Wrath …

And that was it.

As his brain began to short out again, his vision closed in on Beth until all he saw was her face.

For no good reason, he felt like he hadn’t seen her in a year or two. And the significance of her features, the big blue eyes, the dark lashes, the long dark hair … resonated in his chest.

Not romantically, no.

This was something else entirely—and yet just as powerful.

Too bad he couldn’t hang on to consciousness any longer to figure it out.

“We are ready.”

As Assail finished his second line of cocaine, he straightened from his granite countertop and regarded his cousins: Across the kitchen of his glass house on the Hudson River, the two of them were dressed in matte black from head to foot. Even their guns and knives didn’t catch the light.

Perfect for what he had planned.

Assail screwed the top of his vial shut and tucked the stash into his black leather jacket. “Let us go, then.”

Leading them out the back door by the garage, he was reminded of why he’d brought them over from the Old World to Caldwell: Ever prepared and never questioning.

In that regard, they were exactly like the autoloaders they carried upon their able bodies night and noon.

“We’re going south,” he ordered. “Follow my signal.”