Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood 7)

"And in what manner is this paragon going to be picked?"

"We're going to move to a democracy. A long-overdue democracy that shall replace the unjust and unfair convention of monarchy..."

As a whole lot of blah-blah-blahing got its groove on, Rehv eased back, crossed his legs at the knees, and steepled his fingers. Sitting on Montrag's fluffy sofa, the two halves him of warred, the vampire and the symphath clashing.

The only bene was that the internal shouting match droned out the sound of all that nasally I-know-everything.

The opportunity was obvious: Get rid of the king and seize control of the race.

The opportunity was unthinkable: Kill a fine male and a good leader and...a friend of sorts.

"...and we would choose who leads us. Make him accountable to the council. Ensure that our concerns are responded to." Montrag returned to the couch he'd been on, sitting down and getting comfortable as if he could hot-air it about the future for hours. "The monarchy is not working and democracy is the only way-"

Rehv cut in, "Democracy typically means that everyone gets a vote. Just in case you're unfamiliar with the definition."

"But we would. All of us who serve on the council would be on the electoral board. Everyone would be counted."

"FYI, the term everyone encompasses a couple more folks over and above 'everyone like us.'"

Montrag shot over a load of oh-please-do-be-serious. "Would you honestly trust the race to the lower classes?"

"Not up to me."

"It could be." Montrag brought his teacup up to his mouth and looked over the brim with eyes that were sharp. "It absolutely could be. You are our leahdyre."

Staring at the guy, Rehv saw the path as clearly as if it were paved and lit with halogen beams: If Wrath were killed, his royal line would end, because he had yet to sire young. Societies, particularly those at war as the vampires were, abhorred leadership vacuums, so a radical shift from monarchy to "democracy" wouldn't be as unthinkable as it would have in another, saner, safer time.

The glymera might be out of Caldwell and hiding in their safe houses throughout New England, but that bunch of effete motherfuckers had money and influence and had wanted to take over forever. With this particular plan, they could clothe their ambitions in the vestments of democracy and make like they were taking care of the little people.

Rehv's dark nature seethed, a jailed criminal impatient for probation: Bad acts and power plays were a constitutional compulsion for those of his father's blood, and part of him wanted to create the void...and step into it.

He cut into Montrag's self-important driveling. "Spare me the propaganda. What exactly are you suggesting."

The male made elaborate work of putting down his teacup, as if he wanted to appear as if he were corralling his words. Whatever. Rehv was willing to bet the guy knew exactly what he was going to say. Something of this nature wasn't the kind of thing you just pulled out of your ass, and there were others in on it. Had to be.

"As you well know, the council is to meet in a couple of days in Caldwell specifically for us to have an audience with the king. Wrath will arrive and...a mortal event will occur."

"He travels with the Brotherhood. Not exactly the kind of muscle you can easily work around."

"Death wears many masks. And has many different stages on which to perform."

"And my role is...?" Even though he knew.

Montrag's pale eyes were like ice, luminescent and cold. "I know what kind of male you are. So I know exactly what you are capable of."

This was not a surprise. Rehv had been a drug lord for the past twenty-five years, and though he hadn't announced his avocation to the aristocracy, vampires did hit his clubs regularly, and a number of them were in the ranks of his chemical customers.

No one but the Brothers knew about his symphath side-and he would have kept it from them if he'd had the choice. For the past two decades he'd been paying his blackmailer well to make sure the secret was his to keep.

"That is why I come to you," Montrag said. "You will know how to take care of this."

"True enough."

"As leahdyre of the council, you would be in a position of enormous power. Even if you are not elected as president, the council is going nowhere. And let me reassure you about the Black Dagger Brotherhood. I know your sister is mated to one of them. The Brothers will not be affected by this."

"You don't think it's going to piss them off? Wrath is not just their king. He's their blood."

"Protecting our race is their primary mandate. Whither we go they must follow. And you have to know that there are many who feel they have been doing a poor job of late. Methinks perhaps they require better leadership."

"From you. Right. Of course."

That would be like an interior decorator trying to command a tank platoon: a shitload of noisy chirping until one of the soldiers offed the lightweight flash in the pan and churned over the body a couple of times.

Perfect plan there. Yup.

And yet...who said Montrag had to be the one elected? Accidents happened to both kings and aristocrats.

"I must say unto you," Montrag continued, "as my father always said unto me, timing is everything. We need to proceed with haste. May we rely on you, my friend?"

Rehv got to his feet and towered over the other male. With a quick tug on his jacket cuffs, he straightened his Tom Ford, then reached for his cane. He felt nothing in his body, not his clothes or the weight shifting from his ass to his soles or the handle against the palm he'd burned. The numbness was a side effect of the drug he used to keep his bad side from coming out in mixed company, the prison in which he jailed his sociopathic impulses.

All he needed to get back to basics was one missed dose, though. An hour later? The evil in him was alive and kicking and ready to play.

"What say you?" Montrag prompted.

Wasn't that the question.

Sometimes in life, from out of the myriad of prosaic decisions like what to eat and where to sleep and how to dress, a true crossroads is revealed. In these moments, when the fog of relative irrelevancy lifts and fate rolls out a demand for free will, there is only left or right-no option of four-by-fouring into the underbrush between two paths, no negotiating with the choice that has been presented.

You must answer the call and pick your way. And there is no reverse.

Of course, the problem was, navigating a moral landscape was something he'd had to teach himself to do to fit in with the vampires. The lessons he'd learned had stuck, although only to a point.

And his drugs only kind of, sort of worked.

Abruptly, Montrag's pale face became cast in variations of pastel pink and the male's dark hair went magenta and his smoking jacket became the color of ketchup. As a red wash tinted everything, Rehv's visual field flattened out so it was like a movie screen of the world.

Which perhaps explained why symphaths found it so easy to use people. With his dark side taking over, the universe had all the depth of a chessboard, and the people in it were pawns to his omniscient hand. Every one of them. Enemies...and friends.

"I'll take care of it," Rehv announced. "As you said, I know what to do."

"Your word." Montrag put forward his smooth palm. "Your word that this shall be carried out in secret and in silence."

Rehv let that hand hang in the breeze, but he smiled, once again revealing his fangs. "Trust me."

Chapter TWO

As Wrath, son of Wrath, pounded down one of Caldwell's urban alleys, he was bleeding in two places. There was a gash along his left shoulder, made by a serrated knife, and a hunk out of his thigh, thanks to the rusty corner of a Dumpster. The lesser up ahead, the one he was about to gut like a fish, had been responsible for neither: The ass**le's two pale-haired, girlie-smelling buddies had done the damage.

Right before they'd been reduced to a matched set of mulch bags three hundred yards and three minutes ago.

This bastard up ahead was the real target.

The slayer was hauling ass, but Wrath was faster-not just because his legs were longer, and despite the fact that he was leaking like a corroded cistern. There was no question the third would die.

It was an issue of will.

The lesser had chosen the wrong path tonight-although not in picking this particular alley. That had been the only right and just thing the undead had probably done for decades, because privacy was important for fighting. Last thing the Brothers or the Lessening Society needed was for human police to get involved in anything so much as a nose blow in this war.