The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood 12)

Without missing a breath, the King EF5’d into his next victim … the heavy leather sofa that Rhage had just leaped up off.

Talk about your couch-icopters.

The entire thing came at John at about five feet off the floor, the pair of ends trading places as it spun around and around, cushions flying in all directions. He didn’t take it personally—especially as its mate do-si-doed with the bar, smashing the top-shelf bottles, liquor splashing all over the walls, the floor, the fire that was crackling in the hearth.

Wrath wasn’t finished.

The King picked up a side table, hauled it overhead, and pitched it in the direction of the TV. It missed the plasma screen, but managed to shatter an old-fashioned mirror—although the Sony didn’t last. The coffee table that had been in between the two sofas did that deed, killing the muted image of the two Boston guys and the old man from Southie with the baseball bat shilling for DirectTV.

The Brothers just let Wrath go. It wasn’t that they were afraid of getting hurt. Hell, Rhage stepped in and caught the first couch before it tore a hunk off of the archway’s molding. They just weren’t stupid.

Wrath - Beth × Overnight = Psycho-hose Beast

Better to let him wear himself out trashing the place. But, man, it was painful to watch—

John jumped to the side as an entire keg came flying at his head. Fortunately, Vishous was able to grab it before the thing hit the mosaic floor out in the foyer—which would have been a bitch to fix.

“We gotta keep him contained,” someone muttered.

“Amen,” somebody else replied. “He gets free in the house, and it’ll be shit even Fritz won’t know how to clean up.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Everyone turned and stared at Lassiter. The fallen angel with the bad attitude and even worse taste in just about everything had appeared from out of nowhere—and was looking serious, for once.

“What the f**k is that?” V demanded as the angel put a thin gold pen up to his own mouth.

Turned out it wasn’t a fancy Bic. With a quick puff, Lassiter discharged a tiny dart across the room—and when it hit Wrath in the shoulder, the impact was as if the King had been struck by a bullet in the chest.

He went down hard, his body stiffening and then falling like an oak.

“What the f**k did you do!” V pulled a Wrath and went for the angel. But Lassiter got right back in the Brother’s face.

“He was going to hurt himself, the house, or one of you a**holes! And don’t get your f**king panties in a wad. He’s just going to have a little nap—”

Wrath let out a soft snore.

Moving carefully, the Brotherhood closed in like they were checking out a grizzly and John went with them. As a circle formed around Sleeping Beauty, there was a lot of cursing under breaths.

“If you’ve killed him—”

Lassiter put his gold whacker away. “Does he look dead.”

No, actually, the poor bastard looked like he was at peace with himself and the world, his coloring strong, his body so relaxed his shitkickers were lolling to the sides.

“Dearest … Virgin … Scribe…”

Everybody looked to the archway. Fritz was standing there with a Louis Vuitton duffel in one hand and the expression of someone witnessing a car accident on his face.

John closed his eyes.

He hoped like hell Beth had gone into that house, locked the door like she promised, and laid low during the daytime.

One of the pair of them was down hard. No one needed a second.

TWENTY-ONE

After Fritz and John left, Beth finally stepped into her father’s house—and as she entered, time’s relentless forward movement reversed itself. In the work of a moment, minutes, hours, days … then weeks and months … disappeared.

Abruptly, she was who she had been before meeting Wrath—a twenty-something human woman living with her cat in a cramped studio apartment, trying to make a go in the world with nothing and no one behind her. Sure, she had loved parts of her job, but her boss, Dick the Prick, had been a leering, misogynistic nightmare. And yeah, she’d been paid okay, except there hadn’t been much left over after her rent—or chance of advancement at the Caldwell Courier Journal. Oh, and romance of any kind had been as fictional and far-off on the horizon as the Lone Ranger.

Not that she’d been interested in men, really. Or women, at all.

But then this one time, at band camp …

Shutting the door, she was careful to lock herself in. Fritz had a key, so whenever he arrived with her stuff he’d be able to get in—but no one else would.

As the silence in the house surrounded her, it felt like bars on a cage. How in the hell had she ended up here? Spending an entire day without Wrath? As early as the night before, at their place in NYC, a separation like this would have been unthinkable.

Walking into the parlor on the left, she wandered around, remembering how, when she’d initially come here, she’d been convinced Wrath was a drug dealer, a criminal, a killer. At least she’d been wrong about the first two—and he’d proved that last one by nearly murdering Butch O’Neal in front of her in an alley.

Following that little horror, they’d come here—where they’d found Rhage in the downstairs bath, stitching himself up. It was after that that Wrath had taken her though the painting, down the lantern-lit stairwell underground … and into a hidden lair.

Where he’d told her who she really was.

What she really was.

Talk about falling through your rabbit holes. Except it had made sense of so much that had confused her—the disconnect to the people around her, her sense that she didn’t belong, her restlessness that had been ever-increasing as she approached her transition.

To think she’d assumed that all she needed was to get out of Caldwell.

Nope. Her change had been coming, and without Wrath, she would have died. No doubt.

He had saved her in so many ways. Loved her with his body and soul. Given her a future she hadn’t even dreamed of.

Right now? All she wanted to do was go back to their beginning. Things had been so easy then …

Going over to the floor-to-ceiling depiction of a French king, she hit the hidden switch that released the oil painting in its two-ton gold-leaf frame. As the thing swung open, she half expected the way down to be pitch-black—after all, no one had lived here for how long? But as with the way everything was still vacuumed and dusted and polished, the gas lanterns flickered in their wrought-iron cages, the rough stone steps and walls curving down into the cellar.

Jesus, it still smelled the same. A little musty and damp, but not dirty.

Trailing her hand over the uneven stone, she descended into the underground. The two bedroom suites at the bottom gave her a left and a right choice, and she picked the one on the left.

The one that had been her father’s old hideaway from the sun.

The pictures of her were still where he had placed them, all kinds of photos in so many different frames covering the writing desk, the side tables by the bed, the mantel over the fireplace.

The particular image she was looking for was by the alarm clock.

It was the only one of her mother, and yup … just a quick glance at the woman and she was reminded of where she’d gotten her thick black hair and the shape of her face and the set of her shoulders.

Her mother.

What kind of life had the woman lived? How had Darius come to her? From what Wrath had said back in the beginning, the pair of them hadn’t been together for very long before she’d found out what Darius really was—and bolted fast. It wasn’t until she’d discovered she was pregnant that she’d gone back to see him, scared of what she was bringing into the world.

She had died in childbirth.

And Darius had stayed on the sidelines after that, hoping that their daughter wouldn’t take after the vampire side of things.

Some half-breeds never went through the change. Some didn’t survive the transition. And those who did make it through and came out the other side as vampires were subject to different, unpredictable biological rules. Beth, for example, could go out in the daylight as long as she wore sunscreen and sunglasses. Butch, on the other hand, couldn’t dematerialize.

So God only knew about the pregnancy stuff. But if she was lucky, she would go into her needing and Wrath would somehow come around and she’d give birth to …

Well, then again, that was how her mother had died, wasn’t it.

“Crap.”

Sitting down on the mattress, she put her head in her hands. Maybe Wrath had a point. Maybe the whole conception thing really was too dangerous to mess around with. But that didn’t excuse the way he’d treated her, and it didn’t end the discussion.

Christ, as she sat down here, surrounded by pictures Darius had had taken of her, she was even more convinced she wanted a child.

Dropping her arms, she took out her BlackBerry, put her password in, and checked to see if any messages had come through that she hadn’t heard. Nope. Turning the thing over and over in her hands, she idly wished it was an iPhone. V, however, was not just anti-Apple; he was convinced Steve Jobs’s legacy was the root of all evil in the world …

Sometimes couples did better over the phone.

And whereas Wrath hadn’t played nice, that didn’t mean she had to follow the example. If she intended to have some space for the next twelve hours or so, she really needed to pay him the courtesy of telling him herself—not use her brother as a messenger.

The trouble was Wrath didn’t have a cell phone anymore. No need for one—when he’d officially taken over the King duties, he’d been “retired” from the Brotherhood by custom, law, and common f-in’ sense. Not that it had kept him from getting shot.

There were plenty of phones at the mansion, however.

Six a.m. He was probably still working at his desk.

Dialing the digits, she listened to one ring. The next. A third.

There was no voice mail for Wrath anymore because the glymera had so totally abused the number they’d been given. Which was how he’d ended up with the e-mail account from hell.

The next number she tried was for the handset by their bed, the one that was so unpublished, she’d never actually heard it ring before. No answer.

She had several choices at this point. Training Center’s clinic—in case he was injured. But how would that happen? He didn’t leave the house anymore. Kitchen—except Last Meal was almost on the table and Wrath probably wasn’t going to be in all that chaos without her: Even though he’d never said so, she had the feeling that crowded, noisy rooms made him uncomfortable because his senses of hearing and smell got overloaded, making it difficult for him to place people in space.

There was only one other number to try.

As she got the person out of her contacts, another slice of the past came back to her.

She pictured Tohr coming in through the sliding glass door of her old apartment, the Brother looming large as any nightmare should. But he had been, and always was, an ally. That night that they’d shared Sam Adams and oatmeal cookies and Godzilla had been the start of a true friendship.

He was in such a different place now. Losing Wellsie. Finding Autumn.

And Beth wasn’t the same, either.

As the call went through, there was only one ring before things were answered: “Beth.”

She frowned at the odd tone in Tohr’s voice. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. I’m glad you called.”

“Ah … why?” Had Wrath told the Brotherhood she wasn’t coming home? Probably not. “Never mind. I just … I’m looking for Wrath. Do you know where he is? I tried the study and our rooms and he didn’t pick up.”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

WTF? “Tohr. What’s going on.”

As true fear took root in the center of her chest, her mind got away from her. What if—

“Nothing. Honest—well, we’ve got an unexpected VIP coming into the clinic, so I’m scrambling to get coverage.”

Ah, snap. She was being paranoid. Better than being right, though.

“As for Wrath, last I saw, he was…” There was a pause. Then a shuffle like the guy was switching the phone to his other ear. “He was taking a little breather.”

“Breather as in?”

“He was asleep.”

Beth felt her jaw hinge loosen. “Asleep?”

“Yeah. He was resting.”

“Really.”

Here she was, putting herself through the wringer, confused about what to think and feel, running their entire relationship backwards and forwards, planning conversations, tying herself in knots. Meanwhile, he was just, you know, pulling a siesta.

“Well, that’s great,” she heard herself say. “I’m really happy for him.”

“Beth—”

“Look, I have to go.” Yup, she was busy, busy, busy. “If he wakes up, tell him…”

No, not that she’d called. Men weren’t the only ones allowed to keep their pride; women didn’t have to be the “weaker sex.”

“Actually, I’ll tell him myself. I’ll be at my dad’s, cleaning things up today.” Yeah, ’cuz the house was such a mess. “But I’ll be back at nightfall.”

The honest relief coming through the line was striking. “Oh, that’s good news. I’m really glad.”

“Okay, well…” Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to hang up.

“Beth? You still there?”

“Yeah. I am.” She found herself rubbing her thigh up and down. “Listen, can I ask you something?” ut missing a breath, the King EF5’d into his next victim … the heavy leather sofa that Rhage had just leaped up off.

Talk about your couch-icopters.

The entire thing came at John at about five feet off the floor, the pair of ends trading places as it spun around and around, cushions flying in all directions. He didn’t take it personally—especially as its mate do-si-doed with the bar, smashing the top-shelf bottles, liquor splashing all over the walls, the floor, the fire that was crackling in the hearth.

Wrath wasn’t finished.

The King picked up a side table, hauled it overhead, and pitched it in the direction of the TV. It missed the plasma screen, but managed to shatter an old-fashioned mirror—although the Sony didn’t last. The coffee table that had been in between the two sofas did that deed, killing the muted image of the two Boston guys and the old man from Southie with the baseball bat shilling for DirectTV.

The Brothers just let Wrath go. It wasn’t that they were afraid of getting hurt. Hell, Rhage stepped in and caught the first couch before it tore a hunk off of the archway’s molding. They just weren’t stupid.

Wrath - Beth × Overnight = Psycho-hose Beast

Better to let him wear himself out trashing the place. But, man, it was painful to watch—

John jumped to the side as an entire keg came flying at his head. Fortunately, Vishous was able to grab it before the thing hit the mosaic floor out in the foyer—which would have been a bitch to fix.

“We gotta keep him contained,” someone muttered.

“Amen,” somebody else replied. “He gets free in the house, and it’ll be shit even Fritz won’t know how to clean up.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Everyone turned and stared at Lassiter. The fallen angel with the bad attitude and even worse taste in just about everything had appeared from out of nowhere—and was looking serious, for once.

“What the f**k is that?” V demanded as the angel put a thin gold pen up to his own mouth.

Turned out it wasn’t a fancy Bic. With a quick puff, Lassiter discharged a tiny dart across the room—and when it hit Wrath in the shoulder, the impact was as if the King had been struck by a bullet in the chest.

He went down hard, his body stiffening and then falling like an oak.

“What the f**k did you do!” V pulled a Wrath and went for the angel. But Lassiter got right back in the Brother’s face.

“He was going to hurt himself, the house, or one of you a**holes! And don’t get your f**king panties in a wad. He’s just going to have a little nap—”

Wrath let out a soft snore.

Moving carefully, the Brotherhood closed in like they were checking out a grizzly and John went with them. As a circle formed around Sleeping Beauty, there was a lot of cursing under breaths.

“If you’ve killed him—”

Lassiter put his gold whacker away. “Does he look dead.”

No, actually, the poor bastard looked like he was at peace with himself and the world, his coloring strong, his body so relaxed his shitkickers were lolling to the sides.

“Dearest … Virgin … Scribe…”

Everybody looked to the archway. Fritz was standing there with a Louis Vuitton duffel in one hand and the expression of someone witnessing a car accident on his face.

John closed his eyes.

He hoped like hell Beth had gone into that house, locked the door like she promised, and laid low during the daytime.

One of the pair of them was down hard. No one needed a second.

TWENTY-ONE

After Fritz and John left, Beth finally stepped into her father’s house—and as she entered, time’s relentless forward movement reversed itself. In the work of a moment, minutes, hours, days … then weeks and months … disappeared.

Abruptly, she was who she had been before meeting Wrath—a twenty-something human woman living with her cat in a cramped studio apartment, trying to make a go in the world with nothing and no one behind her. Sure, she had loved parts of her job, but her boss, Dick the Prick, had been a leering, misogynistic nightmare. And yeah, she’d been paid okay, except there hadn’t been much left over after her rent—or chance of advancement at the Caldwell Courier Journal. Oh, and romance of any kind had been as fictional and far-off on the horizon as the Lone Ranger.

Not that she’d been interested in men, really. Or women, at all.

But then this one time, at band camp …

Shutting the door, she was careful to lock herself in. Fritz had a key, so whenever he arrived with her stuff he’d be able to get in—but no one else would.

As the silence in the house surrounded her, it felt like bars on a cage. How in the hell had she ended up here? Spending an entire day without Wrath? As early as the night before, at their place in NYC, a separation like this would have been unthinkable.

Walking into the parlor on the left, she wandered around, remembering how, when she’d initially come here, she’d been convinced Wrath was a drug dealer, a criminal, a killer. At least she’d been wrong about the first two—and he’d proved that last one by nearly murdering Butch O’Neal in front of her in an alley.

Following that little horror, they’d come here—where they’d found Rhage in the downstairs bath, stitching himself up. It was after that that Wrath had taken her though the painting, down the lantern-lit stairwell underground … and into a hidden lair.

Where he’d told her who she really was.

What she really was.

Talk about falling through your rabbit holes. Except it had made sense of so much that had confused her—the disconnect to the people around her, her sense that she didn’t belong, her restlessness that had been ever-increasing as she approached her transition.

To think she’d assumed that all she needed was to get out of Caldwell.

Nope. Her change had been coming, and without Wrath, she would have died. No doubt.

He had saved her in so many ways. Loved her with his body and soul. Given her a future she hadn’t even dreamed of.

Right now? All she wanted to do was go back to their beginning. Things had been so easy then …

Going over to the floor-to-ceiling depiction of a French king, she hit the hidden switch that released the oil painting in its two-ton gold-leaf frame. As the thing swung open, she half expected the way down to be pitch-black—after all, no one had lived here for how long? But as with the way everything was still vacuumed and dusted and polished, the gas lanterns flickered in their wrought-iron cages, the rough stone steps and walls curving down into the cellar.

Jesus, it still smelled the same. A little musty and damp, but not dirty.

Trailing her hand over the uneven stone, she descended into the underground. The two bedroom suites at the bottom gave her a left and a right choice, and she picked the one on the left.

The one that had been her father’s old hideaway from the sun.

The pictures of her were still where he had placed them, all kinds of photos in so many different frames covering the writing desk, the side tables by the bed, the mantel over the fireplace.

The particular image she was looking for was by the alarm clock.

It was the only one of her mother, and yup … just a quick glance at the woman and she was reminded of where she’d gotten her thick black hair and the shape of her face and the set of her shoulders.

Her mother.

What kind of life had the woman lived? How had Darius come to her? From what Wrath had said back in the beginning, the pair of them hadn’t been together for very long before she’d found out what Darius really was—and bolted fast. It wasn’t until she’d discovered she was pregnant that she’d gone back to see him, scared of what she was bringing into the world.

She had died in childbirth.

And Darius had stayed on the sidelines after that, hoping that their daughter wouldn’t take after the vampire side of things.

Some half-breeds never went through the change. Some didn’t survive the transition. And those who did make it through and came out the other side as vampires were subject to different, unpredictable biological rules. Beth, for example, could go out in the daylight as long as she wore sunscreen and sunglasses. Butch, on the other hand, couldn’t dematerialize.

So God only knew about the pregnancy stuff. But if she was lucky, she would go into her needing and Wrath would somehow come around and she’d give birth to …

Well, then again, that was how her mother had died, wasn’t it.

“Crap.”

Sitting down on the mattress, she put her head in her hands. Maybe Wrath had a point. Maybe the whole conception thing really was too dangerous to mess around with. But that didn’t excuse the way he’d treated her, and it didn’t end the discussion.

Christ, as she sat down here, surrounded by pictures Darius had had taken of her, she was even more convinced she wanted a child.

Dropping her arms, she took out her BlackBerry, put her password in, and checked to see if any messages had come through that she hadn’t heard. Nope. Turning the thing over and over in her hands, she idly wished it was an iPhone. V, however, was not just anti-Apple; he was convinced Steve Jobs’s legacy was the root of all evil in the world …

Sometimes couples did better over the phone.

And whereas Wrath hadn’t played nice, that didn’t mean she had to follow the example. If she intended to have some space for the next twelve hours or so, she really needed to pay him the courtesy of telling him herself—not use her brother as a messenger.

The trouble was Wrath didn’t have a cell phone anymore. No need for one—when he’d officially taken over the King duties, he’d been “retired” from the Brotherhood by custom, law, and common f-in’ sense. Not that it had kept him from getting shot.

There were plenty of phones at the mansion, however.

Six a.m. He was probably still working at his desk.

Dialing the digits, she listened to one ring. The next. A third.

There was no voice mail for Wrath anymore because the glymera had so totally abused the number they’d been given. Which was how he’d ended up with the e-mail account from hell.

The next number she tried was for the handset by their bed, the one that was so unpublished, she’d never actually heard it ring before. No answer.

She had several choices at this point. Training Center’s clinic—in case he was injured. But how would that happen? He didn’t leave the house anymore. Kitchen—except Last Meal was almost on the table and Wrath probably wasn’t going to be in all that chaos without her: Even though he’d never said so, she had the feeling that crowded, noisy rooms made him uncomfortable because his senses of hearing and smell got overloaded, making it difficult for him to place people in space.

There was only one other number to try.

As she got the person out of her contacts, another slice of the past came back to her.

She pictured Tohr coming in through the sliding glass door of her old apartment, the Brother looming large as any nightmare should. But he had been, and always was, an ally. That night that they’d shared Sam Adams and oatmeal cookies and Godzilla had been the start of a true friendship.

He was in such a different place now. Losing Wellsie. Finding Autumn.

And Beth wasn’t the same, either.

As the call went through, there was only one ring before things were answered: “Beth.”

She frowned at the odd tone in Tohr’s voice. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. I’m glad you called.”

“Ah … why?” Had Wrath told the Brotherhood she wasn’t coming home? Probably not. “Never mind. I just … I’m looking for Wrath. Do you know where he is? I tried the study and our rooms and he didn’t pick up.”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

WTF? “Tohr. What’s going on.”

As true fear took root in the center of her chest, her mind got away from her. What if—

“Nothing. Honest—well, we’ve got an unexpected VIP coming into the clinic, so I’m scrambling to get coverage.”

Ah, snap. She was being paranoid. Better than being right, though.

“As for Wrath, last I saw, he was…” There was a pause. Then a shuffle like the guy was switching the phone to his other ear. “He was taking a little breather.”

“Breather as in?”

“He was asleep.”

Beth felt her jaw hinge loosen. “Asleep?”

“Yeah. He was resting.”

“Really.”

Here she was, putting herself through the wringer, confused about what to think and feel, running their entire relationship backwards and forwards, planning conversations, tying herself in knots. Meanwhile, he was just, you know, pulling a siesta.

“Well, that’s great,” she heard herself say. “I’m really happy for him.”

“Beth—”

“Look, I have to go.” Yup, she was busy, busy, busy. “If he wakes up, tell him…”

No, not that she’d called. Men weren’t the only ones allowed to keep their pride; women didn’t have to be the “weaker sex.”

“Actually, I’ll tell him myself. I’ll be at my dad’s, cleaning things up today.” Yeah, ’cuz the house was such a mess. “But I’ll be back at nightfall.”

The honest relief coming through the line was striking. “Oh, that’s good news. I’m really glad.”

“Okay, well…” Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to hang up.

“Beth? You still there?”

“Yeah. I am.” She found herself rubbing her thigh up and down. “Listen, can I ask you something?”