The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood 12)

The glare he got from his superior was immediate—like the guy didn’t want Wrath bothered. “She’s fine,” he cut in.

“Paralyzed?” Wrath seemed to pale. “From the birthing?”

“Ah … yeah. She was injured. She was delivered without assistance. Other than me who was of sorry aid.”

“Where the f**k was Havers?”

“We couldn’t get to the clinic.”

Wrath’s nose flared. “You’re lying to me.”

The foreman’s brows lifted in shock. “It was no one’s fault, my lord. Except for mine.”

“I thought you were in construction. Or did you go to medical school?”

“I did not.”

“So how was it your fault?” Wrath shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m glad your daughter survived.”

“It is my biggest blessing, my lord.”

“No doubt. And I know you have to miss your mate like hell.”

“Every night. All day. Although my second shellan keeps me going.”

Wrath nodded like he knew exactly where the male was at. “I get that. I so totally get that. Something similiar happened to my brother, Tohr.”

There was a long pause. Then the foreman said slowly, “I don’t know what else to say, my lord. Other than you have honored us greatly with your presence.”

“You don’t have to say anything. And I should leave you guys alone. I’m taking up your time.” Wrath lifted his dagger hand in a casual wave. “Later.”

As the plastic sheeting fell back into place behind the King, the workmen were speechless.

“Is he always like that?” the foreman asked numbly.

Rhage nodded. “He truly is a male of worth.”

“I didn’t think he would be … like that.”

“Like what?”

“So approachable.”

“Based on what?”

“The rumors. They say he’s aloof. Untouchable. Uninterested in people like us.” The foreman shook himself like he couldn’t believe he’d said that aloud. “What I mean is—”

“Nah, you’re good. I can imagine where that comes from.”

“He looks like his father,” the older one in the back said. “Spitting image.”

“You knew him? Wrath’s dad, that is?” Rhage asked.

The older male nodded. “And I saw the two of them together once. Wrath the younger was five. He always stood beside his father when the King had audiences with the commoners. I had a property dispute with my landlord who was in the glymera. The King took care of me over that aristocrat, I tell you.” An air of sadness overcame the male’s entire aura. “I remember when the King and queen were killed. We were certain the heir had been slaughtered as well—by the time we learned otherwise … this Wrath was gone.”

“I heard he was shot recently,” the foreman said to Rhage. “Is that true?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

The foreman bowed. “Of course. I apologize.”

“Like I said, you’re good, don’t worry. Come on, JM, let’s leave these guys to work.” As John nodded, Rhage tacked on, “Just let us know if you need anything.”

John went to follow the Brother, but then paused in the split between the sheets. The workmen were still staring at where Wrath had stood and talked with them, as if they were replaying everything. As if they’d been witnesses to a historic event.

Stepping out, he wondered if Wrath was aware of the effect he’d had on them.

Probably not.

FIFTY-SEVEN

As Anha sat at her dressing table, she had naught but a lingering tiredness leftover from her episode: With every night that passed, she was feeling more herself, her body rebounding, her mind resharpening.

But everything had changed.

In the first, the Brotherhood had moved into the chamber next door. All twelve of them. And they rotated their service such that the door to her and Wrath’s private space was never unguarded.

And then there was the food. Wrath refused to let her eat anything that he or the Brothers had not personally sampled first—following a wait period of quite some while.

And then there was the worry upon her hellren’s face, every time she caught him unawares.

Speaking of worry, wherever was he?

“Your King shall return very soon.”

She gasped and looked over her shoulder. Tohrture was sitting in the corner, “reading” from a book of sonnets. In truth, she did not think he traced the symbols a’tall. Instead, his eyes were on the blockaded windows, the door, her, the windows, the door, her. On occasion, he broke the rhythm by speaking with one of his Brothers or tasting food that was prepared at her hearth.

“Where has he gone?” she asked once again.

“He shall return soon.” The smile was meant to be reassuring. The shadow in his stare was most certainly not.

Anha narrowed her eyes. “He has not explained any of this.”

“All is well.”

“I do not believe you.”

The Brother just smiled at her in that way of his, giving her nothing to go on.

Anha put down her brush and turned fully about. “He thinks I was poisoned, then. Otherwise, why this protection. The cooking. The concern.”

“All is well.”

Just as she threw up her hands in frustration, the door opened—

She jumped to her feet so fast, her dressing table wobbled, bottles and pots falling over. “Dearest Virgin Scribe! Wrath!”

Jerking up her skirts, she ran barefoot across the oak floor to the horror before her: Suspended between the holds of two Brothers, her mate was bloodied everywhere, his simple shift stained down the front from his split lip and his contused face, his knuckles dripping onto the rug, his head hanging limp as though he could not lift it.

“What have you done to him!” she screamed as the chamber door was shut and locked.

Before she could stop herself, she flailed at the ones who held him, her fists making no impact as they maneuvered him over onto the bedding platform.

“Anha … Anha, arrest…” As they laid Wrath out, his left hand rose. “Anha … arrest.”

She wanted to clasp his palm and cling unto him, but he seemed hurt everywhere. “Who did this to you!”

“I asked them to.”

“What.”

“You heard me properly.”

Sitting back, she found that now she felt like hitting him as well.

Wrath’s voice was so weak, she wondered how he was still conscious. “There is a job that needs doing. By mine own hands.” He flexed them and winced. “No others will suffice.”

Anha glared at her mate—and then did the same to the assembled males, as well as the ones who were newly arriving, clearly coming in after they heard the shouting.

“You shall explain yourselves the now,” she barked. “All of you. Or I shall take my leave of this room.”

“Anha.” Wrath’s voice was garbled and he was having trouble drawing breath. “Be of reason.”

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Am I packing my things or is one among you going to speak unto me.”

“Anha—”

“Speak or I pack.”

Wrath exhaled a ragged curse. “There is naught for you to be concerned with—”

“When you come upon our mated chamber looking as though you have been struck by a carriage, it is very much my concern! How dare you exclude me from this!”

Wrath lifted his hand as if to rub his face and then grimaced when the contact was made.

“I believe your nose is broken,” she said flatly.

“Amongst other things.”

“Indeed.”

Wrath finally looked upon her. “I shall ahvenge you. That is all.”

Anha heard herself gasp. And then her knees went weak and she lowered herself back down to the bedding platform. She was not naive, and yet hearing confirmation of that which she had suspected was a shock.

“So ’tis true. I was made to become ill.”

“Aye.”

Tracing the injuries upon her hellren with fresh eyes, she shook her head. “No, I shall not allow it. If you must have revenge wrought, let one of these capable males do it.”

“No.”

She glanced over at the heavy carved desk across the way, the one they’d recently moved in here, the one at which he sat so happily for hours upon hours, ruling, thinking, planning. Then she regarded his misshapen face.

“Wrath, you are not fit for the likes of a violent duty,” she said hoarsely.

“I shall be.”

“No. I forbid you.”

Now he glared upon her. “No one commands the King.”

“Except for me,” she countered smoothly. “And we both know it.”

At that there was a soft chuckle in the room—of respect.

“They did the same to my father,” Wrath said in a dead voice. “Except they poisoned him to the point of his death.”

Anha lifted a hand to her throat. “But no … he died of natural causes—”

“He did not. And as the son, I am obliged to right that wrong—as well as yours.” Wrath wiped some of the blood off his mouth. “Listen to me now, my Anha, and hear this truth clearly … I shall not be castrated in this by you or anyone. The soul of my father haunts me the now, walking the halls of my mind, talking unto me. And you shall do the same if they finally succeed in putting you in your grave. I have been fated to live with the former. Do not expect me to do the same with the latter.”

She leaned in urgently. “But you have the Brotherhood. That is what they are for, how they serve. They are your private guard.”

As she implored her mate, the sheer heft and number of the males pressed in upon her—in the very best sense.

“Command them,” she begged. “Send them out unto the world to exact this due.”

His bloodied hand reached out, and she thought it was to clasp her palm. Instead, it rested upon her gown, below the bodice … upon her womb.

“You are with young,” he said roughly. “I can scent it.”

She too had been thinking the same, although for different reasons.

Wrath’s one working eye met hers. “So I cannot allow others to do what is my duty. Even if I could regard you knowing that I was so weak … I could never stare into the face of a son or a daughter with the awareness that I had lacked the courage to caretake for mine bloodline.”

“Please, Wrath…”

“What kind of father would I be then?”

“One who is alive.”

“For how long, though. If I do not protect what is mine, it shall be taken away from me. And I will not lose my family.”

Overcome, Anha felt tears fall down her cheeks, the paths burning her face.

Dropping her forehead to the bloodied black diamond of the King’s ring, she wept.

For in her heart, she knew he was right—and she hated the world that they lived in … and were, in time, going to bring forth a young into.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Downtown, in the urban heart of Caldwell, Xcor picked up a burst of speed in an alley, his combat boots crushing through the dirty, salted slush, frigid air rushing at his face, distant sirens and shouts offering a kind of narration to this battle.

Up ahead, the slayer he was going for was just as fast as he. The bastard was not as well armed, however—especially after he’d emptied his clip and then had, in the fit of a fifteen-year-old, thrown the autoloader at Xcor.

Great move. Right up there with crying for your mommy.

And then the chase had been on.

Xcor was content to allow the lesser to run his lack of a heart out. Provided that all the sprinting didn’t lead to the kind of complication that had gotten in his way the other night.

He had no interest in fielding another human.

After another quarter mile or so, the slayer came to the titular end of the alley—whereupon he was forced to pull a music video, throwing his body at a twenty-foot-high chain-link fence and commencing to scale it with admirable aplomb.

Then again, the Omega had given him a kind of super-power following his induction.

Not that it was going to save him.

Xcor took three leaping steps and pitched his body into the air, his weight sailing upward and landing him upon the lesser’s back just before the slayer hit the apex of the fencing. Locking on and yanking hard, he peeled the undead free of the fencing, twisting in midair such that they landed with Xcor on top.

His scythe screamed to be let out to play. But instead of releasing her, he unclipped her little cousin from his hip.

The machete had a steel handle and a rubber grip, and it felt like an extension of his arm as he lifted it over his shoulder.

Now, he could end this quickly by aiming for the middle of the chest. But where was the fun in that? Slapping a hold on the face, he wrenched the head to the side and sheared off the ear—

The resulting scream was a kind of music, echoing in his ears.

“Other side,” he grunted, forcing the head around. “One needs to match.”

The machete’s blade whistled through the air a second time, Xcor’s accuracy such that nothing save the fleshy appendage was touched. And the pain was enough to incapacitate his prey—well, that and the fact that surely the slayer knew that what was to come was going to be so much worse.

Fear had a way of leading to paralysis.

And the undead was right to be terrified.

In a fast series of hacks, Xcor worked his way down the body, striking the blade deep into each shoulder to cut the tendons and incapacitate the torso—and then following through with the backs of the knees. lare he got from his superior was immediate—like the guy didn’t want Wrath bothered. “She’s fine,” he cut in.

“Paralyzed?” Wrath seemed to pale. “From the birthing?”

“Ah … yeah. She was injured. She was delivered without assistance. Other than me who was of sorry aid.”

“Where the f**k was Havers?”

“We couldn’t get to the clinic.”

Wrath’s nose flared. “You’re lying to me.”

The foreman’s brows lifted in shock. “It was no one’s fault, my lord. Except for mine.”

“I thought you were in construction. Or did you go to medical school?”

“I did not.”

“So how was it your fault?” Wrath shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m glad your daughter survived.”

“It is my biggest blessing, my lord.”

“No doubt. And I know you have to miss your mate like hell.”

“Every night. All day. Although my second shellan keeps me going.”

Wrath nodded like he knew exactly where the male was at. “I get that. I so totally get that. Something similiar happened to my brother, Tohr.”

There was a long pause. Then the foreman said slowly, “I don’t know what else to say, my lord. Other than you have honored us greatly with your presence.”

“You don’t have to say anything. And I should leave you guys alone. I’m taking up your time.” Wrath lifted his dagger hand in a casual wave. “Later.”

As the plastic sheeting fell back into place behind the King, the workmen were speechless.

“Is he always like that?” the foreman asked numbly.

Rhage nodded. “He truly is a male of worth.”

“I didn’t think he would be … like that.”

“Like what?”

“So approachable.”

“Based on what?”

“The rumors. They say he’s aloof. Untouchable. Uninterested in people like us.” The foreman shook himself like he couldn’t believe he’d said that aloud. “What I mean is—”

“Nah, you’re good. I can imagine where that comes from.”

“He looks like his father,” the older one in the back said. “Spitting image.”

“You knew him? Wrath’s dad, that is?” Rhage asked.

The older male nodded. “And I saw the two of them together once. Wrath the younger was five. He always stood beside his father when the King had audiences with the commoners. I had a property dispute with my landlord who was in the glymera. The King took care of me over that aristocrat, I tell you.” An air of sadness overcame the male’s entire aura. “I remember when the King and queen were killed. We were certain the heir had been slaughtered as well—by the time we learned otherwise … this Wrath was gone.”

“I heard he was shot recently,” the foreman said to Rhage. “Is that true?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

The foreman bowed. “Of course. I apologize.”

“Like I said, you’re good, don’t worry. Come on, JM, let’s leave these guys to work.” As John nodded, Rhage tacked on, “Just let us know if you need anything.”

John went to follow the Brother, but then paused in the split between the sheets. The workmen were still staring at where Wrath had stood and talked with them, as if they were replaying everything. As if they’d been witnesses to a historic event.

Stepping out, he wondered if Wrath was aware of the effect he’d had on them.

Probably not.

FIFTY-SEVEN

As Anha sat at her dressing table, she had naught but a lingering tiredness leftover from her episode: With every night that passed, she was feeling more herself, her body rebounding, her mind resharpening.

But everything had changed.

In the first, the Brotherhood had moved into the chamber next door. All twelve of them. And they rotated their service such that the door to her and Wrath’s private space was never unguarded.

And then there was the food. Wrath refused to let her eat anything that he or the Brothers had not personally sampled first—following a wait period of quite some while.

And then there was the worry upon her hellren’s face, every time she caught him unawares.

Speaking of worry, wherever was he?

“Your King shall return very soon.”

She gasped and looked over her shoulder. Tohrture was sitting in the corner, “reading” from a book of sonnets. In truth, she did not think he traced the symbols a’tall. Instead, his eyes were on the blockaded windows, the door, her, the windows, the door, her. On occasion, he broke the rhythm by speaking with one of his Brothers or tasting food that was prepared at her hearth.

“Where has he gone?” she asked once again.

“He shall return soon.” The smile was meant to be reassuring. The shadow in his stare was most certainly not.

Anha narrowed her eyes. “He has not explained any of this.”

“All is well.”

“I do not believe you.”

The Brother just smiled at her in that way of his, giving her nothing to go on.

Anha put down her brush and turned fully about. “He thinks I was poisoned, then. Otherwise, why this protection. The cooking. The concern.”

“All is well.”

Just as she threw up her hands in frustration, the door opened—

She jumped to her feet so fast, her dressing table wobbled, bottles and pots falling over. “Dearest Virgin Scribe! Wrath!”

Jerking up her skirts, she ran barefoot across the oak floor to the horror before her: Suspended between the holds of two Brothers, her mate was bloodied everywhere, his simple shift stained down the front from his split lip and his contused face, his knuckles dripping onto the rug, his head hanging limp as though he could not lift it.

“What have you done to him!” she screamed as the chamber door was shut and locked.

Before she could stop herself, she flailed at the ones who held him, her fists making no impact as they maneuvered him over onto the bedding platform.

“Anha … Anha, arrest…” As they laid Wrath out, his left hand rose. “Anha … arrest.”

She wanted to clasp his palm and cling unto him, but he seemed hurt everywhere. “Who did this to you!”

“I asked them to.”

“What.”

“You heard me properly.”

Sitting back, she found that now she felt like hitting him as well.

Wrath’s voice was so weak, she wondered how he was still conscious. “There is a job that needs doing. By mine own hands.” He flexed them and winced. “No others will suffice.”

Anha glared at her mate—and then did the same to the assembled males, as well as the ones who were newly arriving, clearly coming in after they heard the shouting.

“You shall explain yourselves the now,” she barked. “All of you. Or I shall take my leave of this room.”

“Anha.” Wrath’s voice was garbled and he was having trouble drawing breath. “Be of reason.”

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Am I packing my things or is one among you going to speak unto me.”

“Anha—”

“Speak or I pack.”

Wrath exhaled a ragged curse. “There is naught for you to be concerned with—”

“When you come upon our mated chamber looking as though you have been struck by a carriage, it is very much my concern! How dare you exclude me from this!”

Wrath lifted his hand as if to rub his face and then grimaced when the contact was made.

“I believe your nose is broken,” she said flatly.

“Amongst other things.”

“Indeed.”

Wrath finally looked upon her. “I shall ahvenge you. That is all.”

Anha heard herself gasp. And then her knees went weak and she lowered herself back down to the bedding platform. She was not naive, and yet hearing confirmation of that which she had suspected was a shock.

“So ’tis true. I was made to become ill.”

“Aye.”

Tracing the injuries upon her hellren with fresh eyes, she shook her head. “No, I shall not allow it. If you must have revenge wrought, let one of these capable males do it.”

“No.”

She glanced over at the heavy carved desk across the way, the one they’d recently moved in here, the one at which he sat so happily for hours upon hours, ruling, thinking, planning. Then she regarded his misshapen face.

“Wrath, you are not fit for the likes of a violent duty,” she said hoarsely.

“I shall be.”

“No. I forbid you.”

Now he glared upon her. “No one commands the King.”

“Except for me,” she countered smoothly. “And we both know it.”

At that there was a soft chuckle in the room—of respect.

“They did the same to my father,” Wrath said in a dead voice. “Except they poisoned him to the point of his death.”

Anha lifted a hand to her throat. “But no … he died of natural causes—”

“He did not. And as the son, I am obliged to right that wrong—as well as yours.” Wrath wiped some of the blood off his mouth. “Listen to me now, my Anha, and hear this truth clearly … I shall not be castrated in this by you or anyone. The soul of my father haunts me the now, walking the halls of my mind, talking unto me. And you shall do the same if they finally succeed in putting you in your grave. I have been fated to live with the former. Do not expect me to do the same with the latter.”

She leaned in urgently. “But you have the Brotherhood. That is what they are for, how they serve. They are your private guard.”

As she implored her mate, the sheer heft and number of the males pressed in upon her—in the very best sense.

“Command them,” she begged. “Send them out unto the world to exact this due.”

His bloodied hand reached out, and she thought it was to clasp her palm. Instead, it rested upon her gown, below the bodice … upon her womb.

“You are with young,” he said roughly. “I can scent it.”

She too had been thinking the same, although for different reasons.

Wrath’s one working eye met hers. “So I cannot allow others to do what is my duty. Even if I could regard you knowing that I was so weak … I could never stare into the face of a son or a daughter with the awareness that I had lacked the courage to caretake for mine bloodline.”

“Please, Wrath…”

“What kind of father would I be then?”

“One who is alive.”

“For how long, though. If I do not protect what is mine, it shall be taken away from me. And I will not lose my family.”

Overcome, Anha felt tears fall down her cheeks, the paths burning her face.

Dropping her forehead to the bloodied black diamond of the King’s ring, she wept.

For in her heart, she knew he was right—and she hated the world that they lived in … and were, in time, going to bring forth a young into.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Downtown, in the urban heart of Caldwell, Xcor picked up a burst of speed in an alley, his combat boots crushing through the dirty, salted slush, frigid air rushing at his face, distant sirens and shouts offering a kind of narration to this battle.

Up ahead, the slayer he was going for was just as fast as he. The bastard was not as well armed, however—especially after he’d emptied his clip and then had, in the fit of a fifteen-year-old, thrown the autoloader at Xcor.

Great move. Right up there with crying for your mommy.

And then the chase had been on.

Xcor was content to allow the lesser to run his lack of a heart out. Provided that all the sprinting didn’t lead to the kind of complication that had gotten in his way the other night.

He had no interest in fielding another human.

After another quarter mile or so, the slayer came to the titular end of the alley—whereupon he was forced to pull a music video, throwing his body at a twenty-foot-high chain-link fence and commencing to scale it with admirable aplomb.

Then again, the Omega had given him a kind of super-power following his induction.

Not that it was going to save him.

Xcor took three leaping steps and pitched his body into the air, his weight sailing upward and landing him upon the lesser’s back just before the slayer hit the apex of the fencing. Locking on and yanking hard, he peeled the undead free of the fencing, twisting in midair such that they landed with Xcor on top.

His scythe screamed to be let out to play. But instead of releasing her, he unclipped her little cousin from his hip.

The machete had a steel handle and a rubber grip, and it felt like an extension of his arm as he lifted it over his shoulder.

Now, he could end this quickly by aiming for the middle of the chest. But where was the fun in that? Slapping a hold on the face, he wrenched the head to the side and sheared off the ear—

The resulting scream was a kind of music, echoing in his ears.

“Other side,” he grunted, forcing the head around. “One needs to match.”

The machete’s blade whistled through the air a second time, Xcor’s accuracy such that nothing save the fleshy appendage was touched. And the pain was enough to incapacitate his prey—well, that and the fact that surely the slayer knew that what was to come was going to be so much worse.

Fear had a way of leading to paralysis.

And the undead was right to be terrified.

In a fast series of hacks, Xcor worked his way down the body, striking the blade deep into each shoulder to cut the tendons and incapacitate the torso—and then following through with the backs of the knees.