The Chosen (Black Dagger Brotherhood 15)

Hollywood wheeled around and glared at V. “Okay, fuck you—”

“With what?”

Wrath put a hand over his face. “Jesus, will you people stop!” Dropping his arm, he said with exhaustion, “So let’s just put your ass on probation, all right? Great. I’m so glad we can move forward from this.”

The King grabbed him and yanked him forward into a hard hug. “Now let’s go sort this Xcor thing the right way, okay? And Beth has gone to tell Autumn. There isn’t time for you to, we have to go now.”

Dazed, but getting less confused by the second, Tohr ducked his eyes and pulled a manly wipe of them. Long, long ago, he had been chosen to join the Brotherhood, and it had never once occurred to him that, short of death, he would ever find himself looking in from the outside. But he had certainly deserved that and so much more for what he had done.

And although he couldn’t put this reprieve on a par with losing his mate and son? It was a reminder that destiny was not totally cruel.

In a hoarse voice, he said, “Yeah, all right. Let’s do this.”

There was a general cheer and some serious backslapping. And yes, he wanted to go find his mate and talk to her, but the grandfather clock down the hall started chiming.

There was no more time. It was midnight.

The Brotherhood and the Band of Bastards had to go try and make peace. And he had to go look his brother in the face.

As V re-formed in front of the abandoned warehouse, he tested the air with his nose and gave his instincts as much breathing room as they wanted.

Natch.

Fifteenth and Market was a good setting for this historic and potentially dangerous meeting, he decided, the old barn-y building adequately deserted, with enough broken panes in its capitalist version of a clerestory that if they had to bail once they got inside, it was a quick trip to a number of exits.

Walking forward, he had Rhage on his right and Butch on his left, and it felt fucking awesome to be heading into possible conflict. He really wanted to fight something, and he figured if the Bastards didn’t prove to be total assholes, then after this was done, he and his brothers could go find some slayers.

Or maybe he went off on his own and did something else.

Whichever it was, he knew he didn’t have to go back home for a good six hours and he was going to make use of the time.

Fuck, was he actually going to—

Whatever, he thought as he shut down his case of mental seizures. One thing that you didn’t have to be a genius like him to know was that if you went into a fight distracted, you weren’t going to have to worry about anything, because you were gonna wake up dead the next morning.

The warehouse was your bog standard forty-five-thousand-square-foot deserted birdcage, not much left aside from its rotting, rusted exoskeleton and a metal roof that was a crash helmet on someone with a death wish. There were a number of doors, and after the troika walked down the side of the building they’d been assigned, they waited for the signal to enter after the sweep inside was completed by Phury and Z.

With his back flat against the building’s pitted siding, and his guns out and up, V scanned the area. Visibility was fantastic, no trees to block his view, nothing but more vacated buildings, rubble, and pavement for blocks and blocks and blocks, the neighborhood a wasteland from the industrial era that had sustained this part of the city for so long—

Just as everyone’s cells went off announcing it was clear in the interior, five figures appeared, one by one, in the vacant lot across the street.

V took out his phone and texted an audible: We have them. Going to approach.

He didn’t have to tell Rhage and Butch what the fuck to do, and that was why he loved them. The three of them just strode forward, crossing over the crusty snow before mounting the snowbank and walking into the center of the road. As if the Band of Bastards had the same playbook, they likewise came forward from their position, their big bodies moving in unison, their weapons out, but not up, Xcor in the center.

The two groups met in the middle of the road.

Vishous spoke first. “Evenin’, boys. How we doing?”

He sensed neither hate nor love coming out of the other fighters. Well, except for the guy on the end: That one on the far left was giving off a vibe like maybe he wanted to get aggressive, but V had the impression that that was his idling speed and not anything specific to this situation.

V did not lower his guns, but he did not demand that they disarm, either, even though it made him twitchy as shit. The drop-your-load was going to happen inside.

“We are prepared to follow you,” Xcor said in clearly enunciated tones.

“Good.” V met the eyes of each one of them. “Here’s the way we’re going to do this, true? We’ll escort you in. You’ll meet everyone, and we’ll have a little cocktail mixer with passed hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Then we’ll go see a show, and we’ll cap the night off with a shopping spree at Saks and a round of mani-pedis. Sound all right? Great. Walk on, motherfuckers.”

Xcor didn’t hesitate, and V took that as a good sign.

And the others were right on his heels.

This, he took as an even better sign: If those boys were willing to show their backs, there was some kind of trust going on here.

Falling in line behind the Band of Bastards, V followed along, going back over the low snowbank, across that “lawn” of snow and ice, and over to the door.

V put his lips together and whistled in a short burst. As soon as he did, the metal panel broke open and John Matthew held it wide.

You want to talk about tense? The Band of Bastards, as they filed into the drafty interior, were about as relaxed as prisoners going to the electric chair. But they held their position as they looked around and no one started shooting as they continued to walk forward.

V was willing to bet they assessed the same exits in the open space the Brotherhood did. The same doors. The same rafters. The same empty window panes.

“Stop here,” he told them. And they did.

Showtime, V thought as he came around to stand in front of the lineup.

“Now, gentlemen, before we bring the King in, I’m afraid I’m going to have to get you naked.” He pointed to the concrete floor. “All your weapons go here. You behave yourselves and you get them back. You don’t, and we’ll leave you bleeding all over them.”

SIXTY-ONE

Tohr’s heart was pounding as he stepped out from where he’d been standing against the warehouse wall. He was supposed to keep his position by this western door, but he couldn’t stay put. His feet took him inexorably forward, his eyes on Xcor.

“Where are you going?” Blay hissed after him.

“Just a little closer. Stay there.”

Little closer his ass. He walked all the way over to where the Band of Bastards had lined up in the center of the warehouse wasteland.

V was addressing them, the brother’s voice echoing through the high ceiling. “Right there,” he repeated while nodding to his feet.

In the back of his mind, Tohr knew that this was going to tell a lot. If the Bastards balked at disarming, or getting searched, then it was a good bet this was an ambush of Trojan Horse proportions. But if they—

One by one, each of Xcor’s fighters complied with the order, dropping guns and knives to the concrete slab and kicking them in Vishous’s direction. Even Xcor took that huge scythe of his off his back and sent it over to V.

“You want to help search ’em?” V said. “Or did you come here to give me another coat of lip gloss?”

It took a moment to figure out that Vishous was talking to him. “I’ll search.”

As the brother nodded, and Butch and Rhage stared at the Bastards like the males were grenades with the pins out, Tohr walked right up to Xcor and met him in the eyes.

God, why hadn’t he noticed before? They were the exact color of his own.

“Tohr?” V said sharply. “What are you doing, my man?”

And that jaw. It was the shape of his. The dark hair. That lip was a distraction that made you not consider the rest, but now that he looked past it?

Tohr felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. And then V’s voice was loud in his ear. “I’d really prefer that if someone does something stupid, it’s one of them. Let’s not have it be one of us, true?” wood wheeled around and glared at V. “Okay, fuck you—”

“With what?”

Wrath put a hand over his face. “Jesus, will you people stop!” Dropping his arm, he said with exhaustion, “So let’s just put your ass on probation, all right? Great. I’m so glad we can move forward from this.”

The King grabbed him and yanked him forward into a hard hug. “Now let’s go sort this Xcor thing the right way, okay? And Beth has gone to tell Autumn. There isn’t time for you to, we have to go now.”

Dazed, but getting less confused by the second, Tohr ducked his eyes and pulled a manly wipe of them. Long, long ago, he had been chosen to join the Brotherhood, and it had never once occurred to him that, short of death, he would ever find himself looking in from the outside. But he had certainly deserved that and so much more for what he had done.

And although he couldn’t put this reprieve on a par with losing his mate and son? It was a reminder that destiny was not totally cruel.

In a hoarse voice, he said, “Yeah, all right. Let’s do this.”

There was a general cheer and some serious backslapping. And yes, he wanted to go find his mate and talk to her, but the grandfather clock down the hall started chiming.

There was no more time. It was midnight.

The Brotherhood and the Band of Bastards had to go try and make peace. And he had to go look his brother in the face.

As V re-formed in front of the abandoned warehouse, he tested the air with his nose and gave his instincts as much breathing room as they wanted.

Natch.

Fifteenth and Market was a good setting for this historic and potentially dangerous meeting, he decided, the old barn-y building adequately deserted, with enough broken panes in its capitalist version of a clerestory that if they had to bail once they got inside, it was a quick trip to a number of exits.

Walking forward, he had Rhage on his right and Butch on his left, and it felt fucking awesome to be heading into possible conflict. He really wanted to fight something, and he figured if the Bastards didn’t prove to be total assholes, then after this was done, he and his brothers could go find some slayers.

Or maybe he went off on his own and did something else.

Whichever it was, he knew he didn’t have to go back home for a good six hours and he was going to make use of the time.

Fuck, was he actually going to—

Whatever, he thought as he shut down his case of mental seizures. One thing that you didn’t have to be a genius like him to know was that if you went into a fight distracted, you weren’t going to have to worry about anything, because you were gonna wake up dead the next morning.

The warehouse was your bog standard forty-five-thousand-square-foot deserted birdcage, not much left aside from its rotting, rusted exoskeleton and a metal roof that was a crash helmet on someone with a death wish. There were a number of doors, and after the troika walked down the side of the building they’d been assigned, they waited for the signal to enter after the sweep inside was completed by Phury and Z.

With his back flat against the building’s pitted siding, and his guns out and up, V scanned the area. Visibility was fantastic, no trees to block his view, nothing but more vacated buildings, rubble, and pavement for blocks and blocks and blocks, the neighborhood a wasteland from the industrial era that had sustained this part of the city for so long—

Just as everyone’s cells went off announcing it was clear in the interior, five figures appeared, one by one, in the vacant lot across the street.

V took out his phone and texted an audible: We have them. Going to approach.

He didn’t have to tell Rhage and Butch what the fuck to do, and that was why he loved them. The three of them just strode forward, crossing over the crusty snow before mounting the snowbank and walking into the center of the road. As if the Band of Bastards had the same playbook, they likewise came forward from their position, their big bodies moving in unison, their weapons out, but not up, Xcor in the center.

The two groups met in the middle of the road.

Vishous spoke first. “Evenin’, boys. How we doing?”

He sensed neither hate nor love coming out of the other fighters. Well, except for the guy on the end: That one on the far left was giving off a vibe like maybe he wanted to get aggressive, but V had the impression that that was his idling speed and not anything specific to this situation.

V did not lower his guns, but he did not demand that they disarm, either, even though it made him twitchy as shit. The drop-your-load was going to happen inside.

“We are prepared to follow you,” Xcor said in clearly enunciated tones.

“Good.” V met the eyes of each one of them. “Here’s the way we’re going to do this, true? We’ll escort you in. You’ll meet everyone, and we’ll have a little cocktail mixer with passed hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Then we’ll go see a show, and we’ll cap the night off with a shopping spree at Saks and a round of mani-pedis. Sound all right? Great. Walk on, motherfuckers.”

Xcor didn’t hesitate, and V took that as a good sign.

And the others were right on his heels.

This, he took as an even better sign: If those boys were willing to show their backs, there was some kind of trust going on here.

Falling in line behind the Band of Bastards, V followed along, going back over the low snowbank, across that “lawn” of snow and ice, and over to the door.

V put his lips together and whistled in a short burst. As soon as he did, the metal panel broke open and John Matthew held it wide.

You want to talk about tense? The Band of Bastards, as they filed into the drafty interior, were about as relaxed as prisoners going to the electric chair. But they held their position as they looked around and no one started shooting as they continued to walk forward.

V was willing to bet they assessed the same exits in the open space the Brotherhood did. The same doors. The same rafters. The same empty window panes.

“Stop here,” he told them. And they did.

Showtime, V thought as he came around to stand in front of the lineup.

“Now, gentlemen, before we bring the King in, I’m afraid I’m going to have to get you naked.” He pointed to the concrete floor. “All your weapons go here. You behave yourselves and you get them back. You don’t, and we’ll leave you bleeding all over them.”

SIXTY-ONE

Tohr’s heart was pounding as he stepped out from where he’d been standing against the warehouse wall. He was supposed to keep his position by this western door, but he couldn’t stay put. His feet took him inexorably forward, his eyes on Xcor.

“Where are you going?” Blay hissed after him.

“Just a little closer. Stay there.”

Little closer his ass. He walked all the way over to where the Band of Bastards had lined up in the center of the warehouse wasteland.

V was addressing them, the brother’s voice echoing through the high ceiling. “Right there,” he repeated while nodding to his feet.

In the back of his mind, Tohr knew that this was going to tell a lot. If the Bastards balked at disarming, or getting searched, then it was a good bet this was an ambush of Trojan Horse proportions. But if they—

One by one, each of Xcor’s fighters complied with the order, dropping guns and knives to the concrete slab and kicking them in Vishous’s direction. Even Xcor took that huge scythe of his off his back and sent it over to V.

“You want to help search ’em?” V said. “Or did you come here to give me another coat of lip gloss?”

It took a moment to figure out that Vishous was talking to him. “I’ll search.”

As the brother nodded, and Butch and Rhage stared at the Bastards like the males were grenades with the pins out, Tohr walked right up to Xcor and met him in the eyes.

God, why hadn’t he noticed before? They were the exact color of his own.

“Tohr?” V said sharply. “What are you doing, my man?”

And that jaw. It was the shape of his. The dark hair. That lip was a distraction that made you not consider the rest, but now that he looked past it?

Tohr felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. And then V’s voice was loud in his ear. “I’d really prefer that if someone does something stupid, it’s one of them. Let’s not have it be one of us, true?”