A male who knew the pain of losing his shellan and unborn young was not going to kill his blooded brother. He just wasn’t.

Going down into the basement, she went into the bathroom with the idea of taking a shower. But she stopped as she saw herself in the mirror over the sink. She was still dressed in the Chosen robe she had put on after Xcor had left her, the white folds as familiar to her as her own hair, her own body.

Reaching up to the tie, she loosened the sash, parted the two halves, and shucked the weight from her arms and shoulders.

As she held the robing in front of her, she thought of the many years she had spent wearing the uniform. Even after Phury had freed them all, she had still used the robes more than regular clothes. They were convenient, easy to move around in, and comforting in the manner a young might cling to a favorite toy or snuggie.

They were also a symbol.

Not just of the race’s past, but of her own.

Layla was careful as she folded the thing, respectful with her hands. And then she placed it on the marble counter and stepped back.

In her heart, she knew she would never put one on again. There would be other sartorial constructs, she was sure, that would remind her of them: long dresses, long coats, even a blanket wrapped around the torso and dragging on the legs.

But she was a Chosen no more, and not just because the Scribe Virgin Herself was no more.

The thing was, when you served another, when you lived a role determined by someone else … you could not go back to that constriction once you found out who you truly were.

She was a mahmen. She was a lover. She was a proud female, a strong female, a female who knew right from wrong, family from stranger, good from evil. She had lived through two birthings and stood up to a Brother just now, and she would take on the King if she had to. She was fallible and could get confused and might well flounder from time to time.

But she would survive. That was what the strong did.

Meeting her eyes in the mirror, she looked at her face for what felt like the first time. She had spent all those years waiting in the Sanctuary to be called into her role as ehros, her existence at once totally dictated and yet groundless, for there was no Primale to pleasure. And then she had bumped and bounced around on earth after she and her sisters had been freed, tiptoeing timidly in the unfamiliar ways of modern life. There had been the desperate needing with Qhuinn, and then the anxiety as the young had grown within her—during which her life had been split in half with Xcor. Following that? The birth that had nearly killed her and now the agony of the disintegration of her family unit … and the pending loss of Xcor.

Yet she was still alive and she was here. Looking at herself in the mirror.

And for the first time in her life, she respected what she saw.

Bowing to her reflection, she said softly, “Pleased to meet you.”

FIFTY-FIVE

Annnnnnd buh-bye.

As Vishous deleted yet another YouTube video, he thought, yup, like shooting fish in a barrel. And if it were any easier to hack into these accounts, you’d get popcorn and Milk Duds for free with your efforts. Next. And … next. And … next.

In a way, he had Jo Early, a.k.a. Damn Stoker, to thank for the efficiency of all this. Her links section was a treasure trove of content in multiple destinations posted by a good dozen or so people. So after he was finished with his broom in the YouTube-iverse, he was going to do Insta and then Facebook.

Zuckerberg’s little sandbox was going to be a little more difficult to hack, and as with the other two, there were multiple accounts on the platform, but he’d get through them.

And next. And next …

Man, this user, vamp9120, was a heavy-volume kind of guy. Lot of content that was tied to him.

V really should have stayed on top of this shit better. Then again, he’d been busy living life instead of sublimating his issues through sports and the Internet.

When Bruno Mars came on satellite, he switched the channel to Shade45. It wasn’t that he didn’t think “24K” was magical, but the whole upbeat club shit was not on his playlist tonight. Jeezy/Bankroll Fresh’s “All There.” Fucking perfect. And as it bumped out the speakers, he took another drink from his Grey Goose and ice, and debated taking a break so he could hand-roll some more of his Turkish tobacco. After that, he was going to grab another bottle from the half dozen he’d ordered from Fritz. And then come back here to—

“What the fuck?” he barked.

Leaning in toward his screen, he frowned at the image that was on it. “Wait, I remember this, true?”

Yeah, he was talking to himself. It was what you did when your roommate, who was off rotation like you were, was banging his female down the hall—and you were a lame ass in an office chair in the front of the house.

Rewinding the video, V watched again as the action unfolded. The footage had been taken from a relatively high viewpoint in a building downtown, as if the asshole with the cell phone had been looking out a third—or maybe a fourth-floor apartment. The focal point was on an alleyway below—and a figure that was walking forward.

Into a hail of bullets.

The figure was Tohrment. The bullets were coming from a slayer that was crumbled in the far corner. And the scene was straight-up suicidal.

V hadn’t been there to witness the sheer stupidity firsthand, but he sure as shit had heard about it from multiple fighters. It was back when Tohr had been losing his mind, and determined to show everyone exactly how much of a death wish he had. Yes, he was shooting back at the lesser, his gun up, all kinds of lead pumping out of its muzzle … but he’d had no vest on, nothing covering him, and twelve different kinds of vital organs that should have been hit.

FFS, if he had wanted to get shot, the only way he could have been more successful was if he’d turned his own weapon on himself and pulled the trigger.

And yet he’d survived—

“Hold up … what is that?”

Abruptly, Vishous rubbed his eyes. Leaned even closer to the monitor. Wondered if the footage wasn’t in the grassy knoll camp.

Adjusting the contrast on his screen, he ran the shit back again. And once more.

Someone else was shooting from the building across the way. Yeah … there was a figure up there on the roof and they … uh-huh, they were leaning right over and plowing a bunch of bullets into that slayer who was trying to kill Tohr.

It hadn’t been a brother, that was for sure. V could pick out his own fighters in a fog bank a mile away, and it was easy to isolate them in this case even though the footage was a little grainy. Besides, there was no way one of their own would have been anywhere than right on the ground with the brother.

So who the fuck was up there? Not a human. There was no way one of those rats without tails would have gotten involved in that kind of business in that kind of way. No dog in the fight, so why risk the arrest? They were more likely to call 911 and take cover—

As his cell went off, V jumped—and shit, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Especially over a phone call.

But given what wheels he had set in motion …

He watched as his hand reached out for his phone. He’d put it facedown on his desk, and turning the screen over took a degree of courage.

When he saw who it was, he snapped back to all business. “My Lord,” he said with relief as he answered. “What can I do you for?”

Wrath was to the point, one more reason to like the guy. “I need you. Now.”

“Roger that. Where are you?”

“I’ll be in the foyer in five minutes.”

“Tell me that we’re not going to Disney World and I’ll be there.”

“No, this is not vacation time.”

“Good.”

As V hung up, he went to delete the footage and close out, but something told him to save the shit, so he did. It wasn’t like he didn’t have space on his hard drive.

Goddamn him, he was so fucking relieved to have something to do.

Just like earlier in the evening, he didn’t tell anyone he was leaving, but this time it was because Butch and Marissa were busy getting busy. But he did shoot his best friend a text—and then he thought about texting Jane.

In the end, though, he just put his cell down, armed himself, and left. e who knew the pain of losing his shellan and unborn young was not going to kill his blooded brother. He just wasn’t.

Going down into the basement, she went into the bathroom with the idea of taking a shower. But she stopped as she saw herself in the mirror over the sink. She was still dressed in the Chosen robe she had put on after Xcor had left her, the white folds as familiar to her as her own hair, her own body.

Reaching up to the tie, she loosened the sash, parted the two halves, and shucked the weight from her arms and shoulders.

As she held the robing in front of her, she thought of the many years she had spent wearing the uniform. Even after Phury had freed them all, she had still used the robes more than regular clothes. They were convenient, easy to move around in, and comforting in the manner a young might cling to a favorite toy or snuggie.

They were also a symbol.

Not just of the race’s past, but of her own.

Layla was careful as she folded the thing, respectful with her hands. And then she placed it on the marble counter and stepped back.

In her heart, she knew she would never put one on again. There would be other sartorial constructs, she was sure, that would remind her of them: long dresses, long coats, even a blanket wrapped around the torso and dragging on the legs.

But she was a Chosen no more, and not just because the Scribe Virgin Herself was no more.

The thing was, when you served another, when you lived a role determined by someone else … you could not go back to that constriction once you found out who you truly were.

She was a mahmen. She was a lover. She was a proud female, a strong female, a female who knew right from wrong, family from stranger, good from evil. She had lived through two birthings and stood up to a Brother just now, and she would take on the King if she had to. She was fallible and could get confused and might well flounder from time to time.

But she would survive. That was what the strong did.

Meeting her eyes in the mirror, she looked at her face for what felt like the first time. She had spent all those years waiting in the Sanctuary to be called into her role as ehros, her existence at once totally dictated and yet groundless, for there was no Primale to pleasure. And then she had bumped and bounced around on earth after she and her sisters had been freed, tiptoeing timidly in the unfamiliar ways of modern life. There had been the desperate needing with Qhuinn, and then the anxiety as the young had grown within her—during which her life had been split in half with Xcor. Following that? The birth that had nearly killed her and now the agony of the disintegration of her family unit … and the pending loss of Xcor.

Yet she was still alive and she was here. Looking at herself in the mirror.

And for the first time in her life, she respected what she saw.

Bowing to her reflection, she said softly, “Pleased to meet you.”

FIFTY-FIVE

Annnnnnd buh-bye.

As Vishous deleted yet another YouTube video, he thought, yup, like shooting fish in a barrel. And if it were any easier to hack into these accounts, you’d get popcorn and Milk Duds for free with your efforts. Next. And … next. And … next.

In a way, he had Jo Early, a.k.a. Damn Stoker, to thank for the efficiency of all this. Her links section was a treasure trove of content in multiple destinations posted by a good dozen or so people. So after he was finished with his broom in the YouTube-iverse, he was going to do Insta and then Facebook.

Zuckerberg’s little sandbox was going to be a little more difficult to hack, and as with the other two, there were multiple accounts on the platform, but he’d get through them.

And next. And next …

Man, this user, vamp9120, was a heavy-volume kind of guy. Lot of content that was tied to him.

V really should have stayed on top of this shit better. Then again, he’d been busy living life instead of sublimating his issues through sports and the Internet.

When Bruno Mars came on satellite, he switched the channel to Shade45. It wasn’t that he didn’t think “24K” was magical, but the whole upbeat club shit was not on his playlist tonight. Jeezy/Bankroll Fresh’s “All There.” Fucking perfect. And as it bumped out the speakers, he took another drink from his Grey Goose and ice, and debated taking a break so he could hand-roll some more of his Turkish tobacco. After that, he was going to grab another bottle from the half dozen he’d ordered from Fritz. And then come back here to—

“What the fuck?” he barked.

Leaning in toward his screen, he frowned at the image that was on it. “Wait, I remember this, true?”

Yeah, he was talking to himself. It was what you did when your roommate, who was off rotation like you were, was banging his female down the hall—and you were a lame ass in an office chair in the front of the house.

Rewinding the video, V watched again as the action unfolded. The footage had been taken from a relatively high viewpoint in a building downtown, as if the asshole with the cell phone had been looking out a third—or maybe a fourth-floor apartment. The focal point was on an alleyway below—and a figure that was walking forward.

Into a hail of bullets.

The figure was Tohrment. The bullets were coming from a slayer that was crumbled in the far corner. And the scene was straight-up suicidal.

V hadn’t been there to witness the sheer stupidity firsthand, but he sure as shit had heard about it from multiple fighters. It was back when Tohr had been losing his mind, and determined to show everyone exactly how much of a death wish he had. Yes, he was shooting back at the lesser, his gun up, all kinds of lead pumping out of its muzzle … but he’d had no vest on, nothing covering him, and twelve different kinds of vital organs that should have been hit.

FFS, if he had wanted to get shot, the only way he could have been more successful was if he’d turned his own weapon on himself and pulled the trigger.

And yet he’d survived—

“Hold up … what is that?”

Abruptly, Vishous rubbed his eyes. Leaned even closer to the monitor. Wondered if the footage wasn’t in the grassy knoll camp.

Adjusting the contrast on his screen, he ran the shit back again. And once more.

Someone else was shooting from the building across the way. Yeah … there was a figure up there on the roof and they … uh-huh, they were leaning right over and plowing a bunch of bullets into that slayer who was trying to kill Tohr.

It hadn’t been a brother, that was for sure. V could pick out his own fighters in a fog bank a mile away, and it was easy to isolate them in this case even though the footage was a little grainy. Besides, there was no way one of their own would have been anywhere than right on the ground with the brother.

So who the fuck was up there? Not a human. There was no way one of those rats without tails would have gotten involved in that kind of business in that kind of way. No dog in the fight, so why risk the arrest? They were more likely to call 911 and take cover—

As his cell went off, V jumped—and shit, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Especially over a phone call.

But given what wheels he had set in motion …

He watched as his hand reached out for his phone. He’d put it facedown on his desk, and turning the screen over took a degree of courage.

When he saw who it was, he snapped back to all business. “My Lord,” he said with relief as he answered. “What can I do you for?”

Wrath was to the point, one more reason to like the guy. “I need you. Now.”

“Roger that. Where are you?”

“I’ll be in the foyer in five minutes.”

“Tell me that we’re not going to Disney World and I’ll be there.”

“No, this is not vacation time.”

“Good.”

As V hung up, he went to delete the footage and close out, but something told him to save the shit, so he did. It wasn’t like he didn’t have space on his hard drive.

Goddamn him, he was so fucking relieved to have something to do.

Just like earlier in the evening, he didn’t tell anyone he was leaving, but this time it was because Butch and Marissa were busy getting busy. But he did shoot his best friend a text—and then he thought about texting Jane.

In the end, though, he just put his cell down, armed himself, and left.

Tags: J.R. Ward Black Dagger Brotherhood Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net