And just because the dear boy was offended, Wrath wasn't going to play dandy while civilians were getting slaughtered. He needed to be in the field with his warriors, not taking up space on some throne. So Havers could shove it.
Although Marissa shouldn't have to deal with her brother's attitude.
"I just might take you up on that offer."
"Good."
"Now talk."
"I have a daughter."
Wrath slowly turned his head. "Since when?"
"A while."
"Who's the mother?"
"You don't know her. And she ah, she died."
Darius's sorrow rose up around him, the acrid smell of old pain cutting through the stench of human sweat, alcohol, and sex in the club.
"How old is she?" Wrath demanded. He had a feeling where this might be headed.
"Twenty-five."
Wrath cursed under his breath. "Don't ask me, Darius. Don't ask me to do it."
"I have to. My lord, your blood is-"
"Call me that again and I'll close your mouth for you. Permanently."
"You don't understand. She's-"
Wrath started to get up. Darius's hand grasped his forearm and then was quickly removed.
"She's half-human."
"Jesus Christ-"
"So she might not survive the transition if she goes through it. Look, if you help her, at least she has a chance of living. Your blood is so strong, it would increase the likelihood of her making it through the change as a half-breed. I'm not asking you to take her on as a shellan. Or to protect her, because I can do that. I'm just trying to Please. My other sons are dead. She's all that could be left of me. And I Her mother is one I loved."
If it had been anyone else, Wrath would have used his favorite pair of words: fuck and off. As far as he was concerned, there were only two good positions for a human. A female on her back. And a male facedown and not breathing.
But Darius was almost a friend. Or would have been one, if Wrath had let him get close.
As Wrath stood up, he closed his eyes. Hatred washed through him, directed into the center of his own chest. He despised himself for walking away, but he just wasn't the kind of male who could help some poor half-breed through such a painful and dangerous time. Gentleness and mercy were not in his makeup.
"I can't do it. Not even for you."
Darius's agony hit him in a great swell, and Wrath actually swayed under the emotion's force. He squeezed the vampire's shoulder.
"If you really love her, do her a favor. Ask someone else."
Wrath turned and stalked out of the bar. On his way to the door he wiped the memory of himself from every human cerebral cortex in the place. The strong ones would think they had dreamed him. The weak ones wouldn't remember him at all.
Out on the street, he headed for a dark corner behind Screamer's so that he could dematerialize. He passed a woman deep throating some guy in the shadows, a bum who'd collapsed in a stupor, a drug dealer arguing on a cell phone about the going price for crack.
Wrath knew the moment he was followed. And who it was. The sweet smell of baby powder was a dead giveaway.
He smiled widely, opened his leather jacket, and took out one of his hira shuriken. The stainless-steel throwing star felt comfortable in his palm. Three ounces of death ready to hit the airwaves.
With the weapon in his hand, Wrath didn't change his stride, even though he wanted to rush into the shadows. He was spoiling for a fight after shutting down Darius, and the Lessening Society member behind him had perfect fucking timing.
Killing the soulless human was just what he needed to take the edge off.
As he drew the lesser into the dense darkness, Wrath's body primed for the fight, his heart pumping steadily, the muscles in his arms and thighs twitching in anticipation. His ears picked up the sound of a gun being cocked, and he triangulated the weapon's aim. It was pointed at the back of his head.
In a fluid motion, he wheeled around just as the bullet exploded out of the muzzle. He ducked and threw the star, which flashed silver and twirled in a deadly arc. It caught the lesser right in the neck, splitting his throat open before continuing on its path into the darkness. The gun dropped to the ground, clattering across the asphalt.
The lesser grabbed his neck with both hands and fell to his knees.
Wrath walked over and went through its pockets. He took the wallet and the cell phone he found and put them into his jacket.
And then he withdrew a long, black-bladed knife from his chest holster. He was disappointed the fight hadn't lasted longer, but going by the dark, curly hair and relatively inept attack, this was a new recruit. With a quick thrust, he pushed the lesser onto its back, flipped the weapon in the air, and caught the handle with a swipe of his palm. The blade plunged into flesh, cut through bone, reached the black void where the heart had been.
With a strangled sound, the lesser disintegrated in a flash of light.
Wrath wiped the blade off on his leather pants, slipped it back where it belonged, and stood up. He looked around. And then dematerialized himself.
Darius had a third beer. A couple of Goth lovelies dropped by, looking for a chance to help him forget his troubles. He passed on the invites.
He left the bar and walked over to his BMW 650i, which was parked illegally in the alley behind the club. Like any vampire worth his salt, he could dematerialize at will and travel over vast distances, but that was a hard trick to pull off if you had to carry anything heavy. And not something you wanted to do in public.
Besides, a fine car was a joy to behold.
Darius got into the Beemer and shut the door. From out of the sky rain started to fall, dappling the windshield with fat tears.
He wasn't out of options. The talk of Marissa's brother had gotten him thinking. Havers was a physician, a dedicated healer of the race. Maybe he could help. It was certainly worth a try.
Distracted with plans, Darius put the key in the ignition and twisted. The starter wheezed. He turned the key again and then had a terrible premonition as he heard a rhythmic clicking.
The bomb, which had been attached to the undercarriage of the car and hardwired into the electrical system, went off.
As his body was incinerated by a blast of white heat, his last thought was of the daughter who had yet to meet him. And now never would.
Chapter Three
Beth took a forty-five-minute shower, used half a bottle of body wash, and nearly melted the cheap wallpaper off the bathroom walls because she kept the water so hot. She dried off, threw on her bathrobe, and tried not to catch another shot of her reflection in the mirror. Her lip was a mess.
She stepped out into her cramped studio apartment. The air conditioner had died a couple of weeks ago, so the room was nearly as smothering as the bathroom. She eyed her two windows and the sliding door that led out to a wilted courtyard. She wanted to open them all, but checked the locks instead.
Even though her nerves were shot, at least her body was rebounding fast. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance, as if it were pissed at the diversion of dinner, and she went around to her galley kitchen. The chicken leftovers from four nights ago even seemed inviting, but when she cracked the foil package, she caught a whiff of sweat socks. She pitched the load and tossed a Lean Cuisine into the microwave. She ate the macaroni and cheese standing up, holding the little plastic tray in her palm with a pot holder. It wasn't enough, didn't even make a dent in her hunger, so she had another one.
The idea of putting on twenty pounds in one night was damned appealing; it really was. She couldn't help the way her face looked, but she was willing to bet that Neanderthal misogynist attacker of hers preferred his victims with a tight ass.
She blinked her eyes, trying to get his face out of her mind.
God, she could still feel his hands, those awful, heavy palms bruising her breasts.
She needed to file a report. She should go down to the station.
Except she didn't want to leave her apartment. At least not until morning.
She went over to the futon she used as a couch and a bed and curled her legs in tight to her body. Her stomach was doing a slow churn job on the mac and cheese, waves of nausea followed by marching rows of shivers passing over her skin.
A soft meow brought her head up.
"Hey, Boo," she said, wiggling her fingers listlessly. The poor guy had run for cover when she'd come through the door tearing her clothes off and throwing them across the room.
Meowing again, the black cat padded over. His wide green eyes looked worried as he leaped into her lap with grace.
"Sorry about the drama," she murmured, making room for him.
He rubbed his head against her shoulder, purring. His body was warm, his weight grounding. She didn't know how long she sat there stroking his fine, soft fur, but when the phone rang, she jumped.
As she reached for the receiver, she managed to keep pace with the petting. Years of living with Boo had honed her cat/phone coordination skills to perfection.
"Hello?" she said, thinking it was past midnight, which ruled out telemarketers and suggested either work or some sicko crank-calling her.
"Yo, B-lady. Get your dancing shoes on. Some guy's car blew up outside of Screamer's. With him in it."
Beth closed her eyes and wanted to weep. Jose de la Cruz was one of the city's police detectives, but he was also a friend of sorts.
As were most of the men and women in blue, come to think of it. Because she spent so much time at the station, she'd gotten to know them all pretty well, although Jose was one of her favorites
"Hey, you there?"
Tell him. Tell him what happened. Just open your mouth.
Shame and remembered horror tightened her vocal cords.
"I'm here, Jose." She pushed her dark hair out of her face and cleared her throat. "I can't come tonight."
"Yeah, right. When you ever turn down a good tip?" He laughed easily. "Oh, but take it smooth. Hard-ass is on the case."
Hard-ass was Homicide Detective Brian O'Neal, better known as Butch. Or just plain sir.
"I really can't make it tonight."
"You getting busy with someone?" Curiosity spiked his voice. Jose was married. Happily. But she knew down at the station that they all speculated about her. A woman who looked like her without a man? Something had to be up. "Well, are you?"
"God, no. No."
There was a stretch of silence as her friend's cop radar obviously kicked in. "What's up?"
"I'm fine. Just tired. I'll come to the station tomorrow."
She'd file the report then. Tomorrow she'd be strong enough to go through what had happened without breaking down.
"Do I need to do a drive-by?"
"No, but thanks. I'm okay."
She hung up.
Fifteen minutes later she was in a pair of freshly laundered jeans and a floppy shirt that covered her butt and then some. She called for a cab. Before she left she rummaged through her closet until she found her other purse. She grabbed the pepper spray and held it hard in her hand as she stepped out of her apartment.
In the two miles between her front door and the bomb scene, she was going to find her voice. And she was going to tell Jose everything.
As much as she hated the idea of reliving the attack, she wasn't going to let that asshole walk free and do the same thing to someone else. And even if he was never caught, at least she would have done her part to try to nail him.
Wrath materialized in the drawing room of Darius's house. Damn, he'd forgotten how well the vampire lived.
Even though D was a warrior, he had the tastes of an aristocrat and it made sense. He'd started life as a highborn princeps, and fine living was still of value to him. His nineteenth-century mansion was well cared for, filled with antiques and works of art. It was also secure as a bank vault.
But the drawing room's soft yellow walls hurt Wrath's eyes.
"What a pleasant surprise, my lord."
Fritz, the butler, came in from the front hall and bowed deeply while shutting off the lights to ease Wrath's squint. As usual, the old male was dressed in black livery. He'd been with Darius for about a hundred or so years and was a doggen, which meant he could go out in the day but aged faster than vampires did. His subspecies had been serving aristocrats and warriors for millennia.
"Will you be with us for long, my lord?"
Wrath shook his head. Not if he could help it. "Hour, tops."
"Your room is ready. Should you need me, I am here." Fritz bent at the waist again and walked backward out of the room, closing the double doors behind him.
Wrath went over to a seven-foot-tall portrait of what he'd been told was a French king. He put his hand on the right side of the heavy gold frame, and the canvas pivoted to reveal a dark stone hall lit with gas lamps.
Stepping inside, he took a set of stairs deep into the earth. At the bottom landing there were two doors. One went to Dar-ius's sumptuous quarters. The other opened to what Wrath supposed was a home away from home for him. Most days he slept in a warehouse in New York City, in an interior room made out of steel with a lock system along the lines of Fort Knox's.
But he would never invite Marissa there. Or even any of the brothers. His privacy was precious.
As he stepped inside, candles mounted into the walls flared around the room at his will. Their golden glow barely made headway against the darkness. In deference to Wrath's eyesight, Darius had painted the walls and twenty-foot-high ceiling black. In one corner there was a massive bed with black satin sheets and a thicket of pillows. Across the way was a leather couch, a wide-screen TV, and a door that opened into a black marble bathroom. There was also a closet full of weapons and clothes.
For some reason, Darius was always bugging him to stay at the mansion. It was a goddamned mystery. There wasn't a defense issue, because Darius could handle himself. And the idea that a vampire like D would be lonely was ludicrous.
Wrath sensed Marissa before she came into the room. The scent of the ocean, a clean breeze, preceded her.
Let's get this over with, he thought. He was itching to get back to the streets. He'd had only a taste of battle, and tonight he wanted to gorge himself.
He turned around.
As Marissa bowed her slight body to him, he sensed devotion and uneasiness weaving together in the air around her.
"My lord," she said.
From what little he could see, she was wearing some kind of flowing white chiffon thing, and her long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. He knew she dressed to try to please him, and he wished like hell she wouldn't make the effort.
He took off his leather jacket and the chest holster he carried his daggers in.
Damn his parents. Why had they given him a female like her? So fragile.
Then again, considering the shape he'd been in before his transition, maybe they'd worried anyone sturdier would have hurt him.
Wrath flexed his arms, his biceps curling up thick, one shoulder cracking from the force.
If they could only see him now. Their little boy had turned into a righteous, cold killer.
Probably better they were dead, he thought. They wouldn't have approved of what he'd become.
Then again, if they'd been allowed to live into old age, he would have been different.
Marissa shifted nervously. "I'm sorry to disturb you. But I cannot wait any longer."
Wrath headed for the bathroom. "You need me, I come."
He turned on the water and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt. With steam rising from the rush of the faucet, he cleaned the grime, sweat, and death from his hands. Then he worked the bar of soap up his arms, covering with suds the ritualistic tattoos that ran down the insides of his forearms. He rinsed, dried himself, and walked over to the couch. He sat and waited, grinding his teeth.
They'd been doing this for how long? Centuries. But every time it took Marissa a while before she could approach him. If it had been anyone else, his patience would have snapped within moments, but he cut her some slack.
Truth was, he felt sorry for her because she'd been forced to become his shellan. He'd told her time and again that he'd release her of their covenant, free her to find a true mate, one who would not only kill anything that threatened her, but would love her, too.
Funny thing was, Marissa wouldn't give up on him, as fragile as she might be. He figured she probably feared no other female would have him, that none would feed the beast when he needed it and then their race would lose their strongest line. Their king. Their leader who wasn't willing to lead.
Yeah, he was one hell of a catch. He stayed away from her unless he had to drink, which wasn't often because of his lineage. She never knew where he was or what he was doing. She passed the long days alone in her brother's house, sacrificing her life to keep alive the last purebred vampire, the only one with not a single drop of human blood in him.
Frankly, he didn't know how she stood it-or him.
Abruptly, he felt like cursing. Tonight was stacking up to be a real party for his ego. Darius. Now her.
Wrath's eyes followed her as she moved around the room, circling him, getting closer. He forced his face to relax, kept his breathing even, made his body still. This was the hardest part of being with her. He panicked at not being free to move, and he knew when she started to feed, the choking sensation would get worse.
"You have been busy, my lord?" she said softly.
He nodded, thinking that if he was lucky, he was going to get even busier before dawn came.
Marissa finally stood before him, and he could feel her hunger cutting through her uneasiness. He sensed her desire.
too. She wanted him, but he blocked out that particular emotion of hers.
There was no way he was going to have sex with her. He couldn't imagine putting Marissa through the things he'd done to other female bodies. And he'd never wanted her that way. Not even in the beginning.
"Come here," he said, gesturing with his hand. He dropped his forearm on his thigh, wrist up. "You're starving. You shouldn't wait so long to call on me."
Marissa lowered herself to the floor at his knees, her gown pooling around her body and his feet. Her fingers were warm on his skin as she softly ran her hand over his tattoos, stroking the black characters that detailed his lineage in the old language. She was close enough so he caught the movement of her mouth opening, her fangs flashing white before she sank them into his vein.
Wrath closed his eyes, laying his head back as she drank. The panic came on him fast and hard. He curled his free arm around the edge of the couch, his muscles straining as he gripped the corner to keep his body in place. Calm, he needed to stay calm. It was going to be over soon, and then he'd be free.
When Marissa lifted her head ten minutes later, he bolted upright and walked off the anxiety, feeling a sick relief that he could now move around. As soon as he had his shit together, he went over to her. She was replete, absorbing the strength that came to her as their blood mixed. He didn't like the look of her lying on the floor, so he picked her up and was thinking about calling Fritz to take her back to her brother's house when there was a rhythmic knock on the door.
Wrath glared across the room, carried her to the bed, and laid her down.
"Thank you, my lord," she murmured. "I will take myself home."
He paused. And then pulled a sheet over her legs before walking over and cracking open the door.
Fritz was all jazzed up about something.
Wrath slid outside, closing the door tight. He was about to ask what the hell would warrant the disruption when the butler's scent permeated his irritation.
He knew without asking that death had paid another visit.
And Darius was gone.
"Master-"
"How?" he growled. The pain he would deal with later. First he needed details.
"Ah, the car" Clearly the butler was having trouble holding it together, his voice reedy and thin as his old body. "A bomb, my lord. The car. Outside of the club. Tohrment called. He saw it happen."
Wrath thought of the lesser he'd taken down. He wished he knew whether it had been the one who'd done the deed.
The bastards had no honor anymore. At least their precursors, going back for centuries, had fought like warriors. This new breed were cowards who hid behind technology.
"Call the brotherhood," he ground out. "Tell them to come now."
"Yes, of course. And master? Darius asked me to give this to you"-the butler held something out-"if you were not with him when he died."
Wrath took the envelope and went back into the chamber, having no compassion to offer Fritz or anyone else. Marissa was gone, which was good for her.
He tucked Darius's last missive into the waistband of his leather pants.
And let his rage out.
The candles exploded and fell to the floor as a whirlwind of viciousness swirled around him, growing tighter, faster, darker until the furniture flipped off the floor and traveled in a circle around him. He leaned back his head and roared.
Chapter Four
By the time Beth's cab dropped her off outside of Screamer's, the crime scene was alive. Lights flashed blue and white from the squad cars that blocked off access to the alley. The bomb squad's boxy, armored vehicle had shown up. Cops milled around, both uniformed and plainclothed. And the requisite crowd of drunken kibitzers had set up shop at the action's periphery, smoking and talking.
In her time as a reporter, she'd found that murder was a community event in Caldwell. Well, certainly for everyone except the man or woman who'd actually done the dying. For the victim, she had to imagine death was an alone kind of thing, even if he or she were staring into the face of the killer. Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge.
Beth brought her sleeve up to her mouth. The smell of burned metal, a tangy chemical sting, filled her nose.
"Hey, Beth!" One of the cops motioned her over. "If you want a closer look, go through Screamer's to the back. There's a corridor-"
"Actually, I'm here to see Jose. Is he around?"
The cop craned his neck, searching the crowd. "He was here a minute ago. Maybe he headed back to the station. Ricky! You see Jose"?"
Butch O'Neal stepped in front of her, silencing the other cop with a dark look. "Isn't this a surprise."
Beth stepped back. Hard-ass was a lot of man. Big body, deep voice, attitude to spare. She supposed a lot of women must be attracted to him, because God knew he was a looker in that rough, tough kind of way. But Beth had never felt a spark.
Not that she ever did when it came to men.
"So, Randall, what's doing?" He popped a piece of gum in his mouth, wadding up the foil into a tight little ball. His jaw went to work like he was frustrated, not so much chewing as grinding.
"I'm here for Jose. Not for the scene."
"Sure you are." His gaze narrowed on her face. With his dark brows and deep-set eyes, he always looked a little angry, but abruptly his expression got worse. "Would you come with me for a sec?"
"I really want Jose-"
Her arm was taken in a tight grip.
"Just come over here." Butch backed her into a secluded corner of the alley, away from the commotion. "What the hell happened to your face?"
She put her hand up and covered her split lip. She must still be in shock, because she'd forgotten all about it.
"Let me repeat the question," he said. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I, ah" Her throat closed up. "I was"
She was not going to cry. Not in front of Hard-ass.
"I want Jose"."
"He's not here, so you can't have him. Now talk." Butch braced his arms on either side of her body, as if he sensed she might run. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, but he had at least seventy pounds of muscle on her.
Fear kicked in like an ice pick punching through her chest, but she'd had quite enough of being physically bullied tonight.
"Back off, O'Neal." She put her palms squarely on his chest and pushed. He moved. A little.
"Beth, tell-"
"If you don't let me go"-her eyes held his-"I'm going to do an expose on your interrogation techniques. You know, the ones that require X rays and casts after you're through?"
His eyes narrowed again. And then he pulled his arms away from her body, holding his hands up as if he were surrendering.
"Fine." He left her and went back into the fray.
She collapsed against the building, feeling as if her legs were never going to work right again. She looked down, trying to gather her strength, and squinted at something metal. She bent her knees, getting down on her haunches. It was a martial-arts throwing star.
"Hey, Ricky!" she called out. The cop came loping over, and she pointed to the ground. "Evidence."
She left him to do his job and hurried out to Trade Street to catch a cab. She just couldn't keep it together any longer.
Tomorrow she would file an official report with Jose. First thing in the morning.
When Wrath reappeared in the drawing room, he was back in control. His weapons were strapped on, and his jacket was heavy in his hand, filled with the throwing stars and knives he liked to use.
Tohrment was the first of the brotherhood to arrive. His eyes were all fired up, pain and vengeance making the dark blue glow so vividly even Wrath caught the flash of color.
As Tohr settled back against one of Darius's yellow walls, Vishous came into the room. The goatee he'd recently grown made him seem even more sinister than usual, although the tattoo around his left eye was what really put him into ominous territory. Tonight his Red Sox hat was pulled down tight so the complex markings on his temple barely showed. As always, his black driving glove, used to keep his left hand from inadvertently making contact with anyone, was in place.
Which was a good thing. A goddamned public service.
Rhage followed, his cocky attitude dialed down in deference to what had brought the brothers together. Rhage was a towering male, big, powerful, stronger than all the other warriors. He was also a sex legend in the vampire world, Hollywood beautiful with the drive to rival a barnful of stallions. Females, vampire and human alike, would trample their own young to get at him.
At least until they got a peek at his dark side. When
Rhage's beast came out, everyone, the brothers included, looked for shelter and took up praying.
Phury was the last, walking through the front door with his limp barely noticeable. His prosthetic lower leg had recently been updated, and he was sporting a state-of-the-art titanium-and-carbon composite number now. The combination of rods, joints, and bolts was screwed into the base of his right shit-kicker.
With his fantastic mane of multicolored hair, Phury should have been in Hollywood's league with the ladies, but he'd stuck solid to his vow of celibacy. There was room for one and only one love in his life, and it had been slowly killing him for years.
"Where's your twin, man?" Wrath asked.
"Z's on his way."
That Zsadist was late was no big surprise. Z was one giant, violent fuck-you to the world. A walking, sometimes talking, usually cursing SOB who took hatred, especially toward females, to new levels. Fortunately, between his scarred face and his skull-trimmed hair, he looked as scary as he was, so folks tended to get out of his way.
Stolen from his family as an infant, he'd ended up a blood slave, and his abuse at the hands of his mistress had been brutal on every level. It had taken Phury almost a century to find his twin, and Z had been tortured to within an inch of death before the rescue.
A fall into the salty ocean had sealed Zsadist's wounds into his skin, and in addition to the maze of scars, he still bore the tattoos of a slave. As well as various piercings he'd added himself.
Just because he liked the feel of pain.
Hands down, Z was the most dangerous of the brothers. After what he'd been put through, he didn't give a shit about anything or anyone. Including his twin.
Even Wrath watched his back around that warrior.
Yeah, the Black Dagger Brotherhood was a hell of a group. All that stood between the civilian vampire population and the lessers.
Crossing his arms, Wrath looked around the room, taking each one of them in, seeing their strengths but mostly their curses.
With Darius's death, he was reminded that though his warriors were hitting the society's legions of slayers hard, there were so few of the brothers going against an inexhaustible, self-generating pool of lessers.
Because God knew there were plenty of humans with an interest and aptitude for murder.
The numbers were simply not in the race's favor. He couldn't escape the fact that vampires didn't live forever and that brothers could be killed and that the balance could be thrown off in an instant. In favor of the race's enemies.