The Black Dagger Brotherhood (40 page)

Because Beth has fed from him, Wrath is able to sense where she is and he materializes in front of the farmhouse. Breaking through the door, he takes both
lessers
on in a ferocious fight. Beth works herself free of her holds, and with a physical strength she's never had before, she attacks Billy Riddle. She slams him down and when Wrath throws a dagger at her, she stabs Billy and he disintegrates. Although Wrath prevails with Mr. X, Wrath is critically wounded. Beth rushes to his side. Using Wrath's phone, she frantically calls Butch's cell phone, hoping someone will answer it.

Marissa picks up. When she hears what's happened to Wrath, Marissa, who's already called upon her brother to help treat Butch's wound, demands that Havers go to Wrath. As her brother refuses to meet her eyes, she has a terrible suspicion that he had something to do with the attack. Filled with rage, she confronts him and demands that he help Wrath. Havers, who's been conflicted all along with his course of action, admits his culpability and flashes out to the farmhouse. It's clear that Wrath is close to death and the only hope is for him to feed. Havers begins to role up his sleeve when Beth pushes him out of the way. Use your wrist, Havers tells her. Wrath eventually takes Beth's blood and stabilizes enough for them to get into a car. They have to drive him because he's unable to project himself. Darius's place is too dangerous to stay in and dawn is coming. They decide to go Havers's house. It takes both of them to carry Wrath down to the laboratory.

After a long day of anxious waiting, Wrath comes around. As Beth holds him and cries, he hates his life as a warrior for the first time. With Beth now being his wife, he doesn't want her exposed to the violence. They hold each other until Havers comes into the lab with Marissa. Havers looks agonized and he admits to Wrath what he did. He volunteers to let Wrath take his revenge in a ritual that will result in Havers's death. Wrath tells him, no. They're even now, for what Wrath did to Marissa all those years.

When the brothers show up at Havers's, Wrath and Beth accept an invitation to go to Tohrment and Wellsie's while Wrath finishes recovering. Wrath is still too weak to dematerialize himself so Beth, Butch and Marissa decide to drive him west. As they get on the highway, Beth smiles at her vampire husband, thinking that she asked for an adventure. And boy did she ever get one.

A month later, at Tohrment and Wellsie's ranch in Colorado, the brothers are in the war room getting ready to go out hunting. Wrath has taken up the role as leader of the brothers and he's accepted his position as the Chief of his race. Vampires have started coming to him, asking him to resolve disputes and bless their children, traditional duties of the Chief that have been missing since the death of Wrath's father. Beth is adjusting to her role as the chief's
uta-shellan.
Butch and Marissa are happy but struggling with the implications of his mortality.

As the brothers ready themselves to go out, Wrath frowns as he sees Beth strap on a dagger. What are you doing, he asks. I'm coming with you, she says. Why, he demands. To fight, she replies. Oh, no, you're not, Wrath counters, because I forbid you from warring. Beth kicks up her chin. Excuse me? You forbid me, she says. As the two of them square off, the brothers quickly file out of the room.

On the other side of the door, the brothers listen to muffled, angry voices. So who do you think's going to win this one, Tohrment asks. The brothers make their wagers. The door opens. Wrath walks out looking fierce, pulling his leather jacket on. A moment later, Beth appears, wearing two guns and a dagger. She's smiling. As the brothers laugh, Wrath puts his arm around Beth and kisses her. None of you look too surprised, he says to his brothers. Yeah, Tohrment replies. We all bet on her.

Together, Wrath and Beth disappear into the night.

The vast majority of things I see in my head get used in the books—which is why the Brotherhood novels are so long! And most of the time, if I do take something out, I use it elsewhere. However, there are some scenes that I have set aside, and I've included some below with commentary.

 

 

I trimmed this out of the beginning of
Lover Awakened
, due to length issues. I really like the scene and wish I could have taken it further, as it was the beginning of an entire subplot involving the trainees. Reading it again, I'm reminded of how far John has come—at this point in the series, he was just starting to meet all the Brothers and had a lot to learn about his new world.

 

 

S
tanding in the training center's gym, waiting shoulder-to-shoulder with the other trainees for the next jujitsu position command, John was beat. His brain was blank-slate exhausted, his body aching. He felt like he'd been picked clean and left for dead.

Okay, so that was a little melodramatic. But not by much.

Class had started as usual at four in the afternoon, but they'd had to make up for the time they'd lost the night before. So instead of ending at ten o'clock, it was now two a.m. and they were still being put through their paces.

The other guys looked tired, too, but John was damn aware that no one was as wrung out as him. For some reason, his classmates were handling the training better than he was.

Some reason? Christ, he knew why. Not only did he have to work harder at everything because he was an uncoordinated boob, but after that whole therapist, visit-to-his-past-nightmare, he hadn't been able to sleep, so he'd been groggy and out of it to begin with.

Up front, Tohr was giving the lineup a hard look. Dressed in black nylon sweats and a muscle shirt, the Brother was every inch the drill sergeant, with his military buzz cut and his blade-sharp blue eyes. John tried to stand up straighter, but his spine refused to crank to attention. He was utterly out of gas.

“That's it for today,” Tohr barked. As the trainees sagged, he frowned. “Any injuries I don't know about?” When no one spoke up, the Brother glanced at the clock that was mounted in a steel cage on the concrete wall. “Remember we start at noon tomorrow and run until eight p.m. instead of our usual time. Hit the showers. Bus will be ready in fifteen. John, can I have a minute?”

As everyone else dragged their sorry asses across the blue mats toward the locker room, John stayed behind. And said a little prayer.

The bus rides to and from the training center were hell. On a good day, none of the other trainees talked to him. On a bad day . . . he wished for the silent treatment. So even though it made him a coward, he was kind of hoping Tohr would tell him he could stay and work in the office or something.

Tohr waited until the steel door clanged shut before he transformed from drill sergeant into father. Putting a hand on John's shoulder, he said softly, “How we doing, son?”

John nodded briskly even though his dishrag state pretty much said it all. “Listen, the Brotherhood was late getting out tonight, so I need to leave right now to do patrols. But I was talking to Butch earlier. He said if you wanted to hang with him for a while, that'd be cool. You can shower at the Pit if you want, and he could take you home later.”

John's eyes popped. Hanging with Butch? Who was, like, totally the shit? Man . . . talk about prayers answered. The guy had come in just two days before, taught this rip-cool class on forensics, and had every one of the trainees decide they wanted to be a homicide cop like him.

Hanging with him . . . plus not having to deal with the Hades Express to get back home?

Tohr smiled. “So I take it this is a
yeah
, right?”

John nodded. And kept nodding.

“You know how to get there?”

Same code?
John signed.

“Yup.” Tohr squeezed his shoulder, the big palm transmitting all kinds of warmth and support. “Take care, son.”

John took off for the locker room and for once didn't hesitate as he stepped inside the hot, humid maze of metal lockers and social hierarchy. As usual, he made no eye contact with anyone on the way to number nineteen.

Funny, both his locker and he were in the back and on the bottom.

When he grabbed his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, Blaylock, the red-head, who was one of only two who didn't ride him with insults, frowned.

“Aren't you changing for the van?” the guy asked while he rubbed his hair with a towel.

John couldn't help smiling as he shook his head and turned away.

Which, of course, meant Lash had to step into his path.

“Looks like he's going to go chase after the Brotherhood.” The blond guy made elaborate work out of strapping on a huge diamond watch that was “from Jacob and Co., you know.” “Bet he's gonna polish daggers for them. What are you going to use on their blades, John?”

The urge to flip him off was so strong, John actually lifted his hand, but Christ, he didn't want to dick-toss with the asshole. Not when he was Pit-bound and bus-free. Turning away, he took the long way out of the locker room, going down another whole aisle of benches and lockers to avoid the conflict.

“Have fun, Johnny,” Lash shouted. “Oh, and hit the equipment room on your way out. For those knee pads.”

As laughter echoed, John pushed open the door and went down to Tohr's office . . . thinking he would give anything for Lash to know what it was like to get picked on.

Or maybe pounded into submission.

Going through the back of Tohr's supply closet and coming out the other side in the underground tunnel was like walking into sunshine: a singing relief. Sure, there were only ten hours of freedom in front of him, but that was a lifetime under the right circumstances.

And being around Butch was definitely the break he needed.

John walked quickly toward the main house, and he paused when he got to the stairs that led up to the foyer. Tohr had said it was another hundred and fifty yards farther down to the Pit . . . so he kept going. When he found another set of stairs, he was relieved. The tunnel was dry and dimly lit, but he didn't like being in it alone.

Sticking his face into the registry field of a video cam, he hit the summons button and resisted the urge to wave like an idiot.

“Hey, man.” Butch's voice was clear as a bell as it came through the intercom. “Glad you made it.”

The lock was sprung and John took the stairs fast. Butch was standing in the doorway at the top in a black-and-gold smoking jacket.

The guy had the best clothes John had ever seen. He'd taught class in a pin-striped suit that looked like something out of a magazine.

“You can use my bathroom to shower in, because my roommate, who's off rotation tonight, is micromanaging that goatee of his.”

“Whatever, cop,” a deep male voice called out.

“You know it's true. You so suffer from OBD—” Butch glanced over. “That would be Obsessive Beard Disorder. Hey, listen, J-man, I was going to head into town, you cool with that?”

John so loved it when Butch called him J-man. And he really loved to be asked to go anywhere with a guy like him.

As he nodded, Butch smiled. “Good deal. I'm getting another tat. You have any?”

John shook his head.

“Maybe you'll get one.”

A tattoo. With Butch? Man, this night was looking up.

While John nodded, Butch smiled and glanced around. “You ever been in our place, John?”

When John shook his head, the cop gave him a quick tour, and it was clear the Pit was Guy Central. There wasn't a lot of furniture, but there were plenty of gym bags, and a legion of Scotch and vodka bottles. The foosball table was righteous sweet. So was the massive high-def TV and the incredible bank of computers in the living room. The place also smelled great, all smoke and leather and aftershave.

Butch led the way down a hall. “V's in that bedroom.”

John glanced through the doorway and saw a huge bed with black sheets and no headboard. Weapons and thick books were all over the place, kind of like a library had been taken over by a squadron of Marines.

“And I'm in here.”

John walked into a smaller bedroom . . . that was choked with men's clothes. Suits and shirts were hanging from racks with rollers on them. Ties and shoes were everywhere, and there were easily fifty pairs of cuff links on top of the bureau. It was like the inside of a department store. A very, very expensive department store.

“Bathroom's all yours. Clean towel's on the back of the toilet.” Butch took a squat crystal glass of Scotch off the bedside table and put it to his lips. “And you should also think about that tat. Place where I go's top-notch. They'll ink you right.”