Black Dagger Brotherhood - Lover Eternal Part 34

"I mean no offense."That low, soft chuckle came again.

Man, he bet she was enjoying the h.e.l.l out this. She'd never liked him, although it wasn't as if he could blame her. He'd given her antipathy plenty of reasons to breed.

"You mean no offense, warrior?" The robes moved as if she were shaking her head. "On the contrary, you never hesitate to offend to get what you wish, and that has always been your problem. It is also why we have been brought here together this night." She turned away. "You have the weapon?"

Phury put down the duffel, unzipped it, and took out the tri-whip. The two-foot-long handle was made of wood and covered with brown leather that had been darkened by the sweat of many hands. Out of the rod's tip, three lengths of blackened steel chain swung in the air. At the end of each of them there was a spiked dangler, like a pinecone with barbs.

The tri-whip was an ancient, vicious weapon, but Tohr had chosen wisely. In order for the ritual to be considered successful, the brothers could spare Rhage nothing either in the type of weapon they used or the way they put it to his skin. To give leniency would be to demean the integrity of the tradition, the regret he was offering, and the chance for a true cleansing.

"So be it," she said. "Proceed to the wall, Rhage, son of Tohrture."

He went forward, climbing the stairs two at a time. As he pa.s.sed the altar, he gazed at the sacred skull, watching firelight lick over the eye sockets and the long fangs. Positioning himself against the black marble, he gripped the stone pegs and felt cold smoothness on his back.

The Scribe Virgin drifted up to him and lifted her arm. Her sleeve fell back, and a glow bright as a welder's arc was revealed, the stinging light vaguely shaped like a hand. A low-level electrical hum went through him, and he felt something shift inside his torso, as if his internal organs had been rearranged.

"You may begin the ritual."

The brothers lined up, their naked bodies gleaming with strength, their faces drawn into deep grooves. Wrath took the tri-whip from Phury and came forward first. As he moved, the weapon's links chimed with the sweetness of a bird's call.

"Brother," the king said softly.

"My lord."

Rhage stared into those sungla.s.ses as Wrath started swinging the whip in a wide circle to build momentum. A droning sound started low and crescendoed until the weapon came forward, slicing through the air. The chains. .h.i.t Rhage's chest and then the barbs clawed into him, grabbing the air out of his lungs. As he bore down on the pegs, he kept his head up while his vision dimmed and then returned.

Tohr was next, his blow knocking the wind out of Rhage so that his knees sagged before they accepted his weight again. Vishous and Phury followed.

Each time, he met the pained eyes of his brothers in hopes of easing their anguish, but as Phury turned away, Rhage could no longer support his head. He let it fall on his shoulder and so caught sight of the blood running down his chest, over his thighs, and onto his feet. A pool was forming on the floor, reflecting the light of the candles, and staring at the red mess made him woozy.

Determined to remain standing, he c.o.c.ked his elbows so it was his joints and bones, not his muscles, that kept him in place.

When there was a lull, he became dimly aware of some kind of argument. He blinked several times before his eyes were clear enough to see.

Phury was holding out the whip and Zs.a.d.i.s.t was backing away from the thing in what seemed a lot like terror. Z's fisted hands were held up high and his nipple rings flashed in the firelight as he breathed far too heavily. The brother was the color of fog, his skin gray and unnaturally shiny.Phury spoke gently and tried to take Zs.a.d.i.s.t's arm. Z pivoted wildly, but Phury stayed with him. As they moved in a grim dance, the whip marks covering Z's back shifted with his muscles.

This approach was going nowhere, Rhage thought. Zs.a.d.i.s.t was closing in on full panic, like a cornered animal. There had to be some other way to reach him.

Rhage took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again.

"Zs.a.d.i.s.t..." His reedy voice brought all eyes to the altar. "Finish it, Z... Can't... can't hold myself up much longer."

"No-"

Phury cut Zs.a.d.i.s.t off. "You have to-"

"No! Get the f.u.c.k away from me."

Z bolted for the door, but the Scribe Virgin got there first, forcing him to spin out to a stop so he didn't run her over. Trapped in front of the diminutive figure, his legs trembled and his shoulders shook. She talked to him quietly, the words not carrying far enough for Rhage to decipher through his haze of pain.

Finally the Scribe Virgin motioned to Phury, who brought the weapon over to her. When she had it, she reached out, took Z's hand, and placed the leather-bound grip on his palm. She pointed to the altar and Zs.a.d.i.s.t dropped his head. A moment later he came up front with a lurching stride.

When Rhage looked at the brother, he almost suggested someone else do the deed for Z. Those black eyes were cracked open so wide, there was white all around the irises. And Zs.a.d.i.s.t kept swallowing, his throat working like it was keeping a scream down in his chest.

"S'okay, my brother," Rhage murmured. "But you need to finish. Now."

Z panted and swayed, sweat rolling into his eyes and down the scar on his face.

"Do it."

"Brother," Z whispered, lifting the whip over his shoulder.

He didn't swing it for momentum, probably couldn't have coordinated his arm that well at this point. But he was strong, and the weapon sang as it traveled through the air. The chains and danglers streaked across Rhage's stomach in a blaze of needles.

Rhage's knees gave out and he tried to catch himself with his arms, only to find that they too refused to hold him. He fell to his knees, palms landing in his own blood.

But at least it was over. He took long breaths, determined not to pa.s.s out.

Abruptly a rushing sound cut through the sanctuary, something like metal against metal. He didn't think much about it. He was busy talking to his stomach, trying to convince it that dry heaves were in fact not a really good plan.

When he was ready, he crawled on his hands and knees around the altar, taking a breather before he tackled the steps. As he glanced ahead, he saw that the brothers had lined up again. Rhage rubbed his eyes at what was before him, getting blood on his face.

This was not part of the ritual, he thought.

Each one of the brothers had a black dagger in his right hand. Wrath started the chant and the others carried it until their voices were loud shouts reverberating around the sanctorum. The buildup didn't stop until they were almost screaming, and then their voices cut off abruptly.

As a unit, they slashed their daggers across their upper chests.

Zs.a.d.i.s.t's cut was the deepest.

Chapter Thirty.

Mary was downstairs in the billiard room, talking to Fritz about the history of the house, when the doggen's ears picked up a sound she hadn't heard.

"That would be the sires returning."

She went to one of the windows just as a pair of headlights swung around the courtyard.

The Escalade came to a stop, its doors opened, and the men got out. With the hoods on their robes down, she recognized them from the first night she'd come to the mansion. The guy with the goatee and the tattoos at one of his temples. The man with the spectacular hair. The scarred terror and the military officer. The only one she hadn't seen before was a man with long black hair and sungla.s.ses.

G.o.d, their expressions were bleak. Maybe someone had been hurt.

She searched for Rhage, trying not to panic.

The group milled around and condensed at the back of the SUV just as someone came out of the gatehouse and held the door open. Mary recognized the guy between the jambs as the one who'd caught the football in the foyer.

With all of the big male bodies crowded in a tight circle at the rear of the Escalade, it was hard to tell what they were doing. But it seemed like some kind of heavy weight was being shifted among them...

A blond head of hair caught the light.

Rhage. Unconscious. And his body was being carried toward that open door.

Mary was out of the mansion before she realized she was running.

"Rhage! Stop! Wait!" Cold air streaked into her lungs. "Rhage!"

At the sound of her voice, he jerked and threw a limp hand out to her. The men stopped. A couple of them cursed.

"Rhage!" She ground to a halt, kicking up pebbles. "What... oh... lord."

There was blood on his face, and his eyes were unfocused from pain.

"Rhage..."

His mouth opened. Worked soundlessly.

One of the men said, "s.h.i.t, we might as well take him to his room now."

"Of course you'll take him there! Was he hurt fighting?"

No one answered her. They just changed direction and muscled Rhage through the mansion's vestibule, across the foyer and up the stairs. After they'd laid him on his bed, the guy with the goatee and tattoos on his face smoothed Rhage's hair back.

"Brother, maybe we could bring you something for the pain?"

Rhage's voice was garbled. "Nothing. Better this way. You know rules. Mary... where's Mary?"

She went to the bedside and took his slack hand. As she pressed her lips to his knuckles, she realized the robe was in perfect condition, with no rips or tears. Which meant he hadn't had the thing on when he'd been hurt. And someone had put it back on him.

With a horrible intuition, she reached for the braided leather tie around his waist. She loosened it and pulled the edges or the robe open. From his collarbones to his hips he was covered with white bandages. And blood had welled through, a bright, shocking red.

Afraid to look, needing to know, she gently untaped one corner and lifted.

"Dear G.o.d." She swayed and one of the brothers caught her. "How did this happen?"

When the group remained silent, she pushed whoever was holding her up away and looked at them all. They were unmoving, staring at Rhage...

And in as much pain as he was. Sweet Jesus, they couldn't have...

The goateed one met her eyes.

They did.

"You did this," she hissed. "You did this to him!"

"Yes," said the one with the sungla.s.ses. "And it's none of your business."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Rhage made a sound and then cleared his throat. "Leave us."

"We'll be back to check on you, Hollywood," said the guy with long multicolored hair. "Do you need anything?"

"Other than a skin graft?" Rhage smiled a little and then winced as he shifted on the bed.

While the men went out the door, she glared at their strong backs. Those G.o.dd.a.m.ned... animals.

"Mary?" Rhage murmured. "Mary."

She tried to pull it together. Getting all worked up over those thugs wasn't going to help Rhage right now.

She looked down at him, choked back her fury, and said, "Will you let me call that doctor you talked about? What was his name?"

"No."

She wanted to tell him to lose the tough-guy-bearing-pain-n.o.bly c.r.a.p. But she knew he'd fight her, and an argument was the last thing he needed."Do you want the robe off or on?" she asked.

"Off. If you can stand the sight of me."

"Don't worry about that."

She untied the leather belt and peeled the black silk off him, wanting to scream as he rolled back and forth to help her while grunting in pain. When they were finished getting the thing out from under him, blood seeped down his side.

That beautiful duvet was going to be ruined, she thought, not giving a s.h.i.t.

"You've lost a lot of blood." She rolled up the heavy robe.

"I know." He closed his eyes, head sinking into the pillow. His naked body was going through a series of flickering seizures, the trembling in his thighs, stomach, and pectorals making the mattress jiggle.

She dumped the robe in the tub and came back. "Did they clean you before they dressed the wounds?"

"I don't know."

"I probably should check at some point."

"Give me an hour. By then the bleeding will stop." He took a deep breath and grimaced. "Mary... they had to."

"What?" She leaned down.

"They had to do this. I don't..." Another breath was followed by a groan. "Don't be angry with them."

Screw. That.