Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood #7)(192)

It was there. Montrag’s father had been the one who’d double-crossed hers, and the son had been in on it.

Letting herself fall back in the chair, she took a long hard look at the study.

Karma was indeed a bitch, wasn’t it.

Ehlena went back to the ledgers to see if there were any other people in the glymera who had been taken advantage of. There hadn’t been, not since Montrag and his father had ruined her family, and she had to wonder if they’d moved toward human dealings to decrease the likelihood of being discovered as crooks and swindlers within the race.

She glanced down at the lockbox.

As this was clearly the night for airing dirty laundry, she picked the thing up. It wasn’t secured by a combination lock, but a key one.

Looking over her shoulder, she stared at the desk.

Five minutes later, after having successfully pried open the secret compartment in the lower drawer, she took the key she’d found the night before back to the lockbox. She had no doubt it was going to open the thing.

And it did.

Reaching inside, she found only one document, and as she unfurled the thick, creamy pages, she had exactly the same sense she’d had when she’d first talked to Rehvenge on the phone and he’d asked her, Ehlena, are you there?

This was going to change everything, she thought for no good reason.

And it did.

It was an affidavit by Rehvenge’s father fingering his killer, written while the male was dying of mortal wounds.

She read it twice. And a third time.

The witness was Rehm, father of Montrag.

Her mind flipped into processing mode, and she raced for her laptop, getting the Dell out and calling up the clinical search she’d done on Rehv’s mother…. Well, what do you know, the date the affidavit had been dictated by the dying male was the same as the last night Rehv’s mother had been brought into the clinic beaten up.

She took the affidavit and reread it. Rehvenge was a symphath and a killer, according to what his stepfather had said. And Rehm had known it. And Montrag had known it.

Her eyes went to the ledgers. Given what was in those records, father and son had been total opportunists. It was hard to believe that that kind of information wouldn’t have been used at one time or another. Very hard.

“Madam? I’ve brought you tea?”

Ehlena looked up at the doggen in the doorway. “I need to know something.”

“Of course, madam.” The maid came over with a smile. “What may I answer for you?”

“How did Montrag die?”

There was a sharp rattle as the maid all but dropped the tray on the table in front of the couch. “Madam…surely you do not wish to speak of such a thing.”

“How.”

The doggen looked at all the papers that had been scattered around the disemboweled safe. Going by the resignation in the female’s eyes, Sashla knew that secrets had been revealed, secrets that didn’t reflect well on her previous master.

Diplomacy and deference quieted the maid’s voice. “I would not wish to speak ill of the dead, nor to pay disrespect to the Sire Montrag. But you are the head of household, and as you have requested…”

“It’s okay. You’re doing nothing wrong. And I need to know. If it helps, think of it as a direct order.”

This seemed to relieve the female, and she nodded, then spoke in a halting tone. When she fell silent, Ehlena glanced down at the glossy floor.

At least she knew why the rug was missing now.





Xhex was on the graveyard shift at the Iron Mask, just as she’d been at ZeroSum. Which meant as her wristwatch flashed three forty-five, it was time to do sweeps of the bathrooms while the bartenders were doing last call and her bouncers were hauling the drunk and drugged-up out into the street.

On its surface, the Mask was nothing like ZeroSum. Instead of steel and glass, it was all about the neo-Victorian, with everything black and deep blue. There were a lot of velvet drapes and private, deep couch booths, and f*ck the technopop shit; the music was acoustic suicide, as depressive as anything that ever carried a backbeat. No dance floor. No VIP section. More places for sex. Fewer drugs.

But the escapist vibe was the same, and the girls were still working, and the liquor was still going fast as a mudslide.

Trez ran the place in a very low-key kind of way—gone were the days of a hidden back office and the pimptastic presence of a flashy owner. He was a manager, not a drug lord, and the policies and procedures over here didn’t involve any knuckle-busting or pistol-whipping. Bottom line, there was a lot less to police because of the lack of wholesale and retail drug business—plus Goths were moodier and more introspective by nature, as opposed to the hyped-up, sparkly jackass set that had regulared ZeroSum.

Xhex missed the chaos, though. Missed…a lot of things.

With a curse, she hit the main ladies’ bathroom, which was by the bigger of the two bars, and found a woman leaning into the darkened mirror over the sink. With an intent look, she was sweeping her fingertips under her eyes, not to clean up her eyeliner but to drag it down farther onto her paper white skin. God knew she had plenty of the Cover Girl smudgible to go around; she was wearing so much of the shit, she looked like someone had punched her twice with an and-iron.

“We’re closing,” Xhex said.

“Okay, no problem. See you tomorrow.” The girl pulled back from her Night of the Living Dead reflection and hustled out the door.