Lover Avenged (Black Dagger Brotherhood #7)(71)

Either outcome was acceptable.

It was all set, which was why Montrag had called his closest friend just now.

Taking the affidavit, he folded it in on itself, and slid it into a thick, creamy envelope. Drawing a page of his personalized stationery from an embossed leather box, he penned a quick missive to the male who he would tap as his second in command, and cemented the stage for Rehvenge’s fall. In the note, he explained that, as they’d discussed over the phone, this was what he had found in his father’s private papers—and if the document was validated, he was concerned for the future of the council.

Naturally, the thing would be verified by the law office of his colleague. And by the time it was, Wrath would be dead and Rehv poised for blame.

Montrag lit a stick of red wax, dripped some of it on the envelope’s flap, and sealed the affidavit in. On the front, he wrote the male’s name, and in the Old Language spelled out HAND DELIVERY ONLY; then he closed up and locked the metal box, tucking it under his desk, and returning the key to its safe place in the secret drawer.

A button on the phone summoned the butler, who took the envelope and immediately headed off to complete the task of getting it into the correct hands.

Satisfied, Montrag took the lockbox over to the wall safe, pivoted the painting outward, put his father’s combination to use, and returned the remaining affidavit to its home: Keeping one copy for himself was only prudent, a safeguard in the event something happened to the document that was on its way across the border into Rhode Island.

As he eased the Turner back into place, the landscape spoke to him as always, and for a moment, he allowed himself to step out of the bedlam he was creating with purpose and seep into the peaceful, lovely sea. The breeze would be warm, he thought.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, how he missed the summer during these cold months, but then, it was contrast that enlivened the heart. Without the cold of winter, one would not truly appreciate the sultry nights of July and August.

He pictured where he would be in six months when a full solstice moon rose o’er Caldwell’s sprawling city. Come June, he would be king, an elected and respected monarch. If only his father had been alive to see—

Montrag coughed. Breathed in with a hiccup. Felt something wet on his hand.

He looked down. Blood was all over the front of his white shirt.

Opening his mouth to shout in alarm, he tried to draw in a deep breath, but there was only a gurgling sound—

His hands snapped up to his neck and found a geyser jumping free of his exposed carotid artery. Wheeling around, he saw a female standing before him with a man’s haircut and black leathers. The knife in her hand had a red blade, and her face was a calm mask of detached disinterest.

Montrag fell to his knees before her and then pitched over to his right, his hands still trying to keep his lifeblood in his body and not all over his father’s Aubusson.

He was still alive when she rolled him over, took out a rounded tool made of ebony, and knelt down to him.





As an assassin, Xhex’s job performance was measured in two dimensions. First, did she get her target? Self-explanatory. Second, was it a clean kill? Meaning, was there no collateral damage in the form of other deaths to protect herself, her identity, and/or the identity of the individual who had tasked her with the job.

In this case, the first was going to be a snap, given the way Montrag’s artery was doing the drainpipe. The second was still open to question, so she needed to work fast. She took the lys out of her leathers, bent over to the bastard, and didn’t waste more than a nanosecond watching his eyes roll around.

She grabbed his chin and forced his face to hers. “Look at me. Look at me.”

His wild stare shot to hers, and when it did, she brought the lys forward. “You know why I’m here and who sent me. It’s not Wrath.”

Montrag clearly had enough air still going to his brain, because his lips mouthed, Rehvenge, in horror, before those eyeballs of his started rolling again.

She let go of his chin and slapped him hard. “Pay attention, *. Look at me.”

With their stares locked and her grip back on his jaw, she peeled the upper and lower lids of his left eye even wider. “Look at me.”

As she took the lys and pressed it into the socket at the corner near his nose, she reached into his brain and triggered all sorts of memories. Ah…interesting. He’d been a conniving f*cker for real, specializing in screwing people about money.

Montrag’s hands slapped into the rug and dug in hard as he gurgled his way through a scream. The eyeball came out of the skull like a scoop of honeydew off its rind, as perfectly round and clean as you’d want. The right eye was just the same, and she put both of them in a lined velvet pouch as Montrag’s arms and legs jerked and flopped on his expensive rug, his lips peeling back such that every single one of his teeth including his molars showed.

Xhex left him to his sloppy death, walking right out of the French door behind the desk and dematerializing to the maple she’d first cased the place from the day before. She waited there for about twenty minutes and then watched as a doggen entered the study, saw the body, and dropped the silver tray she was carrying.

As the teapot and the china bounced, Xhex cocked her phone open, hit send, and put the thing to her ear. When Rehv’s deep voice answered she said, “It’s done and they’ve found him. Kill was clean and I’m bringing you the souvenir. ETA ten minutes.”