Lover Awakened (Black Dagger Brotherhood #3)(124)

When he went to dry off, he sensed that Phury had come into the bedroom and was moving around, though he couldn’t see the male.

“Phury…I was going to come find you before I left.”

With a towel under his chin, Z looked at his reflection in the mirror, seeing his new yellow eyes. He thought of the arc of his life and knew most of it was for shit. But there had been two things that hadn’t been. One female. And one male.

“I love you,” he said in a rough voice, realizing it was the first time he’d ever said the words to his twin. “Just wanted to get that out.”

Phury stepped in behind him.

Z recoiled in horror at his twin’s reflection. No hair. Scar down his face. Eyes flat and lifeless.

“Oh, sweet Virgin,” Z breathed. “What the f*ck did you do to yourself…?”

“I love you, too, my brother.” Phury raised his arm. In his hand was a hypodermic syringe, one of the two that had been left for Bella. “And you need to live.”

Zsadist spun around just as his twin’s arm swung down. The needle caught Z in the neck and he felt the rush of morphine go right into his jugular. Screaming, he grabbed onto Phury’s shoulders. As the drug kicked in, he sagged and felt himself get eased onto the floor.

Phury knelt beside him and stroked his face. “I’ve only ever had you to live for. If you die I have nothing. I’m utterly lost. And you are needed here.”

Zsadist tried to reach out, but couldn’t lift his arms as Phury stood up.

“God, Z, I keep thinking this tragedy of ours is going to be over. But it just keeps going, doesn’t it?”

Zsadist blacked out to the sound of his twin’s boots heading from the room.





Chapter Forty-five


John lay on the bed, curled on his side, staring into the dark. The room he’d been given in the Brotherhoods’ mansion was luxurious and anonymous and made him feel no better or worse.

From somewhere in the corner, he heard a clock chime once, twice, three times…. He kept counting the low, rhythmic tones until he got up to six. Rolling over onto his back, he considered the fact that in another six hours it would be the start of a new day. Midnight. No longer Tuesday, but Wednesday.

He thought of the days and weeks and months and years of his life, time that he owned because he’d experienced it and therefore could lay claim to its passage.

How arbitrary, this distinction of time. How like humans—and vampires—to have to cut the infinite down to something they could believe they controlled.

What a crock. You didn’t control anything in your life. And neither did anyone else in theirs.

God, if only there was a way to do that. Or at least be able to do some things over. How wonderful would it be if he could just hit a rewind button and then edit the hell out of the past day? That way he wouldn’t have to feel as he did now.

He groaned and turned onto his stomach. This pain was…unparalleled, a revelation of the worst kind.

His despair was like an illness, affecting his whole body, making him shiver though he was not cold, tossing his stomach though it was empty, causing aches to bloom in his joints and his chest. He’d never considered emotional devastation to be an affliction, but it was one, and he knew he was going to be ill from it for quite some time.

God… He should have gone with Wellsie, instead of staying home to work on tactics. If he’d been in that car, maybe he could have saved her…Or maybe he’d just be dead too?

Well, that would be better than this existence. Even if there was nothing in the afterlife, even if you just blacked out and that was it, surely that would be better than this.

Wellsie…gone, gone. Her body, it was ashes. From what John had overheard, Vishous had laid his right hand upon her at the scene and then taken what was left behind. A formal Fade ceremony, whatever that was, would be performed, except no one could do that without Tohr.

And Tohr was gone, too. Disappeared. Perhaps dead? It had been so close to dawn when he’d taken off…. In fact, maybe that had been the point. Maybe he’d just run out into the light so he could be with Wellsie’s spirit.

Gone, gone…everything seemed gone.

Sarelle…lost to the lessers now, too. Lost before he had really known her. Zsadist was going to try to get her back, but who knew what would happen?

John pictured Wellsie’s face and her red hair and her little pregnant bump. He saw Tohr’s brush cut and his navy blue eyes and his broad shoulders in black leather. He imagined Sarelle poring over those old texts, her blond cap of hair hanging forward, her long, pretty hands working the pages.

The temptation to start with the tears again rose, and John sat up quickly, forcing the urge to level off. He was through with the crying. He would not weep again for any of them. Tears were utterly useless, a weakness not worthy of their memories.

Strength would be his offering to them. Power his eulogy. Vengeance the prayer at their graves.

John got off the bed, used the bathroom, then dressed, slipping his feet into the Nikes Wellsie had bought for him. Within moments he was downstairs, going through the secret door that led into the underground tunnel. He walked quickly down the steel labyrinth, eyes straight ahead, arms swinging in a soldier’s precise rhythm.

When he stepped through the back of the closet and out into Tohr’s office, he saw that the mess had been cleaned up: The desk was back where it had been before, and the ugly-ass green chair was tucked in behind it. The papers and the pens and the files and everything were tidied up. Even the computer and the phone were where they should be, though both had been broken into pieces the night before. They must be new ones….