Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(27)

"I never liked you, Darius."

"And yet back in camp you were more than willing to service those I bested." Darius flashed his fangs. "Given how much you enjoyed that, I should think you'd hold me in kinder regard. And know this--if you do not allow me to o'ersee the boy, I shall take you down to this floor at our feet and beat you until you relent unto me."

Hharm broke eye contact, lifting his gaze above Darius's shoulder as the past sucked the Brother down. Darius knew the moment that he had been drawn into. It was the night when Darius had won against him back at the camp--and as Darius had refused to redress the deficiency, the Bloodletter had. Brutal was a pale word to describe that session, and though Darius was loath to bring it up, the boy's safety was a worthy end for the unworthy means.

Hharm knew who would win in a contest of fists.

"Take him," the male said flatly. "And do what you will with him. I hereby renounce him as my son."

The Brother pivoted, strode out. . . .

And took all the air from the cave with him.

The warriors watched him go, their silence louder than the war cry had been. To disavow offspring was antithetical to the race, as much as daylight would be to a family meal: it was ruination.

Darius went over to the young male. That face . . . Dearest Virgin Scribe. The boy's frozen gray face wasn't sad. Wasn't heartbroken. Wasn't even ashamed.

His features were a veritable death mask.

Putting out his palm, Darius said, "Greetings, son. I am Darius, and I shall function as your fighting whard ."

The young's eyes blinked once.

77

J. R.Ward

"Son? We shall go anon to the cliffs."

Abruptly, Darius was subjected to a sharp regard; the boy was

clearly searching for signs of obligation and pity. He would find none, however. Darius knew with precision the dry, hard earth upon which the boy's boots stood, and therefore he was well aware that any kind of softness offered would only result in further disgrace.

"Why," came a hoarse question.

"We go anon to the cliffs to find that female," Darius said with calm.

"That is why."

The boy's eyes bored into Darius's. Then the young placed his hand upon his breast. With a bow, he said, "I shall endeavor to be of service rather than weight."

It was so hard to be unwanted. Harder still to hold one's head up after such an affront.

"What is your name," Darius asked.

"Tohrment. I am Tohrment, son of . . ." The throat was cleared. "I am Tohrment."

Darius stepped in beside the young male and put his palm on a

shoulder that had yet to fill out to its fullest potential.

"Come with me."

The boy followed with pur pose . . . out of the audience of the

Brotherhood . . . out of the sanctuary . . . out of the cave . . . into the night.

The shift within Darius's chest happened sometime between that

initial footstep forward and the moment they dematerialized together.

Verily he felt for the first time as if he had a family of his own . . .

because even though the boy wasn't his by blood, he had assumed care of him.

Accordingly, he would go before a blade intended for the younger if it came down to that, sacrificing himself. Such was the code of the

Brotherhood--but only toward one's brothers. Tohrment was not yet among that number; he was but an initiate by virtue of his bloodline, which gained him access into the Tomb, and nothing further. If he failed to prove himself, he would be barred forever therein.

Indeed, for all the code required, the boy could well be slain on the field and left for dead.

But Darius would not permit that.

He'd always wanted a son of his own.

78





J. R.Ward





NINE


TWENTY MILES OUTSIDE OF CHARLESTON,





SOUTH CAROLINA


"Holy . . . shit. They got some kind of trees here."

Well, yeah, that summed it up. As the Paranormal Investigators

satellite-link van eased off Rural Route SC 124, Gregg Winn braked and leaned forward over the steering wheel.

Fucking . . . perfect.

The plantation house's entrance was marked on both sides by live oaks the size of RVs and Spanish moss hung off all those massive branches, swaying in the soft breeze. Down at the end of the framing alley, about half a mile away, the columned mansion sat pretty as a lady in a chair, the noontime sun painting her face in lemon yellow light.

From the back, PI's "host," Holly Fleet, leaned in. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's a Band B, right?" Gregg hit the gas. "Open to the public."

"You called four times."

"They didn't say no."

"They didn't get back to you."

"Whatever." He needed to make this happen. PI's prime-time specials were on the verge of breaking through to the next advertising-dollar level at the network. They weren't in American Idol territory, true, but they'd kicked the shit out of the most recent Magic Exposed episode, and if that trend continued, the money was going to get thicker than blood.

The long drive up to the house was like a trail that led not just deeper into the property, but backward in time. For God's sake, as he glanced around the grass-covered grounds, he expected to see Civil War soldiers and antebellum Vivien Leighs strolling beneath the scarved trees.