Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #4)(148)

Wrath continued: “Though you are not worthy, you desire to become as such this night. Nod your head.”

He nodded.

“Say that you wish to become worthy.”

“I wish to become worthy.”

Another shout in the Old Language, this time a cheer of support.

Wrath went on: “There is only one way to become worthy and it is the right and proper way. Flesh of our flesh. Nod your head.”

He nodded.

“Say that you wish to become flesh of our flesh.”

“I wish to become flesh of your flesh.”

A low chanting started up, and Butch had the impression that a line had formed in front of and behind him. Without warning, they started to move, the back and forth surging motion mirrored by the cadence of powerful male voices. Butch struggled to get into the rhythm, bumping forward into what he suspected was Phury by the subtle scent of red smoke, then getting bumped from behind by what he knew was Vishous just because he knew. Shit, he was making a mess of the whole thing—

And then it happened. His body found the groove and he was moving with them…yes, they were all as one with the chanting and the movement, back…forth…swaying left…then right…the voices, not the muscles of their thighs, carrying their feet forward.

Suddenly, there was an acoustic explosion, the sounds of the chanting fracturing and re-forming in a thousand different directions: They had entered a vast space.

A hand on his shoulder told him when to halt.

The chanting stopped as if unplugged, the sounds ricocheting for a while, then floating away.

He was taken by the arm and led forward.

At his side, Vishous said in a low voice, “Stairs.”

Butch stumbled a little, then took the steps. When he got to a plateau, he was positioned by V, his body put…wherever it needed to be. As he settled into his stance, he had the sense he was right in front of something big, his toes up against what seemed to be a wall.

In the silence that followed, a bead of sweat dripped off his nose and landed right between his feet on the glossy floor.

V squeezed his shoulder as if in reassurance. Then stepped away.

“Who proposes this male?” the Scribe Virgin demanded.

“I, Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, do.”

“Who rejects this male?” There was quiet. Thank God.

Now the Scribe Virgin’s voice took on epic proportions, filling the space around them and every inch between Butch’s ears until all he knew was the sound of the words she spoke. “On the basis of testimony from Wrath son of Wrath, and upon the proposal by Vishous, son of the Black Dagger warrior known as the Bloodletter, I find this male before me, Butch O’Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, I have waived the requirement of the maternal line in this case. You may begin.”

Wrath spoke. “Turn him. Unveil him.”

Butch was repositioned so he faced out, and Vishous removed the black robe. Then the brother slipped the gold cross around so it hung down Butch’s back, and walked away.

“Lift thine eyes,” Wrath ordered.

Butch’s breath sucked in as he looked up.

He was standing on a black marble dais, staring out at a subterranean cave lit by hundreds of black candles. In front of him there was an altar made of a huge stone lintel balanced on two squat posts…on top of which was an ancient skull. Beyond that, lined up before him, was the Brotherhood in all their glory, five males whose faces were solemn and whose bodies were strong.

Wrath broke ranks and came up to stand at the altar. “Step back against the wall and hold on to the pegs.”

Butch did as he was told, feeling smooth, cool stone against his shoulders and his ass as his hands fell onto two sturdy grips.

Wrath brought up his hand and it was…shit, it was covered by an antique silver glove that sported barbs at the knuckles. Inside the fist he was making was the handle of a black dagger.

Extending his arm, the king scored himself down the wrist and held the wound over the skull, the dome of which had a silver cup mounted in it. What flowed from Wrath’s vein was caught and held, a glossy red pool that captured the candlelight.

“My flesh,” Wrath said. Then he licked his wound closed, put the blade down, and approached Butch.

Butch swallowed hard.

Wrath clapped his palm on Butch’s jaw, shoved his head back and bit him in the neck, hard. Butch’s whole body spasmed and he gritted his teeth to keep from yelling out, his hands squeezing at the pegs until his wrists felt like they were going to snap. Then Wrath stepped back and wiped his mouth.

He smiled fiercely. “Your flesh.”

The king curled up a fist within the silver glove, hauled back his arm, and nailed Butch in the chest. The barbs sunk into his skin as air exploded out of his lungs, the raw sound leaping and bounding throughout the cave.

As he caught his breath, Rhage came up and took the glove. The brother performed the ritual just as Wrath had: cutting his wrist, holding it over the skull, speaking the same two words. After he sealed up his wound, he approached Butch. The next two words were mouthed and then Rhage’s hard-core fangs were piercing Butch’s throat, the bite positioned below Wrath’s. Rhage’s punch was fast and solid, right where Wrath had thrown his, on the left pec.