The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(45)

As it stood, he had five—well, now four—shadow entities under his command. In order to defeat the Brotherhood, he would need so many more. A proper army.

The idea of doing that spell over and over and over again filled him with restless frustration. But what choice did he have? And they were a weapon that needed better defenses. If they could be eliminated with only bullets?

Under his palm, the Book grew cold as an ice cube, as if it were in disagreement—and he turned his head upon the pillow toward the tome.

“How can you disagree? My soldier was felled readily—ouch!” He jerked his hand off the cover and frowned. “Really? Must you.”

In the back of his mind, as he sent a glare at an inanimate object, he was aware that this was all off. Everything about what he was doing felt…as if he were subject to the will of another. These events, these choices, this…path…was only his own on the surface—

The Book threw its cover open; its pages, no longer dusty due to use, began to flip with growing speed. And then it settled on a folio.

Leaning to the side, he looked at the ink on the page. As usual, it was nonsensical to him, but he had been through this before. He had to wait until it translated itself for his eyes, for his language…

He smiled, a warm glow in his chest. “I have my faith,” he murmured. “And my faith has me…”

Across the page, the same sentence, written in the characters of the Old Language, was in all manner of sizes, the wording fitting in and around itself, forming a beautiful pattern.

“Let us not fight, my love,” he whispered as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to the page. “I have my faith, and my faith has me.” He caressed the page, feeling a velvet softness that was like the skin of a female. “I have my faith, and my faith has me. Ihavemyfaithandmyfaithhasme…”

An erection sprang forth at his hips and he ducked a hand beneath the sheets. Pushing his palm under the waistband of his silk pajamas, he gripped himself and felt a stab of lust go through him. A pumping action, strong and sure, was all he needed to find bliss as he said the words on the page over and over again—

A knock at the door lifted his head. It would be his tea. Earl Grey on a silver tray with sugar cubes and a lemon slice on the side.

The shadow he had sent to get it would wait out there until the earth ceased to exist, subject to Throe’s will and not its own, for though it moved, it had not a brain of its own.

The opposite of his Book.

“My love,” he said as he extended his tongue and licked up the page’s ink.

The taste was like the glorious, aroused sex of a female, and as he began to ejaculate, all was right in his world…

And he even had good help finally. Which was so hard to find.





TWENTY


Rehvenge’s Great Camp, on the shores of Lake George, was typical of the summer houses built in the Adirondacks in the 1870s. Cedar-shingled, multi-porched, and so close to the water you could spit a watermelon seed or toss your empty G-n-T’s ice into the lake with ease, the estate was a gracious nod to earlier times. Especially in winter. With the steep, snow-covered mountains framing its acreage, and threads of smoke rising from its five brick chimneys, it was the kind of place you wanted to curl up in with a good book and not come out until spring.

As Jane crunched through the snow to the rear door, she had her hands in her pockets and her head down. It was so cold her ears burned at the tips and her cheeks tightened up, but she didn’t want to solve the “problem” by fading out.

It felt good to be in the elements and not distracted by an emergency, and she stopped and looked up. Overhead, the sky was full of stars that shone so clearly, they were like pinpricks in a theater curtain, and the high, almost-full moon provided illumination that the winter landscape turned shades of blue.

“This is so beautiful,” she murmured.

“I agree.”

As she glanced at V, he wasn’t looking at the heavens. He was staring at her.

And even though his expression was remote, his eyes were anything but.

With her heart starting to beat hard, she turned away from him. “We better get inside.”

The door into the kitchen opened before they stepped up onto the back porch, the Chosen Cormia putting her head out. “Just in time! Scones are fresh out of the oven.”

The blond-haired female was wearing an Irish knit sweater that was so big, it ended below her knees, and her smile was as beautiful as a sunrise, warm and welcoming. Phury’s mate was that rare combination of kindness without the cloy, a genuinely caring person who was a perfect match to Z’s twin brother—and without her, Phury would never have beaten his addiction demons.

Oh, for the love of a good woman. Wasn’t that how the saying went?

Great. Now her chest ached again as that treacherous part of her, that sniveling, girl-not-a-woman, weak-ass whiner portion of her character, wondered why she had not been enough for Vishous.

Except that was some rank bullshit right there.

“Thanks,” she said to the Chosen as she went in. “I am hungry.”

Liar, liar, she thought as she made a show of checking out the baking sheet resting on the top of the gas stove.

After living with the Brotherhood for as long as she had, she had grown used to huge, professional kitchens. This was a much more personal-sized setup, with a reasonable six-burner Viking, and a regular refrigerator, and a potbellied stove that was throwing off BTUs like a priest handing out benedictions at Easter. And the rest of the space had been renovated with an eye toward keeping things as authentic to the period of the house as possible, the hutch in the corner an antique, the exposed beams painted garnet and gray, the old floorboards varnished, but not stained, to show their age.