Forever, page 30
Daniel’s eyes shot to Lydia’s. “Do you have his address?”
“I’m texting it to you now, it’s about twenty-five minutes away. I’ll meet you there.”
Motioning for Lydia to come with him and get back on the bike, he remounted and said, “Bring backup with you.”
“They’re already pulling the cars around—” Cathy’s voice cracked. “It’s not Gunnar Rhobes. I just spoke to him. It’s someone else, but I don’t know—”
“We’ll find Gus. No matter who has him—I will bring that man back home if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.”
“Daniel…” Cathy’s voice broke. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”
“You’re not the only person who feels that way.”
As he hung up, there was a bing as the text with the address arrived.
“What’s going on,” Lydia asked as she wrapped her arms around herself.
He got the location on Google Maps and made sure he knew where he was going. “Gus. Something bad’s happened. We need to go to Plattsburgh.”
“Is he all right?”
“I have no idea.” Extending his hand out to her, he said, “We shouldn’t waste any time, okay?”
Abruptly, Lydia’s chin lowered and her eyes gleamed with a predator’s menace. “If anyone’s hurt that man?”
Daniel nodded. “It goes without saying. We take care of it.”
Lydia nodded grimly, gripped his palm, and hopped back on the bike. As her arms came around him again, he gave them a squeeze. Then he started the engine with a jump, pumped the gas—
—and tore off down the lane.
For that physician? For everything the man had done for him over the last six months?
Daniel was going to find out what the hell had happened—and with Lydia’s help, he was going to make sure if there were any wrongs to be righted…
The ledger was balanced.
The proper way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WITH SO MANY thanks to the readers of the Black Dagger Brotherhood books! This has been a long, marvelous, exciting journey, and I can’t wait to see what happens next in this world we all love. I’d also like to thank Meg Ruley, Rebecca Scherer and everyone at JRA, and Hannah Braaten, Jamie Selzer, Jennifer Bergstrom, Jennifer Long, and the entire family at Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.
To Team Waud, I love you all. Truly. And as always, everything I do is with love to and adoration for both my family of origin and of adoption.
Oh, and thank you to Naamah, my Writer Dog II, and Obie, Writer Dog-in-Training, who work as hard as I do on my books!
Turn the page for an exclusive excerpt from:
The next installment in J. R. Ward’s #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series!
CHAPTER ONE
5.8 miles north of Great Bear Mountain
Adirondack Park, Upstate New York
IN THE GLOAMING, the mountain air smelled of pine and earth, the scents carried on a lazy draft that trickled down the elevation, weaving around and over boulders and branches, weeds and wildlife, the frigidity of space encroaching upon the planet. Across the valley, the sun’s very last rays created a hearth in a juncture of peaks, the intersection of surging topographies forming a cup of hands in which the light could nestle for a brief, dying time, only embers now, no warmth to speak of.
As Lassiter, the fallen angel, emerged from the cave, he thought of McDonald’s.
And not because he was hungry.
Drawn by the finality of the peach glow, he stepped forward to a keyhole view of the splendor. Like the Golden Arches memory that was suddenly dogging his brain, the sight before his eyes was a distillation of experience rather than something currently sensed, a refraction of the world as opposed to that which was in-the-moment sensed and seen.
It was as if the present was the past, a memory that was subject to faulty interpretation and accuracy.
Had it been a Big Mac and fries? he wondered idly. Or a Quarter Pounder?
Maybe it had been neither.
Those specifics were gone now, but he had most of the rest of the details surrounding the events that had started him on the path that led here, to this night, this view. Two years ago he had been sent by the Creator to rescue the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, from grief. The mission had been an oxymoron combination of promotion and punishment. Lassiter hadn’t been looking for the former, and had had too much of the latter, but in any event, his opinion about his fate was as irrelevant as where it took him.
The Creator had had a plan for him, and like destiny, hadn’t cared about what he thought.
But he’d had free will, so he’d gone to the Golden Arches first.
After all, what did you bring as a gift of greeting to a male who had nothing? Tohr had fucked off the world and been living on the blood of forest animals—and as the brother’s savior, of course Lassiter had decided on food. Plus, he’d managed to mostly not eat the fries on the way in.
Which had made him a saint as well as an angel.
And his plan, such as it had been, had worked. The fighter had eventually emerged from the mourning of his murdered shellan, and found a new life, and was now back in his old role as the King’s second-in-command. The calm, levelheaded one remained scarred at the soul level, but he had carried on, as survivors had to, as the living must do.
The Creator had been impressed by the figural resurrection—and sometime after Lassiter had set the fighter on his feet, a second promotion had been conferred from up on high. He hadn’t had any interest in the job. But when the Scribe Virgin told you she was turning the vampire species over to you and good luck with all those souls and their bright ideas? Well, there you had it. Your time card was punched for infinity, or whenever you gave the job up, whichever came first.
As he counted the number of nights he had served in the role, he stared out over the valley below. He’d assumed he’d last a little longer than this. Like, at least five years. Ten. Fifty. A century.
But here was the problem. When he’d arrived on the scene in Caldwell, he hadn’t been particularly bothered about the people under his charge.
But after a while… he had cared too much.
Like a case of the flu, the feelings had crept up on him, a contagion caught from the loyalty and courage around him. Before he knew it, the mortals in that old stone mansion had started to matter, and to help them, he had blurred lines, bent rules… broken the contract with the Creator.
And then sacrificed himself in a way that had ruined him.
Except that was the job of a savior, right? You did whatever was required in service to others. It was just that some costs were higher than you thought they’d be—
No, that was a lie. Going into that last round with the demon Devina, he’d known exactly what he was going to pay and in what currency. And what he was sacrificing.
Rahvyn.
Closing his eyes, he pictured hair that had the gleam of polished sterling silver. Then he saw eyes that were wide with happiness, and a face that tilted up at him… as all around the female’s feet, wildflowers bloomed in a swirl even though it was not the season.
Why bring your girl a bouquet when you could give her a meadow full of blooms? he’d thought at the time. When he’d said goodbye to her.
He could still picture her delight as she had twirled in a little dance of wonder, and in this, he had every single detail. He saw with pristine clarity her hair spooling out into the moonlight, her body lithe in her civilian clothes, her smile not shy, but a revelation. She had been in his heart before that moment. Seeing her that night? She had entered his immortal soul.
Then again, maybe that had been less about his gift and her reaction to it… and more that he had known they were parting. Forever. Because even if they were in the same room after that evening? He was still going to be farther away from her than the outer bounds of the heavens.
Out of the two of them, only he’d known what he was about to do. Only he had known… that he was turning his body over to the demon, to do with it what she wished.
And after Devina had finished using him? The pain and shame had been a shock, even though he thought he’d prepared himself.
So the irony he felt now was of an alpha and omega variety: As he was exiting this world of Caldwell, New York, he was where he had begun, in a way. He was where Tohr had been, out in the woods alone, mourning a female he’d bonded with because he couldn’t have her. Of course, in his case, his female was still alive, but that didn’t mean anything. Not when he couldn’t be with her.
Lassiter looked down at his corporeal form and had to shake his head. The part of it that he didn’t understand was how something that didn’t exist could affect him so much. This image of a body, which he chose to inhabit when it suited his purposes, was not him. He was an entity, rather than anything mortal.
Yet what had been done to him, what had been taken from him, lingered, transmitted through that which was an illusion into that which was real.
His soul was stained now.
All he wanted to do was return to the great ether, just disappear into a flash of energy that had no consciousness whatsoever. And the only reason he hadn’t followed through already?
He thought of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the King… their families and doggen. The civilians. The Chosen who had been liberated.
Devina, the demon, who he knew was being pulled into a role that would make all vampires a target once more.
For the species’ benefit, he needed to rally. He needed to get in gear. He needed to pull up his bootstraps, get motivated, get back in the game, address the ball, find his stance, assume the position.
The pep talk didn’t work. It hadn’t worked.
Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes refocused on the glow. There was almost none of the sunset’s illumination left, and he found the parallel apt. There was not much of him left, either.
At least overhead, in the gathering darkness, the stars began to show, and he told himself he really needed to go. Enough of this self-imposed purgatory—
The image of Rahvyn’s face intruded on all that, sandblasting everything away.
He’d only held her once. When he’d told her goodbye.
Something hit his hand, and he looked down. The silver droplet gleamed and the warmth that was transmitted through his skin was the first sensation he had felt since…
Well, since he’d come here to this mountain, at any rate.
Shaking off the tear, he pulled a swipe under his eyes and then regarded the pads of his fingers. It was like mercury, what came out of him when he was in pain, the reflective liquid smooth and clingy, preferring to find a stasis point that was perfectly round if it could gather enough of itself.
Turning away, he ducked and reentered the hidden cave.
He had known true love when he’d seen it, when he’d scented it in his nose, when he’d felt it in his body. Now it was gone, and unless he immolated himself, all he had was time, a never-ending drip of minutes, hours, and days—and the solution wasn’t going back to the ones he knew and loved. Wherever he went, whoever he was with, whatever he did, he was going to be nothing more than an inanimate hourglass, marking what passed endlessly through him, grain by meaningless grain.
He had done a terrible thing for the right reason, and there was no going back.
Better to have loved and lost?
Bullshit.
* * *
Nontemporal Plane of Existence
(No address and not in Caldwell)
“Of course I like you.”
As Rahvyn lowered herself to the hot-pink grass, she crossed her legs under herself and put her elbows on her knees. Overhead, the psychedelic sky was a brilliant orange, clouds of red and yellow drifting by, the pseudo-sun a brilliant, glowing blue. All around her, fluffy trees made of ostrich plumes and golden branches undulated in a soft breeze that smelled of lilies, and birds made of heat waves and shimmers flittered by.
When there was a ruffle, she looked down. “No, ’tis not your fault. And I am very sorry I am not very good company.”
The Book was open before her, its ancient parchment pages rippling gently on their spine as if it were breathing in a rhythmic cadence. Bound in human flesh—or perhaps vampire?—the entity was no more about words than this metaphysical plane she was hiding them in was about reality. So, in many ways, this place that did not exist was a perfect refuge. The Book was a conduit for energy in the universe, and just as a mirror reflected whate’er was before it, so, too, did it both reveal and enter the inner worlds of its possessors.
Which meant the thing was capable of great goodness… and unfathomable evil.
There was another ruffle.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured. “I appreciate your concern. But I shall endure.”
The dismissive sound that came back at her could have meant the Book was doubting her endurance or mayhap her course, but she knew it was not being unkind. With her, it had only ever been supportive and full of grace.
Then again, she had never had any interest in using the power harnessed between those grotty covers—and also, she believed it felt as though a debt was owed because she had rescued it from an untenable, abusive situation: Safety had been requested, and safety had been provided, without any expectation of something in return.
Knowing how the poor thing had been used, she could understand why the removal from the sphere of influence who had taken it over had been sought—
Fast flipping now, like the pages were a spinning wheel that went round and round, no beginning, no end.
“Please don’t,” she whispered in defeat.
Yet it would not listen to her.
Closing her eyes, she felt tension creep up her spine and penetrate into the nape of her neck, and she pulled at the sweater that clothed her, switched the arrangement of her legs in the jeans she wore. And when things stilled, she released her breath.
She did not want to look because she knew what she would see.
She opened her eyes anyway.
And there he was. As if the Book had become a window, she saw through the interior of its contours a male who was never far from her thoughts: Lassiter, the fallen angel, was oddly-colored-eyed and blond-and-black-haired, his face constructed of powerful angles and balanced by an intelligence that, having watched him in a crowd once, she believed he kept well hidden under a drape of humor.
“Oh, fates preserve me…” Then she cleared her throat. “Whyever do you keep showing him to me?”
The pages fluttered, like it was attempting to point at something. Then came a couple of frustrated slaps.
“I wish I spoke folio, I truly do.” There was a heave of pages, a sigh made of paper—as if she were being deliberately obtuse. “And if this is the way you’re trying to repay me—”
Much flipping the now, the sound like it was applauding her getting on the right track.
“It is? Well, that is very sweet.” She brushed its pages with a soft touch and did not want to hurt its feelings by pointing out the last thing she wanted to see was that unforgettable face. “And I understand that you are grateful for this respite here, but I am happy to be of service to you. I know what it is like to be used for your gifts and in ways that harm. My commiseration with your situation is the sole purpose for the security I offer. Besides, Lassiter bid me farewell. He departed—and he is probably correct. What would I have to offer him?”
Flipping again. Then the folio settled.
Words that she couldn’t translate morphed across the page in a jumble, the symbols and letters surging and interspersing before shuffling off—only to return in a rush, coalescing to form patterns marked by crowding and then scarcity. It was as though the Book were trying to find a language she could understand, and she watched the display idly, enjoying the show—
With a frown, she tilted her head as a visual emerged. It was a pair of portraits: The text had pulled together to reveal two faces, one on each side. They were males, and she couldn’t say that she recognized either of them. The longer she stared at them, trying to place the features, the clearer the depictions became, until they were as pencil drawings attended to with leaded tip over and over, the shadows darkening and bringing out the three-dimensional nature of the images until they were positively sculptural. One had a long braid over his shoulder. The other had short dark hair and many piercings in his face and ears.
The Book clapped again, the emphatic sound an obvious attempt to focus her, except she was already locked on what it was showing her.
It clapped again.
Rahvyn slowly shook her head. “I do not wish to go find anyone for you. I am sorry.”
Another clap.
“But you need me, too. This landscape is in my mind, so if I’m here, I know you’re safe. No one can—”
The faces broke apart, the letters bursting into action as they whirled around once again. More portraits now, and these were of males and females she did recognize, a veritable gallery of profiles. They were the vampires from the refuge house that had offered her a place to stay, and then others… her cousin Sahvage and the Brotherhood. She watched with great interest as the letters came and went, the waves that became faces cresting and receding as new portraits emerged.
As the display continued, her hand lifted to her sternum and attempted to rub away the pain.
The gallery ended on a male with long black hair falling from a widow’s peak, and a visage that was both aristocratic and cruel. Dark lenses—which she had learned were referred to as wraparounds—covered his unseeing eyes, and the furrow between his brows was evidence of the pressure he was under and the weight he carried on his broad shoulders.
Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, the Great Blind King—
Those glasses were slowly removed by a steady hand…
With a hiss, Rahvyn jerked back. Strange, nearly pupilless eyes stared out straight upon her, though they saw nothing, and not only because this was but a rendering of the male himself.
