He bet they had. After introducing the idea at the meeting earlier tonight, he hadn’t pressed them for a yes or no. There was plenty of shit that, as king, he was more than willing to cram down people’s throats. Who the Brothers were going to welcome into the club was not one. “And?”
Zsadist spoke up in the Old Language. “I, Zsadist, son of Ahgony, inducted in the two hundred forty-second year of the reign of Wrath, son of Wrath, hereby nominate Qhuinn, an orphan in the world, for membership unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood.”
Hearing formal words out of the Brother’s mouth was a shocker. Z, above all of them, thought the past was a bunch of bullshit. Not when it came to this, apparently.
Jesus, Wrath thought. They were going to run with it. And fast—he’d thought it would take longer than this. Days of mulling over. Weeks. Maybe a month—and then, maybe, a no-go for a variety of reasons.
But they were playing ball—and accordingly, so was Wrath.
“Upon what basis do you make this pledge of your, and your bloodline’s, name?” Wrath asked.
Now Z dropped the formal, and went for the real. “He brought me home safe to my shellan and my little female tonight. At the risk of his own life.”
“Fair enough.”
Wrath scanned the males who were standing around his desk, even though he couldn’t see them with his eyes. Sight didn’t matter, though. He didn’t need operational retinas to tell him where they all were or how they were feeling about shit; the scents of their emotions were clear.
They were, as a group, steadfast, resolved, and proud.
But formalities needs must.
Wrath started with the one all the way on the end. “V?”
“I was ready to get on board when he crawled all over Xcor.”
There was a grumble of agreement.
“Butch?”
That Boston accent came across loud and clear. “I think he’s a wicked strong fightah. And I like the guy. He’s aging up good, dropping all that attitude, getting serious.”
“Rhage?”
“You shoulda seen him tonight. He wouldn’t let me take that plane up—said two Brothers were too much to lose.”
More of that grumbling approval. “Tohr?”
“That night you were shot? I got you out of there thanks to him. He’s the right stuff.”
“Phury?”
“I like him. I really do. He’s the first to run into any situation. He will literally do anything for any one of us—it doesn’t matter how dangerous.”
Wrath rapped his desk with his knuckles. “It’s settled, then. I’ll tell Saxton to make the changes, and we’ll do it.”
Tohr cut in. “With all due respect, my lord, we need to resolve the ahstrux nohtrum designation. He can’t be watching John’s ass as his primary directive anymore.”
“Agreed. We’ll tell John to release him—and I can’t believe the answer will be no. After that, I’ll have Saxton draw up the papers, and then following Qhuinn’s induction, V, you take care of the ink on his face. Like if John had died of natural causes or some shit?”
There was a rustling of clothes, as if some of the Brothers were making the symbol of “Dearest Virgin Scribe forbid” over their chests.
“Roger that,” V said.
Wrath crossed his arms over his chest. This was a historic moment, and well he knew it. Butch’s induction had been legal because of the blood tie the male had with royalty. Qhuinn was a different story. No royal blood. No Chosen or Brotherhood blood, although he technically was an aristocrat.
No family.
On the other hand, that kid had proven himself again and again on the field, living up to a standard that, as far as the Old Laws currently stated, was reserved only for those of specific lineages—and that was bullshit. It wasn’t that Wrath didn’t appreciate the Scribe Virgin’s breeding plan. The prescribed matings between the strongest males and the smartest females had in fact produced extraordinary results when it came to fighters.
But it had also resulted in defects like his blindness. And it restricted merit-based promotions.
Bottom line, this recasting of the laws concerning who could and could not be in the Brotherhood was not only appropriate in terms of the kind of society he wanted to create—it was a matter of survival. The more fighters the better.
Plus, Qhuinn had truly earned the honor.
“So be it,” Wrath murmured. “Eight’s a good number. A lucky number.”
That low growl of agreement rippled through the air once again, the sound one of complete and utter solidarity.
This was the future, Wrath thought as he smiled and bared his fangs. And it was right.
TWENTY-THREE
As Sola Morte stood in her “boss’s” office, her body was poised for a fight. Then again, that was her SOP, and not anything specific to the environment—or the way the conversation was going.
The latter certainly didn’t improve her mood, however.
“I’m sorry, what?” she demanded.
Ricardo Benloise smiled in his typical cool, calm way. “Your assignment is completed. Thank you for your time.”
“I haven’t even told you what I found out there.”
The man eased back in his chair. “You may collect your fee from my brother.”
“I don’t get this.” When he’d called her no more than forty-eight hours ago, it had been a priority. “You said—”
“Your services are no longer required for that particular purpose. Thank you.”
Was he working with someone else? But who in Caldwell did the kinds of things she did?
“You don’t even want to know what I found out.”
“Your assignment has been terminated.” The man smiled again in such a professional manner, you’d have sworn he was a lawyer or a judge. Not a lawbreaker on a global scale. “I’m looking forward to working with you again in the future.”
One of the bodyguards in the back took a couple steps forward, as if he were getting ready to take the trash out.
“There’s something going on in that house,” she said as she turned away. “Whoever it is, is hiding—”
“I don’t want you going back there.”
Sola stopped and looked over her shoulder. Benloise’s voice was as mild as ever, but his eyes were dead on.
Well, this was interesting.
And the only possible explanation that held any logic was that Mr. Mysterious in that big glass house had warned Benloise off. Had her little visit been discovered? Or was this the result of the kind of hardball that routinely went down in the drug trade?
“Getting sentimental on me?” she said softly. After all, she and Benloise went back quite a ways.
“You are a very useful commodity.” His slow smile took the sting out of the words. “Now go and be safe, ni?a.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake…there was no reason to bicker with the man. And she was going to get paid—so what the hell did she care?
She gave him a wave, strode to the door, and proceeded down the stairwell. Out in the gallery space, she headed into the back of the house, where the legitimate employees worked during legitimate business hours. Bypassing the file cabinets and the desks, which looked Barbie-size thanks to the industrial ceiling fifty feet overhead, she went into a narrow corridor that was marked only with security cameras.
Knocking on the door was pointless, but she did it anyway, the stout fireproof panels absorbing the sound of her knuckles like they were hungry. To help Benloise’s brother out—not that Eduardo needed it—she turned to the nearest lens so her full face showed.
The locks released a moment later. And as strong as she was, even she had to put her shoulder into opening the way in.
Talk about another world. Ricardo’s office was minimalist to the extreme; Eduardo’s was something even Donald Trump, with his gold fetish, would feel suffocated by.
Any more marble and lamé in here and you’d be in a whorehouse.
As Eduardo smiled, his fake teeth were the shape and color of piano keys, and his tan was so deep and uniform, it looked like it had been colored on him with Magic Marker. As always, he was dressed in a three-piece suit—a uniform, kind of like Mr. Roarke’s from Fantasy Island, except black instead of white.
“And how are you tonight?” His eyes took a travel down her body. “You’re looking very well.”
“Ricardo said to come see you for my money.”