Page 60 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

Lash, son of the Omega, walked out into the city park on a metaphysical float, his footfalls so light over the undisturbed blanket of snow, he not only didn’t break through the surface, he left no prints.

In response to his presence, the wind shifted direction, rounding about and coming restlessly from the north to riffle through his long black robes, while overhead, he brought with him a dark cloud cover that shut down the moon and the stars.

Coming to a halt, he looked to the river first. The Hudson’s current was sluggish and constricted by ice that was germinating from the shores.

On the far side, the other half of Caldwell sparkled, the homes perched over the water like fallen galaxies.

Turning to the south, he regarded the illuminated spears of Caldwell’s Financial District that rose from the tangle of their asphalt root systems, as well as the arching twin bridges that kept the two parts of the metropolis tethered together.

The Northway that flowed in and out of the spaghetti junction of exits that fed downtown was dotted with headlights, taillights.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d stopped and looked around.

With a curse, he rubbed his pounding temples. His head was aching and he felt alarmingly weak within his physical form. Likewise, unease weaved through the evil core of him, the sense that things were moving behind the scenes and being arranged to his disfavor dogging his consciousness.

Something was changing for him. He just didn’t know what.

The impending existential crisis had been coming for some time now, and try as he might, there was no putting his finger on any specifics. No matter how much he reflected, rested, tried to recharge, he couldn’t shake the drain.

So when he’d received a call from one of his inductees, and heard an unfamiliar, haughty-accented voice over the connection, the out-of-the-blue had certainly seemed to be part of the ennui.

Or at the very least, a trail marker—

A figure appeared at the edge of the park, and Lash scented the air, picking up the vampire’s subtle, sophisticated cologne.

With keen eyes, he discerned the fine, fitted overcoat in the correct camel shade, and the maroon scarf knotted around the throat.

Hair was dark and parted on the side, face was handsome in the way of good breeding, and the carriage of the torso was perfect.

Ah, yes, the aristocracy. Having grown up with them, he did appreciate the surface aspects of the glymera .

Especially given who he consorted with now.

Lash stayed where he was and let the male trudge over to him. All the while, he scanned the periphery. Nothing was lurking, and as he willed a boundary into place, he intended to keep it that way. The Brotherhood had its mhis ; he had a version of the same.

“Whestmorel,” he drawled.

“Lash, son of the Omega.”

The bow he got was a nice touch, an indication of a loyalty split from Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath—in theory. He trusted no one and nothing, however, in this world and the next.

And on the note of the great Blind King, he still didn’t know how that bomb had missed thirty years ago. But that was a rumination for another time.

“I was surprised to receive a call like yours.” As the wind continued to weave through his long black robes, Lash was glad he’d changed out of his fighting attire. No reason to spook the male. “Most aristocrats prefer to leave the heavy lifting to others.”

He talked to put Whestmorel at ease. The more relaxed a target was, the easier it was to get into their mind and soul. Interestingly, however, his probing was blocked.

Someone had been practicing their own mental control.

“I have something to give you,” the aristocrat said. Without any tone of superiority.

The calm steadiness was a surprise. Lash was used to people quaking before him—then again, if someone was going to betray Wrath, they had better be able to keep a level head in front of an enemy.

“And what might that be,” Lash murmured.

“I can tell you where Wrath’s Audience House is. I can give you the nightly location of the King and the Black Dagger Brotherhood.”

In response to the statement, a kindling occurred deep within him, and as he felt a surge of power, he thought, maybe he’d been coasting along for a while now. Maybe that was his problem.

“And let me guess,” Lash said evenly. “You wish to exchange this information for assurances you will be put in power after I overthrow the throne for you.”

That head inclined only once. “You will need someone to rule over the vampires on your behalf.”

Lifting a brow, he very nearly pointed out that his goal was the eradication of the species. But when your enemy sought to betray his own, there was no reason to point out that he was betraying himself.

“Go on,” Lash prompted.

“I cannot believe your ambitions lie only with us. Do you not wish to take over the world? Why rule just vampires in Caldwell, when you could dominate Earth—and indeed, to do that, you will need many armies, not merely your own. With a piece of you in each slayer, how far can you go before you are weakened? If you have vampire fighters loyal to you, then you are far more powerful.”

As his fangs descended, Lash’s upper lip twitched. “You know little of which you speak, aristocrat.”

“I know that all bank accounts have a zero point, and a fortune spread over too many heirs dwindles to nothing.”

Of course it had to be put in terms of money.

Whestmorel arched his already high brows.

“If you could have killed Wrath by now, you would have. If the Lessening Society could have eradicated the vampires, it would have. Generations of this war have endured because the approach has always been the same. You against all of us. But what if there was another way. What if instead of a perpetual seesaw that leads nowhere, there was a collective effort against humans instead—”

The aristocrat grabbed for the center of his chest and gasped for air. As his knees buckled and he strained for breath, he landed face-first in the snow, his legs kicking at the ground cover in their no-doubt-handmade loafers.

Lash extended his palm and flipped the male onto his back with a surge of will. Crouching down, he locked eyes with his prey. “I could kill you right now.”

“You… won’t…” Whestmorel wheezed an inhale. “You need… me.”

“You overestimate your necessity.”

Straightening to his full height, Lash put his foot on the male’s chest and leaned his weight forward. The suffering increased, which was satisfying—to a point.

But then that strange unease percolated up once again, and the next thing he knew, he was releasing not only that set of lungs, but the grip of his will around the male’s cardiac muscle.

Whestmorel dragged in gallons of air, swallowing the oxygen and spitting it back out in clouds that reminded one of an old-fashioned Christmas choo-choo.

For a moment, Lash went into his own past and remembered growing up in what he had thought was his parents’ mansion.

There had always been a decorated tree in the drawing room standing in glittering elegance the second December arrived each year.

The display had not been because the human holiday was being observed, but rather because it was just another beautiful decoration to be enjoyed.

And there had always been presents, of course.

Those had been much simpler times, before he had discovered his true sire, before he had taken over the Lessening Society from his father, the Omega, before… the last couple of decades when things had neither progressed nor regressed in terms of the war. And in other areas of his life.

If one wasn’t going forward… wasn’t that losing ground, in a manner of speaking?

Surviving was not victory. Not the kind that came with the mastery and control he had always craved.

“You must ask yourself…” The aristocrat coughed. “If you eradicate all vampires, how can you rule… over the dead…”

Lash looked out toward those skyscrapers, and then he let his stare roam over to the suburban sprawl that skirted the downtown. There was so much more that he could not see, so many homes, so many towns, so many cities.

Across the globe.

“If you kill all the vampires,” Whestmorel rasped, “who will you govern. What… will you do… if you win.”

“You don’t know my plans, aristocrat.”

He injected derision into his words, but that was just to hide the truth he abruptly found himself confronting.

So involved had he been on the ground floor of the war—the recruitment, the inductions, the outfitting and arming, the to-and-fro of slayers being brought into the Society and then cast back out to him as the Brothers and their fighters sent them home—that he hadn’t considered a broader strategy.

Yes , he thought. This was the reckoning he needed, and it was about so much more than the war.

Standing over the aristocrat who had spoon-fed him the very aspirations he should have germinated within himself, he reflected on the nature of fathers and sons. He had readily stepped into the role of his sire—and there had been a time when he had expected his own son to do the same.

The fact that the great Blind King always had his progeny right by his side, in lockstep, was just one more reason to hate the male. Lash’s son, on the other hand, had fucked him off years ago.

What a disappointment Devlin had been, but that sonofabitch was too much like his mother.

Hell, for all Lash knew, the pair of them could be scheming to overthrow him right this very minute.

It was something he always worried about—

What if this emissary is actually their doing, he suddenly thought. Or someone else’s?

“Who shall you rule,” the aristocrat repeated. “And wouldn’t you like to get to Wrath. Tonight.”

As the tantalizing taunt rose up to him through the cold, blustery air, he tried anew to get into the male’s mind. And when he failed, he narrowed his eyes.

What lurked behind this offer? Was this a chimera created by his ex, something to trip him up, a play to his lust for power? Was this a plant from Lassiter? Or the great Blind King?

Lash regarded the male who lay sprawled at his feet. The rage that boiled up was no news flash. Hatred had always defined him. Except he was older now, and much, much wiser.

Even as his emotions swirled, he retained self-control.

If he lost his composure, the veil of protection he’d put up here would slip, and fuck knew what was waiting for him on the periphery of this park.

The safest thing he could do was get out of here.

Glancing suspiciously over his shoulder, Lash couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so destabilized.

It was almost as if some kind of fulcrum was being established, and his energy was being drained because of it.

He had been aware of this for a while, but as with all incremental changes, he’d been the frog getting boiled by inches.

Until now he was here, in this snowy city park, with his own resolutions crashing down on his head, along with a sense that there…

was something else. Some other kind of alignment happening to his detriment—oh, fuck it.

He was going in circles again, his mind on a loop that he couldn’t get un-snared of.

This was happening a lot lately.

“I don’t believe you,” he heard himself say.

As he departed, he didn’t kill the messenger. He wanted the male to go back to where he’d come from, and take with him the fact that the ruse hadn’t been fallen for.

And there was a second reason to keep Whestmorel alive.

He knew how to get hold of the aristocrat.

If Lash was wrong, and this was an honest offer of treason, there would be time to reel it in. The most important thing right now was to find out exactly why his own energy was being drained, and deal with that first.

Then he could proceed.

With other things.