Lover Enshrined (67 page)

“That color looks perfect on you,” he drawled as he watched her plait her hair.

“You like the lavender?” She did a little twirl for him and his stare flashed brilliant yellow.

“Oh, yeah. I like. Come here, Chosen.”

She put her hands on her hips as the piano started playing down below. Scales. Which meant Selena was up. “I have to go downstairs before Layla burns the house down.”

Phury smiled that smile he sported when he was picturing her very, very naked. “Come here, Chosen.”

“How about I go and come back with food?”

Phury had the audacity to throw the tangled sheet away and put his hand on his hard, heavy sex. “Only you have what I’m hungry for.”

A vacuum cleaner joined the chorus of noise coming from downstairs, so it was clear who else was up and about. Amalya and Pheonia drew straws every day to see who got to use the Dyson. Didn’t matter whether the carpets in Rehvenge’s great camp needed it or not—they always got vacuumed.

“Two secs,” she said, knowing that if she got within range of his hands, they were going to be all over each other again. “Then I’ll come back and you can feed my mouth, how about that.”

Phury’s massive body trembled, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “Oh, yeah. That’s . . . Oh,
yeah
, that’s a very good plan.”

His phone let out a reminder beep, and he reached over to the bedside table with a groan. “Okay, go on now, before I don’t let you out of here for another hour. Or four.”

She laughed and turned for the door.

“Dear . . . God.”

Cormia turned around. “What is it?”

Phury sat up slowly, his hands holding the phone as if it were worth more than the four hundred dollars he’d paid for it the week before.

“Phury?”

He held it out to her screen-first.

The text was from Zsadist:
Baby girl, two hours ago. Nalla. Hope you’re good. Z.

She bit her lip and then gently put her hand on his shoulder. “You should go back to the house. You should see him. See them.”

Phury swallowed hard. “Yeah. I don’t know. Not going back there . . . I think it’s maybe a good thing. Wrath and I can do what we need to over the phone and . . . Yeah. Better not to.”

“Are you going to return the text?”

“I am.” He covered his hips with the sheet and just stared at the phone.

After a moment, she said, “Would you like me to do it for you?”

He nodded. “Please. Make it from both of us, ’kay?”

She kissed the top of his head and then texted,
Blessings upon you and your
shellan
and your young. We are with you in spirit, love, Phury and Cormia.

The following evening, Phury was tempted not to go to the NA meeting. Very tempted.

He wasn’t sure what made him go. Didn’t know how he did it.

All he wanted was to light up so he didn’t have to feel the pain. But how messed up was it that he was hurting? The fact that his twin’s young had come into the world healthy, that Z was now a father, that Bella had lived through it, that the young was all right . . . you would figure he’d be thrilled and relieved. It was what he and everyone else had been praying for.

No doubt he was the only one who was fucked in the head over it all. The rest of the Brothers would be busy toasting Z and his new daughter and pampering Bella. The celebrations would be going on for weeks, and Fritz would be ecstatic with all the special meals and ceremonies.

Phury could just see it. The grand entrance of the mansion would be draped in bolts of brilliant green, the color of Z’s bloodline, and purple, the color of Bella’s. Wreaths of flowers would be hung on every single door in the house, even the closets and cabinets, to symbolize that Nalla had come through to this side. The fireplaces would stay lit for days with sweet logs, those slow-burning, treated pieces of wood whose flames would burn red for the new blood of the darling one.

At the start of the twenty-fourth hour following her birth, every person in the house would bring unto the proud parents a tremendous ribbon bow woven of their family colors. The bows would be tied on the spindles of Nalla’s crib, as pledges to oversee her through her life. By the end of the hour, the place where she laid her precious head would be covered with a cascade of satin bows, their long ends reaching the floor in a river of love.

Nalla would be gifted with priceless jewelry and draped in velvet and held in gentle arms. She would be cherished for the miracle she was, and ever would her birth be rejoiced in the hearts of those who had waited with hope and fear to greet her.

Yeah . . . Phury didn’t know what got him to the community center. And he didn’t know what helped him through that door and into that basement. And he didn’t know what made him stay.

He did know that when he returned to Rehvenge’s house, he couldn’t go inside.

Instead he sat on the back terrace, in a woven wicker chair, under the stars. There was nothing on his mind. And absolutely everything.

Cormia came out at some point and put her hand on his shoulder, as she always did when she sensed he was deep in his head. He kissed her palm, and then she kissed his mouth and went back inside, likely to get back to work on the plans for Rehv’s new club.

The night was quiet and downright cold. Every once in a while the wind would come and brush through the treetops, the autumnal leaves rustling together with a cooing sound like they enjoyed the attention.

Behind him in the house, he could hear the future. The Chosen were stretching their arms out into this world, learning things about themselves and this side. He was so proud of them, and he supposed he was the Primale of old tradition in that he would kill to protect his females and would do anything for any of them.

But it was a fatherly love. His mated love was for Cormia and her alone.

Phury rubbed the center of his chest and let the hours pass as they would, at their own speed, while the wind gusted as it did, at its own strength. The moon drifted up to its apex in the sky and began its descent. Someone put opera on inside the house. Someone changed it to hip-hop, thank God. Someone started a shower. Someone vacuumed. Again.

Life. In all its mundane majesty.

And you couldn’t take advantage of it if you were sitting on your ass in the shadows . . .whether that was in actuality, or metaphorically because you were trapped in an addict’s darkness.

Phury reached down and touched the calf of his prosthesis. He’d made it this far with only part of a leg. Living through the rest of his life without his twin and without his brothers . . . he would do that, too. He had much to be grateful for, and that would make up for a lot.

He wouldn’t always feel this empty.

Someone in the house went back to the opera.

Oh, shit.
Puccini this time.

“Che Gelida Manina.”

Of all the choices they had, why pick the one solo guaranteed to make him feel worse? God, he hadn’t listened to
La Bohème
since . . . well, forever, it seemed. And the sound of what he had loved so much squeezed his ribs so tightly, he couldn’t breathe.

Phury gripped the arms of the chair and started to stand. He just couldn’t listen to that tenor’s voice. That glorious, soaring tenor reminded him so much of—

Zsadist appeared at the edge of the forest. Singing.

He was singing. . . . It was his tenor in Phury’s ear, not some CD from inside the house.

Z’s voice surfed the aria’s peaks and valleys as he came forward over the grass, moving closer with each perfectly pitched, resonant word. The wind became the brother’s orchestra, blowing the spectacular sounds that breached his mouth out over the lawn and the trees and up into the mountains, up into the heavens, where only such a talent could have been born.

Phury got to his feet as if his twin’s voice, not his own legs, had lifted him from the chair. This was the thanks that had not been spoken. This was the gratitude for the rescue and the appreciation for the life that was lived. This was the wide-open throat of an astounded father, who was lacking the words to express what he felt to his brother and who needed the music to show something of all he wished he could say.

“Ah, hell . . . Z,” Phury whispered in the midst of the glory.

As the solo reached its zenith, as the tenor of emotions was struck most powerfully, the Brotherhood appeared one by one from out of the darkness, pulling free of the night. Wrath. Rhage. Butch. Vishous. They were all dressed in the white ceremonial robing they would have worn to honor the twenty-fourth hour of Nalla’s birth.

Zsadist sang the last delicate note of the piece right in front of Phury.

As the final line,
“Vi piaccia dir!”
drifted into the infinite, Z held up his hand.

Waving in the night wind was a tremendous bow made of green-and-gold satin.

Cormia came to stand close at just the right time. As she put her arm around Phury’s waist, she was all that kept him steady.

In the Old Language, Zsadist said,
“Wouldst both thou honor my birthed daughter with the colors of thy lineages and the love of thy hearts?”

Z bowed deeply, offering the bow.

Phury’s voice was hoarse as he took the streaming lengths of satin.
“It would be the honor of the ages to pledge our colors unto your birthed daughter.”

As Z straightened, it was hard to say who stepped forward first.

Most likely they met in the middle.

Neither said anything while they embraced. Sometimes words didn’t go far enough, the vessels of letters and the ladles of grammar incapable of holding the heart’s sentiments.

The Brotherhood started to clap.

At some point, Phury reached out and took Cormia’s hand, drawing her close.

He pulled back and looked at his twin. “Tell me, does she have yellow eyes?”

Z smiled and nodded. “Yeah, she does. Bella says she looks like me . . . which means she looks like you. Come meet my little girl, brother mine. Come back and meet your niece. There’s a big empty place on her crib, and we need the two of you to fill it.”

Phury held Cormia close and felt her hand rub the center of his chest. Taking a deep breath, he swiped his eyes. “That’s my favorite opera and my favorite solo.”

"I know.” Z smiled at Cormia and referenced the first two lines,
“Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar.”
“And now you have a little hand to warm in your own.”

“Same can be said of you, my brother.”

"So true. So blessedly true.” Z grew serious. “Please . . . come see her—but also, come see us. The brothers miss you. I miss you.”

Phury narrowed his eyes, something sliding into place. “It’s you, isn’t it. You’ve come to the community center. You’ve watched me sit on that swing afterward.”

Z’s voice grew hoarse. “I’m so damned proud of you.”

Cormia spoke up. “Me, too.”

What a perfect moment this was, Phury thought. Such a perfect moment with his twin before him and his
shellan
beside him and the wizard nowhere in sight.

Such a perfect moment that he knew he was going to remember for the rest of his days as clearly and as poignantly as he lived it now.

Phury kissed his
shellan
’s forehead, lingering against her, giving thanks. Then he smiled at Zsadist.

“With pleasure. We’ll come to Nalla’s crib with pleasure and reverence.”

“And your ribbons?”

He looked down at the green and the gold, the lovely satin lengths intertwined, symbolizing the union of him and Cormia. Abruptly, she tightened her arms around him, as if she were thinking exactly the same thing he was.

Namely, that the two went perfectly together.

“Yes, my brother. We’re absolutely coming with our ribbons. ” He looked deeply into her eyes. “And, you know, if we have time for a mating ceremony, that would be great because—”

The hooting and hollering and back slapping of the Brotherhood cut off the rest of what he was going to say. But Cormia got the gist. He’d never seen any female smile as beautifully and broadly as she did then while looking up at him.

So she must have known what he meant.

I love you forever
didn’t always need to be spoken to be understood.

From
New York Times
bestselling author J. R. Ward comes a once-in-a-lifetime event: a unique volume that delivers a behind-the-scenes look at Ward’s “to die for”
¹
Black Dagger Brotherhood series.

You’ll find insider information on the Brotherhood, including their dossiers, stats, and special gifts. You’ll read interviews with your favorite characters, including a heart-breaking conversation with Tohrment and Wellsie, conducted three weeks before she was killed by
lessers
. You’ll discover deleted scenes—accompanied by the whys behind the cuts—in addition to exciting material from the J. R. Ward message boards and the answers to questions posed by readers about the series. You’ll learn what it’s like for J. R. Ward to write each installment of the series, and in a fascinating twist, you’ll read an interview with the author— conducted by the Brothers. For the first time ever, you’ll see an original short story about Zsadist and Bella, and witness the miracle of their daughter Nalla’s birth and the depth of their love for each other. This is a compendium no Black Dagger Brotherhood fan should miss . . . and an insider’s guide that will seduce you as powerfully as the sexy band of Brothers and the “ferociously popular”
²
world in which they live.

Read on for a sneak peek . . . and look for
The Black Dagger Brotherhood: An Insider’s Guide
, coming in October 2008 from New American Library
.

Bella paced around the PT suite in the training center on shaky legs, orbiting the examination table. She stopped regularly to check the clock.

Where were they? What else had gone wrong? It had been more than an hour. . . .