J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [147]
The living-dead affect was easy to recognize because it had made an appearance in this room before. Rhage had sported the breathing-corpse routine when he thought he’d lost Mary forever. So had Z when he’d been determined to let Bella go.
Yeah…bonded male vampires without their females were empty vessels, nothing but muscle and bone held in by a thin skin. And though you had to mourn for anyone who was like that, given the load of shit V was carrying with the Primale thing, the loss of Jane seemed especially cruel. Except how the hell could it have possibly worked long-term between those two? Human doctor. Warrior vampire. No middle ground.
Wrath’s voice rang out. “V? Yo, Vishous?”
V’s head jerked up. “What?”
“You’re going to the Scribe Virgin this afternoon, right?”
V’s mouth barely moved: “Yeah.”
“You’re going to need a rep from the Brotherhood to go with you. I’m assuming Butch, right?”
V glanced over at the cop, who was sitting in a pale blue love seat. “You mind?”
Butch, who was clearly worried about V, immediately manned up. “Of course not. What do I need to do?”
When V said nothing, Wrath filled the void. “Human equiv’s probably best man at a wedding. You’ll go for the viewing today and then the ceremony, which’ll be tomorrow.”
“Viewing? Like this woman is a painting or some shit?” Butch grimaced. “I’m so not feeling this whole Chosen thing, I gotta be honest.”
“Old rules. Old traditions.” Wrath rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. “Lot needs to change, but it’s the Scribe Virgin’s territory, not mine. All right…so…rotation. Phury, I want you sitting out tonight. Yeah, I know you’re tight after being hurt, but I just noticed you missed your last two scheduled breaks.”
When Phury just nodded, Wrath cocked a smirk. “No fight on that?”
“Nope.”
Actually, he had something he had to do. So it was fucking perfect.
On the Other Side, in the sacred marble bathing chamber, Cormia wished she could leave her own skin. Which was a bit ironic, as it had been so carefully prepared for the Primale. One would think she would wish to stay within it now that it was so purified. She had been steeped in a dozen different ritual baths…had her hair cleansed and recleansed…had her face put in masks of rose-smelling unguents, then ones that smelled of lavender, then still others of sage and hyacinth. Oil had been rubbed all over her, while incense had burned in honor of the Primale and prayers were chanted. The process had made her feel like something in a ceremonial buffet. A piece of meat, seasoned and prepared for consumption.
“He will be here on the hour,” the Directrix said. “Waste not the time.”
Cormia’s heart stopped in her chest. Then pounded. The numb state induced by all the steam and the warm waters retreated, leaving her painfully and horribly aware that her last moments of life as she had always known it were about to be over.
“Ah, the robing is here,” one of the Chosen said with excitement.
Cormia looked over her shoulder. Across the vast marble floor a pair of Chosen came through gold doors with a white hooded robe hanging between them. The garment was embroidered with diamonds and gold, and it shimmered in the candlelight, alive with color. Behind them another Chosen held a stretch of translucent cloth in her arms.
“Bring the veil forward,” the Directrix commanded. “And put it on her.”
The diaphanous sheath was draped over Cormia’s head, and it landed upon her with the weight of a thousand stones. As it fell before her eyes, the world around her fogged.
“Stand,” she was told.
She got to her feet and had to steady herself, her heart beating hard behind her ribs, her palms growing sweaty. The panic grew worse as the heavy robing was borne forward by the two Chosen. As the ceremonial dress was laid upon her from behind, it clamped onto her shoulders, not so much settling onto her frame as locking onto her body. She felt as though some giant stood at her back with his