J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [153]
Staring at them now, he wondered whether they had hearts that beat and lungs that pumped. Because they were as still as the air.
See, this was the problem with the Other Side, he thought. Nothing ever moved here. There was life…without life.
“Come forward,” the Scribe Virgin commanded. “The presentation awaits.”
Oh…God… He couldn’t breathe again.
Phury’s hand landed on his shoulder. “You need a minute?”
Fuck a minute; he needed centuries—although even assuming he had that kind of time, it wasn’t going to change the outcome. With a sense of destiny, he pictured that civilian vampire he’d found in the alley, the one who he’d come upon that night he’d been shot, the one who he’d killed that lesser to avenge.
They needed more warriors in the Brotherhood, he thought as he started to walk again. And it wasn’t like the stork was going to get the job done.
Down in front there was only one seat in the house, a golden thronelike production that was positioned up close to the lip of the amphitheater’s stage. From this vantage point, he realized that what he’d assumed was a blank white wall at the back was really a vast white velvet curtain that hung down as motionless as if it had been painted on a mural.
“You. Sit,” the Scribe Virgin said to him, obviously beyond sick of his ass.
Funny, he felt the same way about her.
V planted it as Phury took root like a tree behind the throne.
The Scribe Virgin floated over to the right, assuming a position at the side of the stage, a Shakespearean director, the driver of all the drama.
Man, what he wouldn’t give for an asp right about now.
“Proceed,” she called out in a clipped voice.
The curtain split down the middle and retracted, revealing a female covered in jeweled robes from head to foot. Flanked by two Chosen, his intended seemed to be standing at an odd angle. Or maybe she wasn’t standing. Jesus, it appeared as though she was on some kind of slab that had been tilted upright for viewing. Like a butterfly mounted.
As she was rolled forward, it became clear that she was in fact fixed on something. There were bands around her upper arms, ones that were camouflaged with jewels to match her robes, ones that appeared to be holding her up.
Must be part of the ceremony. Because what was under that robe was not only prepared for this presentation and the mating ritual that would follow, but no doubt was psyched as hell to be the number one female: The Primale’s first Chosen had special rights, and he could only imagine what a rocking good time that would be for her.
Even though it might not be fair, he resented the hell out of what was under that splendor.
The Scribe Virgin nodded, and the Chosen to the left and the right of his intended started to undo the robing. As they went to work, a rush of energy rippled through the stillness of the amphitheater, the culmination of decades of the Chosen waiting for the old ways to start up again.
V watched with no care whatsoever as the jeweled robes were pulled back to reveal a stunningly beautiful female form draped in a gossamer-thin sheath. His intended’s face was kept hooded, according to tradition, for it was not her that was being given but all of the Chosen.
“Is she to your liking?” the Scribe Virgin asked dryly, as if she knew that the female was utter perfection.
“Whatever.”
A murmur of disquiet went through the Chosen, a chilly breeze through stiff reeds.
“Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?” the Scribe Virgin snapped.
“She’ll do.”
After an awkward pause, a Chosen came forward with an incense burner and a white feather. As she chanted, she wafted