J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [307]
Was the thing alive or dead? He couldn’t tell—no, wait, that big chest was going up and down a little.
“He is so beautiful, is he not.” The Omega’s black translucent hand drifted over the male’s facial planes. “Blond as well. The mother was a blond. Hah! I was told I could not create. Not like her. But our father was wrong. Look at my son. Flesh of my flesh.”
Mr. D felt like he had to say something, kind of like he’d been presented with a baby for the praising. “He’s a good-looking one, yes, suh.”
“Do you have what I asked for?”
“Yes, suh.”
“Bring me the knives.”
When Mr. D came back in with the Target bags, the Omega put one hand over the male’s nose and another over its mouth. The vampire’s eyes popped open, but the thing was too weak to do more than paw at the Omega’s white robes.
“My son, do not fight,” the evil breathed with satisfaction. “The time for your second birth has arrived.”
The jerky struggling crescendoed until the vampire’s heels were banging on the table and its palms squeaked on the wood. It flopped about like a puppet, all flailing, uncoordinated limbs and useless panic. And then it was done and the male stared upward with blank eyes and a lax mouth.
As rain lashed the windows, the Omega swooped the white hood off his head and unclasped his robe. With an elegant toss, he cast the vestment from himself, sending the satin weight sailing across the room. The thing settled upright in the corner, as if draped over a mannequin.
The Omega stretched up, growing long and thin, rubber-man -ing it toward the cheapie chandelier that hung above the table. He grasped its chain at the point where it entered the ceiling, and with a quick yank pulled the fixture free and pitched it into the corner. Unlike the robe, it did not land neatly, but ended its useful life, if it hadn’t already, in a tangled heap of broken bulbs and twisted brass arms.
In its place, exposed wires hung like swamp vines from the stained ceiling, dangling over the vampire’s body.
“Knife, please,” the Omega said.
“Which one?”
“The short bladed.”
Mr. D rummaged through the bags, found the right knife, then struggled to bust through a consumer-proof plastic wrapping that was so strong it made him want to stab himself in frustration.
“Enough,” the Omega snapped, and held out his hand.
“I can get me some scissors—”
“Give it to me.”
The instant the packaging hit the master’s shadowy palm, the plastic burned away, curling free of the blade and dropping to the floor in a twisted brown snakeskin.
As the Omega turned to the vampire, he tested the sharpness on his own shadowy forearm, smiling as black oil rose out of the slice he made.
It was like gutting a pig, and it happened just as fast.While thunder prowled around the house as if it were searching for a way to get in, the Omega drew the blade down the center of the male’s body from the wound at the guy’s throat to his belly button. The smell of blood and meat rose up, winning out over the baby-fresh scent of the master.
“Bring me the capped vase.” The Omega pronounced the word vahz, not vase.
Mr. D brought over a blue ceramic jar what he’d found in the housewares section. As it changed hands, he was tempted to point out to the master that it was too soon to remove the heart, because the Omega’s blood had to be circulated through the body first. ’Cept then he remembered the male was dead anyway, so what did it matter?
Clearly this was not your everyday induction to the Society.
The Omega took his fingertip and burned open the vampire ’s sternum, the smell of bone on fire sending Mr. D’s nose to wrinkles. The ribs were then split open by unseen hands at the will of the master and the still heart exposed.
The Omega’s translucent palm went in and penetrated the sac around the heart, forming a new nest for the organ. With an expression of annoyance, he plucked the knot of muscle free from its chains of arteries and veins, red blood