J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [349]
John shook his head. Classes canceled. Clinic sacked. Lash abducted . . . and likely tortured. The fallout from what had happened in the locker room continued.
Bad news . . . bad news was coming in more than threes.
“No more classes, huh,” Qhuinn murmured as he seemed to get a little too busy putting his duffel bag down. “For anyone.”
We need to hook up with Blay, John signed. I can’t believe he hasn’t texted since night fell. Maybe we should go over there now?
Qhuinn walked to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled back the heavy drapery. “I don’t think he’s going to want to see me anytime soon. And I know you’re signing why behind my back. Just trust me. He’s going to need some serious space.”
John shook his head and texted Blay: ZeroSum 2nite cuz no class? Hav news bout me n Q.
“He’ll say he can’t go. Assuming you’re texting him to meet up with us.”
Qhuinn looked over his shoulder just as the phone beeped. Blay’s text read: Cant 2nite busy w fam. will hitchu l8r.
John put his phone in his pocket. What happened?
“Nothing. Everything . . . I don’t know—”
The heavy knock on the door was clearly made by a fist the size of a male’s head.
“Yeah?” Qhuinn called out.
Wrath strode in. The king seemed even grimmer than he had been earlier, as if more bad news had come in again over the Brotherhood’s transom. In his hand was a black metal briefcase and a tangle of leather.
He lifted both up and looked hard at Qhuinn. “I don’t need to tell you not to be an asshole with these, do I?”
“Ah, no . . . sir. What are they, though?”
“Your two new best friends.” The king put the case on the bed, flipped two black locks free, and popped the lid.
“Whoa.”
Whoa, John mouthed.
“You’re welcome.”
Inside, nestled in gray egg-carton padding, were a pair of stinger-lethal Heckler & Koch forty-five-millimeter auto-loaders. After checking the chamber on one, Wrath handed the black weapon to Qhuinn by the muzzle.
"V’s going to draw up some ID on you in the Old Language. If shit gets critical, you will flash it, and whoever is up in your grille has to deal with me. Fritz is going to order you up enough ammo to make a squad of Marines get a case of the jels.” The king tossed what turned out to be a chest harness at Qhuinn. “You are never not armed when you’re with him. Even in this house. Are we clear? That is the way it works.”
As Qhuinn hefted the pistol in his palm, John expected his buddy to make a crack about how it was good to have big loads. Instead, he said, “I want free access to the gun range. I’m going to want to be down there at least three times a week. Minimum.”
Wrath’s mouth lifted on one side. “We’ll name the bitch after you, how about that?”
John felt like a voyeur standing between the two of them and saying nothing, but he was fascinated by the change in Qhuinn. Gone was the jocular front. He was all business, suddenly more hard-core than his hard-core clothes.
Qhuinn pointed to a door. “Does that open into his bedroom?”
“Yup.”
“Evening, ladies.”
Vishous walked into the room, and Qhuinn’s eyes weren’t the only ones that flared. In the Brother’s hands were a length of heavy chain with a tag on the end, a pair of pliers, and a tackle box.
“Sitchass down, boy,” V said.
“Go on.” Wrath nodded at the bed. “Time to get chained—that dangler has John’s crest on it. You’re also getting tattooed. This is for life, like I told you.”
Qhuinn sat without a word, and V came up behind him, linked the heavy weight around his throat, and then cranked the open link closed. The medallion hung just a little lower than his collarbones.
“Comes off only if you’re dead or you get fired.” V knocked Qhuinn in the shoulder. “By the way, if you get fired, under the old laws, your pink slip’s a guillotine, true? That’s how we get the chain off. If you just kick it, though, we’ll break one of the links. ’Cuz defiling the dead’s tacky. Now for your tat.”
Qhuinn started to take his shirt off. “I’ve always wanted one—”
“You can leave that on.” As V popped open his tackle box and took out a