J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [396]
Lassiter came forward, his glow resurfacing.
Rehv met the guy’s sterling-silver, pupil-less eyes. “You fuck with me, and Trez will damage you till your packaging can’t even be taped back together. You know what he is.”
“I know, but he’s wasting his hard-on. I can do no harm to the righteous, so you’re safe.”
Rehv barked a laugh. “He should still be worried, then.”
When Lassiter reached out and made contact, current licked into Rehv’s arm, making him gasp. As a wondrous healing started to pour into him, he shuddered and lay back in his nest of blankets. Oh, God . . . His exhaustion was lifting. Which meant the pain he didn’t feel was backing off.
In that gorgeous voice of his, Lassiter murmured, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. The righteous do not always do right, but their souls remain pure. You are untainted at your core. Now close your eyes, numb nuts, I’m about to light up like a bonfire.”
Rehv squinted and had to look away as a blast of pure energy slammed through his body. It was like an orgasm on steroids, a huge rush that carried him away, splintering him apart until he drifted down in a shower of stars.
When he came back into his body, he sighed long and hard.
Lassiter let go and rubbed his hand on the low-slung jeans he wore. “And now for what I need from you.”
“It’s not going to be easy to get to them.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’m going to have to verify what you have first.”
“He’s not in his happy place.”
“Well, of course not, he’s hanging with you. But I don’t fly the flag until I see the sights.”
There was a pause. And then Lassiter inclined his head. “Fine. I’ll come back at nightfall and take you to him.”
“Fair enough, angel, fair enough.”
Chapter Forty-three
On the cusp of dawn, Phury went to his bedroom and packed an L.L. Bean bag with workout supplies, such as a towel, his iPod, and his water bottle . . . and drug paraphernalia that included a spoon, a lighter, a syringe, a belt, and his stash of red smoke.
He left his crib and headed down to the hall of statues, walking like he was all about healthy purpose. He didn’t want to be too close to Bella and Z, so he chose one of the empty guest rooms that was nearer to the grand staircase. Slipping in through the door, he almost went back out to pick another: The color of the walls was a dusty lavender, just like the roses Cormia had enjoyed.
Voices of doggen passing by outside in the hall made him stay put.
He went into the bath, shut that door as well, and dimmed the lights until they glowed like a banked fire. As the shutters came down for the day, he sat on the marble floor with his back against the Jacuzzi and got out the things he was going to use on himself.
The reality of what he was about to do didn’t seem like any big deal.
It was kind of like immersing yourself in cold water. Once the shock was over, you got used to where you were.
And he was encouraged by the quiet in his head. Since he’d started down this road, the wizard hadn’t said a goddamned thing.
Phury’s hands didn’t shake at all as he tapped out some white powder into the belly of a sterling-silver spoon and added a little water from his bottle. Flipping open the top of his lighter, he struck up a flame and brought it under the mix.
For no apparent reason, he noted that the silver spoon’s pattern was Gorham’s Lily of the Valley. From the late nineteenth century.
After the sauce had boiled, he put the spoon down on the marble floor, loaded up the syringe, and reached for his Hermès belt. Extending his left arm, he looped the leather through its shiny gold buckle, pulled the thing tight, and tucked the end under his arm so he could hold it in place.
His veins popped at the crook of his elbow and he prodded them. He chose the thickest one, then frowned.
The shit in the needle’s belly was brown.
For a moment, panic flickered. Brown was a bad color.
He shook his head to clear it, then pierced his vein