J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [419]
“Please tell me that shit isn’t radioactive,” Qhuinn said.
"Nah,” Rhage replied. "But we’re all going to have tans in the morning.”
Butch put his arm up to shield his eyes. “And me without my Coppertone.”
Except none of their weapons were drawn, John noted. Although they were tense as cats.
Suddenly, from out of the trees came a man . . . a glowing man, the source of the light. And there was something draped over his arms, a tarp or a rug or—
“Son of a bitch,” Wrath breathed as the figure stopped twenty yards away.
The glowing man laughed. “Well, if it isn’t good King Wrath and his band of merry-merry happy-happy. I swear you boys should do kiddie shows, you’re so fucking cheery.”
“Great,” Rhage muttered, “his sense of humor’s still intact.”
Vishous exhaled. “Maybe I can try to beat it out of him.”
“Use his own arm to do it, if you can—”
Wrath glared at the two of them, who shot him back a pair of who-us? stares.
The king shook his head and addressed the lit figure. “Been a while. Thank God. How the hell are you?”
Before the man could answer, V cursed. "If I have to hear all that Keanu Reeves, Matrix, ’I am Neo’ kind of shit, my head’s going to explode.”
“Don’t you mean Neon?” Butch shot back. “ ’Cause he reminds me of the Citgo sign.”
Wrath’s head turned. “Shut the fuck up. All of you.”
The glowing figure laughed. “So do you want your early Christmas present? Or you going to keep dissing my shit until I decide to take off.”
“Christmas? I believe that’s your tradition, not ours,” Wrath said.
“So, is that a no? Because it’s something you’ve been missing for a while.” With that, the glow dissipated, like someone had unplugged the light source.
Standing in the clearing now was a man like any other . . . well, sort of like any other, given that he was draped in gold chains. There was someone in his arms, a bearded male with a streak of white running through his dark hair. . . .
John’s whole body tingled.
“Don’t recognize your brother?” the figure said, then looked down at the male he held. “How soon they forget.”
John was the one who broke ranks and ran through the long grass. Someone shouted his name, but he wasn’t stopping for anyone or anything. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, the wind roaring in his ears, his blood pounding through his veins.
The meadow lashed against his jeans, and the cool August night slapped at his cheeks, and the straining fists his hands had cranked into beat at the air.
Father, he mouthed. Father!
John bounced to a halt and then covered his mouth with his palm. It was Tohrment, but it was a shrunken version of the Brother, as if he had been left out in the sun for months. His face was gaunt, the skin hanging loose from the bones, the eyes sunk deep into the skull. The beard was long and dark, the shaggy hair nothing but a black tangled nest except for the brilliant, snowy white stripe at the front. His clothes were the exact same ones he’d been wearing the night he had disappeared from the training center, all tattered and filthy.
John jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder.
“Easy, son,” Wrath said. “Jesus Christ—”
“Actually it’s Lassiter,” the man said, “in case you forgot.”
“Whatever. So what’s the price?” the king asked, reaching out to take Tohr.
“I like how you assume there is one.”
John wanted to be the person who took Tohrment back to the car, but his knees were knocking so badly he probably needed to be carried too.
“Isn’t there a price?” As Wrath accepted his brother’s body, the king shook his head. “Shit, he doesn’t weigh a thing.”
“He’s been living off deer.”
“How long have you known about him?”
“Found him two days ago.”
“Price,” Wrath said, still looking at his brother.
“Well, here’s the thing.” As the king cursed, the man, Lassiter, laughed. “It’s not a price, though.”
“What. Is. It.”
“We’re a two-for-one deal.”
“Excuse me?”
“I come with him.”