J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [441]
vampire (n.) Member of a species separate from that of Homo sapiens. Vampires must drink the blood of the opposite sex to survive. Human blood will keep them alive, though the strength does not last long. Following their transitions, which occur in their mid-twenties, they are unable to go out into sunlight and must feed from the vein regularly. Vampires cannot “convert” humans through a bite or transfer of blood, though they are in rare cases able to breed with the other species. Vampires can dematerialize at will, though they must be able to calm themselves and concentrate to do so and may not carry anything heavy with them. They are able to strip the memories of humans, provided such memories are short term. Some vampires are able to read minds. Life expectancy is upward of a thousand years, or in some cases even longer.
wahlker (n.) An individual who has died and returned to the living from the Fade. They are accorded great respect and are revered for their travails.
whard (n.) Equivalent of a godfather or godmother to an individual.
All kings are blind.
The good ones see this and use more than their eyes to lead.
LOVER AVENGED
ONE
The king must die.”
Four single-syllable words. One by one they were nothing special. Put together? They called up all kinds of bad shit: Murder. Betrayal. Treason.
Death.
In the thick moments after they were spoken to him, Rehvenge kept quiet, letting the quartet hang in the stuffy air of the study, four points of a dark, evil compass he was intimately familiar with.
“Have you any response?” Montrag, son of Rehm, said.
“Nope.”
Montrag blinked and fiddled with the silk cravat at his neck. Like most members of the glymera, he had both velvet slippers firmly planted in the dry, rarified sand of his class. Which meant he was just plain precious, all the way around. In his smoking jacket and his natty pin-striped slacks and…shit, were those actually spats?…he was right out of the pages of Vanity Fair. Like, a hundred years ago. And in his myriad condescensions and his bright frickin’ ideas, he was Kissinger without a president when it came to politics: all analysis, no authority.
Which explained this meeting, didn’t it.
“Don’t stop now,” Rehv said. “You’ve already jumped off the building. The landing isn’t getting any softer.”
Montrag frowned. “I fail to view this with your kind of levity.”
“Who’s laughing.”
A knock on the study’s door brought Montrag’s head to the side, and he had a profile like an Irish setter: all nose. “Come in.”
The doggen who followed the command struggled under the weight of the silver service she carried. With an ebony tray the size of a porch in her hands, she humped the load across the room.
Until her head came up and she saw Rehv.
She froze like a snapshot.
“We take our tea here.” Montrag pointed to the low-slung table between the two silk sofas they were sitting on. “Here.”
The doggen didn’t move, just stared at Rehv’s face.
“What is the matter?” Montrag demanded as the teacups began to tremble, a chiming noise rising up from the tray. “Place our tea here, now.”
The doggen bowed her head, mumbled something, and came forward slowly, putting one foot in front of the other like she was approaching a coiled snake. She stayed as far away from Rehv as she could, and after she put the service down, her shaking hands were barely able to get the cups into the saucers.
When she went for the pot of tea, it was clear she was going to spill the shit all over the place.
“Let me do it,” Rehv said, reaching out.
As the doggen jerked away from him, her grip slipped off the pot handle and the tea went into free fall.
Rehv caught the blistering-hot silver in his palms.
“What have you done!” Montrag said, leaping off of his sofa.
The doggen cringed away, her hands going to her face. “I am sorry, master.