J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [531]
The result? Rehv would be brought up on charges of treason, arrested, and either put to death according to vampire law or deported to the symphath colony, where he would be killed for being a half-breed.
Either outcome was acceptable.
It was all set, which was why Montrag had called his closest friend just now.
Taking the affidavit, he folded it in on itself, and slid it into a thick, creamy envelope. Drawing a page of his personalized stationery from an embossed leather box, he penned a quick missive to the male who he would tap as his second in command, and cemented the stage for Rehvenge’s fall. In the note, he explained that, as they’d discussed over the phone, this was what he had found in his father’s private papers—and if the document was validated, he was concerned for the future of the council.
Naturally, the thing would be verified by the law office of his colleague. And by the time it was, Wrath would be dead and Rehv poised for blame.
Montrag lit a stick of red wax, dripped some of it on the envelope’s flap, and sealed the affidavit in. On the front, he wrote the male’s name, and in the Old Language spelled out HAND DELIVERY ONLY; then he closed up and locked the metal box, tucking it under his desk, and returning the key to its safe place in the secret drawer.
A button on the phone summoned the butler, who took the envelope and immediately headed off to complete the task of getting it into the correct hands.
Satisfied, Montrag took the lockbox over to the wall safe, pivoted the painting outward, put his father’s combination to use, and returned the remaining affidavit to its home: Keeping one copy for himself was only prudent, a safeguard in the event something happened to the document that was on its way across the border into Rhode Island.
As he eased the Turner back into place, the landscape spoke to him as always, and for a moment, he allowed himself to step out of the bedlam he was creating with purpose and seep into the peaceful, lovely sea. The breeze would be warm, he thought.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, how he missed the summer during these cold months, but then, it was contrast that enlivened the heart. Without the cold of winter, one would not truly appreciate the sultry nights of July and August.
He pictured where he would be in six months when a full solstice moon rose o’er Caldwell’s sprawling city. Come June, he would be king, an elected and respected monarch. If only his father had been alive to see—
Montrag coughed. Breathed in with a hiccup. Felt something wet on his hand.
He looked down. Blood was all over the front of his white shirt.
Opening his mouth to shout in alarm, he tried to draw in a deep breath, but there was only a gurgling sound—
His hands snapped up to his neck and found a geyser jumping free of his exposed carotid artery. Wheeling around, he saw a female standing before him with a man’s haircut and black leathers. The knife in her hand had a red blade, and her face was a calm mask of detached disinterest.
Montrag fell to his knees before her and then pitched over to his right, his hands still trying to keep his lifeblood in his body and not all over his father’s Aubusson.
He was still alive when she rolled him over, took out a rounded tool made of ebony, and knelt down to him.
As an assassin, Xhex’s job performance was measured in two dimensions. First, did she get her target? Self-explanatory. Second, was it a clean kill? Meaning, was there no collateral damage in the form of other deaths to protect herself, her identity, and/or the identity of the individual who had tasked her with the job.
In this case, the first was going to be a snap, given the way Montrag’s artery was doing the drainpipe. The second was still open to question, so she needed to work fast. She took the