Part 34 (1/2)

”I mean no offense.”That low, soft chuckle came again.

Man, he bet she was enjoying the h.e.l.l out this. She'd never liked him, although it wasn't as if he could blame her. He'd given her antipathy plenty of reasons to breed.

”You mean no offense, warrior?” The robes moved as if she were shaking her head. ”On the contrary, you never hesitate to offend to get what you wish, and that has always been your problem. It is also why we have been brought here together this night.” She turned away. ”You have the weapon?”

Phury put down the duffel, unzipped it, and took out the tri-whip. The two-foot-long handle was made of wood and covered with brown leather that had been darkened by the sweat of many hands. Out of the rod's tip, three lengths of blackened steel chain swung in the air. At the end of each of them there was a spiked dangler, like a pinecone with barbs.

The tri-whip was an ancient, vicious weapon, but Tohr had chosen wisely. In order for the ritual to be considered successful, the brothers could spare Rhage nothing either in the type of weapon they used or the way they put it to his skin. To give leniency would be to demean the integrity of the tradition, the regret he was offering, and the chance for a true cleansing.

”So be it,” she said. ”Proceed to the wall, Rhage, son of Tohrture.”

He went forward, climbing the stairs two at a time. As he pa.s.sed the altar, he gazed at the sacred skull, watching firelight lick over the eye sockets and the long fangs. Positioning himself against the black marble, he gripped the stone pegs and felt cold smoothness on his back.

The Scribe Virgin drifted up to him and lifted her arm. Her sleeve fell back, and a glow bright as a welder's arc was revealed, the stinging light vaguely shaped like a hand. A low-level electrical hum went through him, and he felt something s.h.i.+ft inside his torso, as if his internal organs had been rearranged.

”You may begin the ritual.”

The brothers lined up, their naked bodies gleaming with strength, their faces drawn into deep grooves. Wrath took the tri-whip from Phury and came forward first. As he moved, the weapon's links chimed with the sweetness of a bird's call.

”Brother,” the king said softly.

”My lord.”

Rhage stared into those sungla.s.ses as Wrath started swinging the whip in a wide circle to build momentum. A droning sound started low and crescendoed until the weapon came forward, slicing through the air. The chains. .h.i.t Rhage's chest and then the barbs clawed into him, grabbing the air out of his lungs. As he bore down on the pegs, he kept his head up while his vision dimmed and then returned.

Tohr was next, his blow knocking the wind out of Rhage so that his knees sagged before they accepted his weight again. Vishous and Phury followed.

Each time, he met the pained eyes of his brothers in hopes of easing their anguish, but as Phury turned away, Rhage could no longer support his head. He let it fall on his shoulder and so caught sight of the blood running down his chest, over his thighs, and onto his feet. A pool was forming on the floor, reflecting the light of the candles, and staring at the red mess made him woozy.

Determined to remain standing, he c.o.c.ked his elbows so it was his joints and bones, not his muscles, that kept him in place.

When there was a lull, he became dimly aware of some kind of argument. He blinked several times before his eyes were clear enough to see.

Phury was holding out the whip and Zs.a.d.i.s.t was backing away from the thing in what seemed a lot like terror. Z's fisted hands were held up high and his nipple rings flashed in the firelight as he breathed far too heavily. The brother was the color of fog, his skin gray and unnaturally s.h.i.+ny.Phury spoke gently and tried to take Zs.a.d.i.s.t's arm. Z pivoted wildly, but Phury stayed with him. As they moved in a grim dance, the whip marks covering Z's back s.h.i.+fted with his muscles.

This approach was going nowhere, Rhage thought. Zs.a.d.i.s.t was closing in on full panic, like a cornered animal. There had to be some other way to reach him.

Rhage took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again.

”Zs.a.d.i.s.t...” His reedy voice brought all eyes to the altar. ”Finish it, Z... Can't... can't hold myself up much longer.”

”No-”

Phury cut Zs.a.d.i.s.t off. ”You have to-”

”No! Get the f.u.c.k away from me.”

Z bolted for the door, but the Scribe Virgin got there first, forcing him to spin out to a stop so he didn't run her over. Trapped in front of the diminutive figure, his legs trembled and his shoulders shook. She talked to him quietly, the words not carrying far enough for Rhage to decipher through his haze of pain.

Finally the Scribe Virgin motioned to Phury, who brought the weapon over to her. When she had it, she reached out, took Z's hand, and placed the leather-bound grip on his palm. She pointed to the altar and Zs.a.d.i.s.t dropped his head. A moment later he came up front with a lurching stride.

When Rhage looked at the brother, he almost suggested someone else do the deed for Z. Those black eyes were cracked open so wide, there was white all around the irises. And Zs.a.d.i.s.t kept swallowing, his throat working like it was keeping a scream down in his chest.

”S'okay, my brother,” Rhage murmured. ”But you need to finish. Now.”

Z panted and swayed, sweat rolling into his eyes and down the scar on his face.

”Do it.”

”Brother,” Z whispered, lifting the whip over his shoulder.

He didn't swing it for momentum, probably couldn't have coordinated his arm that well at this point. But he was strong, and the weapon sang as it traveled through the air. The chains and danglers streaked across Rhage's stomach in a blaze of needles.

Rhage's knees gave out and he tried to catch himself with his arms, only to find that they too refused to hold him. He fell to his knees, palms landing in his own blood.

But at least it was over. He took long breaths, determined not to pa.s.s out.

Abruptly a rus.h.i.+ng sound cut through the sanctuary, something like metal against metal. He didn't think much about it. He was busy talking to his stomach, trying to convince it that dry heaves were in fact not a really good plan.

When he was ready, he crawled on his hands and knees around the altar, taking a breather before he tackled the steps. As he glanced ahead, he saw that the brothers had lined up again. Rhage rubbed his eyes at what was before him, getting blood on his face.

This was not part of the ritual, he thought.

Each one of the brothers had a black dagger in his right hand. Wrath started the chant and the others carried it until their voices were loud shouts reverberating around the sanctorum. The buildup didn't stop until they were almost screaming, and then their voices cut off abruptly.

As a unit, they slashed their daggers across their upper chests.

Zs.a.d.i.s.t's cut was the deepest.

Chapter Thirty.

Mary was downstairs in the billiard room, talking to Fritz about the history of the house, when the doggen's ears picked up a sound she hadn't heard.

”That would be the sires returning.”

She went to one of the windows just as a pair of headlights swung around the courtyard.

The Escalade came to a stop, its doors opened, and the men got out. With the hoods on their robes down, she recognized them from the first night she'd come to the mansion. The guy with the goatee and the tattoos at one of his temples. The man with the spectacular hair. The scarred terror and the military officer. The only one she hadn't seen before was a man with long black hair and sungla.s.ses.

G.o.d, their expressions were bleak. Maybe someone had been hurt.

She searched for Rhage, trying not to panic.

The group milled around and condensed at the back of the SUV just as someone came out of the gatehouse and held the door open. Mary recognized the guy between the jambs as the one who'd caught the football in the foyer.

With all of the big male bodies crowded in a tight circle at the rear of the Escalade, it was hard to tell what they were doing. But it seemed like some kind of heavy weight was being s.h.i.+fted among them...