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Informationen zum Autor J.R. Ward is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of numerous novels, including the Black Dagger Brotherhood series. She lives in the South with her family. Klappentext As the vampire warriors defend their race against their slayers! one male's loyalty to the Black Dagger Brotherhood will be tested in this breathtaking novel in J. R. Ward's #1 New York Times bestselling paranormal romance series. Caldwell! New York! has long been the battleground for the vampires and their enemies. It's also where Rehvenge has staked out his turf as a drug lord and owner of a notorious nightclub that caters to the rich and heavily armed. His dangerous reputation is exactly why he's approached to kill the leader of the Black Dagger Brotherhood-Wrath! the Blind King. Rehvenge is used to living in the shadows and keeping his distance from the Brotherhood. As a symphath! his identity is a deadly secret-the revelation of which will result in his banishment. But as Rehvenge is pulled into plots both within and outside of the Brotherhood! he turns to the only source of light in his darkening world. Ehlena is a vampire untouched by the corruption that has its hold on him-and the only thing standing between Rehvenge and eternal destruction... All kings are blind. The good ones see this and use more than their eyes to lead. Chapter 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 pinstriped 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 condescendions 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 that 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 hustled 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 tea cups 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, 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, which was not far at all given the furniture arrangement, and after she put the service down, she was 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 th...
