The Beast (Black Dagger Brotherhood #14) - J. R. Ward Page 0,124

Rhage was, yet again, back down in the clinic, sitting shirt-less on an exam table, his leather-clad legs and shitkickered feet dangling free off one end. His weapons were over on a chair, and as soon as he got this cast sawed off, he was going to catch a quick meal in the cafeteria that had been set up for the future trainees and go to work.

Mary had left early for Safe Place so she could get ready for a staff meeting—although she’d offered to stay for the buzz cut. Man, thank God he’d fed a week ago from one of the Chosen, and his body could heal a simple fracture like that in a matter of twelve hours. He’d heard humans had to live with these plaster deadweights for weeks and weeks.

Insanity.

When a knock sounded on the door, he called out, “Come on in, Manny. I’m ready to get this—oh, hey, V. Wassup.”

His brother was dressed to fight, black daggers strapped to his chest, a newspaper folded up under his arm by one of his twin forties. “How’s that arm?”

“You’re coming to free me from my cage of plaster?” Rhage knocked on the thing with his fist. “Or whatever it’s made out of.”

“Nope.” V settled back against the door. “I got no news and bad news, what do you want first?”

“You didn’t find shit on Bitty’s uncle, did you.”

When his brother shook his head, Rhage released a tense breath, his whole body easing up with a relief that was all wrong. And then he had to tell himself not to get ahead of things. He and Mary were not adopting Bitty.

Really.

Yeah, ’cuz that would be crazy. Especially as he was basing the compatibility and interest on the kid’s part on the fact that a pair of chocolate-chip waffle cones had been ordered and consumed the night before at Bessie’s Best.

Vishous shrugged. “I checked every database, every contact down South that the Brotherhood has. I’m not saying there aren’t families under the radar, but there was nothing I could come up with that matched Bitty’s name, her mother’s, her father’s or the name of the uncle.”

Gripping the edge of the table, Rhage stared past the tips of his shitkickers to the linoleum floor.

“You and Mary thinking of taking her in?” As he glanced up in surprise, V gave him a well-duh. “It’s cool if you are. I mean, you were talking about kids the other night, and then asking about an orphan’s family situation. That math ain’t complex, true.”

Rhage cleared his throat. “You say nothing about this. To anyone.”

“Yeah, ’cuz I’m such a fucking gossip.”

“I’m serious, V.”

“Come on, you know me better than that. And I know what your next question is going to be.”

“What’s that.”

“You need to go talk to Saxton. He’ll be able to tell you what the requirements are to adopt her. I think in the old days, the King had to sign off whenever nobility was involved—and even though Bitty is a commoner, you, as a member of the Brotherhood, are aristocracy. I think a lot of that had to do with inheritance issues, but again, Saxton would know the ins and outs.”

Okay, that was good advice, Rhage thought. He hadn’t even considered that there might be paperwork involved, and how naive was that?

Oh, and yeah, it wasn’t like he’d spoken about all this to Mary. Or Bitty.

Shit. He was already so far ahead, wasn’t he.

“Thanks, V.” Feeling awkward, Rhage nodded at the rolled-up copy of what had to be the Caldwell Courier Journal. “What’s your other news? And I’m surprised you’re not online, my brother. Was it you or Egon Spengler who said that print is dead?”

“Both of us. Around the same time, actually.” V unfolded things and flashed the front page of the CCJ. “Fritz was the one who picked this hard copy up.”

Rhage whistled under his breath and held out his good hand to take the thing. “Annnnd we’re back in business.”

The headline read in bold letters, “Ritual Murder Scene at Abandoned Factory,” and lengthy columns of text were accompanied by pixilated photos of blood and buckets next to a broken-down manufacturing line of some kind. Rhage scanned the print and flipped to the interior to finish the article, the scent of the ink and the sound of sloppy pages flapping against one another making him think of days gone by.

He shook his head as he put the paper back together. “Not a very big scale, though.”

“Only twelve to fifteen new recruits. Clearly,