The King

“She know about vampire needings? No? Didn’t think so.”

That shut the brother up for a minute.

In the silence, Wrath had an overwhelming need to pace—but that was a no-go, assuming he didn’t want to run over all of Havers’s fancy furniture.

“Talk to me.”

Wrath shook his head. “Got nothing good to say.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before, true?”

Fortunately, Havers picked that moment to come in—only to immediately stop short just inside the exam room.

“Forgive me…” he said to Vishous. “But there is no smoking here.”

V’s tone was bored. “Our species doesn’t get cancer—or is that a newsflash to you.”

“It’s because of the oxygen tanks.”

“Is there one in here?”

“Ah … no.”

“Well, then I won’t go looking for one.”

Wrath cut off any further debate. “Will you shut the door.” You f**king idiot. “I just have to ask you a couple of questions. And tell your nurse to leave, would you.”

“Of … course.”

Fear spiked the air as the nurse departed and the door was shut, and Wrath didn’t blame the guy for being nervous.

“How may I be of service, my lord?”

Wrath pictured the male from memory, imaging that Havers still had those glasses on his Ivy League–looking face, and that white coat with his name stitched next to the lapel. As if there might be some confusion around his clinic as to who he was.

“I want to know what you can do to stop a female’s needing.”

Crickets. Whole lot of crickets.

Well, except for V muttering something that probably started with F and ended in U-C-K.

After a moment, there was a creak, as if the good doctor had sat down next to Wrath’s sofa. “I, ah, I am unsure how to answer that, my lord.”

“Give it a shot,” Wrath said dryly. “And quick. I don’t have all night.”

Quiet sounds suggested the male was fiddling with things. A pen? Maybe a stethoscope? “Has she … has the, ah, female … has it commenced?”

“No.”

The silence that followed made him wish he hadn’t come here. He wasn’t walking out now, though, and not just because he’d lost track of where the door was already. “It’s not my shellan, by the way. It’s a friend of mine.”

Jesus Christ, like he had an STD or some shit.

But at least that loosened up the doctor. Instantly, the male’s vibe calmed and his mouth got to flapping. “I have no good answer for you, unfortunately. Thus far, I have found no way to halt the time’s commencement. I have tried various drugs, even those available on the human market—the issue is that vampire females have an extra hormone that, when triggered, creates an overwhelming, system-wide response. As a result, human contraceptive pills or shots don’t have any effect on our females.”

Wrath shook his head. He should have known—nothing about the reproductive cycle of a female vampire was easy.

Dumb-ass Scribe Virgin. Oh, sure, go ahead and create a race of people—and while you’re at it, why don’t you saddle them with some really tough shit. Perfect.

Havers continued, his seat creaking again as if he were changing positions. “Easing the female during her suffering is the only method I’ve had success with. Would you require a kit for your associate, my lord?”

“Kit, as in…”

“For treatment of the needing.”

He thought of Beth sitting in that room with Layla. God only knew how long that had been going on—but more to the point, he was afraid it had worked: He’d totally gotten sprung in his shellan’s presence. And yeah, that was not unusual, except for the fact that they’d been arguing and sex had been the last f**king thing on his mind.

Her hormones might well be in flux already.

Either that or he was paranoid.

Also a possibility.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say. “I want one.”

There was the sound of something being written down. “Now, I will need the male in charge of her to sign for this, either her hellren, her father, or the oldest male of her household. I don’t feel comfortable sending these levels of narcotics out into the world unaccounted for—and of course, there will have to be someone there to administer them to her. Not only will she in all likelihood be compromised by the needing, but let us be honest. Females don’t have the best heads for these things anyway.”

For some reason, Wrath thought of Payne accusing him of being a misogynist.

At least Havers totally lapped him on that one—

Oh shit, how was he going to sign anything? Back home at his desk, Saxton always marked the signature line with a series of raised—

“I’ll sign for it,” V interjected sharply. “And my shellan, who’s a doctor just like you, will take care of everything else.”

“You are mated?” the physician sputtered. As if there were a greater chance of a meteor dropping on his clinic. “I mean—”

“Give me the paper,” Vishous said. “And your pen.”

Cue more scribbling in an even more awkward silence.

“What is her weight?” Havers asked, as there was a shuffling like he was putting something in a file.

“I don’t know,” Wrath said.

“Would you like me to see the female in question, my lord? She may come here at any time that is convenient, or I could provide a home visit—”

“One thirty-six,” V said. “And enough with the conversation. Get us the drugs so we can get the hell out of here.”

As Havers tripped over his own loafers to leave the room, Wrath leaned back until his head hit the plaster wall he’d been unaware of being behind him.

“You want to tell me what the f**k this is about now?” his brother bit out. “Because I’m jumping to a lot of conclusions at the moment, and neither one of us needs that—when you could just answer the cocksucking question.”

“Beth has been hanging out with Layla.”

“Because she wants…”

“A young.”

A fresh influx of Turkish tobacco hit Wrath’s nose, suggesting the brother had just taken a deep drag. “So you’re serious about not wanting a kid?”

“Never. How’s ‘never’ sound?”

“Amen to that.” Abruptly, V’s shitkickers made tracks around the room, and man, that pacing stuff was something to envy. “It’s not that I don’t respect Z and his little slice of nuclear. Thanks to those two females of his, he seems almost normal—which is a miracle in and of itself. So power to him, true? But that shit ain’t for me. Thank God Jane feels the same.”

“Yeah. Thank God.”

“Beth’s not on that train?”

“Nope. She’s not even in that station, that town, or that part of whatever country your metaphor lives in.”

Wrath rubbed his forehead. On the one hand, it was great to have someone agree with him about the no-young issue—it made him feel less like he was doing something wrong or being cruel to his Beth. On the other, that accord Vishous had with Jane? It wasn’t that you wished the shit you were going through on your brother. Not at all. But damn, he could have walked a marathon in those comfortable shoes, thank you very much.

As his brother paced and smoked, and they both waited for Havers to return with the knockout drops … for some reason, he thought back to his parents.

The memories that he had of his mother and father were all about the Norman Rockwell—well, dub in the Old Country language and change the stage set to a medieval castle theme. But yeah, those two had had the perfect relationship. No arguments, no anger, just love.

Nothing had ever come between them. Not his father’s job, not the court they lived in, not the citizenry they served.

Perfect harmony.

It was yet another standard set in the past that he was failing to live up to—

V let out a strange sound, part gasp, part curse.

“Swallow your smoke wrong?” Wrath said dryly.

Right next to him, the chair where Havers had been sitting didn’t creak so much as curse—like V had thrown all of his weight into the thing.

“V?”

When the brother finally answered, his voice was low, too low. “I see you…”

“No, no, no.” Wrath burst up. “I don’t want know, V. If you’re having one of your visions, do not tell me what it—”

“…standing in a field of white. White, white is all around you…”

The Fade? Oh, f**king hell. “Vishous—”

“…and you are talking to—”

“Hey! Asshole! I’ve told you all along, I don’t want to know when I’m going to die. Do you hear me? I don’t want to know.”

“—the face in the heavens.”

“Your mother?” Christ knew the Scribe Virgin had been MIA and then some lately. “Is it your mother?”

Shit, he didn’t want to encourage this. “Listen, V, you gotta pull back. I can’t handle it, man.”

There was a low curse, as if the brother were collecting himself. “Sorry, when it hits in a rush like that, it’s hard to stop.”

“That’s cool.” Even though it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Because the problem with Vishous’s premonitions—aside from the fact that they were always about people dying? No timeline. That stuff could be about Wrath keeling over next week. Next year. Seven hundred centuries from now.

If Beth died … he wouldn’t want to live—

“All I can say is”—V exhaled again—“I see that the future is in your hands.”

Well, at least that was generic and obvious, like an astrology report in a magazine—the kind of thing anybody could read into and feel as though it applied to them.

“Do me a favor, V.”

“What.”

“Don’t see anything else about me.”

“Not up to me, true?”

Too right. Just like his own future.

But the good news was … he wasn’t going to have to worry about Beth’s needing. Thanks to this miserable little visit, he was going to be able to take care of her when it came.

Without running the risk of pregnancy.

SEVENTEEN

THE YEAR 1664

“Leelan?”

When there was no answer, Wrath, son of Wrath, knocked again upon his chamber door. “Leelan, may I enter?”

As King, he waited for no one, and there was not a body who permitted him to do aught.

Except for his precious mate.

And as with this eve, when there were festival gatherings, she desired to pretty herself in privacy, allowing him access only when she had prepared herself for his viewing and adoration. It was utterly charming—as was the manner in which their mated space was scented because of her oils and lotions. As was the way, even a year after their union, that she still ducked her eyes and smiled secretly when he wooed her. As was waking up every dusk with her against him and then fading off to rest at the dawn beside her warm, beautiful body.

But there was a different edge to it all now.

When was the waiting going to be over … and not about gaining entrance unto their room.

“Enter, my love,” came through the stout oak panels.

Wrath’s heart jumped. Turning the heavy latch, he shouldered the planks open … and there she was. His beloved.

Anha was across the room, by the hearth that was large enough for a grown male to stand in. Seated at her dressing table, which he’d had moved by the fire for to ensure warmth, her back was to him, her long black hair lying in thick coils down her shoulders to her waist.

Wrath breathed in deep, her scent more important than the oxygen that filled his lungs. “Oh, you look lovely.”

“You have nae seen me properly—”

Wrath frowned at the tightness in her voice. “What ails you?”

His shellan turned about to face him. “Naught. Why do you ask?”

She was lying. Her smile was a faded version of its normal radiance, her skin too pale, her eyes dragging down at their corners.

As he strode across the fur rugs, fear gripped him. How many nights since her needing had come and gone? Fourteen? Twenty-one?

In spite of the risk to her, they truly prayed for a conception—and not simply for an heir, but as a son or daughter to love and nurture.

Wrath sank to his knees before his leelan, and indeed he was reminded of the very first time he had done as such. He had been right to mate this female, and righter still to place his heart and soul within her gently cupped hands.

She alone he could trust.

“Anha, be of truth to me.” He reached up and touched her face—and immediately retracted his hand. “You are cold!”

“I am not.” She batted him away, putting her brush down and getting to her feet. “I am dressed in this red velvet you prefer. How can I possibly be cold?”

For a moment, he nearly forgot his concerns. She was such a vision in the deep, rich color, the gold thread upon her bodice catching the firelight just as all her rubies did: Indeed, she was wearing the full set of jewelry tonight, the stones glinting at her ears, her neck, her wrists, her hands.

And yet, as resplendent as she was, something was not proper.

“Do rise, my hellren,” she commanded. “And let us proceed down unto the festivities. All and sundry are awaiting you.”

“They may tarry longer.” He had no intention of budging. “Anha, speak unto me. What is wrong?”