The King

“You worry over much.”

“Have you bled?” he asked tightly. Which would mean that a young was not within her.

She put a slender hand over her belly. “No. And I feel … perfectly well. Honestly.”

Wrath narrowed his eyes. There was, of course, another issue that could be upon her heart. “Has anyone been cruel?”

“Never.”

In that, she was lying for certain. “Anha, do you think there is aught that escapes my knowledge? I am well aware of what transpires about court.”

“Do not concern yourself with those half-wits. I do not.”

He loved her for her resilience. But her bravery was unnecessary—if only he could find out who was tormenting her, he would take care of it. “I believe I should readdress the gossips.”

“You say nothing, my love. What’s done is done—you cannot undo the presentation. Trying to silence any and all criticism or comment upon me would lead to an empty court.”

It had all started that night when she had been brought to him. He had not followed proper protocol, and in spite of the fact that the King’s wishes ruled o’er the land and all its vampires, there were those who disapproved of so much: That he had not undressed her. That he had given her the ruby suite of gems and the queen’s ring—and then conducted the mating himself. That he had immediately moved her in here, to his private quarters.

His critics had not been appeased in the slightest when he had consented to a public ceremony. Nor had they, even a year later, warmed to his mate. They were never rude to her in his presence, of course—and Anha refused to say a word about what happened behind his back.

But the scent of her anxiety and depression were too well known to him.

In truth, the court’s treatment of his beloved angered him to the point of violence—and created a rift between him and all who surrounded him. He felt as though he could trust no one. Even the Brotherhood, who were supposed to be his private guard and those whom he should have faith in above all others, even those males he was suspicious of.

Anha was all he had.

Leaning down to him, her hands cradled his face. “Wrath, my love.” She pressed her lips to his. “Let us proceed unto the festival.”

He gripped her forearms. Her eyes were pools to drown in, and the only terror he knew in this mortal coil was that someday they might not be there for him to stare into.

“Halt your thinking,” his shellan beseeched. “There is naught that will happen to me now or ever.”

Drawing her against him, he turned his head and laid it against her womb. As her hands threaded through his hair, he studied her table. Brushes, combs, squat bowls of chromatics for her lips and her eyes, a cup of tea beside its pot, a wedge of bread that had been nibbled upon.

Such prosaic things, but because she had gathered them, touched them, consumed them, they were elevated to the heights of value: She was the alchemy that turned it all, and him, to gold.

“Wrath, we must needs go.”

“I do not wish to. This is where I wish to be.”

“But your court awaits.”

He said something vile that he hoped became caught in the folds of velvet. Given her soft laughter, he ventured it had not.

She was correct, however. There were many gathered for his attendance.

Damn them all.

Rising to his feet, he proffered his arm unto her, and as she looped hers through the crook of his elbow, he led them out of their chamber and past the palace guards who lined the hall. Some distance thereafter, they descended a curving stairwell, the sounds of the gathered aristocracy growing ever louder.

As they closed in upon the great hall, she leaned on him more, and he puffed out his chest, his body growing in stature as a result of her reliance upon him. Unlike so many courtesans, who were eager to be dependent, his Anha had always retained a certain prideful decorum within herself—so when, on occasion, she did require his strength in some way, it was a special gift to his most masculine side.

There was naught that made him feel his male sex more keenly.

As the cacophony became so loud it swallowed the sounds of their footsteps, he leaned unto her ear. “We shall bid them a hasty good evening.”

“Wrath, you must avail yourself of—”

“You,” he said as they approached the final corner. “That is of whom I must be availed.”

When she blushed beautifully, he chuckled—and found himself in fervent anticipation of their forthcoming privacy.

Rounding the last turn, he and his shellan came up to a set of double doors that were for their use only, and two Brothers stepped forward to greet them in the formal proper manner.

Dearest Virgin Scribe in the Fade, he detested these gatherings of the aristocracy.

As trumpets announced their arrival, the portals were thrown wide and the hundreds assembled went silent, their colorful dress and sparkling jewels to rival the painted ceiling above their coiffed heads and the mosaic floor below their silk shoes.

At one point, when his father had still been alive, he could remember being quite awestruck by the great hall and the finery of the aristocracy. Now? Even though the facility’s confines were as vast as a hunting field, and its dual hearths the size of civilian dwellings, he had no such illusions of grandeur and honor.

A third member of the Brotherhood spoke in a booming voice. “Their Royal Highnesses, Wrath, son of Wrath, ruler of all that is within and without the race’s territories, and Queen Anha, beloved blooded daughter of Tristh, son of Tristh.”

In a rush, the obligatory applause rose up and rebounded upon itself, each individual’s clapping lost within the crowd’s. And then it was time for a royal response. According to tradition, the King was never to lower his head to any living soul, so it was the queen’s duty to thank the assembled with a curtsy.

His Anha performed such with unrivaled grace and aplomb.

Then it was the gathereds’ turn to acknowledge their fealty with bows for the males and curtsies for the females.

And now, with the group formalities exchanged, he had to go over to the line of his courtiers and greet them one by one.

Striding forth, he could not recall what festival this was, what turn of the calendar’s page or phase of the moon or change of season it marked. The glymera could think of countless reasons to congregate, most of which seemed rather pointless, considering the same individuals showed up in the same venues.

The clothes were e’er different, of course. And the jewels upon the females.

And meanwhile, whilst gourmet dinners were prepared and picked at, and slights and offenses were exchanged with every breath, there were issues of substance to be dealt with: suffering of the commoners because of the recent drought; encroachment on the part of humans; aggression from the Lessening Society. But the aristocracy worried not about such things—because in their view, those were problems largely confronted by the “nameless, faceless curs.”

Contrary to the very basic laws of survival, the glymera saw little value in the population that harvested the food they consumed and built the structures they lived in and stitched the clothing that covered their backs—

“Come, my love,” his Anha whispered. “Let us greet them.”

Lo, it appeared he had halted without knowing.

Resuming his footfalls, his eyes focused upon Ench, who was as always at the front of the line of gray-robed males.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” said the gentlemale—in a tone as if he alone were master of ceremonies. “And you, my queen.”

“Enoch.” Wrath looked down the courtiers. The twelve males were arranged by virtue of hierarchy, and as such, the last in line was barely out of his transition, from a family of great blood but lowly means. “How fare thee.”

Not that he cared. He was far more interested in who amongst them had upset his beloved. Surely it must be one, if not all: She had no handmaidens, at her own request, so these were the only figures she had any contact with at court.

What had been said. Who had said it.

It was with no small amount of aggression that he proceeded down the line and greeted each one according to protocol. Indeed, this ancient sequence of private address in the midst of a public gathering was a way of acknowledging and reaffirming the advisers’ position within the court, a declaration of their importance.

He could remember his father doing precisely thus. Except the male had seemed to actually value the relationships with his courtiers.

Especially on this night, the son was not where the father had been.

Who had—

At first he assumed his beloved had tripped and required more of his arm’s strength. Alas, however, it was not her footing she lost. It was her balance …

And all of it.

The dragging sensation on his forearm turned his head, and that was how he saw it happen, the vital form of his shellan going loose and toppling downward.

With a shout, he reached out to catch her, but he was not fast enough.

As the crowd gasped, Anha fell upon the floor, her sightless eyes staring up at him, but seeing nothing, her expression as blank as a mirror with no one before it, her skin even paler than it had been up in their chamber.

“Anha!” he screamed as he crumpled to the floor with her. “Anha…!”

EIGHTEEN

Sola woke up with a start, her face whipping off a cold, concrete floor, her body stretched out unnaturally. Flipping herself off her belly, her brain processed the status of her location in a split second: Cell with three solid walls and one with bars. No heat, no window, recessed light high above, stainless-steel toilet.

No cellmate, no warden that she could see.

Next check-in was her body: Her head had splitting pains at the nape and in the front, but that wasn’t as bad as what was going on with her thigh. That bastard with the dark birthmark covering half his face had shot her about six inches above her knee—the fact that she could lift her calf off the floor suggested he hadn’t gotten bone, but talk about a case of the ouches. The burning sensation coupled with the throbs was enough to make her nauseous.

Silence.

Across the basement, over on a wall, a pair of chains had been bolted into the concrete, and the wrist latches that hung off their ends were a promise of horror.

Well, that and the stains between and below the setup.

No security cameras that she could see. Then again, Benloise was cagey. Maybe he’d use a camera phone to replay his version of home movies?

With no idea how much time she had, she got to her feet—

“Fuck.”

Putting weight on her right leg was like taking a hot poker and shoving it into her wound. Then pulling a Chubby Checker twist.

Let’s try to avoid that, shall we.

As she eyed the toilet, which was a good five feet away, she cursed again. This leg of hers was going to be a major tactical disadvantage—because it was hard to walk without doing a zombie foot drag—which made noise as well as slowed her down.

Trying to whisper her way over, as opposed to creating a major audible disturbance, she used the loo but didn’t flush. Then she backtracked to where she’d been. She didn’t feel the need to test out the bars or see whether the door was locked.

Benloise wasn’t into shoddy construction and wouldn’t employ someone that stupid.

Her only shot was to try to overpower that guard with the gun, and how that was going to happen in her current condition, she hadn’t a clue. Unless …

Resettling down on the ground, she sprawled herself out in exactly the same position she’d woken up in. Closing her eyes, she was momentarily distracted by the beat of her own heart.

Loud. Really damn loud.

Especially as she thought of her grandmother.

Oh, God, she couldn’t end here. And not like this—this wasn’t an illness or an accident on a highway. This was going to involve suffering deliberately inflicted, and afterward? Benloise was exactly the kind of sick f**k who’d send a piece of her back to be buried.

Even if the recipient was an innocent party to all this ugliness.

As she pictured her grandmother having only a hand or foot to place in a casket, she found her lips moving.

God, please let me get out of this alive. For vovó’s sake. Just let me survive this, and I promise you I will get out of the life. I will take her and go somewhere safe, and I will never, ever do a wrongful thing again.

Distantly, she heard a clank like a door was being unlocked, and then muttering.

Forcing her breath to be even, she watched through the veil of her hair, listening to footsteps get closer.

The man who came down the staircase was the one with that huge birthmark on his face. Dressed in black combat pants and a muscle shirt, he was grim, hairy, and mad.

“…goddamn idiot, dying on me. Least that shut him the f**k up—”

She closed her eyes … and there was another clank.

Abruptly, his voice was much closer. “Wake up, bitch.”

Rough hands grabbed her arm and flopped her over onto her back, and it took all her self-control not to gasp in agony from her head and her leg. “Bitch! Wake up!”

He slapped her across the face, and as she tasted blood, she figured he’d split her lip—but whatever pain flared up was a drop in the bucket to that thigh of hers.

“Bitch!” Another slap, even harder. “Don’t you f**king play with me!”

Her chest jerked up as he grabbed the front of her parka and ripped it open—and as her head scraped across the concrete, she couldn’t keep in the groan.

“That’s right—I’ll wake you the f**k up.” He yanked up her shirt, and there was a little pause. “Nice.”

Her bra had a front fastener and he snapped that free, icy air hitting her skin.