The King

Benloise was going to slowly die, alone.

And when someone found the bodies inside the facility? This year … next … a decade from now?

The cover Benloise had constructed was going to be blown.

Upstairs, Assail performed a sweep of the open room. He found two more phones, which he turned off, removed the batteries, and slipped into his pack. He left the guns and ammo, and was careful to shut the door and test that it self-locked.

It did.

Walking around the squat little building, he found a petroleum tank in the back. Locating the gauge, he noted that it was only a quarter full. Given how cold it was at this elevation, he guessed that the supply would run out within a day or two.

The bodies would be stored in a rather cool environment. Good to keep down the smell, not that there was going to be much of that getting out, given the small windows upstairs, all of which were closed.

He was about to take off when he noticed a car parked off to the side.

Heading over, he lifted its camouflage cover and tested one of the doors. Locked.

If he blew it up, the fireball would attract attention, and that was not desirable. He let the tarp fall back into place.

Closing his eyes in preparation to dematerialize, he saw his Marisol coming out of that door. And it was as he shuddered that he became one with the night air, casting his molecules to the south, to a rest area approximately twenty miles down the Northway.

Re-forming, he got out his cell and dialed Ehric.

One ring. Two. Three.

“She is just fine,” his cousin said by way of greeting. “She has eaten and had some water. And she is anxious to see you.”

Assail sagged in his own skin. “Well done. I am where we agreed.”

“Did you accomplish all and sundry?”

“Indeed. Is there anyone upon you?”

“Neither in front nor behind, and we are but two miles from you.”

“I shall wait here.”

Hanging up, he stared at his cellular device. His first instinct was to get her to his home, but she was going to require medical attention—and she would want to be cleaned up and clothed before her grandmother saw her.

Assail’s next call was to his own home, and when the heavily accented female voice answered, he found himself blinking away tears.

“Madam,” he said roughly. “She—”

“Not dead,” the old woman moaned. “Meu Deus, tell me she—”

“She is alive. I have her.”

“What? You say again, please.”

“Alive.” Although he wasn’t sure about any kind of “well” part. “She is alive and within my care.”

Frantic speech now, in the mother tongue. And though Assail knew none of the words, the meaning was not only clear, but something he agreed with.

Thank you, Scribe Virgin, he thought, even though he was not religious.

“We are far from Caldwell,” he told her. “We may not make it before dawn, in which case we shall be home after sunfall.”

“Speak to her? May I?”

“Of course, madam.” Up ahead, a pair of headlights mounted a rise on the highway and came down toward him, paring off on the exit ramp. “I need but a moment, and I shall put her on.”

The Range Rover piloted directly over to him, taillights flaring as Ehric slowed.

“Here she is, madam,” he said as he opened the rear door.

Marisol was wrapped in that sleeping bag, and her color was better—at least until she looked at him and what little blush she retained in her cheeks immediately disappeared.

As Assail felt confusion, Ehric twisted around, glanced at him—and recoiled. With a quick circle, he indicated his own face.

Oh, shit. Assail must have blood all over his mouth.

“Your grandmother,” he blurted, shoving the phone at Marisol.

Sure enough, that did the trick to redirect his female’s attention—and as she reached out like he was offering her a lifeline, he reshut the door.

Wheeling around, he headed to the public facility behind him at a dead run, located the men’s room portion and entered the lineup of urinals and toilet stalls.

Over at one of the sinks, he looked into the flat panel of stainless steel that served as a mirror.

“Fuck.”

Not what any female wanted to see, especially after she had been subjected to a capture: His face was indeed covered with blood, his jaw and lips marked with the stain—and his fangs … the tips of his fangs showed.

Hopefully the gore of his visage had been what she’d reacted to.

Bending down, he attempted to turn on the water and cup his hands, but the faucets were the kind one had to hold in place to make operational. The process took him too long, filling a single palm and bringing it to his face over and over again. And then there was nothing to dry himself off with.

Sloughing his hand down his features, he assessed his hair, which thanks to Paul Mitchell had retained some semblance of attractiveness—

Was he honestly trying to better his looks in this situation? How ridiculous.

As he strode back to the Range Rover, he knew he was going to have to make a third phone call when his Marisol was done with her grandmother: his female was going to need medical treatment.

Where to go, though? In the Old Country, there had been no physicians of the race available for him and his cousins. Fortunately, however, he and his relations had been able to rely on a human or two who would come after hours and ask no questions.

He did not have such arrangements in the New World.

Accordingly, there was only one person he could contact—and hopefully there would be a solution that was up to his standards.

Marisol deserved the best. And he would settle for nothing less.

TWENTY

Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, John Matthew watched through the windshield as his sister hesitated on the threshold of their father’s house. The mansion’s double-size door was wide-open, and he’d gone inside and turned on the front hall light for her.

Her silhouette cut through the glow that spilled out into the night, the black shape like a shadow thrown.

Jesus … if she had a child, it was going to be the future King or queen. And didn’t that add another facet to the should-we-or-shouldn’t-we stuff.

“May we depart, sire?” Fritz asked from the front.

John whistled an ascending note, then rubbed his face and eased back into the seat. He was f**king exhausted. The contrast they’d put into his arm had made him feel weird, and then there was the crackling anxiety he’d had inside the MRI while the machine had ping-ponged around him. Open MRI, his ass. Yeah, sure, it was better than being pumped into that jumbo tube and sealed in tight like he was toothpaste, but it was hardly an easy-breather situation.

Oh, plus, you had hanging over your head the happy ax of maybe you hadda two-mah. To quote Arnold.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that, apparently. And screw the anti-seizure drugs. He was going to be fine. He was tight. Yup. Totally …

Shit. What if he had an episode while he was out fighting?

Whatever. He couldn’t worry about that—

With a bing!, his phone announced a text had come through. Palming the thing, he frowned at what Tohr had sent out to everyone: Xtra presence needed at clinic. ETA of visitors, 55 mins. Check in w status, STAT.

John tapped out a quick reply: On way back. Am avail …

He wasn’t sure how to finish things. As soon as they got home, he was going to ask Fritz to pack up the stuff Beth had asked for … and then find Wrath. Talk about your aw-shits. Telling the King that his mate wasn’t coming home for the day was going to be about as much fun as one of his seizures, but someone had to let the guy in on her plans—and evidently it wasn’t going to be Beth.

She’d told him flat out that she wasn’t in a big hurry to talk to her husband.

Or be around him, evidently.

After leaving the medical center, she’d asked Fritz to drive them around for a while before she’d settled, at John’s suggestion, on an all-night Chinese restaurant on Trade—that just happened to be, oh, hey, right down the street from the Iron Mask: It wasn’t like John couldn’t take care of his sister—but it was good to know there was plenty of backup available a little over a block away thanks to his mate and her twelve-ton bouncer squad.

While they’d eaten, Beth been mostly quiet, although she’d had a hearty enough appetite—she’d finished her beef with broccoli and then polished off his KPC along with a half dozen fortune cookies. When they were done, she hadn’t wanted to get back in the car yet so they’d strolled up Trade Street for a while until there was no more time left.

Obviously, she’d been torn about staying in town or going back home.

Man, he felt for her. What a mess.

And it was funny, as much as he hated getting in the middle of things, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Nothing.

God, what had he been mouthing during that seizure …?

About twenty minutes later, Fritz brought them safely to the Brotherhood’s secret compound. Circling the fountain in the center of the courtyard, he pulled into a space between Rhage’s purple GTO and V’s brand-new black-on-black R8.

The Brother still had the Escalade, of course. Just the newest version of it.

Getting out, John walked with the butler to the grand entrance. Unlike his father’s other place in town, this mansion was more fortress than home, its great stone walls rising up from the earth, as indestructible as the mountain they were built on.

If the eastern seaboard was carpet bombed for some reason? This place, Twinkies, and cockroaches. That was all that was going to be left.

John tapped the butler on the arm just as Fritz reached for the massive door’s bronze handle. You’ll get her things?

“But of course.” The doggen looked worried. “Just as she asked.”

The implications of the queen crashing somewhere other than in her own bedroom with her mate had not been lost on Fritz—but he was far too discreet to ask questions or make a fuss. Instead, he just radiated anxiety—to the point where if you’d had marshmallows and a stick, you probably could have made s’mores from the doggen’s aura.

Entering the vestibule, John put his face into the security camera and waited for a response. Ever since the First Family had moved in, there were no keys to the house, no way of gaining access unless you were let in by someone already in the interior.

And a moment later, the lock was sprung, and they were allowed to step through into the majestic front foyer. So much gold leaf, so many crystals, and those colored marble columns? It was a czar’s palace relocated to the mountains outside of Caldwell.

How had his father pulled it off? John wondered. In, like, 1914?

No clue. And even more impressive? For nearly a century, Darius had somehow been able to keep humans from prying into the private property, the lessers locked out of it … and the symphaths clueless as to its coordinates: This location, and its underground training center, had not been compromised in all its history. Even during the raids.

Quite an accomplishment. Quite a legacy.

God, he wish he’d known his father. Wished the Brother was still around—because he could sure as hell have used some advice on how to tell Wrath what was going on.

Pausing in the middle of the depiction of an apple tree in full bloom, John let Fritz go right ahead, the butler mounting the Buckingham Palace–worthy staircase at a spry jog.

Wrath was undoubtedly upstairs in his study—but first, he needed to get a translator.

Fuck.

Who the hell could he ask to—

“Where is she?”

John closed his eyes at the demand … and it was a minute before he could turn to the billiards room: Sure enough, standing right under the arch, the King was dressed in black leather, his hands locked on his hips, his jaw jutting forward.

Even though he was blind, and his eyes were hidden behind those wraparounds, John felt like the male was staring right. Fucking. At. Him.

All at once, the ambient noise John had been unaware of hearing went dead quiet: The Brothers who were playing pool behind Wrath suspended all movement, all talk, until only tracks from Eminem’s The Marshall Mathers LP 2 were left thumping in the background.

“John. Where is my mate.”

In the face of that glare, John walked forward. Yup, nearly all of the Brothers were in there with Wrath—no doubt they’d tweaked to his mood and had circled the wagons.

Sifting through the big bodies, he locked eyes with V and signed, I need you.

Vishous nodded and handed his cue off to Butch. Crushing his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray, he came over.

Wrath bared his fangs. “John, as God is my f**king witness, I will cut you if you don’t—”

“Easy, there, big guy,” V gritted out. “I’m going to translate. You want to hit the library where we can—”

“No, I want to f**king know where my shellan is!” Wrath boomed.

John started signing, and whereas most of the time people translated half sentences sequentially, V waited until he’d finished the whole report.

A couple of the Brothers muttered in the background as they shook their heads.

“In the library,” V ordered the King in a way John never could have. “You’re gonna wanna do this in the library.”

Wrong thing to say.

Wrath wheeled on the Brother and went for him with such speed and accuracy no one was prepared: One minute V was standing next to the King; the next he was defending himself against an attack that was as unprovoked as it was … well, vicious.

And then things went shit-wild.

Like Wrath knew he was on the thin edge of a bad ledge, he broke off from V, and went total wrecking ball on the billiards room. The first thing he ran into was the pool table Butch was chilling next to—and there was barely any time for the cop to get that ashtray up off the side rails: Wrath grabbed the gunnels and flipped the thing like it was nothing but a card table, the mahogany and slate-topped behemoth flying up so high, it wiped out the hanging light fixture above, its weight so great it splintered the marble floor beneath on landing.