The King

“Answer me,” he said gently. “Speak the truth so that we both may hear it aloud.”

“But what is done is done, and—”

He reached out and tilted her chin back up with the softest of touches. “Say it. You must hear your own truth—and I promise you I have taken harder arrows than it.”

Tears welled in her eyes, rendering them luminous, like moonlight upon the surface of a lake. “No. I would not.”

He felt his body sway, surely as if it had been struck. But as promised, he stayed standing through the agony. “Then my answer to you is no. Even if there was a way to undo all this with your King—and there is not—I will never take you against your will.”

“But I choose this. It is my choice.”

Xcor shook his head. “Only through the prompting of something else.”

He took a step back. “You should get back to…” He looked around at the mist, still totally lost. “Where’er ’tis you go.”

“You want me.” Now her voice was steady and sure. “I can sense it.”

“Of course I do. But not as a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. My fantasy … is not that.”

“Does the reasoning matter?”

“Some gifts are more painful than insults.” He went to turn away from her, and found himself immobile. “Especially when there is naught to be done about your Wrath. He has been replaced.”

“If you removed one rightful King, you can remove another. You can put Wrath back.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“Please.”

Her steadfastness angered him, even though it was a virtue, he supposed. “Why does it matter so much to you. Your life shall not change. You shall be safe here—or where’er. The Brotherhood is not dismantled—”

“They will come for you.”

“Then we will kill them. I am hoping they shall see the benefits of bowing out gracefully.”

Indeed, he couldn’t believe he was saying that. But to not disturb her, he would let them and Wrath live—provided they did not get in his way.

Layla shook her head. “Their loyalty will not allow that.” Her hands lifted to her cheeks and pressed in as if she were imagining the horror. “There will be war anew. Because of you.”

“Then hate me. ’Twill be better for the both of us if you do.”

She stared at him for the longest time. “I fear I cannot do that.”

Xcor did his best to ignore the way his heart skipped. “I shall take my leave.”

“How did you find this place?”

“I followed you home not long ago. You were in the car, returning from the clinic. I was worried over you.”

“And why … did you come tonight?”

“I must go.”

“Don’t.”

For a moment, he played out a dream whereby she said that and meant it for him personally. And not just in the hopes of persuading him over to her position.

That folly did not last. Especially as he pictured himself terrorizing that wounded human man in the deserted restaurant, for no other reason than that he could—and then remembered removing the spines of all those lessers and delivering them unto which member of the aristocracy? As if the recipient was even significant. After which he recalled decapitating slayers. Stabbing them in the gut. Breaking off their limbs …

There were so many acts of violence in his background.

As well as the depravity of what he’d been through in the Bloodletter’s war camp.

On top of which was his face.

He meant to just start walking down the incline. Unlike her, he could not dematerialize—he had tried repeatedly to expedite the ascent thusly and failed in this fog.

Yes, he meant to leave her behind. For all the reasons he’d spelled out to her and also those he kept to himself.

Instead, he heard himself say, “Meet me under the maple tree. Midnight tomorrow.”

“For what”—she pulled her parka closer as if she were to be eaten alive—“purpose?”

“Not what you are worried about.”

Now he did pivot and start walking—until his thought processes cleared enough to stop him. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Chosen. Do you know the way home?”

“Oh, yes … of course…” Except as she glanced around, she seemed to grow confused. “Yes, it’s right over…”

She did not pause to hide her words. She honestly did not appear to know where she was.

Closing his eyes, he cursed. He should never have come herein—ever.

For what if he left her here alone, and she did not find shelter afore the sun rose? What if they were halfway to where she needed to be?

Putting his hands on his hips, he tilted his head back and searched the heavens, thinking maybe they could offer him some common sense—because he’d clearly lost his.

Of all the ways for me to die, he thought …

He’d never once considered it would be over a female.

As Trez surveyed the Goth crowd in the Iron Mask, he couldn’t say he was thrilled to be back in the saddle again. His business had always been important to him—well, first it had been Rehv’s gig; then when the Reverend had bowed out—or more like blown his way out—Trez had taken over the whole club enterprise. And yet, whether the place had been his or Rehv’s, he’d loved running the operations, dealing with the people, planning for new sites, watching his money grow. Yeah, sure, the humans were a pain in the ass, but that was true whether you were driving in your car, shopping in a supermarket, or trying to make a living.

Granted, the drugs and drinking really didn’t help that last one, but whatever …

Tonight, though, as he watched the dozen or so working girls make the rounds, sitting on laps, flirting, taking men by the hand and disappearing into the private bathrooms … he was sickened by it all.

Especially as he thought about what he’d agreed to do for s’Ex.

Man, it was so tempting to assume that he’d solved the problem … that keeping the executioner happy was going to make it all go away.

Wrong.

The thing was, he just kept thinking that if he only had more time, he’d find a way out.

“Any chance you’re looking for me?”

The human female standing in front of him had long black hair—natch, so many of them did up in here—and a body that was curvy as a racetrack. Likely just as fast. And with skin artificially paled to the point of flour and lips painted the color of blood, she was a wannabe vampire in a world of posers, all juiced up on a persona likely birthed from a bipolar emotional landscape.

Not that he was generalizing or anything.

“No,” he said. “I’m not looking for you.”

“You sure?” She did a little turn in front of him, flashing her bubble ass. “’Cause I’m worth the search.”

In his mind’s eye, all he could see was his Chosen, laid out before him, so beautiful and clean.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he turned and walked away.

After Selena had left him and iAm in the kitchen together, she hadn’t come back: When everyone had been called down to the dining room to hear the horrible news about the King, he’d expected to see her there. No-go.

And he wanted to head up to Rehv’s great camp to see her. Things between them were too open-ended for his liking, but he had the sense that getting down to the nitty-gritty was going to make him feel worse.

Her as well.

He really just needed to let the whole sitch with her go—

From across the way, one of the professional whores, a brunette in skin-tight red leather, met his eye, and he did a quick head-to-toe on her.

Yeah, he thought. She’d do.

When he motioned for her to come over, she was more than happy to weed through the crowd and close the distance. “Hey, boss.”

Shit, he really, totally hated doing this. “I got a private client I need some special services for. You interested?”

“Always.” She glanced around. “Is he here tonight?”

“Remote location. Tomorrow at noon. I’m going to ask two others.”

“Fun. Don’t bother with Willow, though, okay? She’s been a pain in the ass lately.”

“Roger that.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, boss.” She smiled and gave him a hip check. “I’ll be sure your buddy has a great time.”

As she sauntered away, Trez thought about maybe, possibly … yeah, pretty much definitely … ralphing his dinner all over the polished black floor.

In search of fresh air, he made his way to the entrance, and fronted like he was merely checking in with Ivan and the new guy at the head of the wait line. And then he just started walking, hoofing it in no particular direction even though he didn’t have a coat on and his Ferragamos were not good on the slick sidewalks.

In his solitude, he was far from alone: thoughts of Selena, his brother, his parents, crowded the space around him, making him consider seriously the merits of getting f**king plastered.

iAm had told him that the deal made with s’Ex was a dumb-ass f**king idea. And then promptly headed back for the kitchen to make cacciatore.

Still, all things considering, that convo had actually gone so much better than some of their others of late—

“You wanna buy some crack? H?”

Cocking an eyebrow, Trez glanced over at a white guy who was lounging up against the far side of a tattoo parlor. Classy.

Just as he opened his mouth to tell the guy f**k, no—the wind changed direction and he got hit in the face with a cream pie full of lesser scent.

It stopped him dead in his tracks.

“So what’ll it be?” the slayer asked him.

Trez looked left and right for no particular reason—other than he was suddenly interested in buying something he was never going to use from an a**hole who had no clue he was talking to the enemy.

Stepping into the darkness, Trez put his hand in the pocket of his slacks like he was going for his wallet. “How much?”

“For which one.”

Trez kept up the ruse, glancing around like he was nervous. Up close, this was defo a lesser, the sweet stench so much worse than a seven-day-no-shower human working in a sweatshop—who just happened to be doused in baby powder.

And smuggling a dead raccoon under each armpit.

“Both. Hey, you mind if we step a little farther in?”

The slayer turned away and started quoting prices as he moved deeper into the shop’s side alley. He did not make it to the cash-changing-hands part of the transaction.

Trez took control easily, coming at the bastard from behind, grabbing onto the head and snapping it around so that the only thing keeping it on the spine was the skin. Catching the deadweight by the torso, he pushed the slayer behind a stack of pallets and started going through pockets.

Ten baggies of powder. Twenty or so rocks—small scale. Seven hundred in cash, roughly.

Not major leagues. In fact, hardly remarkable for this part of town—except for the lesser part.

Shoving the still-moving corpse to the ground, he took out his phone and dialed up a number. It was answered on the third ring.

“Butch?” he said. “Hey, buddy—whatchup to? Uh-huh. Yeah. Right.” He eyeballed the slayer and thought the sluggish machinations of the arms and legs were totally fly-on-a-windowsill. “Well, I got a friend I’d like you to meet. Nah, not the kind you’d want to bring home for dinner. Yeah, he’s going nowhere. Take your time.”

After he hung up, he looked at the packets in his palm. They were marked with the death symbol—in the Old Language.

Someone in the race was dealing, big-time. And they were working with the enemy to do it.

Next question? Who the f**k was it.

FORTY-SIX

It was getting close to dawn when Beth decided she just had to leave her and Wrath’s set of rooms. He hadn’t come back yet, and the prospect of spending another minute with the chaos in her mind was enough to make her want to take a bridge.

First stop? Layla’s room, but the Chosen wasn’t there. Probably a good thing as she supposed all she would have done was bug the poor female about early pregnancy symptoms—which was nuts on two accounts: One, if she had conceived, she was what, like twenty-four hours into it, tops? And two, Layla had had that horrible near-miscarriage.

Not exactly a good comp—if Beth didn’t want to drive herself completely insane.

Walking back down the hall of statues, she figured … kitchen. Yeah, the kitchen was a good next stop—assuming she didn’t want to bug Wrath down in the training center’s weight room.

He clearly needed some space.

As she hit the grand staircase, she was finding it impossible not to parallel-process reality. The first layer was what was in front of her: Wrath and the dethroning, the sad quietness in the house, the stress over what the race’s future held. The second level was wholly internal and completely physical: a twinge in her pelvis—was it implantation … or the coming of her period, which would mean no-go?; an ache in her br**sts—symptom of conception … or the result of all that sex?; hot flashes—the residual of the hormonal imbalance … or flannel?

Only the severity of the situation they were in thanks to the Council’s actions kept her from devolving completely into her body’s minutiae. And meanwhile, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t know whether she hoped she was pregnant … or hoped she wasn’t.

Actually, that was a lie.

Putting her hand over her lower belly, she found herself praying that it hadn’t worked. The only thing worse than Wrath losing the throne … was him finding out he was going to be a father right afterward.