The King

“Will he get these, too?” So many names, she thought. “Or because I’m his mother, is he not allowed—”

“Fuck that shit. He can abso get them—and I’ll have V do it. But only if he wants them.”

“I’m surprised.”

“About?”

“How much I want him to. I want him to be just like you.”

There was a long pause and Wrath had to clear his throat. “That’s just about the best compliment anyone’s ever paid me.”

“I don’t know … I just feel like you’re the perfect man.”

“Now you’re making me blush.”

She laughed in a rush. “It’s true.”

“I curse. Constantly. I have a short temper. I order people around—including you.”

“You’re also a great fighter. Great lover—although my son will never, ever have sex—nope, not going there, and if we have grandchildren, they will be immaculately conceived. Wait, where was I—oh, yeah, so you’re also very loyal. You’ve never looked at another woman.”

Wrath put his index finger up. “And that would be true even if I could see.”

“And you’re smart. Great-looking—”

He leaned in. “Are you trying to butter me up so I’ll have sex with you?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.” He kissed her lips softly. “Just give me a little time. Only yesterday you were rushed to the doc’s because you were throwing up.”

She ran her hand down his cheek and his hard jaw. “I’ll wait for you. Always.”

“I’m glad.” He sat back. “So how’s the stomach? You want food? The doctor said we need to put some weight on you, right?”

“Nothing appeals. But I will try some of those saltines and ginger ale in a bit. Layla swore by them.”

“Good deal. When do you go back to the doc again?”

“Well, that was the other part of the appointment. iAm had to work a little magic on the poor woman—naturally, my bloodwork was nothing they’d ever seen before, although the pregnancy hormone numbers turned out to be right enough. She wanted me back in a month, unless anything changes. Doc Jane said she was going to try to get an ultrasound machine for the clinic—they have some portable equipment for ortho stuff, but there isn’t one specifically for pregnancy that does three-D imaging. Unfortunately, that stuff’s going to be hella expensive—”

“Whatever they need, they get.”

Beth nodded and fell into silence.

After a moment, she picked up her husband’s big hand and rubbed her thumb up and over that black diamond of his.

“What are you going to do tonight?” Even though she knew the answer.

“I’m going to hit my desk.”

She smiled. “I love when you say that now.”

“You know … me too.” He shrugged. “It’s funny, I felt really inadequate in that job. You know, when compared to my father, blah, blah, blah. But I was the one who didn’t approve of me, not him. And I don’t know, I’ve kinda let that bullshit go.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing.” He frowned. “I just wish there was some way to—I don’t know, I liked helping that foreman. And there are more like him out there—there have to be. I don’t know how to get to them, though. My father used to be all in with that shit, talking to people—real people, not that glymera bullshit—”

Beth sat up in a rush. “I have an idea. I know exactly what to do.”

He glanced over at her—and the slow smile that hit his face was the sexiest thing about him. “You know what?” he said. “I love your mind. I totally do.”

Wrath swung his leg out and around, bringing it in a full circle. And contact was made exactly where he wanted it—high up, and in the face.

Tohrture went with the impact, swinging in a circle, wielding his sword in concert so that the blade flashed right up close to Wrath’s chest. Except it didn’t quite make the distance. No blood was drawn, no clothing cut.

But Wrath knew better than to enjoy the small victory. Flipping backward off his feet, he somersaulted in midair and landed solidly, setting his fighting stance, raising both his daggers—

“Drop both blades,” Ahgony barked.

Without missing a beat, he threw them away, confronting his opponent barehanded.

Tohrture came at him holding nothing back, neither speed nor strength, and Wrath became very still. At the last second, as the Brother’s war cry was sounded out and echoed in the torchlit cave, Wrath flattened to the ground and caught the fighter at the ankles with an explosive lunge.

Tohrture fell forward—and as Wrath had learned, the last thing you wanted was a Brother with a sword in his hands on top of you. Scrambling himself out of the way, he jumped back to his feet. This was critical. Always back to your feet.

Tohrture was the same, upright a moment later, sword held high, eyes level. Both of them were breathing hard, and now, after how many fortnights into training, Wrath wasn’t the only one with bruises.

The sword made a throaty whistle as Tohrture began to twirl it front to back on both sides of his massive upper body.

Wrath wasn’t even aware of the assessments he was making—where the weight of his opponent was apportioned, where those eyes were looking, how the small muscle groups were contracting. But it was all part of his training, things that had once seemed foreign and were becoming second nature—

From out of nowhere, he was attacked from the back, an enormous weight taking him down to the floor. Before he could draw air, he was flipped over and held by the throat as a spiked glove made a fist.

Crack!

The impact stunned him senseless, his arms flopping to the packed-dirt floor.

“Call!” Ahgony yelled out.

Instantly, the weight was off him, Night jumping back out of the way, his face showing concern the now, not aggression.

Wrath forced himself to roll over and brace his upper body off the ground. Struggling to breathe through his bleeding mouth, he let the sanguinary rush clear out onto the dirt flooring with gravity’s aid.

The pain had flared red-hot in his face, and as he waited for it to fade, he remembered back in the beginning of all this—how the sensation of injury had once flustered him, scared him, distracted him. No more of that. Now he knew the pattern of relief: how the numbness would inevitably come, how soon enough his mind would clear and he would be back on his feet.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

His blood was bright red as it formed a widening puddle under his face.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Ahgony announced. “Fine effort, sire.”

Wrath pushed himself up upon his knees so his torso was upright. He knew better than to attempt to stand yet. His skull was too light for that. Wait … wait …

“Here, sire, allow me,” Night said, offering his palm.

“Shall we call for the healer?” someone said.

Wrath closed his eyes and felt his body caving in. But then he pictured his beloved shellan, lying on their bedding platform, her skin the color of clouds.

Standing up on his own, he spit the remaining blood out of his mouth. “Again,” he told the assembled. “We do it … again.”

There was a beat of pause, the torchlight flickering over the other males in the secret training cave.

And then the Brothers bowed unto him in a way he had noticed they had recently started doing—not courtly, no, as it was not when greeting and leaving, as was aristocratic custom.

This was with respect.

“As you wish, my lord,” Ahgony said. Before shouting once again, “Call!”

SIXTY-EIGHT

“Wither goest thou?”

Abalone paused in the process of pulling on his coat. Closing his eyes, he composed his expression before he turned around and faced his daughter.

“Nowhere, my darling.” He smiled. “Are you proceeding about your lessons—”

“Why this letter?” She tapped the opened envelope in her palm. “Where are you going.”

He thought of the proclamation that hung above the fireplace. The one that bore his father’s name. And then worried over what she held in her delicate hand.

“I was summoned unto the King,” he said tightly. “I must obey.”

His daughter paled, crossing her arms around herself. “Are you coming back.”

“I do not know.” Walking over, he reached out and pulled her close. “That is up to his majesty…”

“Do not go!”

“You shall be provided for.” Assuming the assets once given to his father by the current King’s sire remained hers. But even then, he had hidden much in secret places. “Fedricah knows all and shall care for you.” He stepped back. “I cannot shame our bloodline. Your future depends upon this.”

If he did not make good on his cowardly action, he knew she could be next. And that he would not abide.

“Be well,” he told her in a shaken voice.

“Father!” she screamed as he turned and headed to the door.

Nodding at the butler, he couldn’t watch as the doggen stepped in and held his daughter back.

Outside, he could still hear his beloved young yelling his name and wailing. And it was a while before he was able to summon the concentration to dematerialize—although eventually, it happened.

Proceeding unto the address that had been given to him, he re-formed in front of …

Well, if this was where he was to be executed, it was an elegant enough place to lose one’s life. The mansion was in the very best part of Caldwell, a Federal beauty with light glowing out of all of its windows and a cheerful lantern hanging in front of a beckoning entrance.

He could see figures moving inside. Large ones.

With fear tightening his throat and weakening his knees, he walked up to the front door. There was a button for chiming by the brass door handle, and as soon as he hit it, the broad portal was opened wide.

“Hi! You must be Abalone?”

All he could do was blink. The brunette in front of him was wearing loose clothes, her hair curling at the ends, her bright, blue eyes friendly and attentive.

“I’m Beth.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m really happy you came.”

He looked down at her hand and frowned. Was that … the Saturnine Ruby on her finger? Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was the—

Abalone fell to his knees before her, bowing his head nearly to the polished floor. “Your Highness, I am not worthy of—”

Two massive black boots came into his vision. “Hey, my man. Thanks for coming.”

This had to be a dream.

Abalone lifted his eyes up, up, way up … the most tremendous male vampire he had e’er beheld. And indeed, with that long black hair and those wraparound sunglasses, he knew exactly who it was.

“Your Highness, I—”

“No offense, but could you get up? I’d like to shut this door. My wife is getting cold.”

Scrambling off the floor, he realized he’d forgotten to remove his hat. With a jerky move, he ripped it from his head and put it in front of his body.

And then all he could do was look back and forth—and then behind, as two males so huge that they had to be Brothers, moved chairs across the foyer.

“Is this him?” the splendidly handsome one asked.

“Yup,” the King replied, sweeping his arm to the right. “Let’s go in here, Abe—”

“Are you going to kill me?” Abalone blurted without moving.

The queen’s brows popped. “No. Good God, no—why would we do that?”

Wrath put a hand on Abalone’s shoulder. “I need you alive, buddy. I need your help.”

Convinced he was going to wake up at any moment, Abalone followed numbly into a lovely room that must have been for dining purposes, given its crystal chandelier and prominent fireplace. There was no long thin table, however, no row of chairs, no sideboard for serving. Instead, in front of the hearth, a pair of armchairs had been angled to face each other, and there were other comfortable sofas and seats set off to the side. A desk had been arranged in the near corner, at which there was a handsome blond male in a natty three-piece suit shuffling papers around.

“Have a seat, Abe,” the King said as he himself took one of the armchairs.

Abalone obliged—’twas far better than a guillotine, after all.

The King smiled, his harsh, aristocratic face warming some. “I don’t know how much you know about my father. But he used to do audiences with commoners. My wife read your e-mail the night of that Council meeting—and you mentioned you work with an organization of them?”

Abalone looked back and forth between the King and his mate, who had taken a seat on one of the other padded chairs—and was pouring herself a ginger ale.

The pair of them lied, he thought suddenly. They were very much together, their deference and devotion to one another obvious.

“Abe?”

“Ah…” Not at all what he had expected from this on any level—although he was o’erjoyed at the idea the glymera had been thwarted. “Yes, but it’s … it’s more of a loose affiliation, really. There are issues that need sorting, and—not that I was trying to step into your role—”

The King put up his hands. “Hey, I’m grateful. I just want to help.”

Abalone swallowed past a dry throat.

“You want a soda?” someone asked.

It was a Brother with jet-black hair, a goatee, and icy silver eyes—as well as a set of tattoos on one of his temples.