The Savior
Wrath’s nostrils flared once more. And then the King nodded. “This is the truth as you know it. Now you are being truthful.”
Boon threw up his hands in defeat. “I keep telling my sire not to go. I’m trying to talk to him—but he is … he has never really been interested in my opinion.” Boone looked around at the Brotherhood again. “And listen, I could be wrong. This could all be paranoia on my part—in which case I’ve embarrassed myself, called into question the loyalty of my father, and brought shame upon my bloodline.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about any of that, son.” Wrath shook his head. “We’re pretty goddamn familiar with Throe and his little party planning committee. Even if there’s nothing going on, you have not wasted our time, and your loyalty to me is never going to be forgotten.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Boone said baldly.
Jesus, what a position to be in, John thought. In the Old Laws, treason against the King was punishable by death.
So this son might well have put his father’s head on the chopping block.
“Come here, solider mine.” Wrath extended his long arm, the tattoos of his lineage flashing on the underside. Switching into the Old Language, he said, “Approach and present your fealty, young male.”
The trainee strode over and lowered down onto his knees. Bending forward, he kissed the enormous black diamond on Wrath’s hand.
“My allegiance unto you and your throne, forevermore,” Boone said in a voice that cracked.
Wrath sat up and reached around his dog. Placing his broad hand on the side of Boone’s face, he said in his deep voice, “Your loyalty brings honor upon the quick and the dead of your bloodline. This shall not be forgotten by me, and shall be held as a service unto both the throne and my personage. Go forth and know that you have performed a vital function unto your King, about which I shall not forget.”
Switching back into English, Wrath continued, “This really is not your fault, son. So don’t blame yourself. No matter what happens, you did the only thing you could.”
“I would beg for you mercy on my sire’s behalf,” Boone mumbled as he stared up into the King’s face. “But I’m afraid he may not deserve it.”
“That’s his choice. Not your responsibility.”
Boone nodded and got back to his feet. After bowing again to Wrath, he turned to the Brotherhood and did the same. Then Abalone escorted him out, closing the doors behind the two of them quietly.
No one spoke. The Brothers all just stared at Wrath, who sat there with his dog in his lap, stroking, stroking … stroking.
After the front door to the house opened and shut, Abalone came back into the dining room, and re-closed things even though there was nobody else except for loyal doggen in the mansion.
“Go scope out the place tonight,” Wrath ordered. “And I want a full complement of fighters there tomorrow.”
Vishous stabbed the hand-rolled he’d been smoking out on the sole of his shitkicker. “I’ll plant some mics around the exterior right before dawn.”
“What do we tell Xcor?” Tohr said. “My brother is going to want to know about this. I mean Throe was his second in command for a century.”
“Xcor can be there tomorrow if he wants.” Wrath cursed. “But the rest of the Band of Bastards needs to be downtown. We can’t let off the Lessening Society even for a night. We’re so close to the end of this fucking war.”
“The trainees can cover territory, if they’re supervised by the Bastards,” Tohr said. “We definitely need the full Brotherhood at that house and John and Blay, too. If this is a coup, it’s going to have to be dealt with then and there.”
“You’re goddamn right about that.” Wrath looked around at the group. “If it turns out they’re plotting against me? I want them all dead. Are we clear? You kill them where they stand. I’m done with this glymera shit.”
John whistled so that everyone looked at him. How about Murhder? He could help if we need more fighters.
There was an awkward silence. And then Tohr said, “I appreciate your loyalty to the guy. But—”
I’ve seen him fight. He’s a total badass.
“What’s John saying,” Wrath snapped. “Will someone please fucking translate.”
Standing off to the side of shAdoWs’s dance area, Xhex was smiling. Even though the purple lasers pierced her eyeballs, and the music made her eardrums pound, and the humans who were drunk, high, and hyper-sexed required constant oversight, she was GloLite happy. Positively radiant on the inside. Downright fucking cheerful.
Like, greeting card cheerful.
She might as well have a pink bow in her hair and be wearing fuzzy slippers—
As a fight broke out between two men, one of them got shoved in her direction, his arms pinwheeling, his balance going off-kilter, his sloppy feet tap dancing to the tune of “Too Much Coke, and That Wasn’t My Girlfriend I Just Grinded On.”
Xhex caught him with both hands and stood him back up. “You want to stop or go back in?”
The guy looked across at the steaming hot pile of I’ma-fuck-you-up who was waiting for round two. “I want to fight him! I can do what I want! She weren’t nothing—”
“Roger that. Have at it.”
Xhex obligingly shoved him back at the guy who was probably going to use his face as a punching bag—oh, yup. Here we go, melee time.
“I thought you were supposed to stop things like this?”
She turned and looked up at Tohr. “Hey! How are you?”
“Aren’t you security?” They clapped hands. “I mean, not that I’m complaining. I love watching amateurs—oh, ground time.”
The two combatants hit the floor, all sloppy, flappy hands, and bronco bucking butts.
“I’ll give you five bucks on the one with the yellow shirt,” Xhex said.
Tohr took out his wallet. Checked his money. “You got it, but you’re going to have to break a hundy. It’s all I got.”
“No worries.”
They hung back and waited for the outcome to arrive. Which it artificially did when one of her bouncers stepped in and pulled apart the two snarling tomcats.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she pulled her fold of bills out of her ass pocket. “Why do I only hire people who insist on doing their job.”
As a second bouncer came over and the two combatants were ushered out to the Buck Stops Here room in the back, Tohr put her fiver into his wallet.
“So you wanted to see me?” he said.
“Yeah.” Fun time was now over. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Trez around?” the Brother asked as they headed over to the staircase to the office. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“He’s here and there.”
“That Selena thing …”
“Horrible. Just awful. If there actually is someone running this show from up above, they need to make that right.” She stopped halfway up the steps. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to suggest that Wellsie’s death isn’t … shit. Fuck.”
Tohr took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s okay. I know what you mean. And everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”