by J. R. Ward
Rhage took out a cherry Tootsie Pop and unwrapped it. “Where’s our boy?”
Butch nodded past the parlor’s archway. Boone was over by the fireplace, looking like he was on autopilot as he talked to a well-heeled couple standing with him. When he glanced across the coiffed heads, he did a double take as he saw members of the Brotherhood, and he excused himself, weeding through the aristocratic females and males.
“You all are here,” he said softly.
Butch pulled the kid into a hard hug. “Wrath wanted to come as well, but it’s too much of a security risk. And the Band of Bastards also wish they could attend, but they’re guarding the King at home.”
Talk about your knock-down, drag-out fights. With Wrath, that was. The stay-home-sonny discussion had not gone well. After reasonable arguments to the King about being safe from assassination attempts failed, Vishous had threatened to duct-tape the last pure-bred vampire to his throne. Wrath had really lost his shit then—at which point V had mentioned that the sticky stuff worked really well on pieholes, too.
KA-BOOM.
Beth, a.k.a. the Big Gun, had eventually talked some sense into her hellren. Thank God.
“But Wrath’s here in spirit,” Rhage said as more hugs were exchanged.
Besides, apart from the security issues, Wrath’s presence would have been too much of a distraction. Instantly, the gathering would have become all about the King—and given what had happened at Throe’s party with that shadow attack? The last thing anybody needed was a bunch of aristocrats demanding to know what was being done to protect the species against this new enemy.
Especially because no one on the Brotherhood side knew much.
Across the way, the front door opened again, and as the trainees came in with their SOs, Boone took his leave and went to get some support from his contemporaries.
“They’re a good group of kids,” Tohr commented.
“The best,” Butch agreed.
Paradise, Craeg, Axe, Novo, and Peyton—along with Boone—had proven to be so much more than anybody could have hoped for. They were a tough lot, smart and resourceful, too, and they had been really handy as the war with the Lessening Society wound down, and this fresh crop of bad news appeared.
Butch shook his head as he made his way over to where the other brothers were. They had to find out more about those shadow entities—as well as what exactly had gone down at Throe’s house. Altamere’s death had been a line in the sand, a very visible, very widely reported event that had raised the profile of the shadow threat. Previously, the attacks had been one-offs. Boone’s sire’s slaying, on the other hand, had been in front of twenty-three other aristocrats in a private home. And then there had been the secondary death of Altamere’s shellan.
Talk about pieholes getting to work. Undoubtedly, phone lines had been burning up, and sooner or later, Wrath was going to have to say something about the situation.
But here was not the place and now was not the time.
On that note, Butch catalogued the aristocrats he was surrounded by. The fancy-dancy types were taking notice that brothers were in the house, all kinds of discreet pointing and commenting going on, a buzz rippling its way through the parlor. Except it was funny—or maybe not so surprising: Not one person who had been at that ill-fated party where Altamere had been killed was in attendance. Sure, there had been a small number of injuries during the shadow attack, but they had been relatively minor in nature, and with the way the species healed? All of those dandies would be back on their loafer’d and stiletto’d feet by now.
“Not a one of them showed up,” Rhage remarked around his Tootsie Pop.
“You read my mind,” Butch murmured.
“The aristocracy only likes scandal from a distance.”
“Pussies,” V announced. “Every one of them.”
As the trainees came over and greeted the Brotherhood, Butch couldn’t help noticing the two worlds that Boone straddled, his bloodline’s and his working life’s. And given the kid’s tight-lipped affect as he turned back to the aristocrats in that drawing room, it was pretty damn clear which one he preferred. Still, he was a good son for doing this—
When a blast of cold air announced a late-arriving attendee, Butch glanced over. A slender blond female with Jackie O sunglasses was coming in, her fine cashmere coat in its tasteful shade of coffee setting off a spectacular pair of legs and brand-new Louboutins. As she closed things behind herself, Butch could smell her tears.
Single female. Fantastic style. Obviously upset?
Sure enough, Boone was on it, immediately going back over and greeting her with a formal bow that she returned with a gracious nod. And then there was an awkward stillness between them, as if in their heads, they were hugging each other.
Well, well, well . . . didn’t this make a guy feel better about all the attention Boone had been paying to that female who was connected to the club deaths. Maybe he was merely being a concerned citizen with her. Clearly, the male had deep history with this lovely lady who had just come in—and he really cared about her, too. He seemed upset that she was obviously shaken by his father’s death.
Rhage leaned in and whispered, “Do I see love in the air over there?”
“They’d make a wicked good couple,” Butch said.
“True that,” V agreed. “I totally see the connection.”
Rhage rolled his eyes. “He writes one Agony Aunt column with my Mary, and he’s an expert on relationships.”
“I still think we should have used the barbecue sauce.”
“Mmmm, barbecue,” Rhage said with a sigh as he crunched into the chocolaty center of his lollipop. “I’m hungry.”
Butch had to laugh to himself. One good thing about his closest friends? You could depend on Rhage always wanting something to eat and V suggesting bodily harm as a conflict resolution and Tohr telling everyone to calm down.
It was good to know where things stood in this dangerous and confusing world they were all in.
SIXTEEN
Imust have gotten through the Fade Ceremony.
This was the thought that went through Boone’s mind as he signaled to the doggen on the periphery of the parlor that it was time for the food to be brought in and served. Yes, indeed . . . somehow it was apparently appropriate for the hors d’oeuvres to come out and the drinks to be offered and the conversational hour to commence.
As the doggen bowed and retreated to the kitchen, people stepped out of the horseshoe that had formed around the urn—and Boone found it impossible to remember what prayers he had said in the Old Language, what recitations had been repeated in a chorus by the assembled, what words of honor he, as the only son and next of kin, had paid to the now late, great Altamere.
“That was a marvelous service. You were most appropriate.”
He glanced down at the older female who addressed him. Whoever it was had on a black cocktail dress, three strands of pearls, and white kid gloves. Which meant she was pretty much interchangeable with all the other females of her generation in the room.
Who is she, he thought with panic.
Something came out of his mouth in response, some string of syllables, and hey, they must have made sense to her because the female said something back. And then she launched into a story, her carefully painted lips enunciating her words with deliberation as if she were used to, and expected, people to hang on her every sentence.
Meanwhile, Boone couldn’t translate a damn thing in any language he knew. Couldn’t feel his legs, either. Couldn’t feel . . . any part of his body.
In the back of his mind, as the parlor and its crowd of people seemed to retreat even further from his senses, he wondered if he’d had a psychotic breakdown. Maybe none of this was real? What if he were actually alone in this room and his brain had just sketched these people in from memory, figments of a hallucination that was even more frightening because none of it was under his control: He couldn’t stop this female from talking, and he couldn’t make them
all leave rightthisminute—
Oh, God, now his mouth was moving again. What was he saying?
It must have been “appropriate” because she reached out and gave his forearm a squeeze before taking her leave. There was no time to catch his breath. A male stepped up and offered his hand for a shake—and Boone was amazed that he could actually clasp that palm.
Considering the pair of them were standing seven thousand feet away from each other.
Cartoon characters. Everyone around him was not just two-dimensional; they were drawn rather than photographed, outlined in a simple fashion and filled in with primary colors so as to appeal to a young’s undiscriminating eye. They had no scents, no perfume or cologne, and their choice of cocktail, of wine, of seltzer . . . of caviar or canapé . . . of cigar or cigarette . . . was like a whisper at a concert, something that barely carried over the din from the main stage.
Beneath his suit, he perspired under his arms, and the collar and tie that had fit him just fine up on the second floor, before things had gotten underway, became now tight as a piano wire in a murderer’s hand.
He couldn’t breathe.
“—yes, but of course,” he heard himself say. Because you could use that phrase as a response to almost anything in the glymera.
Do you miss your father? Yes, but of course.
Are you keeping this house? Yes, but of course.
Is the will settled yet? Yes, but of course.
Whether he was answering truthfully didn’t matter. In fact, he could barely tell who he was speaking with, much less what they were inquiring of him—and that included when what appeared to be his fellow trainees and the Brothers and the other fighters came over to pay their respects and say goodbye.
As they left, he knew he couldn’t stand this one more goddamn minute—
“Boone. Look at me.”
He blinked . . . and finally saw someone properly. Rochelle was standing in front of him, and she was tugging at his sleeve with her gloved hand as if she had been attempting to get his attention for a moment.
Focusing on her face, he heard himself say, “I need to get these people out of the house.”
Rochelle removed her dark sunglasses. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, and he was touched that she cared so much about his father’s passing.
“Come with me,” she said. “You need a break from all this.”
She grabbed onto his suit’s sleeve and pulled him through the thinning crowd. As they left, everyone stared at them—yes, but of course—because of their history. And if he’d been in his right mind, he would have told his friend not to expose herself to the gossip.
Especially given that she led him right into the males’ room out in the foyer.
Unchaperoned.
Rochelle shut them both in the onyx expanse and eased him down into the leather settee by the marble hand sink. Putting her Longchamp bag aside, she pulled a monogrammed towel from a hanging rod and waved it in front of his face, the breeze she created cooling his flushed cheeks.
Absently, he noted that Rochelle had no mascara on and her eye shadow was smudged.
You are so kind, he thought.
“Do you want to loosen your tie?” she asked him.
“It’s not appropriate,” he mumbled. “We come out of this bathroom with my tie off? They’ll assume we had sex.”
Shit, that was blunt.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be crude.”
“Well, I don’t care what they think,” Rochelle said sharply. “And if you do, you can always re-knot it.”
Boone shook his head, even though he didn’t know what exactly he was responding to. He didn’t know anything. The good news, however, was that he gradually came to feel like Rochelle was actually standing in front of him. And soon on the heels of that revelation, he started to feel his feet and legs again: The numbness that had taken him over receded from the bottom up, his torso eventually reawakening, too, his shoulders coming back online, his head returning to regularly scheduled programming.
As he exhaled long and slow, Rochelle eased off with the fanning. “Your color is more normal now.”
“I don’t know what happened in there.”
“Panic attack.” She sat down next to him. “It happens.”
“Not very manly.”
“It’s not a question of strength. Anyone can feel stress.” Moving her purse into her lap, she took out a pack of Dunhill cigarettes and a gold lighter. “Do you mind?”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“No, no. It’s fine. I don’t care.”
As she went to light up, her gloved hand trembled. “The aristocracy frowns on females who smoke.”
Boone propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face. “It was really good of you to come.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this.”
“You really are a female of—” Boone frowned. “You’re crying.”
Stupid comment to make. Like she didn’t know? And yet she seemed surprised.
“Sorry.” She took the hand towel she’d used on him and put it on her eyes. “And you keep your handkerchief. I’ll use this.”
As he stared at her, he thought about that male of hers. The one who hadn’t stuck around. Who had failed her.
Who needed a good beating for deserting someone as worthy as she.
“It’s a Fade Ceremony,” she said as she took a deep breath. “I’m supposed to tear up.”
Getting to her feet, she walked into the toilet room and bent down to tap her ash into the bowl. As she straightened, she flipped a switch to activate the fan overhead and smoked with her head tilted back, her exhales directed toward the ceiling above her.
They stayed there, him on the settee, her in the doorway by the toilet, until she finished the cigarette and flicked the filter into the loo.
Flushing things, she said, “Shall we return to the fray—”
“I met someone,” he blurted.
Rochelle’s brows lifted. “You did?”
“Yes.”
As he measured the even cast to her voice and the open expression on her face, he realized he’d brought the subject up because he hadn’t wanted to mislead her. He was glad to see Rochelle and touched that she cared so much about his sire’s death—and maybe if he hadn’t met Helania, he might have tried to start something with her.
But Helania had changed everything.
“That’s wonderful.” Rochelle came back over and reached into her purse. Taking out a roll of Certs, she offered him one first. “When did this happen?”
He took the mint because it gave his hands something to do. And actually, as wintergreen filled his mouth, it woke him up some.
“Very recently.” He purposely did not count the matter of hours, versus nights or months, it had been. “I feel . . . I think I’m in love with her. It sounds crazy, but it’s where I’m at. I’m in love.”
“You are?” Rochelle smiled. “Do I know her?”
“No, you don’t.”
Boone hesitated. He was so not ready to see the discrimination their class was so well known for in Rochelle’s face or attitude. He didn’t want to be disappointed by her.
Except he wasn’t about to hide anything about the one he wanted. “She’s a civilian.”
“Really?” Surprise flared in Rochelle’s eyes. “Not one of us?”
“No,” he said. “She’s not an aristocrat.”
Rochelle’s stare dropped to the floor, and he braced himself for her response. Damn it, he thought his friend was better than that. More decent than—
“I fell in love with a civilian, too,” she said in a tight voice.
As Boone inhaled sharply, she nodded and smiled sadly. “Yes. Not one of us, either.”
“Why didn’t you say?” he asked.
“How could I have?” She took another deep breath. “Although if I’d known you were this open-minded . . . I might have spoken more
about things to you.”
“Did it not work out because of the class difference?”
Rochelle closed her eyes. And then she started to weep openly, an emotion wracking her slim body so hard he worried it would tear her in half.
SEVENTEEN
When Helania’s phone went off with a text about twenty minutes before sunrise, she tossed her needlepoint to the side and grabbed the thing off the sofa before the bing! even faded. When she saw who it was, she smiled—until she opened the message. She read the words twice. And then again.
Putting the iPhone aside, she stared straight ahead. For like, two seconds.
Her hand slapped back on the cell, and she typed out a quick response. Hitting Send, she bolted up off the couch and ran to the bathroom. Flipping on the light, she brushed her teeth, and before she could think better of it, she freed her hair from its band, spreading the red and gold waves over her shoulders.
And then she fluffed them.
She actually . . . fluffed . . . her hair. But it did look even better, framing her small face, giving her character she felt she otherwise lacked.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she remembered all the nights Isobel had stood in this exact spot and scrubbed her short hair until it had spiked up. In the background, there had always been Beatles songs playing. Maybe some Bob Dylan. Sometimes Bob Marley.
Isobel had joked when Justin Bieber had come out and she’d liked one of his releases that clearly there had to be a B involved for her to get on board with the downloads.
Frowning, Helania lowered her hands, resting them on the sink’s edge. For no good reason, she considered the amount of time she spent thinking about her sister: What Isobel had done. What she had thought. What she had liked and disliked.
Remembering the dead probably wasn’t a bad thing, especially when you were in the early stages of grief. The problem was . . . she had always done that. Even before Isobel’s untimely, violent death, she had felt more comfortable sitting on the sidelines of life and experiencing things in a filtered fashion, her sister living on the outside and bringing stories home.
Movies, in effect. Except the events and the people actually existed.