by J. R. Ward
Either outcome was acceptable.
It was all set, which was why Montrag had called his closest friend just now.
Taking the affidavit, he folded it in on itself, and slid it into a thick, creamy envelope. Drawing a page of his personalized stationery from an embossed leather box, he penned a quick missive to the male who he would tap as his second in command, and cemented the stage for Rehvenge’s fall. In the note, he explained that, as they’d discussed over the phone, this was what he had found in his father’s private papers—and if the document was validated, he was concerned for the future of the council.
Naturally, the thing would be verified by the law office of his colleague. And by the time it was, Wrath would be dead and Rehv poised for blame.
Montrag lit a stick of red wax, dripped some of it on the envelope’s flap, and sealed the affidavit in. On the front, he wrote the male’s name, and in the Old Language spelled out HAND DELIVERY ONLY; then he closed up and locked the metal box, tucking it under his desk, and returning the key to its safe place in the secret drawer.
A button on the phone summoned the butler, who took the envelope and immediately headed off to complete the task of getting it into the correct hands.
Satisfied, Montrag took the lockbox over to the wall safe, pivoted the painting outward, put his father’s combination to use, and returned the remaining affidavit to its home: Keeping one copy for himself was only prudent, a safeguard in the event something happened to the document that was on its way across the border into Rhode Island.
As he eased the Turner back into place, the landscape spoke to him as always, and for a moment, he allowed himself to step out of the bedlam he was creating with purpose and seep into the peaceful, lovely sea. The breeze would be warm, he thought.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, how he missed the summer during these cold months, but then, it was contrast that enlivened the heart. Without the cold of winter, one would not truly appreciate the sultry nights of July and August.
He pictured where he would be in six months when a full solstice moon rose o’er Caldwell’s sprawling city. Come June, he would be king, an elected and respected monarch. If only his father had been alive to see—
Montrag coughed. Breathed in with a hiccup. Felt something wet on his hand.
He looked down. Blood was all over the front of his white shirt.
Opening his mouth to shout in alarm, he tried to draw in a deep breath, but there was only a gurgling sound—
His hands snapped up to his neck and found a geyser jumping free of his exposed carotid artery. Wheeling around, he saw a female standing before him with a man’s haircut and black leathers. The knife in her hand had a red blade, and her face was a calm mask of detached disinterest.
Montrag fell to his knees before her and then pitched over to his right, his hands still trying to keep his lifeblood in his body and not all over his father’s Aubusson.
He was still alive when she rolled him over, took out a rounded tool made of ebony, and knelt down to him.
As an assassin, Xhex’s job performance was measured in two dimensions. First, did she get her target? Self-explanatory. Second, was it a clean kill? Meaning, was there no collateral damage in the form of other deaths to protect herself, her identity, and/or the identity of the individual who had tasked her with the job.
In this case, the first was going to be a snap, given the way Montrag’s artery was doing the drainpipe. The second was still open to question, so she needed to work fast. She took the lys out of her leathers, bent over to the bastard, and didn’t waste more than a nanosecond watching his eyes roll around.
She grabbed his chin and forced his face to hers. “Look at me. Look at me.”
His wild stare shot to hers, and when it did, she brought the lys forward. “You know why I’m here and who sent me. It’s not Wrath.”
Montrag clearly had enough air still going to his brain, because his lips mouthed, Rehvenge, in horror, before those eyeballs of his started rolling again.
She let go of his chin and slapped him hard. “Pay attention, asshole. Look at me.”
With their stares locked and her grip back on his jaw, she peeled the upper and lower lids of his left eye even wider. “Look at me.”
As she took the lys and pressed it into the socket at the corner near his nose, she reached into his brain and triggered all sorts of memories. Ah…interesting. He’d been a conniving fucker for real, specializing in screwing people about money.
Montrag’s hands slapped into the rug and dug in hard as he gurgled his way through a scream. The eyeball came out of the skull like a scoop of honeydew off its rind, as perfectly round and clean as you’d want. The right eye was just the same, and she put both of them in a lined velvet pouch as Montrag’s arms and legs jerked and flopped on his expensive rug, his lips peeling back such that every single one of his teeth including his molars showed.
Xhex left him to his sloppy death, walking right out of the French door behind the desk and dematerializing to the maple she’d first cased the place from the day before. She waited there for about twenty minutes and then watched as a doggen entered the study, saw the body, and dropped the silver tray she was carrying.
As the teapot and the china bounced, Xhex cocked her phone open, hit send, and put the thing to her ear. When Rehv’s deep voice answered she said, “It’s done and they’ve found him. Kill was clean and I’m bringing you the souvenir. ETA ten minutes.”
“Well-done,” Rehv said in a husky voice. “Well-fucking-done.”
TWENTY-THREE
Wrath frowned as he spoke into his cell phone. “Now? You want me to come upstate now?”
Rehv’s voice was all about the I’m-not-fucking-around. “This has to be done in person, and I’m immobile.”
Across the study, Vishous, who had been about to report on the work he’d been doing tracking those crates of guns, mouthed, What the fuck?
Which was exactly what Wrath was thinking. A symphath calls you two hours before dawn and asks you to come upstate because he has “something he needs to give you.” Yeah, okay, the bastard was Bella’s brother, but his nature was what it was and sure as shit, the “something” was not a fruit basket.
“Wrath, this is important,” the guy said.
“Okay, I’m coming right now.” Wrath clipped his phone shut and looked at Vishous. “I’m—”
“Phury’s out hunting tonight. You can’t go there alone.”
“The Chosen are in the house.” And had been staying off and on at Rehv’s Great Camp since Phury had taken the reins as Primale.
“Not exactly the kind of protection I had in mind.”
“I can handle myself, fuck you very much.”
V crossed his arms over his chest, his diamond eyes flashing. “Are we going now? Or after you waste time trying to change my mind?”
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll meet you in the foyer in five.”
As they left the study together, V said, “About those guns? I’m still working on the trace. Right now, I’ve got nothing, but you know me. That ain’t going to last, true. I don’t care if the serial numbers are scrubbed, I’m going to find out where the hell they got them.”
“Confidence is high, my brother. Confidence is very high.”
After they were fully armed, the two of them traveled in a loose dance of molecules up north, zeroing in on Rehv’s Great Camp in the Adirondacks and materializing on the shores of a quiet lake. Up ahead, the house was a huge rambler of a Victorian, shingled and diamond paned, with cedar-post porches on both stories.
Lot of corners. Lot of shadows. And a lot of those windows looked like eyes.
The mansion was spooky enough on its own, but with it surrounded by a force field of the symphath equivalent of mhis, a guy could credibly believe that Freddy, Jason, Michael Myers, and that redneck crew with all the chain saws lived inside: All around the place, dread was an intangible fence made of mental barbed wire, and even Wrath, who knew what was doing, was glad
to get on the other side of the barrier.
As he forced his eyes to focus better, Trez, one of Rehv’s personal guard, opened the double doors on the porch that faced the lake and raised his palm in greeting.
Wrath and V walked up the frosty, crunchy lawn and though they kept their weapons holstered, V took the glove off his glowing right hand. Trez was the kind of male you respected, and not just because he was a Shadow. The Moor had the muscled body of a fighter and the smart stare of a strategist, and his allegiance was to Rehv and Rehv only. To protect the guy? Trez would level a city block in the blink of an eye.
“So how you doing, big man,” Wrath said he mounted the porch steps.
Trez came forward and they clapped palms. “I’m solid. You?”
“Tight as always.” Wrath knocked the guy in the shoulder. “Hey, you ever want a real job, come soldier with us.”
“I’m happy where I am, but thanks.” The Moor grinned and turned to V, his dark eyes flicking down to V’s exposed hand. “No offense, but I’m not shaking that thing.”
“Wise of you,” Vishous said as he offered his lefty. “You understand, though.”
“Abso, and I’d do the same for Rehv.” Trez led the way to the doors. “He’s in his bedroom waiting for you.”
“He sick?” Wrath asked as they entered the house.
“You want anything to drink? Eat?” Trez said as they headed to the right.
As the question remained unanswered, Wrath glanced at V. “We’re okay, thanks.”
The place was decorated right out of Victoria and Albert’s back pocket, with heavy Empire furniture and garnet and gold everywhere. True to the Victorian period’s affection for collection, each room had a different theme to it. One sitting parlor was full of antique clocks ticking away, from grandfathers to brass windups to pocket watches in display cases. Another had shells and coral and centuries-old driftwood. In the library, there were stunning Oriental vases and platters, and the dining room was kitted out in medieval icons.
“I’m surprised there aren’t more Chosen here,” Wrath said as they went through empty room after empty room.
“The first Tuesday of the month, Rehv has to come up. He makes the females a little nervous, so most of them go back over to the Other Side. Selena and Cormia always stay, though.” There was no small measure of pride in his voice as he tacked on, “They’re very strong, those two.”
They took a grand set of stairs up to the second floor and went down a long hall to a pair of carved doors that positively screamed master of the house.
Trez paused. “Listen, he is a little ill, okay. Nothing contagious. It’s just…I want you both to be prepared. We’ve given him everything he needs and he’s going to be fine.”
As Trez knocked and opened both doors, Wrath frowned, his vision sharpening on its own as his instincts pricked.
In the midst of a carved bed, Rehvenge was lying still as a corpse, a red velvet duvet pulled up to his chin and sable folds draped over his body. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, his skin pasty and tinged with yellow. His close-cropped mohawk was the only thing that looked remotely normal…that and the fact that standing at his right hand was Xhex, that half-breed symphath female who looked like she performed castrations for fun and profit.
Rehv’s eyes opened, and the amethyst color was dulled to a murky bruised purple. “It’s the king.”
“S’up.”
Trez shut the doors, parking it to the side and not in the middle to block the way as a measure of respect. “I already offered them libations and eats.”
“Thanks, Trez.” Rehv grimaced and made a move to push himself off the pillows. When he just sagged, Xhex leaned in to help him, and he shot her a glare that smacked of don’t-even-think-about-it. Which she ignored.
After he was settled upright, he pulled the duvet up to his neck, covering the red stars tatted on his chest. “So I have something for you, Wrath.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Rehv nodded at Xhex, who reached into the leather jacket she was wearing. The instant she moved, V’s gun muzzle flipped up quick as a blink, aimed square at the female’s heart.
“You want to slow that roll?” she snapped to V.
“Not in the slightest. Sorry.” V sounded about as sorry as a wrecking ball in midswing.
“Okay, let’s just relax,” Wrath said, and inclined his head toward Xhex. “Go ahead.”
The female pulled free a velvet bag and tossed it in Wrath’s direction. As it came at him, he heard the soft whistle of its flight and caught the thing not by sight, but by sound.
Inside were two pale blue eyes.
“So, I had an interesting meeting last night,” Rehv drawled.
Wrath looked at the symphath. “Whose blank stare do I have in my palm.”
“Montrag, son of Rehm. He came to me and asked me to kill you. You got deep enemies in the glymera, my friend, and Montrag’s only one of them. I don’t know who else was in on the plot, but I wasn’t taking any chances at finding out before we took action.”
Wrath put the eyes back in the bag and closed his fist around them. “When were they going to do it.”
“At the council meeting, the night after tomorrow.”
“Son of a bitch.”
V put his gun away and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I despise those motherfuckers.”
“Speaking to the choir,” Rehv said before refocusing on Wrath. “I didn’t come to you before I solved the problem because I’m kind of sweet on the idea of the king owing me something.”
Wrath had to laugh. “Sin-eater.”
“You know it.”
Wrath jogged the bag in his hand. “When did this happen?”
“About a half hour ago,” Xhex answered. “I didn’t clean up after myself.”
“Well, they’ll certainly get the message. And I’m still going to that meeting.”
“You sure that’s wise?” Rehv said. “Whoever else is behind this will not come to me again, because they know where my loyalties appear to lie. But that doesn’t mean they won’t find someone else.”
“So let them,” Wrath said. “I’m down with mortal combat.” He glanced at Xhex. “Montrag implicate anyone?”
“I slit his throat from ear to ear. Talk was tough.”
Wrath smiled and glanced at V. “You know, it’s kind of a surprise you two don’t get along better.”
“Not really,” they said at the same time.
“I can postpone the council meeting,” Rehv murmured. “If you want to do recon yourself to see who else was involved.”
“Nope. If they had balls of any size, they’d have tried to kill me themselves, not get you to do it. So one of two things is going to happen. Since they don’t know whether Montrag outted them before he became visually impaired, they’re either going to go into hiding, because that’s what cowards do, or they’re going to shift the blame to someone else. So the meeting goes on.”
Rehv smiled darkly, the symphath in him obvious. “As you wish.”
“I want an honest answer from you, though,” Wrath said.
“What’s the question.”
“For real, did you think about killing me? When he asked.”
Rehv was a silent for a bit. Then he slowly nodded. “Yeah, I did. But like I said, you owe me now, and given my…circumstances of birth, as it were…that’s far more valuable than what any smarmy-ass aristocrat can do for me.”
Wrath nodded once. “That’s logic I can respect.”
“Plus, let’s face it”—Rehv smiled again—“my sister’s married into the family.”
“That she has, symphath. That she has.”
After Ehlena put the ambulance in the garage, she went across the parking lot and down into the clinic. She needed to get her things from her locker, but that wasn’t what was driving her. Usually at this time of night, Havers would be doing charts in his office, and that was where she headed. When she came up to his door, she took her scrunchie
out, smoothed back her hair, and tightly knotted it at the base of her neck. Her coat was still on, but even though it hadn’t been that expensive, it was made of black wool and looked tailored, so she figured she looked okay.
She knocked on the jamb, and when a cultured voice called out, she went in. Havers’s former office had been a splendid old-world study, filled with antiques and leather-bound books. Now that they were at this new clinic, his private workspace was no different from anyone else’s: white walls, linoleum floor, stainless-steel desk, black rolling chair.
“Ehlena,” he said as he glanced up from the charts he was reviewing. “How fare you?”
“Stephan is where he belongs—”
“My dear, I had no idea you knew him. Catya told me.”
“I…did.” But maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned that to the female.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe, why didn’t you say?”
“Because I wanted to honor him.”
Havers removed his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Alas, that is something I can understand. Still, I wish I had known. Dealing with the dead is never easy, but it is especially hard if they are of personal acquaintance.”
“Catya has given me the rest of the shift off—”
“Yes, I told her to. You have had a long night.”
“Well, thank you. Before I leave, though, I want to ask you about another patient.”
Havers put his glasses back on. “Of course. Which one?”
“Rehvenge. He came in last evening.”
“So I recall. Is he having some difficulty with his medications?”
“Did you by any chance see his arm?”
“Arm?”
“The infection in the veins on the right side.”
The race’s physician pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up on his nose. “He didn’t indicate that his arm was giving him bother. If he wants to come back in and see me, I’ll be happy to look at it. But as you know, I can’t prescribe anything without examining him.”
Ehlena opened her mouth to argue when another nurse poked her head in. “Doctor?” the female said. “Your patient is ready in exam room four.”