by J. R. Ward
She took out the USB drive Gerry had left in the safety deposit box. The credentials that had been with it, the ones she had used to get into her own lab, had been left in Doc Jane’s office area back at the training center—an oversight on her part when she’d been packing up her clothes, one that she’d only noticed earlier in the day.
What did they matter now, though?
Next to the washer/dryer was a shallow wooden worktable that had never been used by her or Gerry. Putting the USB drive on it, she looked around for something hammer-like.
Over on the floor, there was a gallon of Benjamin & Moore latex paint left over from when she and Gerry had done the downstairs. A full gallon.
She picked up the can and held it over her head.
Then she slammed the flat bottom of the thing down on the drive.
Over and over again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
In the dining room of the Audience House, after all the hugging was done, John Matthew took up res next to Butch, the former homicide cop, and Vishous, who as usual had lit up a hand-rolled. Wrath and George had returned to armchair position to the left of the fireplace, and Saxton, the King’s solicitor, was at the desk off to one side. Apart from the Brotherhood and other fighters, there was one further notable addition to the group. Abalone, the King’s First Advisor. From what John understood, the male had deep roots in the aristocracy, but he was a good guy, the opposite of those tight-ass, judgmental types that typically propagated the glymera.
His blooded daughter had even gone through the training program, and was mated, with the male’s blessing, to a civilian.
There was no one else in Audience House, other than the receptionist. Unusual, given that it was the start of the evening. Civilians were typically lined up in the waiting room, ready to present their issues to the King.
“Sire,” Abalone said with a bow to Wrath, “with your permission, I will bring your subject in?”
“Yeah. We’re ready.”
Abalone passed through the open doors and disappeared into the waiting room. When he came back, he had a male with him whom John recognized.
“May I present Rexboone, blooded son of Altamere.”
Boone, as the male was known, bowed deeply even though Wrath could not see him. “Thank you for allowing me to come, my Lord.”
The guy was built big and strong, and was classically handsome in a clean-cut kind of way, reminding John of the marble figures in the Hall of Statues back at the house. He’d gone through the training center’s program and not made a lot of waves, a quiet, watchful presence who, as John understood, had done particularly well in physical challenges.
But other than that, John didn’t know much, although he wasn’t on the ground floor of the training program, either.
“What can we do you for,” Wrath said as he bent down and picked up George. Settling the golden retriever in his lap, he stroked the long blond fur that grew out of those flanks. “And listen, I’ve heard you’re working hard for us out in the field. You’ve taken two lessers down. I like that. Keep it up.”
As Boone flushed and bowed again, his response was mumbled, but his blush was loud as a holler—and John liked the humility.
“I’m not sure this is . . .” The trainee cleared his throat and looked around at the Brothers. “This may be nothing, but my father has been invited to this dinner party. Tomorrow night.”
“What are they serving?” Rhage chimed in. “If it’s lamb, I’m coming, too.”
Wrath sent a glare in Hollywood’s direction, then refocused on Boone. “G’head.”
“Well, it’s being organized by an aristocrat that goes by the name of Throe?”
Instantly, the mood in the room changed, the Brothers straightening, shifting in their shitkickers.
“I know that the Council was disbanded by you.” Boone glanced around again. “But that the glymera is not prohibited from congregating, provided it is for social purposes only. However, my father doesn’t know this male well, and when my sire asked who else was invited, he learned that the other remaining Princeps were on the list.”
“So it’s basically a meeting of the Council,” Wrath muttered.
“Called by a known agitator,” someone else piped in.
“My father is not going to go, and he asked me to come here and tell you about it because I’m in the training center program and he figured it would look less suspicious for me to have an audience with you. As I said, my sire doesn’t want to get involved in any intrigue, and he certainly does not want a civil war within the species.”
The King’s nostrils flared. “Is that all that you’ve come to say to me?”
“Yes, my Lord.” There was a pause. “I beg of you, send someone out there. You must . . . this is not right. They should not be gathering like this. It is sowing seeds of revolt, I just know it.”
“Anything else?”
“I can provide you with the address.”
“Can you. And what is it?”
Boone gave a street that wasn’t far from the Audience House. “It is at midnight, my Lord. They gather at midnight on the morrow.”
John looked at the King. And then checked out the expressions of the Brothers. When no one said or did anything, he was confused. This was a possible coup in progress—
“Is that everything?” the King prompted Boone once again.
“Yes, my Lord—except . . . please don’t tell anyone that my father sent me or that this word came from him. He does not want any trouble. He wants to stay out of it.”
Wrath continued to stroke George’s fur, his dagger hand moving over the dog’s golden hair. “Son, I appreciate you coming here and all. Giving us a heads-up.”
“So you’ll send people. And stop them—”
“But you and I have a problem.”
Boone shook his head. “There is no problem. I am utterly loyal unto you. There is nothing I would not do to serve you.”
“Then why are you lying to me?” Wrath tapped the side of his nose. “I may be blind, but all my other senses work just fine. And you are not being truthful here.”
Boone opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Why don’t you take another stab at this, son.”
The trainee crossed his arms over his chest. Stared at the floor. Then he paced back and forth.
“I know you’re in a helluva spot,” Wrath said quietly. “So you take your time. But I’m going to be clear here. Consequences are going to fall where they do and there is no carefully crafted version of reality that is going to stop that. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
When Boone finally halted, he was facing the King, and his voice was reedy as he spoke, like his throat was tight.
“My father . . .”
“G’head. Just say it. This is not your fault, okay? You are not going to get blamed for anything as long as you tell the truth.”
Boone took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “My father is going to attend. He’s going to the dinner. He’s . . .”
“Not as loyal to me as you are.”
The male dragged a hand over his features. “I’ve been telling him he shouldn’t go. That this isn’t right. I’m doing everything I can to talk him out of it—I believe he’ll come around. He has to—he just has to. And in the meantime, I couldn’t let this happen—it’s wrong. I don’t know for sure what they’re planning, but why are they meeting like this? My sire doesn’t know this male at all. Throe showed up from out of nowhere, and was part of that meeting to overthrow the throne a while ago. And now he’s living in the mansion of that older male?” Boone shook his head and started pacing again, his words coming faster and faster. “We know who owns that house. He’s related to us. Why is he letting Throe stay with him and his shellan—who, by the way, is just ten years out of her transition? And why is he allowing Throe to be the host of the party? It’s not Throe’s house, it’s not his position of authority. I mean, in the glymera, it is a tremendous breach of protocol for any ot
her person to issue an invitation to a home for so much as an afternoon tea, much less a formal dinner.” Boone stopped and faced the King again. “It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.”
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.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
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.”
She squeezed back and then kept on going, opening the door to Trez’s office. When she shut herself and the Brother in together, the music was buffered to a dull thud.
Tohr wandered over to the bank of glass and stared down at the humans. His reflection was one of sadness, and she gave him a moment to come back from the past and his unfathomable loss.
Hell, after getting as close as she had to losing John Matthew, she couldn’t imagine how Tohr handled the death of his shellan. But the Brother had somehow continued on in his life, meeting and falling in love with Xhex’s mahmen, Autumn.
It was possible to g
o on.
The Brother turned around and tucked his muscle shirt into his leathers, even though it wasn’t loose. Then he straightened his leather jacket.
“Okay,” he said in a normal voice. “So what’s up?”
“I need to make something right.” She planted her boots and braced herself, even though there was nothing coming at her. “It’s been long overdue and . . . it’s time.”
Murhder left the attic out of the window, dematerializing onto the snow dusted lawn. Huddling against the chill, he walked off down the allée of live oaks, imagining the fruit trees in the side garden blooming, the grass green, the sky twinkling with stars and a fat summer moon.
He wondered if Sarah would have liked the house. The bustle of humans. The people who worked on the estate. Maybe she could have found work at a university close by. There were some good ones in the state that had all kinds of . . .
The thought drifted and disintegrated, like his breath over his shoulder.
Paring off from the two rows of ancient trees, he crossed the thin layer of snow, heading for the thicket of trees that grew next to the rushing stream. As he closed in on the little river, the burble of the water was soft, barely audible. Off to the left, two deer were startled by his presence, kicking up their white tails and loping away through the brush.
Murhder stopped on the shores and stood over the water.
After a period of time—it could have been a minute or an hour—he unsheathed the black dagger from where he’d tucked it into his belt at the small of his back. Putting it in his dominant hand, he regarded the weapon, tracing the blade with his eyes, remembering how many times he’d used it. Vishous had made the dagger just for Murhder, its hilt custom-fit to his palm, the weight just as he preferred, the razor-sharp cutting edge maintained by the other Brother.