by J. R. Ward
“Man, that son of a bitch has got to stop watching Nickel-fucking-odeon.”
“Among other things.”
“Focus, people,” Rhage cut in. “Can we just have a moment here?”
Growls of approval replaced the bitching, the throaty sound rising up and threading through the mementos of their dead enemies.
“Just think,” Tohr said as he put an arm around Qhuinn’s shoulders, “now you get to put your own in here.”
“Good deal,” Qhuinn murmured as he checked out all the different kinds of containers. “Good deal.”
They exited through gates that were both old, and the kind of thing a blowtorch would have needed a couple of hours to get through. Then there was another obstruction that was pushed aside, one that sure as hell looked like a cave wall—and what do you know, they walked out of a shallow nook in the earth, and were back at the Escalade. It took a while to drive back through the forest, and the second the mansion’s lights came into view, he started to get excited, his body jerking forward in his seat, his hand searching for the door latch.
The SUV had barely slowed down when he was popping shit free and leaping out. Laughter erupted from the Brotherhood as they took a more reasonable exit from things, following in his wake as he jumped up the steps. At the grand front entrance, he yanked the door open and shot into the vestibule, throwing his face into the security camera.
Behind him, he heard the voices of the Brothers—
His brothers, now, though. Weren’t they.
His brothers were yukking it up as they joined him, and the interior door was opened by Fritz.
Qhuinn nearly knocked the butler over as he jumped inside. Lot of smiling faces, the shellans of the house, the queen, doggen everywhere…iAm, Trez, and Rehv with Ehlena…
He looked for red hair, searching the dining room, then going back across to the billiards room. Where was—
Qhuinn stopped.
On the far side of the pool table, on the couch that faced the TV that was mounted over the fireplace, Blay and Saxton were sitting side by side. Their faces were turned to each other, a pair of gin and tonics in their hands, the two of them looking like they were in a deep discussion.
Abruptly, Blay started to laugh, his head tilting back….
At that moment, he looked over at Qhuinn.
Instantly, his expression tightened up.
“Congratulations!”
The sound of Layla’s voice scrambled him, and he turned to her blindly, his mind reeling even though it shouldn’t have: he’d known all along that Saxton was returning after his vacation.
“I’m so happy for you!” As Layla hugged him, he put his arms around her automatically.
“Thanks.” He pulled back and rubbed his hair. “So, ah, how are you feeling?”
“Nauseous and terrific!”
Qhuinn sagged in his own skin, trying to find joy in the pregnancy. “I’m so glad. I’m really…glad.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Sola banged into the stove as she brought the man into her house. And then as part of her course correction, she knocked into the chair her grandmother had been in—but at least she was able to cover that one up by pulling the thing out and sitting down.
“You haven’t told me your name, either,” she murmured, even though proper nouns were the last thing on her mind.
The man joined her across the little table. Between his expensive clothes and the sheer size of him, he made everything look flimsy, from the stretch of laminate that seperated them, to the seats, to the kitchen.
The whole house.
He extended his hand across the table top. In that deep, heavenly accented voice, he said, “I am Assail.”
“Assail?” She cautiously extended her own palm, prepared to meet him in the middle. “Odd name—”
The instant contact was made, a lightning bolt licked up her arm and landed in her heart, speeding it up, making her flush.
“Do you not like it?” he whispered knowingly, as if he were fully aware of her reaction.
Except he was talking about his name, wasn’t he? Yes, that was it. “It’s…unexpected.”
“Give me yours.” He issued the command without letting go. “Please.”
As he waited, as he held her hand, as they breathed together, she realized that sometimes there were things even more intimate than sex.
“Marisol. But people call me Sola.”
He purred. Purred. “I shall call you Marisol.”
And didn’t that fit. God, in that accent…he turned what she had been called all her life into a poem.
Sola pulled her hand out of his and put it in her lap. But her eyes stayed right on him: His expression was one of arrogance, and she got the impression that that was an unconscious default, not anything to do with her. His hair seemed impossibly thick, and undoubtedly styled with product—nothing merely human could keep that perfect wave off his forehead like that. And his cologne? Forget about it. Whatever the hell it was, she was nearly getting high off the incredible scent.
Between those good looks, that body, and all his brains? She was willing to bet the house on the fact that his life was one big world-is-my-oyster sport.
“So tell me about this visitor of yours,” he said.
As he waited, his chin lowered, and he stared at her from under his lids.
So not a surprise he had killed someone.
She shrugged. “I have no idea. My grandmother just said the man had dark hair and deep-set eyes….” She frowned, noticing that his irises were as always that moonlight color—the kind of thing that just didn’t seem possible in nature. Contacts? she wondered. “She—ah, she didn’t mention a name, but he must have been polite—if he hadn’t been, I would have heard about it and then some. Oh—and he spoke to her in Spanish.”
“Is there anyone who would be looking for you?”
Sola shook her head. “I don’t talk about this house—ever. Most people don’t even know my real name. That’s why I thought it was you—who else…I mean, nobody else has ever come here but you.”
“There is no one in your past?”
Exhaling, she glanced around the kitchen; then scooped the napkins out of the caddy and rearranged them. “I don’t know….”
With the life she led? It could be any number of people.
“Do you have a security alarm here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You should assume he is dangerous until proven otherwise.”
“I agree.” As the man—Assail, that was, reached into his coat, she shook her head. “No cigars. I told you—”
He made an exaggerated show of extracting a gold pen and holding it up. Then he took one of the napkins she’d just fiddled with and wrote down a seven-digit phone number.
“You will call me if he comes again.” He slid the flat square across the table, but kept his forefinger right by the numerals. “And I shall take care of it.”
Sola got up too fast, her chair squeaking. Instantly, she froze and looked to the ceiling. When there were no sounds from above, she reminded herself to keep it down.
She paced over to the stove quietly. Came back again. Paid a visit to the back door onto the porch. Came back again. “Look, I don’t need your help. I appreciate it—”
As she turned around to take the route to the stove again, he was right in front of her. Gasping, she jumped—she hadn’t even heard him move—
His chair was in the same position it had been when he’d sat in it.
Not like hers, pushed aside.
“What…” She fell silent, her mind spinning. Surely, she was not about to ask him what he was—
As he reached out and cupped her face, she knew she would have had trouble saying no to anything he suggested.
“You will call me,” he commanded, “and I shall come to you.”
The words were so low they nearly warped, his voice deep…so very deep.
Pride formed a protest in her brain, but her mouth refused t
o speak it. “All right,” she said.
Now he smiled, his lips curling upward. God, his canines were sharp, and longer than she remembered.
“Marisol,” he purred. “A beautiful name.”
As he started to lean in to her, subtle pressure on her jaw lifted her chin. Oh, no, hell, no, she should not be doing this. Not in this house. Not with a man like him…
Screw it. With a sigh of surrender, she closed her eyes and lifted her mouth to accept his—
“Sola! Sola, what you doing down there!”
They both froze—and instantly, Sola regressed to the age of thirteen.
“Nothing!” she called out.
“Who is with you?”
“No one—it’s the television!”
Three…two…one…“That does not sound like no TV!”
“Go,” she whispered as she pushed against his broad chest. “You have to leave now.”
Assail’s lids dropped low. “I think I want to meet her.”
“You don’t.”
“I do—”
“Sola! I’m coming down!”
“Go,” she hissed. “Please.”
Assail drew his thumb across her lower lip and leaned into her, speaking directly into her ear. “I have plans to pick this up where we’ve been interrupted. Just so that you know.”
Turning away, he moved with frustrating leisure to the door. And even as her grandmother’s slippers closed in down the stairs, he took the time to glance across his shoulder while he opened the way out.
His glowing eyes raked over her body. “This is not over between you and me.”
And then he was gone, thank the good Lord.
Her grandmother rounded the corner a split second after the exterior screen door clicked into place. “Well?” she said.
Sola glanced over to the window by the table, reassuring herself that it was still dark as the inside of a hat out there. Yup. Good.
“See?” she said, sweeping her arms around the otherwise empty kitchen. “No one’s here.”
“The television is not on.”
Why, oh, why couldn’t her grandmother have the grace to get soft in the head like so many other geriatrics?
“I turned it off because it was disturbing you.”
“Oh.” Suspicious eyes roamed about….
Shit. There was melting snow on the linoleum from where they’d tracked it in.
“Come on,” Sola said as she steered the woman into an about-face. “Enough upset for tonight. We go to bed now.”
“I’m watching you, Sola.”
“I know, vovó.”
As they headed up the stairs together, part of her was wondering exactly who the hell had come looking for her here and why. And the other half? Well, that part was still in the kitchen, on the verge of kissing that man.
Probably better that they had been interrupted.
She had the unmistakable impression that her protector…was also a predator.
The phone call Xcor had been waiting for came at a most opportune time. He had just finished stalking and killing a lone slayer under the bridges downtown, and was cleaning his lady love, the black blood on the blade of the scythe coming off easily as he ran a chamois cloth up and down.
He put his female away on his back first, and only then took out his phone. As he answered, he looked over at his fighters as they gathered together and talked of the night’s fighting in the cold wind.
“Is this Xcor, son of the Bloodletter?”
Xcor gritted his teeth, but didn’t bother to correct the inaccuracy. The Bloodletter’s name was of use to his reputation. “Yes. Who is this?”
There was a long pause. “I do not know whether I should be speaking to you.”
The tones were aristocratic, and informed him of the caller’s identity well enough. “You are the associate of Elan.”
Another long pause—and, Fates, that tried his patience. But that was another thing he kept to himself.
“Yes. I am. Have you heard the news?”
“About.”
When a third stretch of silence came along, he knew this was going to take a while. Whistling to his soldiers, he indicated they were all to proceed to their skyscraper, a number of blocks to the east.
A moment later he was up on its roof, the gusts so much stronger at his preferred elevation. As such a gale precluded discourse, he took cover in the lee of some mechanicals.
“News about what,” he prompted.
“Elan is dead.”
Xcor bared his teeth as he smiled. “Indeed.”
“You do not sound surprised.”
“I am not.” Xcor rolled his eyes. “Although naturally, I am bereft.”
Which was somewhat true: It was rather like losing a handy gun. Or, more accurately, a screwdriver. But those things could be replaced.
“Do you know who did it?” the caller demanded.
“Well, I believe you do, am I right?”
“It was the Brotherhood, of course.”
Another misconception, but again, Xcor was prepared to let it stand. “Tell me, are you expecting me to ahvenge him?”
“That is not my concern.” The stilted tones suggested the male was in fact worried about facing the same fate himself. “His family shall go after redress.”
“As is their right.” When there was nothing further coming, Xcor knew what was awaited and required. “I can assure you of two things: my confidentiality, and my protection. I can guess that you were at the gathering at Elan’s house in the fall. My position vis-à-vis the king has not changed, and I am surmising that this call places you in a sympathetic orientation to mine own views. Am I correct.”
“I am not one who seeks political or social power.”
Bullshit. “Of course not.”
“I am…worried about the future of the race—in this, Elan and I were aligned. I did not agree with the tactics he proposed, however. Assassination carries too many risks, and ultimately, it will not accomplish what is warranted.”
Au contraire, Xcor thought. A bullet through the brain fixed many things—
“The law is the way to bring down the king.”
Xcor frowned. “I do not follow.”
“With all due respect, the law is mightier than the sword. To paraphrase a human saying.”
“Your oblique references are a waste of words to me. Be specific, if you do not mind.”
“The Old Laws provide the power that Wrath wields. They spell out his unilateral dominion over all manner of our lives and our society, giving him free rein to act as he chooses, with a complete lack of accountability.”
Which was why Xcor wanted the job, thank you very much. “Go on.”
“There are no restrictions on what he may do, what courses he may take—in fact, he can also change the Old Laws if he so chooses, and alter the very fabric of our traditions and foundations.”
“I am well aware of this.” He checked his watch. Assuming he didn’t get stuck on this damn phone for the next two hours, there was still plenty of time left to fight. “Mayhap you and I should get together in person tomorrow evening—”
“There is but one caveat.”
Xcor frowned. “Caveat?”
“He must needs be capable of producing, and I quote, ‘a full-blooded heir.’”
“And this is relevant how? He is mated already, and no doubt in the future—”
“His shellan is a half-breed.”
Now Xcor was the one who fell silent—and Elan’s solicitor took advantage of the quiet: “Let us be clear with each other. There is human blood in the species. From time to time, there have been matings outside the race. One could argue nobody is truly ‘full-blooded.’ There is, however, a vital difference between a civilian straying into the human mating pool, and the king producing an offspring whose very mother is a half-breed—said offspring to inherit the throne upon his death.”
Throe leaned around the corner of the HVAC blower. “All is well?” he mouthed.
Xcor cupped the phone. “Take the others down to the streets. I shall join you apace.”
“As you wish,” Throe said with a brief bow.
As his fighter ducked away, the aristocrat on the other end continued. “There is disquiet among many members of the ruling class, as you are well aware. And I believe if someone comes forth with this, it will be far more effective at displacing Wrath, son of Wrath, than any attempt on his life. Especially after he made such a show of strength at the Council meeting the other evening. Indeed, many were frightened into a kind of submission thereafter, their wills conscripted unto his physical bearing, which was rather fierce.”
Xcor’s mind began to turn over the possibilities. “So tell me, gentlemale, in your mind, you would succeed him, no?”
“No,” came the strident response. “I am a solicitor, and as such, I value logic above all else. In this climate of unrest and war, only a soldier could lead the race—and should. Elan was a fool for his ambitions, and you have been taking advantage of this. I know because I saw you at his house that night in the fall—you were positioning him where you wanted him, even as he thought it was the other way around. I want change, yes. And I am prepared to make it happen. But I have no illusions as to my utility, and no interest in Elan’s outcome becoming my own.”
Xcor found himself turning in the direction of that mountaintop. “No king has been dethroned in this manner.”
“No king has e’er been dethroned.”
Good point.
As he stared to the northeast, where that strange disturbance in the landscape was located, he thought of the king there with his queen…and Xcor’s pregnant Chosen.
There was a time when he would have much preferred the bloodier path, the one that was marked with the satisfaction of ripping the throne away from Wrath’s dying hand. But this war of letters was…safer. For his female.
The last thing he wanted to do was raid where she ate, where she slept…where her condition was treated.
Closing his eyes, he shook his head at himself. Oh, how the mighty had fallen…and yet they would rise up nonetheless, he vowed.
“How would you suggest proceeding?” he said roughly.
“Quietly, at first. I must needs gather precedents for the manner in which ‘full-blooded’ has been construed in cases brought forth for decision. The advantage is that there has been a long-standing discrimination against humans, and it was even more pronounced in the past—when Wrath’s father was actually issuing proclamations and interpreting the law. That will be the key. The stronger the precedent, the more successful this will be all around.”