“Mary? Everything okay?”
There was static because the reception sucked so he jogged out to the mouth of the cave. As he stepped out into fresh, cold night air, he could hear just fine—and as his mate talked for a little bit, he made a series of uh-huhs and nodded even though she couldn’t see him. Then he ended the connection and looked at his brothers, all of whom were clustered around him like they were wondering if something was wrong.
“Gentlemen, I need to help Mary for a little while. Meet you downtown?”
V nodded. “You take care of what you need to. Check in when you’re ready to enter the field and I’ll give you a status report and an assignment.”
“Roger that,” Rhage said, before he closed his eyes and began to concentrate.
Talk about not knowing where you were going to end up.
As he dematerialized, he never would have expected to be heading where he was going. But he was not about to let his shellan down.
Now or ever.
A simple little gathering for twelve, Assail thought as he was shown into the lemon yellow drawing room he’d enjoyed so much the evening before.
As his name was announced by the same uniformed butler who’d welcomed him then, he stepped forward such that his two cousins could likewise be introduced to the other nine vampires in the parlor. Or, more accurately, the eight females and one male.
Who was not their hostess’s mate.
No, the other entity with a cock and balls was not old, infirmed, or unknown. In fact, surprise, surprise, it was Throe, the handsome, disgraced former aristocrat who had previously been a member of the Band of Bastards, but who was now, evidently, making some sort of a return into the glymera’s prejudicial velvet fold.
In a perfectly fitted tuxedo, as it were. One that was every bit as expensive as Assail’s own.
Introductions over with, Naasha made her way across the room, her black satin gown like water flowing over her body at night.
“Darling,” she said to him, holding her pale hands out. On her fingers, diamonds winked and glittered with as much charm and lack of warmth as their owner. “You are late. We have been waiting.”
As she curtsied, he bowed.
“How fare thee.” Even though he did not care. “You are looking well enough.”
Her brows twitched at the almost-there compliment. “Just as you were almost timely.”
Assail deliberately stroked the back of the sofa. “These are my cousins, Ehric and Evale. Perhaps you will introduce us to your other guests?”
Naasha’s eyes flared as he penetrated the gap between cushions with his forefinger. “Ah, yes. Indeed. These are my dearest friends.”
The females came forward one by one, and they were a predictable lot, preened and prettied in gowns that had been constructed precisely for their bodies and jewels that had been purchased or passed down to adorn the precious flesh of noble daughters. Two blondes. Another black-haired one. Three with streaked brown locks. And one with thick white hair.
To him, they were simply variations on a theme he had been bored with a hundred years before—and it was entirely possible that, while he had been over in the Old Country, he had mated with some of their ancestors or even closer relations.
“And this is”—Naasha swept her hand toward the far corner—“my special friend, Throe.”
Assail smiled at the male and sauntered over. As he offered his palm, he kept his voice low. “Change of company. From Bastards to pedigrees. Not much of an improvement, I fear.”
Throe’s eyes were sharp as daggers. “A return to my roots.”
“Is it truly possible to come back after a defection? As significant as yours was, at any rate.”
“My bloodline never changed.”
“But your character is a bit wanting, it is not.”
Throe leaned in. “This from a drug dealer?”
“Businessman. And what do they call males like you? Gigolos? Or mayhap the term ‘whore’ is sufficient.”
“And why do you think you’re here? Certainly not for the pleasure of your social company.”
“Unlike yourself, I do not need to sing for my supper, I can buy it myself.”
Naasha spoke up, her voice filling the parlor. “Shall we adjourn for our meal?”
As the butler eased open a pair of double doors to reveal a dining table as resplendent as any set by royalty, human or otherwise, Naasha linked her arm into Assail’s.
In a whisper, she said, “We shall be having dessert down below. In my playroom.”
Ordinarily, he would have been unimpressed by such a blatant, I’m-a-naughty-girl come-on and would have commented appropriately. But he had other priorities.
Had Throe defected from the Bastards? Was he infiltrating the glymera through an available opening—or three—with an eye toward engineering ambitions against the crown?
Assail was most certainly going to find out.
“I look forward to whatever will be served,” he murmured, patting her hand.
Even if the sweets to be consumed were, temporarily, him and his cousins.
After all, orgasms were as good a currency as any … and he was quite certain that Naasha and her “dearest friends” were free for the purchasing in that regard.
TWENTY-NINE
“Thank you so much for coming. I was, ah, hoping that we could talk about…”
As Jo Early ran lines to herself, she stirred a packet of Sugar In The Raw into her cappuccino, messing up the pretty brown-and-white heart design that had been made in the foam.
The I’ve Bean Waitin’ coffee shop was Caldwell’s indie version of Starbucks, a tall-ceilinged, narrow-walled shotgun space with padded chairs and sofas, lots of mismatched little tables, and baristas who were allowed to wear their own clothes under their black smocks. It was one strip mall over from where the real estate office was, a quick trip to make at the end of yet another too-late workday for her too-hot, too-distracted boss.
He’d been in a dark gray suit today. With a bright white shirt and a blue-gray-and-black bow tie that, on him, was about as far away from geek as his Gucci shoes were.
Taking a sip from the rim of the fat white bowl-cup, she gave her little speech another shot. “Thanks for meeting me. I know this sounds odd, but—”
“Jo?”
Jumping, she nearly dumped her ’cino all over herself. The man standing by her table was six feet tall, with shaggy black hair, black-rimmed glasses, and the kind of skinny-jeaned, tight button-down’d, floppy-jacketed, earth-toned hipster clothes she’d expect to see on somebody ten years younger. But on William Elliot, it all worked.
Shaking herself, she said, “Hi, yes, hello, Mr. Elliot—”
“Call me Bill.” He glanced over at the coffee bar. “Let me get a latte, two secs?”
“Sure. Please. Ah, thanks. I mean, that’s great. Good luck.” Shit. “I’m sorry.”
Bill frowned and eased himself down, unwrapping an army-green scarf from his neck, and opening that maroon felt coat. “Is there something wrong with my house or something?”
“Oh, no.” She pushed her hair back. “And I didn’t mean to bring you here under false pretenses.”
Except she kinda had.
“Look, I’m a happily married man—”
Jo put both hands out. “No, God no—this is, this is actually about an article you wrote almost a year ago in December? About Julio Martinez? He was arrested back then downtown as part of a street fight?”
Bill’s eyebrows popped up over his glasses. “The gang member.”
“That’s right, the one who was injured and apprehended in that abandoned restaurant.”
As the reporter fell silent, Jo wanted to kick herself in the ass. She should have known better than to get involved in any of Dougie’s foolishness—even more to the point, she should have avoided getting anyone else sucked into the funhouse.
“You know what?” she said. “I was way out of line. I shouldn’t have asked you to—”