“Worry not of their motivation, son. The impure are confounding to the righteous.”
Abalone’s eyes appeared to well. “I convinced myself that I had been mistaken. Until the queen…” He put his face back into his palms. “…Dearest Virgin Scribe in the Fade, when the queen went down unto the floor, I knew I had failed you. I knew I was no different from them who had caused harm, because I did not stop that which I should have known—”
To prevent a complete unraveling, Wrath squeezed that spare shoulder. “Abalone … Abalone, arrest yourself.”
When there was a modicum of composure returned, Wrath kept his voice level, even though in his interior, he was seething. “You are not responsible for the actions of the nefarious.”
“I should have come to you—they killed the queen.”
“My mate is alive and well.” No reason to dwell on the near loss. “I assure you, she is very well indeed.”
Abalone sagged. “Thank the blessed Virgin Scribe.”
“And you are forgiven by me and mine. Do you understand? I forgive you.”
“My lord,” the male said, dropping anew to the floor and putting his forehead to the black diamond ring Wrath wore. “I do not deserve this.”
“You do. Because you came unto me, you can make the amends you seek. Can you take one of the Brothers down unto this hidden place?”
“Yes,” the male said without hesitation. Springing to his feet, he put up his hood. “Now I shall show them.”
Wrath nodded to Ahgony. “Go with him?”
“My lord,” the Brother said, accepting the command.
“There is just one thing before you go,” Wrath said on a growl. “Can you tell me who they were.”
Abalone’s eyes locked on his own. “Yes. Each of the three.”
Wrath felt his lips lift in a smile even though he knew no joy or happiness in his heart. “Good. That’s very good, son.”
THIRTY-NINE
There was an advantage to living alone and being disowned by your remaining parent: When you didn’t come home for an entire day, no one was gnashing their teeth over your possible demise.
Certainly cut down on the phone calls, Saxton thought as he sat across from the double doors of Wrath’s study.
Rearranging himself on the ornate bench, he looked over the gold-leaf banister. Silence. Not even doggen cleaning. Then again, something was up in the house, something big—he could feel it in the air, and although he didn’t have a lot of experience with females, he knew what it was.
Somebody was in their needing.
It wasn’t the Chosen Layla again, of course. But he had heard that one female going into her time could spur others along, and clearly that had happened.
God, he hoped it wasn’t Beth, he thought as he rubbed his tired eyes.
Things needed to be sorted before she—
“Do you know where he is?”
Saxton looked over the banister again. Rehvenge, the leahdyre of the Council, had managed to get halfway up the grand staircase without his presence even registering.
And apparently, something else was definitely up: As always, the male cut an imposing figure with his mink coat and his red cane, but his nasty expression put him into downright deadly territory.
Saxton lifted a shoulder to shrug. “I’m waiting for him myself.”
Rehv stomped onto the second story and paced over to the study’s doorway as if to see for himself that no one was in there. Then he frowned, pivoted on the heel of his LV loafer, and looked up at the ceiling—while discreetly rearranging himself in his pants.
At which point, he blanched. “Is it Beth?”
No reason to define what the “it” was. “I think so.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The leahdyre sat down on the opposite bench and it was then that Saxton noticed the long, thin cardboard tube he was carrying. “This just keeps getting worse.”
“They did it,” Saxton whispered. “Didn’t they.”
Rehv’s head whipped around and amethyst eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
Do you hate me?
Yes, I do.
Saxton looked away. “I tried to warn the King. But … he was going to take care of his shellan.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I went to my father’s house for a command performance. And when I was there, I figured out the whole thing.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his photos, showing them to Rehv. “I snuck these. They’re books of the Old Laws, all open to references of heirs and blood. Like I said, I’d hoped to get to him last night.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Rehv swept his hand over his cropped Mohawk. “They had all the wheels in motion already—”
Across the way, by the head of the hall of statues, the door leading up to the top floor opened. What emerged was …
“Holy shit.” Rehv shook his head and muttered, “Now we know what the zombie apocalypse looks like.”
The lurching, heavy-lidded, floppy-limbed nightmare bore only a passing resemblance to the King—the long hair, damp from a shower, still fell from that famous widow’s peak, and the wraparounds were right, and yes, the black muscle shirt and leathers were his uniform. But everything else was all wrong. He had lost so much weight, his pants were hanging loose as flags around his legs, the waistband sitting at his thighs, even the supposedly skintight shirt billowing off his chest. And his face was just as bad. The skin had shrink-wrapped around his high cheekbones and heavy jaw—and his throat … dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat.
His veins on both sides had been taken so often and with such force, he looked like an extra in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
And yet the male was floating on a cloud. The air that preceded him was soft as a summer breeze, his sense of satisfaction and happiness a bubble that surrounded him.
Such a shame to ruin it.
Wrath recognized the pair of them immediately, and as he halted, his head turned from side to side as if he were measuring their faces. Instead, Saxton was sure it was their auras.
“What.”
God, that voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. There was strength behind it, though.
“We gotta talk.” Rehv smacked the tube into his palm like it was a baseball bat. “Now.”
Wrath responded with a vile string of curses. And then gritted out, “Fuck me, can you give me one hour to feed my fucking shellan after her needing?”
“No. We can’t. And we need the Brothers. All of them.” Rehv got to his feet with the help of his cane. “The glymera voted you out, my friend. And we need to drum up a response.”
Wrath didn’t move for the longest time. “On what grounds?”
“Your queen.”
That already pale face turned positively ashen.
“Fritz!” the King bellowed at the top of his lungs.
The butler materialized from the second-floor sitting room, as if he had been waiting to be summoned for hours.
“Yes, sire?”
It was with utter exhaustion that the King muttered, “Beth needs food. Bring her everything she could want. I put her in the bath—you’d better check on her now. She was weak and I don’t want her passing out and drowning.”
Fritz bowed so low, it was a wonder his baggy face didn’t brush the carpet. “Right away. At once.”
As the doggen hurried off, Wrath called after him, “And will you take my dog out? And then bring him into my office.”
“Of course, sire. My pleasure.”
Wrath turned and faced the open doors of his study like he was going to the gallows. “Rehv, call the Brotherhood.”
“Roger that. And Saxton needs to be in on the meeting. Someone’s got to render an opinion on the legalities of all this.”
Wrath didn’t respond. He just went into the pale blue room, a living shadow in the center of all the fussy French furniture.
In that moment, Saxton could see the weight bearing down on the male, feel the heat of the fire that burned at those feet, sense the lose-lose that had presented itself in this bend in the road. Wrath was the bow of the race’s ship, and as such … he was going to hit the glaciers first.
It was so thankless, all of it. The hours that male had spent chained to his father’s desk, the paperwork passing in front of him, a blur of pages that had been prepared by others, presented by Saxton, ruled upon by Wrath, and sent back out into the world.
An endless stream of sucking need.