Wrath let the cloak’s sleeving fall back into place. “I know who they are thinking of. It is a cousin of mine and his mate is heavily with young the now. The other evening they were saying they prayed unto the Scribe Virgin for a son.”
“About whom do you speak?”
“Enoch.”
“Indeed,” Tohrture said grimly. “I should have known.”
Yes, Wrath thought. His chief adviser. Seeking the throne for a son who would carry the family fortunes into the future—whilst the male himself placed the crown upon his own head for centuries.
In the silence, he thought of his own receiving room, the desk with parchment covering every square foot of its surface, the quill pens and ink pots, the lists of issues for him to tend to. He loved all of that, the conversations, the judgments, the calming process of coming to a decision thoughtfully.
Then he saw his father’s dead body with its gloved hands, and his shellan’s blue fingernails.
“This shall be handled,” he declared.
Tohrture nodded. “The Brotherhood shall find and dispatch the—”
“No.”
Both of the Brothers stared at him.
“They went after my blood. I shall shed theirs in response—personally.”
The faces of the two trained and bred fighters became impassive—and he knew what they were thinking. But it mattered not. He owed vengeance unto his lineage and his beloved.
Across the way, there was a squat, coarse bench beneath the table and he pulled it out. Taking a seat, he nodded over at the cauldron.
“Ahgony, go forth and extol the life force of my mate. Make it known far and wide that she survived. Tohrture, stay herein with me, and await the return of the murderers. As soon as they hear the news, they shall come here again to make a second attempt—and I shall greet them.”
“My lord, mayhap I could offer my service unto you in a different fashion.” Ahgony looked at his Brother. “Let us escort you back to your mate, and allow us to engage whomever shall come here.”
Wrath crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Take the torch with you.”
FORTY-ONE
Beth just had to go and look at herself in the mirror.
Even though she was in a whole new territory of exhaustion, she simply had to get out of bed, stiff-walk across the thick carpet, and zero in on the glowing light over the sinks in the bathroom. As she went along, her body was a contradiction of sore, tense muscles and liquefied, loosey-goosey innards—and her brain apparently had voted to go with the latter: She couldn’t keep a thought in her head, fragments of the previous day and night burping to the forefront, but not having the traction to offer any concrete cognition.
Catching sight of her reflection, she was taken aback: It was as though she were looking at her own ghost—and not because she was pale. Actually, her skin was radiant and her eyes sparkling even though she was bone tired, like she’d gone to Sephora and had her makeup done professionally. Hell, even her hair belonged in a Pantene ad.
No, the specter part was all about the Lanz nightgown she’d put on: flannel, and big as a circus tent, the white-and-pale-blue pattern was like a cloud around her, billowing everywhere.
It made her think of Beetlejuice, the movie. Geena Davis and a lower-BMI, less angry Alec Baldwin stuck in the afterlife, prowling around their house in baggy sheets, about as scary as Casper.
Looking down, she bent over and picked up the drugging kit that had never been used. Rezipping it, she put it back where she’d found it, on the counter between their two sinks.
God, whether it was the aftermath or all the hormones still in her bloodstream, the whole experience was a dreamscape, as hazy a memory as it had been a wrenching, vivid experience.
But what had come before her needing was getting crystal clear. Like someone whose symptoms didn’t tie together until they received a diagnosis, she thought back over the previous four months … and strung together the mood swings, the yearning for a child, the cravings, the weight gain.
PMS, vampire style.
This whole getting-fertile thing had been on its way for a while. She just hadn’t strung together all the signs …
Refocusing on the mirror, she went in for a close-up. Nope, her features were all the same. She just felt as though they should be different.
Like with her transition.
Wrath had helped her through all that as well. And it was funny, as with the needing, she’d had vague weirdnesses for some time before her change had come, too: restlessness, appetite stuff, headaches in the sun.
She had to wonder if finding out she was pregnant was going to be as big as discovering she was a vampire.
Putting her hand on her lower belly, she thought … actually, it probably would be.
For some reason, she went back to waking up after her transition. First thing she’d done was go into the bathroom for the mirror. At least then she’d had fangs to show for all of it. Now, any changes that might be going on were on the inside.
At least her abdomen was still swollen. Although that was more likely just the weight she’d put on thanks to her Breyers diet.
Or she could be pregnant. Like, right now.
As she pictured the guy in the AT&T infinity x infinity commercial, she knew that even though Wrath had serviced her, she’d be crazy to think he’d magically turned a corner in the road and was suddenly going to be all happy-happy about starting a family.
Again, assuming she was pregnant.
Meeting the reflection of her own eyes, she wondered what the hell she’d put into motion. There were things in life you could undo.
This was not one of them—
Her stomach let out a noise like her heart was spelunking down to her butt. Glancing at the thing, she muttered, “Okay, people, let’s all get along.”
With her guts grinding on the food she’d thrown into them, she turned around and walked back for the bed.
Except that was not where she ended up.
Instead, she went into the closet, pulled on a blue bathrobe and shoved her socked feet into a pair of pink UGGs that Marissa had gotten all the females in the house as a joke.
The First Family’s quarters were so sumptuous that Beth didn’t spend a lot of time looking or thinking about the way they were turned out, and as usual, she was relieved as she left them. Yeah, sure, the place was lovely—if you were a sultan. For godsakes, it was like trying to sleep in Ali Baba’s cave, jewels twinkling on the walls and the ceiling—and not fake ones, either.
And no, she’d never gotten used to the gold toilet.
The whole thing was absurd—
Holy crap, she thought as she locked the vault back up behind her. How did anyone raise a kid in that environment?
A kid that was halfway normal, that is.