The King

FORTY

Down here was better for the announcement, Wrath thought as he strode into the dining room with George at his side.

Taking his place at the head of the thirty-foot-long table, he waited for everyone to arrive. No way he was having this kind of a meeting while his ass was in his father’s throne. Not going to happen. And there was no reason to exclude anyone in the household. This was going to affect everyone.

And no premeeting, also. He didn’t need some private conclave with Rehv and Saxton where he learned the particulars and then had to sit around while they were regurgitated for everybody else. He didn’t have a thing to hide in front of his family and nothing was going to make this any easier to hear.

Removing his wraparounds, he rubbed his eyes and thought of another reason he was glad he wasn’t upstairs … too close to Beth. Fritz had assured him she was in bed and eating, but one thing he knew about his shellan? She was fully capable, even after the rigors of her needing, of heading down to see him and reconnect with the outside world.

If this was about her? She didn’t need to hear it right now. Shit knew there was going to be plenty of time to tell her—

“Have a seat,” Wrath muttered as he put his sunglasses back on. “You, too, Z.”

He could sense Phury hesitating on the threshold of the room with his twin, and in the awkward beat that followed, Wrath shook his head. “No kissing the ring, okay? Just give me some space.”

“Fair enough,” Phury murmured. “Whatever you need.”

So they’d been tipped off. Either that or Wrath looked as bad as he felt.

As the others arrived one by one or in small groups, he could tell by the scents who entered and in what order. Nobody said anything, and he imagined that Phury was giving hand signals to people, telling them to shut the fuck up and stay the hell back.

“I’m on your right,” Rehv announced. “Saxton is next to me.”

Wrath nodded in their general direction.

Sometime later, Tohr said, “We’re all here now.”

Wrath drummed his fingers on the table, his brain overwhelmed by the sad, anxious scents in his nose—as well as the silence. “Talk to us, Rehv,” he demanded.

There was the soft sound of a chair getting pushed back on the rug, and then the symphath King and leahdyre of the glymera’s Council started wrestling with something. There was a pop … followed by an unsheathing rush.

Then parchment, a large piece … being unrolled. With a lot of something brushing the table.

The ribbons of the families, Wrath thought.

“I’m not going to read this shit,” Rehv groused. “It’s not worth my time. Upshot, they all put their seals on this. In their minds, Wrath is no longer the King.”

A wellspring of anger jumped out of the throats of his household, many voices intermixing and lifting the roof, the sentiments all the same.

And actually, it was Butch’s shellan, Marissa, who was hands down the most refined female in the house, who summed it up best:

“Those goddamn sons of bitches.”

Wrath would have laughed under any other circumstances. Hell, he’d never heard her curse before. Didn’t know she could pass that shit through her perfect lips.

“What are the grounds?” someone asked.

Wrath cut through the chatter with two words: “My mate.”

Pin-drop silence ensued.

“The mating was entirely legal,” Tohr pointed out.

“But she’s not entirely vampire.” Wrath rubbed his temples and thought of what he and Beth had done for the last eighteen hours. “And that means if we have young, neither are they.”

Jesus Christ, this was a mess. A total fucking mess. He might have had a shot if he hadn’t had any young—then the throne could have passed to his next closest relation. Butch, for example. Or any young that that brother and his mate would have.

Now, though … the stakes were different, weren’t they.

“No one’s a purebred—”

“—isn’t the Middle Ages—”

“—we need to take them all out—”

“This is fucking ridiculous—”

“—why are they wasting time on—”

Wrath quieted the chaos by curling up a fist and slamming it down on the table. “What’s done is done.” God, this hurt. “The question is, what now. What is our response, and who the hell do they think is going to rule?”

Rehv spoke up. “I’ll let Saxton tackle the legal aspects of the first part—but I can answer the second. It’s a guy named Ichan, son of Enoch. It states in here”—rustling—“that he’s a cousin of yours?”

“Who the fuck knows.” Wrath shifted in his chair. “I’ve never met him. The question is, where are the Band of Bastards. They have to be involved in this.”

“I don’t know,” Rehv said as he rerolled the proclamation. “Seems a little sophisticated for Xcor’s tastes. Bullet to the brain is more his style.”

“He’s behind this.” Wrath shook his head. “My guess is that he’ll let the dust settle, kill this Ichan motherfucker, and get himself appointed.”

Tohr spoke up. “Can’t you just modify the Old Laws? As King, you can do anything you want, right?”

When Wrath nodded in Saxton’s direction, the attorney stood up, his chair creaking quietly. “What the vote of no confidence does, from a legal point of view, is remove from the King all powers to command and rule. Any attempt now to change verbiage would be null and void. You are still King, in the sense that you have the throne and ring, but in practice, you have no power.”

“So they can appoint someone else?” Wrath asked. “Just like that?”

“I’m afraid so. I found a hidden procedural note that in the absence of a King, the Council can appoint a ruler de facto with a super-majority, and that is what they have done. The passage was intended to be triggered in wartimes, in the event the entire First Family was wiped out along with any immediate heirs.”

Been there, done that, Wrath thought.

Saxton continued. “They have triggered that provision, and unfortunately, from a legal standpoint, it is valid—even though it’s being used in a way that was not contemplated by the original drafters of the laws.”

“How did we not see this coming?” someone said.

“It is my fault,” Saxton said roughly. “And accordingly, in front of you all, I tender my resignation and removal from the bar of solicitors. It is unforgivable that I missed this—”

“Fuck that,” Wrath said with exhaustion. “I do not accept your—”

“My own father is the one who did this. Just as bad, I should have researched this. I should have—”

“Enough,” Wrath snapped. “If you follow that argument, I should have known all along, because my sires are the ones who drafted that shit. Your resignation is not accepted, so shut the fuck up about all the quitting and sit the fuck down. I’m going to need you.”

Man, he had such great interpersonal skills.

Wrath cursed some more, and then muttered, “So if I hear this right, there is nothing I can do.”

“From a legal standpoint,” Saxton hedged, “that would be correct.”

In the long pause that followed, he surprised himself. After having been so miserable for not just the centuries before he’d decided to live up to his father’s legacy, but the actual nights on the job, you’d think he’d be relieved. All that paperwork weighing him down, the demands from the aristocracy, the antiquated everything—oh, and then there was the stuck-in-the-house, only-sparring-with-Payne, dagger-hand atrophy that went along with everything.

To the point where he felt like a Hummel figurine.

So yeah, he should be pumped to be free of the bullshit.

Instead, he felt nothing but despair.

It was losing his parents all over again.

In the end, Wrath had to see the hidden chamber himself. Cloaking his form in a humble robe so that none would know it was he, he proceeded through the castle with Ahgony, Tohrture, and Abalone—who had resumed his disguise as well.

Moving quickly through the stone corridors, they passed members of the household, doggen, courtiers, soldiers. Unburdened by all the bowing and the ritual greetings that would have been his due as King, they made excellent time, the finish of the castle growing coarser as they proceeded away from the court areas and down into the servants’ purview.

The smells were different, here. No fresh rushes and flowers, or hanging bundles of spices, or sweet-smelling females. In these extensive quarters, it was dark and dank, and the fires were not changed with rigid regularity, so there was a sooty undertone to every inhale. However, as they came upon the kitchen, the glorious perfume of roasting onions and baking bread elevated all that.

They did not enter the cooking arena properly. Instead, they took a narrow set of stone steps down farther into the underground. At the bottom, one of the Brothers took a lit torch from its perch and brought the flickering yellow illumination along.

Shadows followed them, scattering across the packed dirt floor like rats, tangling underfoot.

Wrath had never been down here. As the King, he was only ever in the prettified parts of the estate.

This was an appropriate place to do evil, he thought as Abalone came to a halt in front of a stretch of wall that appeared no different from any other.

“Here,” the male whispered. “But I know not how they entered.”

Ahgony and Tohrture began feeling around, utilizing the light to search.

“What of this?” Ahgony said. “There is a lip.”

The “wall” was indeed a lie, a flimsy fabrication colored to appear as if it were part of the stone-and-mortar construction. And inside …

“No, my lord,” Ahgony said before Wrath was even aware of stepping forward. “I shall go first.”

With the torch held aloft, the Brother penetrated the darkness, the flames revealing what appeared to be a cramped workspace: Off to one side, there was a rough table on graceless legs, on which sat glass jars capped with heavy metal lids; a mortar and pestle; a chopping block; many knives. And in the center of the squat room, a cauldron sat o’er a fire pit.

Wrath strode over to its cast-iron belly. “Bring unto me the light.”

Ahgony directed the illumination into the thing.

A vile stew, cold now, but clearly having been cooked, lay like the leftovers of a sewage flood.

Wrath dipped his finger in and brought up some of the brownish sludge. Sniffing it, he found that in spite of its consistency and the depth of its color, it had little fragrance.

“Do not taste, my lord,” Tohrture cut in. “If you require that, allow me.”

Wrath wiped his hand upon his cloak and went over to the glass jars. He recognized not the various twisted roots contained in the set, nor the flakes of leaves, nor the black powders. There was no recipe, either, no slip of parchment with notes for the preparer.

So they knew the ingredients by heart.

And they had used this space for some time, he thought, running his fingers over the pitted tabletop, and then going over to inspect the crude venting hole o’er the cauldron.

He turned to the assembled and addressed Abalone. “You have done honor to your bloodline. You have proven your worth this night. Go forth and know that what shall happen the now shall not fall upon you.”

Abalone bent low. “My lord, again, I am not worthy.”

“That is for me to decide and I have made my declaration. Now go. And be of silence of all this.”

“You have my word. It is all I have to offer, and ’tis yours and no one else’s.”

Abalone reached for the black diamond and affixed a kiss upon the stone. Then he was gone, his shuffling footsteps retreating as he made his way back along the corridor.

Wrath waited until even his keen ears could hear nothing. Then in a hushed tone, he said, “I want that young male taken care of. Supply him from the treasury enough wealth to carry his generations forth.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Now, shut that door.”

Soundless. Seamless. They were closed in with nary a squeak.

For the longest time, Wrath walked around the claustrophobic space, imagining the fire kindled and throwing off warmth as it broke down aspects of the plant material, the roots, the powders … turning nature’s bounty into poison.

“Why her?” he asked. “If they killed my father and want the throne, why not me?”

Ahgony shook his head. “I have asked myself that. Mayhap they did not want an heir. Who succeeds you in your line? Who would be the next on the throne if you had no young?”

“There are cousins. Distant ones.”

The royal families tended to have limited offspring. If the queen survived one birthing, they did not want to risk her unnecessarily, especially if the firstborn was male.

“Think, my lord,” Ahgony prompted. “Who would be in line for the throne? Mayhap one who is soon to be born? They could be biding their time for a birth, after which they would target you.”

Pulling up the sleeves of the cloak, Wrath looked down at his forearms. Following his transition, he had been inked with the family lines, and he traced what was permanently in his skin, tracking who was was living, who was dead, who had young, and who was pregnant—

He closed his eyes, the solution to the equation presenting itself. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“My lord?”

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.”