The King

FORTY-SIX

It was getting close to dawn when Beth decided she just had to leave her and Wrath’s set of rooms. He hadn’t come back yet, and the prospect of spending another minute with the chaos in her mind was enough to make her want to take a bridge.

First stop? Layla’s room, but the Chosen wasn’t there. Probably a good thing as she supposed all she would have done was bug the poor female about early pregnancy symptoms—which was nuts on two accounts: One, if she had conceived, she was what, like twenty-four hours into it, tops? And two, Layla had had that horrible near-miscarriage.

Not exactly a good comp—if Beth didn’t want to drive herself completely insane.

Walking back down the hall of statues, she figured … kitchen. Yeah, the kitchen was a good next stop—assuming she didn’t want to bug Wrath down in the training center’s weight room.

He clearly needed some space.

As she hit the grand staircase, she was finding it impossible not to parallel-process reality. The first layer was what was in front of her: Wrath and the dethroning, the sad quietness in the house, the stress over what the race’s future held. The second level was wholly internal and completely physical: a twinge in her pelvis—was it implantation … or the coming of her period, which would mean no-go?; an ache in her breasts—symptom of conception … or the result of all that sex?; hot flashes—the residual of the hormonal imbalance … or flannel?

Only the severity of the situation they were in thanks to the Council’s actions kept her from devolving completely into her body’s minutiae. And meanwhile, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t know whether she hoped she was pregnant … or hoped she wasn’t.

Actually, that was a lie.

Putting her hand over her lower belly, she found herself praying that it hadn’t worked. The only thing worse than Wrath losing the throne … was him finding out he was going to be a father right afterward.

If he was already feeling like he’d lost his parents’ legacy, that was going to be like throwing him a boulder to catch while he was barely treading water: Undoubtedly, he was going to feel like he cheated his child, too.

Down at the foyer level, she crossed over into the dining room, and then pushed into the kitchen. God, the eerie emptiness—the galley was usually such an active place, even during the lulls between large household meals. To walk in as the shutters were coming down and have nothing on the stove, in the oven, or on the counters scared her.

Damn … what was going to happen now?

Was the Brotherhood going to split apart? Where would she and Wrath go? Technically, they shouldn’t be staying in those overdone quarters on the third floor if they weren’t the First Family anymore.

Actually … it would be a relief to get out of there.

Although the cause for the relo sucked.

Opening up the Sub-Zero, she saw … a whole lot of shit she didn’t want to eat. But she should be hungry, shouldn’t she? She’d only snacked on the stuff Fritz had brought her how many hours ago? And she certainly hadn’t eaten anything during the needing.

She needed to pee.

Disappearing into the loo off the kitchen, she took care of business, washed her hands, and gave the refrigerator another try.

Someone had just put a big vat of something on the lower level. A quick peek under the lid and … cacciatore. Normally an entrée well worth tackling, especially because iAm must have been the one who made it. However, a quick whiff got her a big fat no-thanks from her stomach. Same thing when it came to the leftover ham. A plate’s worth of Bolognese with linguini in a Tupperware container. Tomato soup …

Giving the freezer a try, she took out a box of plain Eggos … then put them back. “Meh.”

Ice cream was a total no-go. Just the thought of that heavy-cream stuff made her want to throw up—

She hesitated as she looked down at herself. “Somebody in there?” she said to her pelvis.

Okay, it was official. She’d totally lost it.

After a trip through the pantry, which proved to be like trying to find something edible in the laundry room, for chrissakes, she doubled back to the fridge and made herself take out a Vlasic jar of butter chips.

“It’s pickles, people,” she muttered. “Pickles. Total cliché here.”

Except when she twisted off the lid and looked at the slices dancing in their little pool of sweet brine, she grimaced and had to put them back.

As a last resort, she hit the vegetable drawer—

“Yes,” she said in a rush as her hand snapped out for a grab. “Oh, yes yes yes…”

As she carried the bunch of organic carrots over to the knife drawer, she couldn’t believe she was about to get it on with all that beta carotene.

She hated carrots. Okay, not completely—if they were in salads, it wasn’t like she’d eat around them. But she had never in her life volunteered them out of the fridge.

Standing over the sink, she cut one free, got out a peeler, and made a neat little pile of bright orange strips in the stainless-steel belly. Quick rinse. Cut in the middle. Slice length-wise twice. And voilà, crudités.

Crunch. Munch. Swallow.

They were so fresh, they cracked every time she took a bite out of them, and the sweet, earthy taste was better than chocolate.

One more, she thought as she finished her last quarter. Except when she got to the end of number two, she thought … how about another.

As she worked her way through her third, she thought back to the Council’s proclamation. Her motivation for trying to do something was such a no-brainer. Even though her mother’s racial identity was not her fault, she still felt responsible for bringing the shit cart to Wrath’s front door.

If she could only figure out a way around this …

On the Council’s side, things were evidently moving ahead. An official swearing in of that Ichan guy had been scheduled—and Rehv had found out because, like an idiot, the Council’s secretary had failed to take him off their blast e-mail list.

That was taking place at midnight.

She glanced over at the double ovens. The blue digital clock read four fifty-four. So they had nineteen hours.

What the hell could be done in nineteen hours?

Turning back to her stash, she—

The sound of the security system announcing the opening and closing of an exterior door was a surprise. Frowning, she went out by the pantry, pushed through one of the flap doors that the staff used …

Layla was coming out of the library, looking like she’d been in a car accident: Her hair was windblown, her face white as a sheet, her hands up to her cheeks.

“Layla,” Beth called over. “Are you okay?”

The Chosen jumped so high she had to put both arms out to keep steady. “Oh! Oh—ah, yes. Yes, I am. I’m fine, just fine, yes. Thank you.” The female abruptly frowned. “And yourself? Are you…”

So many ways to finish that for the female, given what was going on: Are you … suicidal? Are you … taking a break between wailing sessions? Are you … pregnant, too?

“Oh, yup, fine. Yeah, just fine. Yup.”

Two could play at the deflection game.

“Well, I’m just heading upstairs. To go to bed. To have a shower, and go to bed.” As Layla started taking off her parka, her smile was about as genuine as Courtney Stodden’s. “I’ll see you at … well, later. I’ll see you later. Bye. Bye for now!”

The Chosen took to that stairwell like she was being chased, even though there was no one behind her.

As Beth returned to the kitchen, she felt bad that she didn’t follow through on the female’s obvious distress, but the sad truth was, she had so much on her plate … there wasn’t room left for anyone else’s drama-burger with a side of brain-fry.

Back at the sink, she peeled another carrot. Cut it in half and turned it around to—

The solution came to her with such clarity, she nearly sliced the pad of her finger off.

Putting down the knife, she picked up the two halves … and held them together, finding the puzzle fit that made them seem as if they were one.

Then she deliberately separated them. Reunited them. Separated them.

In both incarnations … the halves were still carrot.

Throwing the pieces on the counter, she took off at a dead run.

It was a fat round hedge that saved them both.

As Xcor materialized in the front yard of his suburban abode, he had to take a moment to collect himself—even though the sun was threatening in the east.

Talk about close calls … he’d barely gotten Layla back in time. And even the now, he was not sure he had succeeded.

But he had done his best.

Once it had become obvious that she suffered the same disorientation as he in the mist, he had taken her hand and started her up the hill. He did not ask her for confirmation that the Brotherhood’s hidden compound was in fact at the top—for that information, he relied on the same principles that had constructed his far more appropriate lair back in the Old Country.

The higher the position, the more defensible it was.

Hustling her as fast as he could, he had ended up running them straight into a twenty-foot-tall stuccoed retaining wall—a very good sign that they were close to her homestead. The problem was, she’d been too turned about to dematerialize over the damn thing.

Confronted by the choice of right or left, he’d been well aware that upon his decision rested her safety.

On so many levels.

He’d been well aware that even if he could construct a suitable shelter for them, something capable of shielding them both from the sunlight all day long, her absence would be noted and questioned when she returned at the following sunset. How she would be able to present answers that would not complicate her life irreparably, he did not know.

He had picked to the right—on the theory that he wanted to do right by her, and therefore, that was the direction he would take.

When they’d found that well-trimmed, well-cared-for little bush … and then a number of its identical siblings, it was clear they were on the trail of the main house. He did not take her all the way. He went far enough to find the first planting bed, and then had released her hand and hissed at her to go—go fast.

He, too, was out of time.

Xcor had watched her hustle forth for only a moment, and then she was lost into the mist, not even the sounds of her footfalls reaching his ears anymore.

It was as if she had disappeared forever.

And as much as a part of him had been tempted to sit and let the sun take him, he had forced himself away, triangling downward until he had tripped over, quite literally, a ploughed drive.

Although he’d only been able to see five feet afore him, the level surface provided him with an opportunity for alacrity unparalleled by the uneven ground. He had run flat-out, gravity in his favor, his only concern that someone would come barreling up the mountain and see him in their headlights.

That had not come to pass. He had made it to the leveling-off part and had eventually broken free of the misted, scrambled landscape.

The sense of dread he’d first experienced upon penetration stuck with him, however. What if Layla hadn’t made it inside in time? What if someone had found her and questioned her? What if …

He had checked his phone to no avail and then been forced to close his eyes, concentrate, and pray that he had enough remaining strength and focus to ghost himself away.

The only thing that had made disappearing possible was that he couldn’t die not knowing what had happened to her.

Taking out his phone once again, he had some errant hope that she had called and he hadn’t heard the ring in his escape down the mountain. Alas … no.

Stalking to the colonial’s front door, the faint glow in the sky made his skin prickle with warning and his eyes water—which ended as he burst into the house.

To a scene of abject debauchery.

The only thing that would have made it more complete would have been the presence of females. As it was, the air was spiced thick with rum and gin, crowded with hearty laughter, heavy with the kind of male aggression that surged after victory.

“You return!” Zypher called out. “He returns!”

The bellowing would have been loud enough to rouse the neighbors, if there had been any. As it was, it filled the house.

“And we have news,” Throe said with satisfaction mildly tinted with drunkenness. “The induction ceremony is at midnight this coming eve. In Ichan’s library hall. We have been invited, of course.”

The temptation to tell them to go in his stead appealed. But he kept his voice quiet. With naught but a nod, he disappeared upstairs.

Fortunately, his soldiers were used to him retreating into his own counsel—and let him go.

As he shut the bedroom door, the noise below was dimmed, not extinguished; however, he was accustomed to tuning out that group of males.

Going over to the bed, which was a mess of sheets and tangled blankets, he sat down, disarmed, and took out his cell. Cradling it in his hands, he stared at the screen.

There was no way to dial her: Whatever phone she’d used had a scrambled account.

Lying back and looking up at the ceiling, he knew an emptiness that was a revelation.

The idea that she could be dead and he didn’t know it hit him so deeply, he felt as if his personality had split in two.

Never to be united again.