The King

TWO

CALDWELL, NEW YORK

“Long live the King.”

As Abalone, son of Abalone, spoke the words, he tried to gauge the response of the three males who had knocked upon his door, marched into his home and were standing in his library, staring at him as if measuring him for a shroud.

Actually, no. He tracked only one expression—that of the disfigured warrior who stood far behind the others, lounging against the silk wallpaper, combat boots solidly on the Persian carpet.

The male’s eyes were hidden beneath the overhang of a heavy brow, the irises dark enough so there was no telling what color they were, blue or brown or green. His body was enormous, and even at rest, it was a bald-faced threat, a grenade with a slippery pin. And his response to what had been said?

No change in his features, that harelip nothing but a slash, the frown the same. No emotion shown.

But that dagger hand flexed wide-open and then curled into a fist.

Clearly, the aristocrat Ichan and the lawyer Tyhm, who had brought this fighter over, had lied. This was not a “conversation about the future”—no, something like that would suggest that Abalone had a choice in the matter.

This was a warning shot across his bloodline’s bow, an all-aboard call to which there was but one answer.

And yet, even still, the words had come out of his mouth as they had, and he could not change them.

“Are you certain of your reply?” Ichan asked with an arched brow.

Ichan was typical of his breeding and financial net worth, refined to the point of femininity in spite of his gender, dressed in a coordinated suit and tie with every hair in place. Beside him, Tyhm, the solicitor, was the same only even thinner, as if his considerable mental prowess sapped his caloric intake.

And both of them, as well as the warrior, were prepared to wait for the answer they’d been given to change.

Abalone’s eyes went to an ancient scroll that had been framed and mounted on the wall by the double doors. He couldn’t read the small Old Language characters from across the room, but there was no need to go in for a close-up. He knew each one by heart.

“I was unaware that there was a question posed of me,” Abalone said.

Ichan smiled falsely and strolled around, fingering a sterling silver bowl of red apples, the collection of Cartier desk clocks on a side table, the bronze bust of Napoleon on the desk by the windowed alcove.

“We are, of course, interested in your position.” The aristocrat stopped in front of a pen-and-ink drawing on a stand. “This is your daughter, I believe?”

Abalone’s chest got tight.

“She is about to be presented, is she not?” Ichan looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Abalone wanted to shove the male away from the image.

Of all things that were considered “his,” his precious young, the only offspring he and his shellan had had, was the moon in his night sky, the joy that marked the household’s hours, his compass for the future. And he wanted so many things for her—not in glymera terms, though. No, he wished for her what her mahmen and he had found—at least for the years until his female had been called unto the Fade.

He wished for his daughter abiding love with a male of worth who would take care of her.

If she was not allowed to be presented to society? That might never happen.

“I’m sorry,” Ichan drawled. “Did you answer and I missed the reply?”

“She is due to be offered soon, yes.”

“Yes.” The aristocrat smiled again. “I know that you worry appropriately at her prospects. As a father myself, I am in your shoes—with daughters, you need to make sure they are mated well.”

Abalone didn’t release his breath until the male resumed his lazy loop around the room. “Does it not give you a degree of security to think that there are such clear demarcations within our society? Corrective breeding has resulted in a superior group of individuals, and we are required by custom and common sense to preserve our associations with like members of our race. Can you imagine your daughter married to a commoner?”

That last word lingered, carrying the pronunciation of an expletive and the threat of a cocked gun.

“No, you would not,” Ichan answered for himself.

In truth, Abalone wasn’t so certain. If the male loved her enough? But that was not the point of all this, was it.

Ichan paused to glance over the oil paintings that hung in front of the family’s vast collection of shelved first editions. The artwork was, naturally, of ancestors, with the most prominent among them mounted over the marble fireplace’s grand mantel.

A famous male in the history of the race, and of Abalone’s bloodline. The Noble Redeemer, as he was known among the family.

Abalone’s sire.

Ichan waved his hand around, including not just the room, but the house, all of its contents, and all the persons under its roof. “This is worthy of conservation, and the only way that happens is if the Old Ways are respected. The tenets that we, the glymera, seek to uphold are the very basis of what you hope to provide your daughter—without them, who knows where she could end up.”

Abalone closed his eyes briefly.

And didn’t that make the aristocrat assume a kinder, gentler voice. “That King you just spoke of so reverently—he’s mated to a half-breed.”

Abalone’s lids flipped open. As with all members of the Council, he had been informed of the royal union, and that was the extent of it. “I thought he was mated unto Marissa, daughter of Wallen.”

“In fact, not. The ceremony took place just a year before the raids, and the assumption was that the King had followed through on the promise to Havers’s sister—but suspicions arose when Marissa was subsequently unioned with a Brother. Later, it came out to us through Tyhm”—he nodded to the lawyer—“that Wrath had taken another female—who is not of our race.”

There was a pause, as if Abalone were being given the chance to gasp at the revelation. When he didn’t become woozy from shock, Ichan leaned in and spoke slowly—as if to a mental deficient. “If they have offspring, the heir to the throne would be a quarter human.”

“No one is of truly pure blood,” Abalone murmured.

“More’s the pity. Surely you will agree, however, that there is a tremendous difference between distant human relations … and a King who is substantially of that horrid race. But even if you are not offended—and surely that is not the case—the Old Laws provide the dictate. The King is to be a full-bred male—and Wrath, son of Wrath, cannot provide that for us in an heir.”

“Assuming this is true—”

“It is.”

“What do you expect of me?”

“I’m simply making you aware of the situation. I am nothing more than a concerned citizen.”

Then why come with the violent backup? “Well, I appreciate your keeping me informed—”

“The Council is going to have to take action.”

“In what form?”

“There will be a vote. Soon.”

“To disavow any heirs?”

“To remove the King. His authority is such that he could change the laws at any time, eradicating the provision and further weakening the race. He must be taken down lawfully as soon as possible.” The aristocrat glanced over at the drawing of Abalone’s daughter. “I trust that at the Council’s special session, your bloodline will be well represented by your seal and your colors.”

Abalone glanced at the fighter leaning against his wall. The male seemed barely to breathe, but he was far from asleep.

How long until ruination came upon this house if he did not pledge his vote? And what form would it take?

He imagined his daughter mourning the loss of her only parent and being forsaken for the rest of her future. Himself tortured and then killed in some gruesome way.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, the narrowed eyes of that warrior were trained on him like he was a target.

“Long live the proper King,” Ichan said, “is more like it.”

On that note, the natty “concerned citizen” took his leave, filing out of the room with the attorney.

Abalone’s heart thundered as he was left alone with the fighter … and after a moment of screaming silence, the male uncoiled himself and went to the silver bowl of apples.

In a low, heavily accented voice, he said, “These are for the taking, are they not.”

Abalone opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a squeak.

“Is that a yes?” came a murmur.

“Indeed. Yes.”

The fighter reached up to his chest harness and withdrew a dagger, the silver blade of which seemed long as a grown male’s arm. With a quick toss, he flipped the weapon up in the air, the light flashing on the sharp edge—and with equal assurance, he caught the handle and stabbed one of the apples.

All without breaking eye contact with Abalone.

Removing his due from the bowl, his hard eyes drifted over to the drawing. “She’s quite beautiful. For now.”

Abalone put his body in the way of the depiction, prepared to sacrifice himself if it came to that: He didn’t want the warrior even looking at the picture, much less commenting on it—or doing so much worse.

“Anon, then,” the fighter said.

He left with the apple held upright, impaled to the core.

When Abalone heard the front door shut in the distance, he all but collapsed, falling onto the silk-covered sofa with limp limbs and a pounding heart. Even though his hands were shaking, he managed to take a cigarette out of a crystal box and ignite it with a heavy crystal lighter.

Inhaling, he stared at the picture of his daughter and knew true terror for the first time in his life.

“Dearest Virgin Scribe…”

There had been signs of unrest for a good year: rumors and rumbling indicating that the King was falling into disfavor among certain quadrants of the aristocracy; gossip that an assassination attempt had been made; insinuations that a cabal had formed and was prepared to move. And then there had been that Council meeting where Wrath had come forward with the Brotherhood and addressed the assembled with a bald-faced threat.

It had been the first time people had seen the King for … well, longer than Abalone could remember. In fact, he couldn’t recall when anyone had had an audience with the ruler. There had been proclamations disseminated, of course—and edicts that had been progressive and, in Abalone’s mind, long overdue.

Others didn’t agree, however.

And were obviously prepared to force the hands of those who didn’t concur with them.

Shifting his eyes to the portrait of his father, he tried to find some bravery in his deeper self, some kind of bedrock to plant his feet upon and stand up for what he knew was right: If Wrath had mated a half-breed, so what, if he loved her? A lot of the Old Laws that he was reforming were discriminatory, and if anything, the King’s choice of shellan showed that he walked the talk of his modernizing.

And yet there was some old-school in the King, however: Two aristocrats had been killed recently. Montrag. Elan. Both violently and in their homes. And both had been associated with dissent.

Clearly, Wrath was not going to sit back idly whilst plots simmered against him. The bad news was that his enemies in court were stepping up the stakes as well, bringing their own muscle.

Abalone reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and took out his iPhone. Pulling up a number from his contacts, he initiated a call and listened to the ringing with half an ear.

When a male voice answered, he had to clear his throat. “I need to know if you’ve been visited.”

His cousin hesitated not a moment. “Yes. I have.”

Abalone cursed. “I don’t want any part of this.”

“No one does. But this legal angle of theirs?” His cousin took a deep breath. “About the heir? People are responding.”

“It’s not right. Wrath has been doing good things, moving us in the ways of the modern world. He’s abolished blood slavery and set up that home for abused females and their young. He’s been fair and even handed with proclamations—”

“They’ve got him on this, Abalone. They’re going to win this one—because there are more than enough left who are repulsed by the notion of a half-breed queen and a seriously diluted heir.” His cousin’s voice dropped lower. “Do not be on the wrong side of this, my blood. They’re prepared to do anything that’s necessary to secure a unanimous vote when the time comes, and the law is what it is.”

“He could change it. I’m surprised he hasn’t.”

“No doubt he’s had a few more pressing matters to contend with than some dusty old books. And frankly, even if he reworded the provision? I don’t know if there’s enough support to carry him.”

“He could retaliate against the aristocracy.”

“What’s he going to do—kill us all? Then what?”

When Abalone finally hung up, he stared into the eyes of his father. His heart told him the race was in good hands with Wrath, even if the King isolated himself in many ways. But his cousin made a lot of sense.

After a long while, he made another call that sickened his stomach. When it was answered, he didn’t bother with any preamble. “You have my vote,” he said roughly.

Before Ichan could laud his good sense, he ended the call. And promptly dragged over a wastepaper basket so he could vomit.

The only thing worse than having no legacy at all … was not living up to the one you’d been given.

As Xcor strode out of the aristocrat’s house, he was annoyed to find that Ichan, the Council’s representative, and Tyhm, the lawyer, were waiting for him in the moonlight.

“I think we were persuasive enough,” Ichan announced.

So much pride in that haughty voice—as if the male had already placed his sagging arse upon the throne.

Xcor looked back at the Tudor mansion. Through the diamond-pane windows, the male they had confronted was on the phone, smoking a cigarette like his lungs required nicotine more than oxygen. Then he paused and stared up at something. A moment later, shoulders sloping in defeat, he put the cell back to his ear.

Ichan’s phone went off and he smiled as he took it out of his pocket. “Hello? How lovely of you to call—” There was a pause. “Oh, I think that’s so wise of you—hello? Hello?”

Ichan put the cellular device away with a shrug. “I shan’t even be offended that he hung up on me.”

And another one falls to the logic.

Xcor gripped his stolen apple and wrenched it from his blade. With a sure hand, he began to peel the bloodred skin from its crisp, white flesh, whittling around and around until a curling strip formed beneath his weapon.

As opposed to his favored stance of assassination, this new legal approach to a forced abdication was going well. They had another half dozen members of the First Families to meet and brief, and then it was time to make this official at the Council level. After that? The killings would have to be done—no doubt one or all of the aristocrats they were dealing with would have delusions of the crownal variety.

Easily cured, however, and then he would have what he wanted.

“…meal of our choice?”

As Ichan and Tyhm looked at him, he realized that he’d just been asked out to eat.

Xcor let the strip of skin fall to the snow at his feet. No doubt the dandy inside had groundspeople who would pick it up, although given how unsettled the dear boy was, mayhap he would venture out for a walk amongst his fucking topiaries and see it himself.

Threats were best made on multiple levels.

“The field awaits me the now,” Xcor said as he carved out a section of flesh and bared his fangs, bringing his knife up to his mouth along with the piece.

The crack as he bit down had its desired effect.

“Yes, well, of course, indeed, for truth,” Ichan said, his words like a ballerina spinning off her pointed shoes and careening into the orchestra pit.

How cute.

And then there was a pause, as if the adieu was to be repaid. When Xcor merely cocked a brow, the two dematerialized sure as if there were emergencies afoot at their respective manses.

So irrelevant these pawns were—he had used some up already and no doubt one or both of the pair that had just departed would find their graves in service to him.

Inside the great house, the Council member they had come to see was still hanging his head—but not for long. Someone entered the room, and whoever it was, the aristocrat didn’t want them to know of his upset. He pulled himself together, smiling and holding out his arms. As a young female went unto him, Xcor figured her to be the daughter.

She was beautiful, it was true—the drawing had been accurate.

But she was not a patch on another.

Unbidden, memories flooded his mind, images of fair skin and hair, and eyes that were capable of stopping him in his tracks sure as a bullet, tangled his thoughts until he was the one tripping over his boots even as he remained standing.

No, however pretty and young that daughter was, she was but a far-off echo of loveliness compared to his unattainable Chosen.

“You must stop this,” he said into the cold night breeze. “Stop this the now.”

A fine command, indeed—and yet it was several minutes before he could calm himself enough to focus and dematerialize from the front lawn.

A blink later and Xcor was finally in his element: The alley before him was an urban armpit, the snow filthy from the tire grab left over after countless dump and delivery trucks had passed o’er this stretch behind half a dozen cheap restaurants. In spite of frigid December gusts, the stench of spoiled meat and denaturing green matter was enough to make the inside of the nose tingle.

Breathing in, he searched for the sickly sweetness of the enemy.

He had been born deformed and cast away unto the world by the female who had brought him forth from her womb. Reared in the Bloodletter’s war camp, he had been honed as a blade in that sadist’s fire pit of aggression and pain, any weakness pounded out of him until he was as deadly as a dagger.

This theater of combat was where he belonged.

And he was not alone for long.

Wrenching his head around, he braced his weight into his thighs. A group of human men came into view, clearing the corner, walking in a pack. When they saw him, they stopped and drew in on themselves.

Xcor rolled his eyes and resumed his promenade in the opposite direction—

“Whadafuckyadoin’,” came the shout-out.

Turning back, he eyed the five of them. They were wearing some sort of coordinated theme of tough human: leather jackets, black skull caps, bandannas tied to the bottoms of their faces.

They had clearly intended to come upon someone or someones else.

Not the kind of foe he bothered with. For one thing, humans were so inferior physically, it was like biting into that apple. Secondly, they were liable to involve others of their species, either on purpose through that dreaded 911 thing or inadvertently, by causing a noise that alerted passersby.

“Whadafuckyadoin’!”

If he stayed silent, mayhap this would escalate into a coordinated song-and-dance number? How frightening.

“Go about your night,” he said in a low voice.

“Go about your—whatreyasomekindaforiegnfuck?”

Or something to that effect. Their accents were difficult to decipher—moreover, he was disinterested in making much effort on that front—

From out of nowhere, a car careened around that corner, its tires losing traction as its driver pounded on the brakes.

Gunshots rang out, echoing through the night, scattering the assembled, including himself.

Wrong place, wrong time, Xcor thought as he caught a slug in the shoulder, the pain blazing through his head—and making it impossible for him to dematerialize.

He wanted nothing of this silly fight amongst the rats without tails. But it appeared as if he were going to have to engage.

He was not dying as the result of a human’s bullet.