The King

FIFTY-FOUR

Fresh snow began to fall at six, as if it had been waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon before it made its appearance—and by midnight, the storm wasn’t showing any signs of lightening up.

As Xcor stared out his bedroom window, he tracked the thick flakes, thanks to the streetlights that marked the cul-de-sac’s circle in front of the house.

“Are you coming?”

At the sound of Throe’s voice, Xcor looked over his shoulder. His fighter was standing in the doorway, dressed in a proper suit.

His Chosen would be waiting for him, Xcor thought. In this bad weather.

Assuming she showed.

But he couldn’t miss the crowning.

“Yes,” he said gruffly, getting off the chair he’d pulled over to the window.

Gathering up his holsters, he strapped them on his shoulders and his waist and slid in various guns and blades. But as he went to pick up the scythe, Throe shook his head.

“I think you should leave that here, no?”

“She comes with me.”

After Xcor put her on his back, he covered everything up with his leather duster. “Let us proceed.”

As he walked by Throe, he refused to meet the male’s eyes. He knew what he would find if he did and was uninterested in the scrutiny.

Joining the Bastards down below, he was silent as they filed out into the chilly evening and dematerialized from the backyard …

… to the formal grounds of Ichan, son of Enoch’s modern house.

Through the swirling snow, he saw that others had already arrived, members of the Council in formal dress milling around the interior rooms, passing by the glowing windows.

The celebration was warranted, as this was, indeed, a triumph—or it should have been. But all he could think about was the female who was out in a meadow, hopefully bundled against the winter elements, waiting for him. Glancing up to the sky, snow fell into his eyes and he blinked.

How long would she stay there—

“This way,” Throe said, indicating a front entrance that had all the subtlety of a billboard on the side of the highway. “As if one could miss it.”

So many spotlights, all focusing on the colored glass around a red-painted door that had some kind of sun-like symbol in it.

“How garish,” Throe muttered as they started across the snow. “Unfortunately, the inside is worse.”

Xcor, on the contrary, didn’t have an opinion about the decor. And he was unimpressed by all the uniformed staff who opened the way in and passed around little pieces of food on silver trays and took drink orders.

No, he was in a field far away, under a maple tree, waiting for a female to arrive so he could give her his coat against the flurries.

He was not here—

“May I take your coat?” a doggen asked at his elbow.

Shifting his eyes over, the butler stepped back. “No.”

“As you wish, sire.” The bow that he gave was so low, the doggen nearly touched the glossy floor. “But of course—”

At that moment, Ichan approached with all the flourish of a bandleader. Indeed, he was wearing a satin smoking jacket that was red as blood and a pair of loafer-shoes that bore his initials in gold thread. Quite a dandy, at least in his own mind.

“Welcome, welcome. Have a drink—Claus, serve them?”

Xcor let his Bastards answer for him, deciding to move off into another room.

And indeed, the aristocrats silenced as he passed them, their eyes widening from fear and respect—which was why he’d worn his weapons. He had wanted his personage to be a potent reminder of who was actually in charge.

As he proceeded around, he noted idly that Throe was correct about the furnishings. Modern “art” choked the spaces, filling up corners and walls, crowding chairs and tables and sofas that were so contorted, one had to wonder where a guest could actually sit down. And the color scheme was all over the place, the only commonality appearing to be that the bright, discordant hues affront the retina—

How long would she wait? Would she have worn a coat?

Of course she would have.

What if someone questioned why she was leaving? What if she was caught coming back into the house—?

“Xcor?” Throe said quietly.

“Yes.”

“It’s time.” Throe nodded in the direction of a library that was nothing but shelving and books, the furniture having blessedly been emptied out.

Or at least, most of it. Centered in the middle of the space, there was a large, throne-like chair set up as well as a table with a big piece of parchment, wax for sealing, and many, many ribbons.

Ah, yes. The site of Ichan’s precious little zenith.

Which was not going to last.

Xcor went over and stood at the room’s entrance, meeting the eyes of each member of the glymera as they had to go by him. When there were none left to gather, he turned his attention to the assembled, his Bastards standing around him such that their bodies choked the way out of the library—

From behind, the main door opened one last time, a rush of cold, dry air barging in like an errant guest. Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned.

Errant guest, indeed: Rehvenge, the Council’s titular leahdyre, strode in like he owned the place, his full-length mink coat sweeping after him, a red cane that was not an umbrella, helping him along.

He was smiling, purple eyes showing a calculation that was a warning.

“Am I late?” he shouted out. As he came up to Xcor, those eyes stared directly into his own. “I’d hate to miss this.”

Who the hell had invited him, Xcor wondered. The male was solidly on the former King’s side, a mole who was more like a jaguar in their midst.

From inside the library, Ichan turned in mid-gesture, a cigarette in an old-fashioned ebony holder waving about—only to freeze when he saw who had arrived.

Rehvenge lifted his cane in lieu of greeting. “Surprise,” the male said as he barged into the crowd. “Oh, did you not expect me? I was on the list of invitees.”

As Throe stepped forward, Xcor grabbed a hold of the male and dragged him back to heel. “No. He may not be alone.”

At once, all of his soldiers’ hands disappeared into their clothes. As did his.

And yet no Brothers showed up.

So this was a message, Xcor thought.

Ichan glanced across as if he expected Xcor to deal with the intrusion, but when nobody from the group of fighters budged, the aristocrat cleared his throat and approached Rehvenge.

“A word, if you will,” Ichan said. “In private.”

Rehvenge smiled as if he already had his fangs in the idiot’s throat. “No, not private. Not for this.”

“You are not welcome herein.”

“You want to try to remove me?” Rehvenge shifted forward on his hips. “You want to try it and see how that goes? Or maybe ask those thugs over there to do it for you?”

Ichan gaped like a fish, his bravado gone.

“I didn’t think so.”

As Rehvenge reached into his coat, Ichan squeaked in alarm and the aristocrats in the room milled around like cattle about to be slaughtered.

Xcor just glanced over his shoulder again. The door had been left open, the staff having become too distracted to close it—or mayhap they had just up and disappeared.

Rehvenge had left the thing wide on purpose, hadn’t he. The male was already planning his exit.

“I bring greetings from Wrath, son of Wrath,” the male said, still with that shit-eating grin on his face. “And I have a document he’d like to share with you all.”

As he took a cardboard tube out from under his arm and popped the lid free, the aristocrats gasped—like they expected a bomb to go off.

And mayhap there was a kind of one in there.

Rehvenge unfurled a parchment that had red and black ribbons hanging off its end. Instead of reading what had been inked upon it, he merely turned the thing around.

“I think you should do the honors,” he said to Ichan.

“Whatever have you…” The words dried up as the male closed in on what was displayed before him. After a moment, he said,“Tyhm. Tyhm!”

“Yeah, I think you’ll find that it’s all nice and legal. Wrath isn’t mated to her. He divorced her about three weeks ago—and I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you can’t base a vote of no confidence on an issue that doesn’t exist.”

The tall, thin solicitor stumbled over and tilted in, as if ocular proximity would increase his comprehension of whate’er was on there.

And indeed, the expression on his face was all the translation that the crowd required: Disbelief turned to a kind of horror, as if an explosive had in fact been detonated right in front of him.

“This is a forgery!” Ichan declared.

“It has proper witnesses—and I’m one of them. Maybe you’d like Wrath and the Brotherhood to come over here and testify to its validity? No? Oh, and don’t worry. We’re not expecting a response from you all. There is none.”

“We leave now,” Xcor whispered.

If he were Wrath, the next move would be to attack the house—and there was not enough cover inside here, that dreadful art and the large open spaces offering little for use as shields.

As the voices of the aristocrats mixed and grew louder, he and his soldiers dematerialized out onto the front lawn. Bracing for engagement, they outed their guns.

Except there was no one there.

No Brothers. No attack. No … anything.

The silence was deafening.