The King

SIXTY-EIGHT

“Wither goest thou?”

Abalone paused in the process of pulling on his coat. Closing his eyes, he composed his expression before he turned around and faced his daughter.

“Nowhere, my darling.” He smiled. “Are you proceeding about your lessons—”

“Why this letter?” She tapped the opened envelope in her palm. “Where are you going.”

He thought of the proclamation that hung above the fireplace. The one that bore his father’s name. And then worried over what she held in her delicate hand.

“I was summoned unto the King,” he said tightly. “I must obey.”

His daughter paled, crossing her arms around herself. “Are you coming back.”

“I do not know.” Walking over, he reached out and pulled her close. “That is up to his majesty…”

“Do not go!”

“You shall be provided for.” Assuming the assets once given to his father by the current King’s sire remained hers. But even then, he had hidden much in secret places. “Fedricah knows all and shall care for you.” He stepped back. “I cannot shame our bloodline. Your future depends upon this.”

If he did not make good on his cowardly action, he knew she could be next. And that he would not abide.

“Be well,” he told her in a shaken voice.

“Father!” she screamed as he turned and headed to the door.

Nodding at the butler, he couldn’t watch as the doggen stepped in and held his daughter back.

Outside, he could still hear his beloved young yelling his name and wailing. And it was a while before he was able to summon the concentration to dematerialize—although eventually, it happened.

Proceeding unto the address that had been given to him, he re-formed in front of …

Well, if this was where he was to be executed, it was an elegant enough place to lose one’s life. The mansion was in the very best part of Caldwell, a Federal beauty with light glowing out of all of its windows and a cheerful lantern hanging in front of a beckoning entrance.

He could see figures moving inside. Large ones.

With fear tightening his throat and weakening his knees, he walked up to the front door. There was a button for chiming by the brass door handle, and as soon as he hit it, the broad portal was opened wide.

“Hi! You must be Abalone?”

All he could do was blink. The brunette in front of him was wearing loose clothes, her hair curling at the ends, her bright, blue eyes friendly and attentive.

“I’m Beth.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m really happy you came.”

He looked down at her hand and frowned. Was that … the Saturnine Ruby on her finger? Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was the—

Abalone fell to his knees before her, bowing his head nearly to the polished floor. “Your Highness, I am not worthy of—”

Two massive black boots came into his vision. “Hey, my man. Thanks for coming.”

This had to be a dream.

Abalone lifted his eyes up, up, way up … the most tremendous male vampire he had e’er beheld. And indeed, with that long black hair and those wraparound sunglasses, he knew exactly who it was.

“Your Highness, I—”

“No offense, but could you get up? I’d like to shut this door. My wife is getting cold.”

Scrambling off the floor, he realized he’d forgotten to remove his hat. With a jerky move, he ripped it from his head and put it in front of his body.

And then all he could do was look back and forth—and then behind, as two males so huge that they had to be Brothers, moved chairs across the foyer.

“Is this him?” the splendidly handsome one asked.

“Yup,” the King replied, sweeping his arm to the right. “Let’s go in here, Abe—”

“Are you going to kill me?” Abalone blurted without moving.

The queen’s brows popped. “No. Good God, no—why would we do that?”

Wrath put a hand on Abalone’s shoulder. “I need you alive, buddy. I need your help.”

Convinced he was going to wake up at any moment, Abalone followed numbly into a lovely room that must have been for dining purposes, given its crystal chandelier and prominent fireplace. There was no long thin table, however, no row of chairs, no sideboard for serving. Instead, in front of the hearth, a pair of armchairs had been angled to face each other, and there were other comfortable sofas and seats set off to the side. A desk had been arranged in the near corner, at which there was a handsome blond male in a natty three-piece suit shuffling papers around.

“Have a seat, Abe,” the King said as he himself took one of the armchairs.

Abalone obliged—’twas far better than a guillotine, after all.

The King smiled, his harsh, aristocratic face warming some. “I don’t know how much you know about my father. But he used to do audiences with commoners. My wife read your e-mail the night of that Council meeting—and you mentioned you work with an organization of them?”

Abalone looked back and forth between the King and his mate, who had taken a seat on one of the other padded chairs—and was pouring herself a ginger ale.

The pair of them lied, he thought suddenly. They were very much together, their deference and devotion to one another obvious.

“Abe?”

“Ah…” Not at all what he had expected from this on any level—although he was o’erjoyed at the idea the glymera had been thwarted. “Yes, but it’s … it’s more of a loose affiliation, really. There are issues that need sorting, and—not that I was trying to step into your role—”

The King put up his hands. “Hey, I’m grateful. I just want to help.”

Abalone swallowed past a dry throat.

“You want a soda?” someone asked.

It was a Brother with jet-black hair, a goatee, and icy silver eyes—as well as a set of tattoos on one of his temples.

“Please. Thank you,” Abalone replied weakly.

Two seconds later, the fighter delivered a cold Coke in a glass. Which turned out to be the best thing Abalone had ever tasted.

Composing himself, he mumbled, “Forgive me. I feared that I had found your disfavor.”

“Not at all.” Wrath smiled again. “You’re going to be very, very useful to me.”

Abalone stared into the fizzing glass. “My father served yours.”

“Yeah. Very well, I might add.”

“Through your blood’s generosity, mine has prospered.” Abalone took another sip, his shaking hand making the ice tinkle. “May I say something about your father?”

The King seemed to stiffen. “Yeah.”

Abalone looked up to the sunglasses. “The night he and your mother were killed, a part of my father died, too. He was never the same thereafter. I can remember our house being in mourning for a full seven years, the mirrors draped in black cloth, the incense burning, the threshold marked with a black jamb.”

Wrath rubbed his face. “They were good people, my parents.”

Abalone put the soda aside and shifted off the armchair, getting on his knees before his King. “I will serve you just as my father did, down to the bone and marrow.”

Abalone was dimly aware that others had filed into the room and were looking at him. He cared naught. History had come full circle … and he was prepared to carry forward with pride.

Wrath nodded once. “I’m making you my chief cleric. Right here and now. Saxton,” he barked out. “What do I need to do?”

A cultured voice answered smoothly, “You just did it all. I’ll draw up the paperwork.”

The King smiled and put out his palm. “You’re the first member of my court. Boom!”

“I know where you went last night.”

Xcor stopped in the middle of the alley—and did not turn around. “Do you.”

Throe’s voice was flat. “I followed you. I saw her.”

Now he pivoted on his combat boot. Narrowing his eyes on his second in command, he said, “Be of care what you say next. And do not ever do that again.”

Throe stomped his boot. “I talked to her. What the hell are you doing—”

Xcor moved so fast that it was less than a heartbeat later that the other male was up against a brick building, struggling to draw breath through the hold on his throat.

“That is not for you to question.” Xcor made sure he did not take out a dagger—but it was tough. “What transpires within my private life is no concern of yours. And allow me to state this clearly—do not ever approach her again if you want to live to die of natural causes.”

Throe’s voice was strangled. “When we take the throne—”

“No. No more of that.”

Throe’s brows punched up into his forehead. “No?”

Xcor released the male and stalked around. “My ambitions have altered.”

“Because of a female?”

Before he could stop himself, he palmed one of his guns and aimed it directly at Throe’s head. “Watch your tone.”

Throe slowly lifted his palms. “I only question the turnabout.”

“It is not for her. It has nothing to do with her.”

“What then?”

At least Xcor was able to speak the truth. “That male gave up a female he was bonded to in order to retain the throne. I have it on good authority of his actions. If he is willing to do that? He can have the fucking thing.”

Throe exhaled slowly.

And didn’t say anything more. The fighter just stared into Xcor’s eyes.

“What,” Xcor demanded.

“If you want me to say anything further, you’re going to have to lower that weapon.”

It was a while before his arm listened to the commands of his brain. “Speak.”

“You are making a mistake. We were able to make great progress—and there will be another angle.”

“Not from us there won’t.”

“Do not make this choice on an infatuation.”

That was the problem, though. He feared he’d fallen far harder than that. “I am not.”

Throe walked around, hands on hips, head shaking back and forth. “This is a mistake.”

“Then form your own cabal and attempt to prevail. It won’t work, but I will promise you a good burial if I’m still around to see to it.”

“Your ambitions served mine own.” Throe regarded him steadily. “I do not want to relinquish the future so blithely.”

“I do not know this word ‘blithely,’ but I do not care of its definition. This is where we are. You may leave if you like—or you may remain and fight with us as we always have done.”

“You are serious.”

“The past does nae interest me as much as it used to. So go if you want. Take the others if you wish. But our life in the Old Country sufficed for many years, so I fail to see why the King’s identity should be of such concern for you.”

“That is because my blade had not been honed on the stone of the crown—”

“What shall you do the now? That ’tis all I care about.”

“I fear I do not know you anymore.”

“Once that would have been a blessing.”

“No longer.”

Xcor shrugged. “’Tis on you.”

Throe looked up as if searching for inspiration from the heavens. “Fine,” he said tightly.

“Fine, what.”

“Try as I might”—the male’s face became grim—“my fealty is to you.”

Xcor nodded once. “Your pledge is accepted.”

But he wasn’t fooling himself. Throe’s ambition was between them now, and no exchange of words or even parchment was going to change that.

They were not done with this, not in the slightest. And mayhap it would take nights or weeks or years before the split came to the fore … but that which was due would follow them from this moment forward.

And he feared that the currency was female.