The Shadows

FORTY-SEVEN

Just before the first civilian arrived for their appointment with the King, Paradise presented a folder to her father with no small amount of pride. “I’ve reorganized the appointment sheet. I think you’ll find it makes things easier for you and the King.”

Her father smiled as he opened the cover and saw the spreadsheet listing each civilian’s name, family lineage, current issue, and any past concerns that Wrath had dealt with.

“This is . . . so helpful,” he said, as he ran his forefinger down the columns.

“I thought I could improve on the way it was done.”

He looked up. “You have.”

“What comes next”—she pulled the second of many sheets free—“is a dossier for each subject that goes into greater detail.”

Abalone frowned as he reviewed her notes, and then riffled through the reports. “How did you find all this out?”

“I have my sources.” She grinned. “Okay, so some of it comes off of people’s Facebook pages, and other stuff is from friends of mine.”

“This is . . . I didn’t know he’d been mated.” Her father tilted the folder toward her. “Him?”

“Last year. It was a low-key thing.” Paradise dropped her voice even though they were alone. “They say she was with young.”

“Ah. So now he wants the mating validated.”

“She’s about to give birth. If I were Wrath, I’d spare the poor male the indignity of asking too many questions about the due date, and just give him the respect he wants to provide his young—”

“Trying to take your father’s job?” Wrath’s voice interjected.

As the Blind King himself appeared in the parlor’s archway, Paradise jumped. “I didn’t mean, oh, no, I—”

The King smiled. “I’m impressed with your thinking. Keep up the good work, Paradise.”

With that, he and his blond dog went across to the dining room.

“I can’t feel my feet,” she mumbled.

Her father embraced her. “You are exceeding any expectation I had for this.”

She pulled back and pushed her hair over her shoulder. “I like this. I really do.”

“You’re making me quite proud.”

To hide her flush, she sat down behind the computer that she already felt was hers. “How’re things at home? With—”

“Just fine. I am very well, although you are missed.”

“I could come back.”

“No, no, it’s best you stay here.” He tucked the folder under his arm. “Did you and Peyton enjoy yourselves last evening?”

“He left right after you did.”

Abalone frowned. “I hope you didn’t quarrel?”

“He’s got an antiquated way of looking at things.”

“He does come from a traditional family.”

She picked up one of the Montblanc pens she’d found in the desk. Tapping it on her palm, she pulled her navy-blue skirt down further on her knees. “Ah . . . Father.”

“Yes?”

Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled open the top side drawer and took out the application to the training center’s program. “Father, would you ever let me do something like this?”

As she handed the paperwork to him and his eyes traced the wording, she hurried on. “I’m not saying I want to go into combat or anything. It’s just, they’re accepting females, and I—”

“Fighting? This is . . . this is to fight.”

“I know. But see”—she reached up and pointed to a part in the preamble—“they’re saying they can train females—”

“Paradise.”

Annnnd his viewpoint was all pretty much summed up in the way he said her name: a combination of be-serious and don’t-break-my-heart.

“You’re not cut out for this,” he said.

“Because I’m a female, right,” she countered bitterly. “Which means desks and papers at the most—and only until I’m mated—”

“This is war. Do you understand what that really is?” He jogged the application. “This is death waiting to happen. It’s not a Hollywood movie or a romantic fantasy.”

She kicked up her chin. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not as sheltered as you think I am. The family you lost in the raids was my blood, too, Father. Friends of mine died. I know what this is about.”

“No, Paradise. I will not allow it.” He leaned down and put the application in the trash. “This is not for you.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off, somehow managing to close the hidden panel doors in her face, even as the panels stayed in their pockets in the walls.

Throe materialized about a half mile from the house Abalone went to every night.

The GPS locator Throe had put into the outer chest pocket of the male’s camel-hair coat had worked like a dream. And one had to admire the wealthy neighborhood.

Not bad, not bad a’tall.

Falling into a casual stroll, he checked out the houses as he zeroed in on the signal his cell phone was directing him to. Actually, the proper term for the residences would be mansions. These places were far too large to count as mere houses: multi-storied, sprawling, set back from the road, they all had dramatic landscape lighting on their exteriors, as if the wealthy humans living inside couldn’t bear to think their position would be ignored during the night hours.

As he proceeded, he had to control his frustration. He missed the fighting more than he’d thought he would. In fact, the lack of bloodshed—of any variety—was a shocking dissatisfaction. When he had started with the Band of Bastards, he’d been horrified by the aggression and gore. After several centuries, however, the warfare had become what he thought of as normal.

The stone manse that came next was an effeminate, mod-con’d version of the medieval pile of rock the Band of Bastards had all lived in back in the Old Country, and he stopped in front of the sprawling expanse. Figures moved inside, crossing windows that were framed by heavy swaths of fabric as lights inside picked up glints of gold and silver on the walls.

And abruptly, he wasn’t thinking of Xcor’s former lair.

He was recalling where he had come from, his true origin of privilege and wealth.

In seeking revenge for his sister, he had sold himself to the devil. Now, on the far side of that bargain, he was poor and alone and without prospects.

His only hearth was his ambition.

At least there was plenty afire in it to warm him over the coming winter months.

Throe pressed on, the cold biting through the leather coat he wore, the one that was still stained with the kills he had wrought from nights ago.

Before all had changed.

The house that was his target turned out to be on the left, on the opposite side of the street. It was grand and historic, a white Federal manse with the bone structure of a true beauty and the attended-to upkeep that only the very wealthy could bring to an old estate: No peeling paint for her. No scruffy bushes. No sagging rooflines or porches.

Unlike with the others, there was no way to see inside.

The drapes were all pulled and so heavy he could see no light through them. There were no cars in the driveway, but as he waited, taking cover behind a shrub, he caught sight of two individuals approaching the front door . . . even though they had not arrived at the property by any motorized conveyance.

Because they were vampires who had dematerialized to the place.

Ten minutes later, another visitor arrived. Fifteen minutes after that, two more.

They were discreet, and not everyone used the front door—no doubt to avoid suspicion.

Throe checked his phone, in spite of the fact that he knew he had the location correct. Yes, Abalone was in there.

Keeping to the shadows, he stayed longer, not because he had any particular plans to infiltrate, but rather, because he had yet to formulate them. His ambition, strong as it might be, was not as yet an engine in drive—he had recon to do, weaknesses to discover, strategies to define.

A car turned the corner and came down the street.

As it passed under the streetlight across the way, he saw that it was a Rolls-Royce, a dark one with a trademark pale hood.

And here he was without a motorcar.

Indeed, his lack of prospects was a problem.

How was he going to marshal any resources? he wondered. How was he to support himself whilst he built a coalition?

The answer, when it came, was so obvious, it was as if destiny had spotlit a path through darkness for him. Yes, he thought, that was the way . . .

A moment later, he returned to Abalone’s most generous accommodations with a smile on his face.