Mason. Human.
Cari’s father had always said that time was the most powerful of the Order’s weapons against magic. Forget. Disperse. Intermingle. Houses, weaker ones mostly, forgot who they were and had intermingled with humans. Magic belonged in fairy tales with fairy godmothers and princesses.
And some Houses did mate with humans. Though, not Dolan.
Then magic stirred again within mage blood—her father said he could name the day, the very moment, when it quickened inside him. A thousand years, and finally the Houses remembered who they were, what they were. Under Ferrol Grey, Brand’s predecessor on the Council, the humans within each great House were rooted out, killed, the bloodlines purified for the coming Dark Age. There would be no intermingling of the races.
Seems he missed one: a mage with a soul.
Funny thing was, if Mason had actually been claimed at his birth, had been brought into his mother’s House, for example, he wouldn’t have survived long. Being a stray had saved him.
No need to kill them. Maeve pouted, childlike. Such a waste to douse the light right away. Just look at him.
Cari did; she couldn’t help looking at Mason. She’d always liked looking at him. Strong. Dark. Late at night, it was Mason’s image that came to her sleepless mind.
He said he’d lie if it suited him, and his being in her House was a lie. Did Brand know? With that angel for a lover, she had to. Typical.
Let’s take him together.
Stop that.
I know you like him. Let me give him to you. He already needs punishing. If you only knew . . . Just ask. Let me tell you what he’s done.
Cari ignored the fae and focused back on Mason. “Do you know Khan?”
“We don’t go out drinking together or anything, but I think he’ll talk to me. His grandkids and Fletcher have played together.”
“His grandkids and your son . . . played together.” Mason never ceased to amaze her. How had he risen so high? “Well, then.”
“Might take a day or two to actually reach him and set something up for you. He refuses to carry a phone and comes and goes from Segue without warning.”
So tedious, dove. No need to seek out Shadowman. He can’t change anything. Never could. Death is, as ever, himself.
“We have other work to do with the plague, so a couple of days is fine.” Cari gripped her father’s journal.
Her father would tell her many things. But she did have to concede, once again, that Mason, even as a human, had his uses. At worst, the knowledge that he had a soul would be the way she could control him.
Such a pretty soul.
And, okay, maybe Maeve might just have her uses, too.
Erom Vauclain sat on a hard, low stool across from his father’s wheelchair. The old man had tubes up his nose and curd on his eyeballs and the corners of his slack mouth, but he was still technically alive. The wheeze of his breath made Erom feel oxygen-deprived.
Erom’s brother Francis came into the room adjusting his shirt sleeves so the cufflinks twinkled. He stood behind their father, a hand on his shoulder, the heir to Vauclain prematurely playing lord.
“This really isn’t necessary,” Erom said to Francis. His brother made Erom itch inside, annoyed. Made him hot enough to want to punch him in the face. Wouldn’t that feel good?
Francis tightened his hand on their father’s shoulder. “Father thinks it is.”
Francis had always been a dick, but never more so than when he’d started pretending to read their father’s mind.
Erom knew better than to roll his eyes. To irritate his brother, he dropped his gaze and spoke to his father directly. Even decrepit, their father was still the head of Vauclain House. Francis technically had nothing to do until the old man died, and he’d already made it to a hundred and eight. Francis would be very old himself before their father bit the big one. Rumor among the staff was that Francis had stopped feeding him. Old man must be living on Shadow alone. Shadow and spite.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest,” Erom said. His father used to scare him shitless. Now look at him.
“We want to understand what happened with Dolan.” Francis’s voice.
“She’s grieving.” Erom shrugged, as much for air as to dismiss the question. His brother made him so fighting hot. “Needs some time to get over her loss.”
The old man blinked. Goop migrated across his irises.
Francis’s voice came from above again. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Cari Dolan?”
“We have a long history, she and I.” Erom wanted to pull at the collar of his shirt, but recalled it was already open. Still couldn’t breathe with the old man sucking in and out like that.
“Are you still a couple?”
“I think so.” His father’s gimlet eyes forced him to add, “But we’re taking a break.”
“You knew it was essential to secure that alliance. It was the one thing you were good for.”
“Cari approves of the alliance as well,” Erom defended. She’d said she had. They’d started planning their future.
“Did you take care of her in bed?”
“I did the best with what she had to offer.” His shirt itched. “Believe me.”
“You, of all people, should know how to satisfy—”
Here he goes. The tirade about another delay with Cari, this time mixed in with the number of other women he slept with and the danger of Cari finding out.
But Francis didn’t finish.
Erom forced himself to look up to see why Francis had broken off. He’d be enjoying himself about now, his big brother, some twenty years senior, who’d never said a word to him that didn’t mean, One day I get to boss you around.
Francis had withdrawn his hand from their father’s shoulder. “Where did you go after Dolan House?”
Erom sneered. None of his business. A man had to get some relief; Cari sure wasn’t providing it.
“Where did you go?” Francis demanded again.
Erom felt a drop of sweat slide down his face. Made to swipe at it. Came back with Shadow-tinged blood. Wha . . .? His heart boomed as he felt for the itchy spot on his face. Found a mound that ached when his fingers probed it. The skin broke. More slimy blood. Oh, please Shadow. He couldn’t breathe.
Francis reeled back. “Where did you go, you stupid son of a bitch!”
He never should have lingered outside the wards. Never. A quick lay wasn’t worth this, no matter how many weeks he’d been cooped up.
The plague. Erom tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold him, so he went down on one knee with a crack. His back, his spine, hurt. The base of his skull was splitting.
“Help me,” he begged Francis. “Please, you’re my brother . . .”
Francis wavered for a moment and then did step forward. Lunged even.
Thank you, Erom thought. He’d love Francis. He would.
Francis kicked the brake on their father’s wheelchair and pushed the handles, so that the chair rolled straight toward Erom.
Erom grabbed at the chair’s armrests, only to collapse into his father’s lap. The old man smelled sour, like dry urine.
The heat. The itch. They were coming together for a burn, but Erom didn’t have enough air anymore to scream. Terror wouldn’t let him pull a breath.
He looked up one more time to beseech his brother. Please . . .
And caught the flash of movement as Francis exited and shut the door behind him.
Chapter Six