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.