“Oh, my lord, I—”
“Listen up, Abalone. I want you to let him stay here for as long as he likes. I’m not buying any of this bullshit. He might well have left Xcor and the Bastards, but I don’t trust him, and I’m a male who believes in keeping my enemies close.”
“Of course, my lord. Yes, yes, of course.” Abalone bowed even though a sudden unease shocked through his system. “I shall do anything and everything you wish.”
As if the King once again read minds, Wrath said, “I know you’re worried about your daughter. Until this sorts out, why don’t you let her stay at my audience house? She can have a chaperone, and security is monitored twenty-four/seven there.”
V stepped in close. “We got two different underground tunnels leading out from the basement suites, and we’ll send our doggen over to take care of her. She’ll be perfectly safe.”
Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, Abalone thought.
Except then he reflected that Paradise was getting antsy, and not because she was in love or anxious to be mated. She was a young, vibrant female with so much going for her, and yet as an aristocrat, her options were limited.
Perhaps getting her out of the house for a bit would be beneficial.
And he certainly didn’t want her around Throe.
Torn between parental concern, a duty to his King, and sadness that his one offspring was in fact growing up, he found himself nodding through a surge of nausea. “Yes, please. I believe she will enjoy that.”
“I’ll personally make sure she’s safe,” Zsadist said, inclining his head once, as if he were taking a vow. “I got a daughter. I know where you’re at.”
Yes, Abalone thought. He had heard that the Brother Zsadist, in spite of his most fearsome affect, was in fact a settled family male with a beloved young of his own.
Suddenly, Abalone felt better, and bowed low to the scarred fighter. “Thank you, sire. She is my most precious love.”
“Good. Settled.” Abruptly Wrath’s face changed positions, as if he were staring over Abalone’s shoulder toward the library. “Xcor is predicable in his brutality, a real old-schooler right out of the Bloodletter’s playbook. But the final salvo against my throne was a tactical one involving the law and my beloved half-breed Queen. That’s the way an aristocrat fights. Xcor didn’t pull that plan out of his ass—it had to have been something cooked up by Throe. Only explanation there is. So he may in fact be done with Xcor, but even though he wasn’t lying in anything he said in there? We’re not going to know where his allegiances truly lie for a while.”
Abalone didn’t mean to, but before he knew it, his hands were reaching forward and clasping Wrath’s palm. Bringing the King’s black diamond to his lips, he kissed the ring.
And thought once again, Thank the Scribe Virgin that the right male was on the throne.
“My loyalty is to you, my lord,” he breathed. “And you alone.”
Once Wrath was not just off the property, but out of the zip code, it was time to give Throe the middle finger and go Hardy Boys with the addy the bastard had given them.
Rhage was the last to leave the library, and just for shits and giggles, as he filed by Throe, he pulled a Boo! move that left the fucker jumping back and putting his arms up to shield his face.
Pussy.
Out on the lawn, he front-and-centered his phone and texted: All well. Wrath et al ok. Off to secure 2ary local. He paused. And then typed, Wat r u wearing?
He was putting the thing away again when he frowned and sent a second one to somebody else. How r u? Need anything?
“Okay, we ready?” Vishous asked.
Phury and Z nodded as Rhage disappeared his cell and cracked his knuckles. “I want the Bastards to be there. I need some good hand-to-hand. Need to get it in.”
“Feel you,” someone muttered.
One by one, they disappeared and traveled in jumbles of molecules, heading for a very different kind of neighborhood. When they re-formed, it was at the head of a cul-de-sac in a real estate development full of two- to three-hundred-thousand-dollar homes that were probably lived in by people who were popping out kids, working two white-collar jobs at the bottom of the corporate ladder, and desperately wanting to upgrade their three-series BMWs to fives.
Yuppies on the rise.
Spare him.
No one made a sound as they went from passively armed to palmed up but good. The approach to the house in question was multi-fronted, the four of them splitting up and coming at the darkened colonial from each of the compass points.
Putting up his black hood so that the blond hair wasn’t such a screamer in the dark, Rhage took the back left corner, dematerializing through the woods, closing in while assuming cover behind trees. Sending his instincts out, he probed what might be under that roof, behind those solid walls, staying out of sight of the black windows.
Nothing alerted him to any presence. There were no flashes of light. No shadows moving inside. No sound, inside or out on the periphery.
Checking in with Z, who he could see out of his left eye, and Phury, who he tracked out of his right, he motioned upward . . . then dematerialized onto the roof.
The asphalt shingles gave good traction and he stayed in a crouch, well aware of what a good target he was, silhouetted against the night sky. There wasn’t a moon out, which was a bonus, but he was a goddamn sitting duck up here. Heading over to the chimney, he shouldered into the stack of bricks and mortar and listened.
No sounds again.
When the whistle came, it was from down below, and he closed his eyes and ghosted back to the ground.
Z, Vishous, and Phury were standing together in the rear.
“Nothing up there,” Rhage whispered.
“I don’t see anything inside,” Phury agreed.
V stared at the house. “Then we have to assume that it’s booby-trapped.”
Yup. That was exactly what he was thinking.
“You have anything to disarm shit with?” Rhage asked.
V rolled his diamond eyes. “I’m a fucking Boy Scout. What do you think.”
“What’s the approach?”
They decided to enter through one of the windows in the kitchen. Doors were too obvious, as was the chimney, and anything through the garage.
Going around to the back porch, V removed his lead-lined glove, got out his black dagger, and went over to the window above the sink. Putting the tip of the weapon to the glass, he moved the blade in a circle; then placed his glowing fingers on the inside of the cutout and removed the section so that it didn’t fall in.
Three. Two.
One—
Silence.
Rhage glanced around, listening for anything: footsteps in the undergrowth, the click of a safety being taken off a gun, a whisper of clothing.
Nothing.
V snaked his normal hand through the hole he’d made and clicked on his penlight. Inside, a nothing-special kitchen was illuminated in the thin beam: refrigerator, stove, cabinets. More to the point, there was nothing suspicious, no boxes or bags with wires coming out of them in the middle of the room, no beeping lights, not even an alarm panel that was obvious.
“Ready?” V asked.
Rhage breathed in deep, testing the air that was escaping from the house. The scents were of male sweat, booze, tobacco, gun cleaner . . . a pizza . . . cooked meat.
And it was all fresh.
“I’m going first,” Rhage said. With his beast, he was the most likely to survive a bomb blast: any extremes of temperature, pain, or aggression, and his other side would be triggered in a split second, providing him with a set of scales that was better than any kind of Kevlar.
“Be careful, my brother,” Phury said.