The King

  "Kit, as in..."

  "For treatment of the needing."

  He thought of Beth sitting in that room with Layla. God only knew how long that had been going on--but more to the point, he was afraid it had worked: He'd totally gotten sprung in his shellan's presence. And yeah, that was not unusual, except for the fact that they'd been arguing and sex had been the last fucking thing on his mind.

  Her hormones might well be in flux already.

  Either that or he was paranoid.

  Also a possibility.

  "Yeah," he heard himself say. "I want one."

  There was the sound of something being written down. "Now, I will need the male in charge of her to sign for this, either her hellren, her father, or the oldest male of her household. I don't feel comfortable sending these levels of narcotics out into the world unaccounted for--and of course, there will have to be someone there to administer them to her. Not only will she in all likelihood be compromised by the needing, but let us be honest. Females don't have the best heads for these things anyway."

  For some reason, Wrath thought of Payne accusing him of being a misogynist.

  At least Havers totally lapped him on that one--

  Oh shit, how was he going to sign anything? Back home at his desk, Saxton always marked the signature line with a series of raised--

  "I'll sign for it," V interjected sharply. "And my shellan, who's a doctor just like you, will take care of everything else."

  "You are mated?" the physician sputtered. As if there were a greater chance of a meteor dropping on his clinic. "I mean--"

  "Give me the paper," Vishous said. "And your pen."

  Cue more scribbling in an even more awkward silence.

  "What is her weight?" Havers asked, as there was a shuffling like he was putting something in a file.

  "I don't know," Wrath said.

  "Would you like me to see the female in question, my lord? She may come here at any time that is convenient, or I could provide a home visit--"

  "One thirty-six," V said. "And enough with the conversation. Get us the drugs so we can get the hell out of here."

  As Havers tripped over his own loafers to leave the room, Wrath leaned back until his head hit the plaster wall he'd been unaware of being behind him.

  "You want to tell me what the fuck this is about now?" his brother bit out. "Because I'm jumping to a lot of conclusions at the moment, and neither one of us needs that--when you could just answer the cocksucking question."

  "Beth has been hanging out with Layla."

  "Because she wants..."

  "A young."

  A fresh influx of Turkish tobacco hit Wrath's nose, suggesting the brother had just taken a deep drag. "So you're serious about not wanting a kid?"

  "Never. How's 'never' sound?"

  "Amen to that." Abruptly, V's shitkickers made tracks around the room, and man, that pacing stuff was something to envy. "It's not that I don't respect Z and his little slice of nuclear. Thanks to those two females of his, he seems almost normal--which is a miracle in and of itself. So power to him, true? But that shit ain't for me. Thank God Jane feels the same."

  "Yeah. Thank God."

  "Beth's not on that train?"

  "Nope. She's not even in that station, that town, or that part of whatever country your metaphor lives in."

  Wrath rubbed his forehead. On the one hand, it was great to have someone agree with him about the no-young issue--it made him feel less like he was doing something wrong or being cruel to his Beth. On the other, that accord Vishous had with Jane? It wasn't that you wished the shit you were going through on your brother. Not at all. But damn, he could have walked a marathon in those comfortable shoes, thank you very much.

  As his brother paced and smoked, and they both waited for Havers to return with the knockout drops ... for some reason, he thought back to his parents.

  The memories that he had of his mother and father were all about the Norman Rockwell--well, dub in the Old Country language and change the stage set to a medieval castle theme. But yeah, those two had had the perfect relationship. No arguments, no anger, just love.

  Nothing had ever come between them. Not his father's job, not the court they lived in, not the citizenry they served.

  Perfect harmony.

  It was yet another standard set in the past that he was failing to live up to--

  V let out a strange sound, part gasp, part curse.

  "Swallow your smoke wrong?" Wrath said dryly.

  Right next to him, the chair where Havers had been sitting didn't creak so much as curse--like V had thrown all of his weight into the thing.

  "V?"

  When the brother finally answered, his voice was low, too low. "I see you..."

  "No, no, no." Wrath burst up. "I don't want know, V. If you're having one of your visions, do not tell me what it--"

  "...standing in a field of white. White, white is all around you..."

  The Fade? Oh, fucking hell. "Vishous--"

  "...and you are talking to--"

  "Hey! Asshole! I've told you all along, I don't want to know when I'm going to die. Do you hear me? I don't want to know."

  "--the face in the heavens."

  "Your mother?" Christ knew the Scribe Virgin had been MIA and then some lately. "Is it your mother?"

  Shit, he didn't want to encourage this. "Listen, V, you gotta pull back. I can't handle it, man."

  There was a low curse, as if the brother were collecting himself. "Sorry, when it hits in a rush like that, it's hard to stop."

  "That's cool." Even though it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

  Because the problem with Vishous's premonitions--aside from the fact that they were always about people dying? No timeline. That stuff could be about Wrath keeling over next week. Next year. Seven hundred centuries from now.

  If Beth died ... he wouldn't want to live--

  "All I can say is"--V exhaled again--"I see that the future is in your hands."

  Well, at least that was generic and obvious, like an astrology report in a magazine--the kind of thing anybody could read into and feel as though it applied to them.

  "Do me a favor, V."

  "What."

  "Don't see anything else about me."

  "Not up to me, true?"

  Too right. Just like his own future.

  But the good news was ... he wasn't going to have to worry about Beth's needing. Thanks to this miserable little visit, he was going to be able to take care of her when it came.

  Without running the risk of pregnancy.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE YEAR 1664

  "Leelan?"

  When there was no answer, Wrath, son of Wrath, knocked again upon his chamber door. "Leelan, may I enter?"

  As King, he waited for no one, and there was not a body who permitted him to do aught.

  Except for his precious mate.

  And as with this eve, when there were festival gatherings, she desired to pretty herself in privacy, allowing him access only when she had prepared herself for his viewing and adoration. It was utterly charming--as was the manner in which their mated space was scented because of her oils and lotions. As was the way, even a year after their union, that she still ducked her eyes and smiled secretly when he wooed her. As was waking up every dusk with her against him and then fading off to rest at the dawn beside her warm, beautiful body.

  But there was a different edge to it all now.

  When was the waiting going to be over ... and not about gaining entrance unto their room.

  "Enter, my love," came through the stout oak panels.

  Wrath's heart jumped. Turning the heavy latch, he shouldered the planks open ... and there she was. His beloved.

  Anha was across the room, by the hearth that was large enough for a grown male to stand in. Seated at her dressing table, which he'd had moved by the fire for to ensure warmth, her back was to him, her long black hair lying in thick coils down her shoulders to her waist.

&nbs
p; Wrath breathed in deep, her scent more important than the oxygen that filled his lungs. "Oh, you look lovely."

  "You have nae seen me properly--"

  Wrath frowned at the tightness in her voice. "What ails you?"

  His shellan turned about to face him. "Naught. Why do you ask?"

  She was lying. Her smile was a faded version of its normal radiance, her skin too pale, her eyes dragging down at their corners.

  As he strode across the fur rugs, fear gripped him. How many nights since her needing had come and gone? Fourteen? Twenty-one?

  In spite of the risk to her, they truly prayed for a conception--and not simply for an heir, but as a son or daughter to love and nurture.

  Wrath sank to his knees before his leelan, and indeed he was reminded of the very first time he had done as such. He had been right to mate this female, and righter still to place his heart and soul within her gently cupped hands.

  She alone he could trust.

  "Anha, be of truth to me." He reached up and touched her face--and immediately retracted his hand. "You are cold!"

  "I am not." She batted him away, putting her brush down and getting to her feet. "I am dressed in this red velvet you prefer. How can I possibly be cold?"

  For a moment, he nearly forgot his concerns. She was such a vision in the deep, rich color, the gold thread upon her bodice catching the firelight just as all her rubies did: Indeed, she was wearing the full set of jewelry tonight, the stones glinting at her ears, her neck, her wrists, her hands.

  And yet, as resplendent as she was, something was not proper.

  "Do rise, my hellren," she commanded. "And let us proceed down unto the festivities. All and sundry are awaiting you."

  "They may tarry longer." He had no intention of budging. "Anha, speak unto me. What is wrong?"

  "You worry over much."

  "Have you bled?" he asked tightly. Which would mean that a young was not within her.

  She put a slender hand over her belly. "No. And I feel ... perfectly well. Honestly."

  Wrath narrowed his eyes. There was, of course, another issue that could be upon her heart. "Has anyone been cruel?"

  "Never."

  In that, she was lying for certain. "Anha, do you think there is aught that escapes my knowledge? I am well aware of what transpires about court."

  "Do not concern yourself with those half-wits. I do not."

  He loved her for her resilience. But her bravery was unnecessary--if only he could find out who was tormenting her, he would take care of it. "I believe I should readdress the gossips."

  "You say nothing, my love. What's done is done--you cannot undo the presentation. Trying to silence any and all criticism or comment upon me would lead to an empty court."

  It had all started that night when she had been brought to him. He had not followed proper protocol, and in spite of the fact that the King's wishes ruled o'er the land and all its vampires, there were those who disapproved of so much: That he had not undressed her. That he had given her the ruby suite of gems and the queen's ring--and then conducted the mating himself. That he had immediately moved her in here, to his private quarters.

  His critics had not been appeased in the slightest when he had consented to a public ceremony. Nor had they, even a year later, warmed to his mate. They were never rude to her in his presence, of course--and Anha refused to say a word about what happened behind his back.

  But the scent of her anxiety and depression were too well known to him.

  In truth, the court's treatment of his beloved angered him to the point of violence--and created a rift between him and all who surrounded him. He felt as though he could trust no one. Even the Brotherhood, who were supposed to be his private guard and those whom he should have faith in above all others, even those males he was suspicious of.

  Anha was all he had.

  Leaning down to him, her hands cradled his face. "Wrath, my love." She pressed her lips to his. "Let us proceed unto the festival."

  He gripped her forearms. Her eyes were pools to drown in, and the only terror he knew in this mortal coil was that someday they might not be there for him to stare into.

  "Halt your thinking," his shellan beseeched. "There is naught that will happen to me now or ever."

  Drawing her against him, he turned his head and laid it against her womb. As her hands threaded through his hair, he studied her table. Brushes, combs, squat bowls of chromatics for her lips and her eyes, a cup of tea beside its pot, a wedge of bread that had been nibbled upon.

  Such prosaic things, but because she had gathered them, touched them, consumed them, they were elevated to the heights of value: She was the alchemy that turned it all, and him, to gold.

  "Wrath, we must needs go."

  "I do not wish to. This is where I wish to be."

  "But your court awaits."

  He said something vile that he hoped became caught in the folds of velvet. Given her soft laughter, he ventured it had not.

  She was correct, however. There were many gathered for his attendance.

  Damn them all.

  Rising to his feet, he proffered his arm unto her, and as she looped hers through the crook of his elbow, he led them out of their chamber and past the palace guards who lined the hall. Some distance thereafter, they descended a curving stairwell, the sounds of the gathered aristocracy growing ever louder.

  As they closed in upon the great hall, she leaned on him more, and he puffed out his chest, his body growing in stature as a result of her reliance upon him. Unlike so many courtesans, who were eager to be dependent, his Anha had always retained a certain prideful decorum within herself--so when, on occasion, she did require his strength in some way, it was a special gift to his most masculine side.

  There was naught that made him feel his male sex more keenly.

  As the cacophony became so loud it swallowed the sounds of their footsteps, he leaned unto her ear. "We shall bid them a hasty good evening."

  "Wrath, you must avail yourself of--"

  "You," he said as they approached the final corner. "That is of whom I must be availed."

  When she blushed beautifully, he chuckled--and found himself in fervent anticipation of their forthcoming privacy.

  Rounding the last turn, he and his shellan came up to a set of double doors that were for their use only, and two Brothers stepped forward to greet them in the formal proper manner.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe in the Fade, he detested these gatherings of the aristocracy.

  As trumpets announced their arrival, the portals were thrown wide and the hundreds assembled went silent, their colorful dress and sparkling jewels to rival the painted ceiling above their coiffed heads and the mosaic floor below their silk shoes.

  At one point, when his father had still been alive, he could remember being quite awestruck by the great hall and the finery of the aristocracy. Now? Even though the facility's confines were as vast as a hunting field, and its dual hearths the size of civilian dwellings, he had no such illusions of grandeur and honor.

  A third member of the Brotherhood spoke in a booming voice. "Their Royal Highnesses, Wrath, son of Wrath, ruler of all that is within and without the race's territories, and Queen Anha, beloved blooded daughter of Tristh, son of Tristh."

  In a rush, the obligatory applause rose up and rebounded upon itself, each individual's clapping lost within the crowd's. And then it was time for a royal response. According to tradition, the King was never to lower his head to any living soul, so it was the queen's duty to thank the assembled with a curtsy.

  His Anha performed such with unrivaled grace and aplomb.

  Then it was the gathereds' turn to acknowledge their fealty with bows for the males and curtsies for the females.

  And now, with the group formalities exchanged, he had to go over to the line of his courtiers and greet them one by one.

  Striding forth, he could not recall what festival this was, what turn of the calendar's page or phase of the moon or change
of season it marked. The glymera could think of countless reasons to congregate, most of which seemed rather pointless, considering the same individuals showed up in the same venues.

  The clothes were e'er different, of course. And the jewels upon the females.

  And meanwhile, whilst gourmet dinners were prepared and picked at, and slights and offenses were exchanged with every breath, there were issues of substance to be dealt with: suffering of the commoners because of the recent drought; encroachment on the part of humans; aggression from the Lessening Society. But the aristocracy worried not about such things--because in their view, those were problems largely confronted by the "nameless, faceless curs."

  Contrary to the very basic laws of survival, the glymera saw little value in the population that harvested the food they consumed and built the structures they lived in and stitched the clothing that covered their backs--

  "Come, my love," his Anha whispered. "Let us greet them."

  Lo, it appeared he had halted without knowing.

  Resuming his footfalls, his eyes focused upon Ench, who was as always at the front of the line of gray-robed males.

  "Greetings, Your Highness," said the gentlemale--in a tone as if he alone were master of ceremonies. "And you, my queen."

  "Enoch." Wrath looked down the courtiers. The twelve males were arranged by virtue of hierarchy, and as such, the last in line was barely out of his transition, from a family of great blood but lowly means. "How fare thee."

  Not that he cared. He was far more interested in who amongst them had upset his beloved. Surely it must be one, if not all: She had no handmaidens, at her own request, so these were the only figures she had any contact with at court.

  What had been said. Who had said it.

  It was with no small amount of aggression that he proceeded down the line and greeted each one according to protocol. Indeed, this ancient sequence of private address in the midst of a public gathering was a way of acknowledging and reaffirming the advisers' position within the court, a declaration of their importance.

  He could remember his father doing precisely thus. Except the male had seemed to actually value the relationships with his courtiers.

  Especially on this night, the son was not where the father had been.

  Who had--

  At first he assumed his beloved had tripped and required more of his arm's strength. Alas, however, it was not her footing she lost. It was her balance ...