Stopping in the kitchen, she stood over the little round table and looked out the window. Even though there were no external lights on, she pictured the back porch, seeing it covered with snow. Seeing him standing there in the cold.
Little frustrating. She had come here with collapsed U-Haul boxes to pack up personal stuff--not reminisce about this man. But as she opened cupboards and made estimates about how much wadded newspaper she was going to need, he was all that was really on her mind: Not the house she was leaving, not the things she was going to have to let go of, not the years that had passed since the autumn day she and her grandmother had come here and decided that yes, this house would do for the two of them.
Lot of time had passed.
And yet the only thing on her mind was the man standing behind her.
"Marisol?"
She looked over her shoulder. "I'm sorry?"
"I asked where you would like to start?"
"Ah ... upstairs, I think."
Heading out into the living room, she picked up some of the unformed boxes, slipped some rolls of tape on her wrist, and took the stairs up. At the landing, she decided ... her room.
It was the work of a moment to set up one of the medium-size boxes, the tape ripping out with a noise like fabric tearing, her teeth helping her scissor strips off, the four sides becoming solid and capable of holding things.
Her grandmother had been doing Sola's laundry long enough that the woman had known what clothes were favorites and had already brought them over to Assail's. What was left in the bureau were the second stringers, and she tossed them over without sweating any folding business: yoga pants that had been washed so many times they were dark gray, not black; turtlenecks that had lost their elastic around the throat but were still functional in a pinch; bras that were a little frayed at the cups; fleeces that had pilled up; jeans from high school that she used as a scale to judge her weight.
"Here," Assail said gently.
"What..." As she looked at his handkerchief, she realized she was crying. "Sorry."
Before she knew it, she'd sat down on her twin bed. And after blotting at her eyes, she stared at the handkerchief, running the fine fabric back and forth under her fingertips.
"What ails you?" he asked, his knees cracking as he knelt beside her.
Looking over, she studied his face. God, she couldn't believe she'd ever thought it was harsh. It was ... beautiful.
And his extraordinary moonlight-colored eyes were pools of compassion.
But she had a feeling that was going to change.
"I have to leave," she said roughly.
"This house? Yes, of course. And we shall put it on the market, and you--"
"Caldwell."
The stillness that came over him was as pronounced as a burst of activity--everything changed, even as he remained in the same position.
"Why."
She took a deep breath. "I can't ... I can't just stay with you forever."
"Of course you can."
"No, I can't." She refocused on his handkerchief. "I'm leaving in the morning and taking my grandmother with me."
Assail burst up and paced around the cramped room. "But you are safe with me."
"I can't be a part of the life you're living. I just ... can't."
"My life? What life."
"I know what's coming next. With Benloise gone, you're going to need to get your product somewhere--and you're going to solve that problem in a way that puts you in charge of not just supplying Caldwell's many retail customers, but wholesaling the eastern seaboard."
"You know not what my plans are."
"I know you, though. Dominance is what you do--and that's not a bad thing. Unless you're someone trying to get away from all"--she motioned her hand back and forth--"this."
"You don't need to be a part of my work."
"Not the way it goes and you know it." She glanced up at him. "Might be true if you're a lawyer, but you're not."
"Yet you consider leaving me a better option?"
Funny, a part of her perked up that he was talking like they were a couple. But reality stomped that little wink of sunshine out. "You think you'll start another career?"
The silence that followed answered that one the way she thought it would.
His voice was annoyed. "I fail to understand the abrupt turnaround."
"I was kidnapped from my home, held against my will, and nearly raped." As he recoiled as if she'd slapped him, she cursed. "It's just ... it's about time I go legit and stay that way. I have enough money so that I won't have to work right away, and I have another place."
"Where."
She ducked her eyes. "Not here."
"You're not even going to tell me where you're going."
"I think you'd come after me. And I'm too weak right now to say no."
A sudden scent spiked in the air and she looked around, thinking of those cologne inserts that came in magazines. But nothing had changed--it was just the two of them alone in the house, no Glade PlugIns in sight.
He came across the cheap carpet and loomed over her. "I do not wish you to go."
"Maybe it makes me demented, but I'm glad." She brought his handkerchief up to her mouth and rubbed it back and forth over her lips. "I don't want to be alone in feeling like this."
"I can keep you separate from the business. You won't have to know anything about the operations, distribution, cash positions."
"Except that for however long I'm your girlfriend, or whatever, I'm a target. And if my grandmother lives with you, too, she's a target. Benloise has family--not here in the States, but in South America. Sooner or later his body is going to show up, or his absence is going to be noted, and maybe they don't find you out. But maybe they do."
"Do you think I cannot protect you?" he demanded haughtily.
"I thought I could take care of myself. And that house of yours? I've checked it out, as you know, and it's a fortress, I'll give you that. But things happen. People get inside. People get ... hurt."
"I do not want you to go."
She lifted her eyes back to his, and knew that she was never, ever going to forget the way he looked standing in the center of her little bedroom, hands on his hips, frown on his face, an air of confusion surrounding him.
As if he were so very used to getting his way in all aspects of life that he couldn't comprehend what was happening.
"I'm going to miss you," she said with a cracked voice. "Every day, every night."
But she needed to be smart. The attraction had been there from the very beginning--and him coming to save her had added another dimension to all that, an emotional connection forged in the kiln of her terror and pain. The problem? None of that was the basis for a solid relationship.
Hell, she'd met him while spying on him for a drug importer. He'd hunted her for trespassing. They'd both tracked the other through the night--until she'd watched him having sex with another woman for godsakes. Then came her near-tragedy and some mind-blowing sex that had been a double-edged sword in her recovery.
Sola cleared her throat. "I just need to get out. And as much as this hurts ... that's what I'm going to do."
FORTY
Down here was better for the announcement, Wrath thought as he strode into the dining room with George at his side.
Taking his place at the head of the thirty-foot-long table, he waited for everyone to arrive. No way he was having this kind of a meeting while his ass was in his father's throne. Not going to happen. And there was no reason to exclude anyone in the household. This was going to affect everyone.
And no premeeting, also. He didn't need some private conclave with Rehv and Saxton where he learned the particulars and then had to sit around while they were regurgitated for everybody else. He didn't have a thing to hide in front of his family and nothing was going to make this any easier to hear.
Removing his wraparounds, he rubbed his eyes and thought of another reason he was glad he wasn't upstairs ... too close to
Beth. Fritz had assured him she was in bed and eating, but one thing he knew about his shellan? She was fully capable, even after the rigors of her needing, of heading down to see him and reconnect with the outside world.
If this was about her? She didn't need to hear it right now. Shit knew there was going to be plenty of time to tell her--
"Have a seat," Wrath muttered as he put his sunglasses back on. "You, too, Z."
He could sense Phury hesitating on the threshold of the room with his twin, and in the awkward beat that followed, Wrath shook his head. "No kissing the ring, okay? Just give me some space."
"Fair enough," Phury murmured. "Whatever you need."
So they'd been tipped off. Either that or Wrath looked as bad as he felt.
As the others arrived one by one or in small groups, he could tell by the scents who entered and in what order. Nobody said anything, and he imagined that Phury was giving hand signals to people, telling them to shut the fuck up and stay the hell back.
"I'm on your right," Rehv announced. "Saxton is next to me."
Wrath nodded in their general direction.
Sometime later, Tohr said, "We're all here now."
Wrath drummed his fingers on the table, his brain overwhelmed by the sad, anxious scents in his nose--as well as the silence. "Talk to us, Rehv," he demanded.
There was the soft sound of a chair getting pushed back on the rug, and then the symphath King and leahdyre of the glymera's Council started wrestling with something. There was a pop ... followed by an unsheathing rush.
Then parchment, a large piece ... being unrolled. With a lot of something brushing the table.
The ribbons of the families, Wrath thought.
"I'm not going to read this shit," Rehv groused. "It's not worth my time. Upshot, they all put their seals on this. In their minds, Wrath is no longer the King."
A wellspring of anger jumped out of the throats of his household, many voices intermixing and lifting the roof, the sentiments all the same.
And actually, it was Butch's shellan, Marissa, who was hands down the most refined female in the house, who summed it up best:
"Those goddamn sons of bitches."
Wrath would have laughed under any other circumstances. Hell, he'd never heard her curse before. Didn't know she could pass that shit through her perfect lips.
"What are the grounds?" someone asked.
Wrath cut through the chatter with two words: "My mate."
Pin-drop silence ensued.
"The mating was entirely legal," Tohr pointed out.
"But she's not entirely vampire." Wrath rubbed his temples and thought of what he and Beth had done for the last eighteen hours. "And that means if we have young, neither are they."
Jesus Christ, this was a mess. A total fucking mess. He might have had a shot if he hadn't had any young--then the throne could have passed to his next closest relation. Butch, for example. Or any young that that brother and his mate would have.
Now, though ... the stakes were different, weren't they.
"No one's a purebred--"
"--isn't the Middle Ages--"
"--we need to take them all out--"
"This is fucking ridiculous--"
"--why are they wasting time on--"
Wrath quieted the chaos by curling up a fist and slamming it down on the table. "What's done is done." God, this hurt. "The question is, what now. What is our response, and who the hell do they think is going to rule?"
Rehv spoke up. "I'll let Saxton tackle the legal aspects of the first part--but I can answer the second. It's a guy named Ichan, son of Enoch. It states in here"--rustling--"that he's a cousin of yours?"
"Who the fuck knows." Wrath shifted in his chair. "I've never met him. The question is, where are the Band of Bastards. They have to be involved in this."
"I don't know," Rehv said as he rerolled the proclamation. "Seems a little sophisticated for Xcor's tastes. Bullet to the brain is more his style."
"He's behind this." Wrath shook his head. "My guess is that he'll let the dust settle, kill this Ichan motherfucker, and get himself appointed."
Tohr spoke up. "Can't you just modify the Old Laws? As King, you can do anything you want, right?"
When Wrath nodded in Saxton's direction, the attorney stood up, his chair creaking quietly. "What the vote of no confidence does, from a legal point of view, is remove from the King all powers to command and rule. Any attempt now to change verbiage would be null and void. You are still King, in the sense that you have the throne and ring, but in practice, you have no power."
"So they can appoint someone else?" Wrath asked. "Just like that?"
"I'm afraid so. I found a hidden procedural note that in the absence of a King, the Council can appoint a ruler de facto with a super-majority, and that is what they have done. The passage was intended to be triggered in wartimes, in the event the entire First Family was wiped out along with any immediate heirs."
Been there, done that, Wrath thought.
Saxton continued. "They have triggered that provision, and unfortunately, from a legal standpoint, it is valid--even though it's being used in a way that was not contemplated by the original drafters of the laws."
"How did we not see this coming?" someone said.
"It is my fault," Saxton said roughly. "And accordingly, in front of you all, I tender my resignation and removal from the bar of solicitors. It is unforgivable that I missed this--"
"Fuck that," Wrath said with exhaustion. "I do not accept your--"
"My own father is the one who did this. Just as bad, I should have researched this. I should have--"
"Enough," Wrath snapped. "If you follow that argument, I should have known all along, because my sires are the ones who drafted that shit. Your resignation is not accepted, so shut the fuck up about all the quitting and sit the fuck down. I'm going to need you."
Man, he had such great interpersonal skills.
Wrath cursed some more, and then muttered, "So if I hear this right, there is nothing I can do."
"From a legal standpoint," Saxton hedged, "that would be correct."
In the long pause that followed, he surprised himself. After having been so miserable for not just the centuries before he'd decided to live up to his father's legacy, but the actual nights on the job, you'd think he'd be relieved. All that paperwork weighing him down, the demands from the aristocracy, the antiquated everything--oh, and then there was the stuck-in-the-house, only-sparring-with-Payne, dagger-hand atrophy that went along with everything.
To the point where he felt like a Hummel figurine.
So yeah, he should be pumped to be free of the bullshit.
Instead, he felt nothing but despair.
It was losing his parents all over again.
In the end, Wrath had to see the hidden chamber himself. Cloaking his form in a humble robe so that none would know it was he, he proceeded through the castle with Ahgony, Tohrture, and Abalone--who had resumed his disguise as well.
Moving quickly through the stone corridors, they passed members of the household, doggen, courtiers, soldiers. Unburdened by all the bowing and the ritual greetings that would have been his due as King, they made excellent time, the finish of the castle growing coarser as they proceeded away from the court areas and down into the servants' purview.
The smells were different, here. No fresh rushes and flowers, or hanging bundles of spices, or sweet-smelling females. In these extensive quarters, it was dark and dank, and the fires were not changed with rigid regularity, so there was a sooty undertone to every inhale. However, as they came upon the kitchen, the glorious perfume of roasting onions and baking bread elevated all that.
They did not enter the cooking arena properly. Instead, they took a narrow set of stone steps down farther into the underground. At the bottom, one of the Brothers took a lit torch from its perch and brought the flickering yellow illumination along.
Shadows followed them, scattering across the packed dirt floor li
ke rats, tangling underfoot.
Wrath had never been down here. As the King, he was only ever in the prettified parts of the estate.
This was an appropriate place to do evil, he thought as Abalone came to a halt in front of a stretch of wall that appeared no different from any other.
"Here," the male whispered. "But I know not how they entered."
Ahgony and Tohrture began feeling around, utilizing the light to search.
"What of this?" Ahgony said. "There is a lip."
The "wall" was indeed a lie, a flimsy fabrication colored to appear as if it were part of the stone-and-mortar construction. And inside ...
"No, my lord," Ahgony said before Wrath was even aware of stepping forward. "I shall go first."
With the torch held aloft, the Brother penetrated the darkness, the flames revealing what appeared to be a cramped workspace: Off to one side, there was a rough table on graceless legs, on which sat glass jars capped with heavy metal lids; a mortar and pestle; a chopping block; many knives. And in the center of the squat room, a cauldron sat o'er a fire pit.
Wrath strode over to its cast-iron belly. "Bring unto me the light."
Ahgony directed the illumination into the thing.
A vile stew, cold now, but clearly having been cooked, lay like the leftovers of a sewage flood.
Wrath dipped his finger in and brought up some of the brownish sludge. Sniffing it, he found that in spite of its consistency and the depth of its color, it had little fragrance.
"Do not taste, my lord," Tohrture cut in. "If you require that, allow me."
Wrath wiped his hand upon his cloak and went over to the glass jars. He recognized not the various twisted roots contained in the set, nor the flakes of leaves, nor the black powders. There was no recipe, either, no slip of parchment with notes for the preparer.
So they knew the ingredients by heart.
And they had used this space for some time, he thought, running his fingers over the pitted tabletop, and then going over to inspect the crude venting hole o'er the cauldron.
He turned to the assembled and addressed Abalone. "You have done honor to your bloodline. You have proven your worth this night. Go forth and know that what shall happen the now shall not fall upon you."
Abalone bent low. "My lord, again, I am not worthy."
"That is for me to decide and I have made my declaration. Now go. And be of silence of all this."
"You have my word. It is all I have to offer, and 'tis yours and no one else's."