The face-to-face interaction, however, remained unchanged and ancient, nothing but the subject and the King, communicating in privacy, reaffirming that important bond and strengthening the fabric of the Race.
Abalone had created, and was maintaining, the new modern record-keeping procedures, and the system was proving invaluable. With the volume of requests ever increasing, however--the number had more than quadrupled in the last three months alone--he was beginning to drown in the paperwork and the scheduling.
The delays were unacceptable, a disrespect to both Wrath and the petitioners.
Accordingly, it was becoming evident that he was going to need help. He had no idea where to find it, though.
Trust was an issue. He needed someone in whom he could place absolute faith.
The trouble was, he didn't know where to start the search--especially as the only people he knew were aristocrats and the glymera had not only been the source of the treasonous plots that had nearly taken Wrath off the throne, they were also disenfranchised from having had their political power stripped from them.
It would be folly to assume the dissenters had magically disappeared.
And that was just one of the reasons Throe's uninvited appearance on his doorstep at dawn had been so disquieting.
Forcing himself to focus, Abalone printed out the evening's dockets and then went into the makeshift throne room to check that all was as it should be. It was. The space that had been previously used for dining was now where audiences with Wrath were held--but, typical of the King, everything was low-key. There were no golden seats nor ermine robes nor velvet drapes nor carpets of grand majesty. Just a number of armchairs set facing each other in front of a fireplace that threw off cheerful flames in the autumn and winter, and sported fresh flowers from the garden during the spring and summer.
The logs were already set and he went over and lit them.
The true throne, the one that Wrath's father had sat in, and his sire before that, and his sire before that, was back at the Brotherhood's mansion. Or at least that was what Abalone had heard. He had never been to the secret compound and had no interest in knowing its location or paying the facility a visit.
Some information was too dangerous to be worth knowing.
And in the end, that was the only reason he hadn't kicked out his cousin halfway through the day when it became obvious that the King was unreachable.
Even if Throe o'ertook Abalone? The male would learn nothing of consequence, nothing that could harm Wrath or the Brotherhood. This location was guarded by Brothers whenever Wrath was on the premises, and the Brother Vishous had insisted on installing bulletproof glass, flame-retardant siding, steel mesh around the dining room and kitchen, and other security measures that Abalone couldn't begin to guess at.
This residence was now as fortified as Fort Knox.
He was not afraid of the Band of Bastards here. Or the Lessening Society.
Besides, Throe had merely retired to a guest room and slept as if recovering from a vital injury. As aggression went, he had been no more trouble than any other guest could have been.
Yet.
As minutes continued to pass, Abalone paced around the audience room--
"You all right?"
Abalone wheeled around so fast, his Bally loafers squeaked on the polished floor. "My lord . . . !"
Wrath had somehow managed to make it not just into the house, but into the very room, without making a sound--and not for the first time, Abalone found himself in awe of the male. The King was nearly seven feet tall, and so broadly muscled, his warrior nature was a physical presence that made one want to put one's hands over one's head and submit just to get that out of the way. With his black hair falling from a widow's peak down to his hips, and black wraparounds hiding his blind eyes from everyone but his beloved Queen, he was both aristocratically handsome and brutally overbearing. And then there were the tangible representations of his exalted station: the black diamond ring on the middle finger of his dagger hand, and the dense tattoos of his lineage that ran up his inner forearms.
The male was always a bit of a shock, no matter how many hours Abalone spent in his presence. But that seemed especially true on a night like tonight.
The King bent down and released his Seeing Eye dog, George, from his halter, and then he looked over his shoulder. "Butch? Give me a minute in here, will ya?"
"You got it."
The Brother with the Boston accent pulled closed the sliding doors, and as the panels locked into place, Abalone could honestly say that he never thought he himself would seek an audience with his ruler.
Wrath's nostrils flared. "You got something on your mind."
For some reason, Abalone felt like getting down on his knees. "I attempted to reach you, my lord."
"Yeah, I know. I was having a rare day down in Manhattan with my shellan. I didn't get the messages until about five minutes ago. Figured whatever it was, we could do it face-to-face."
"Yes. Indeed."
"So what's doing?"
Dearest Virgin Scribe, this must be what it was like to be unfaithful to a mate, Abalone thought. "I . . ."
"Whatever it is, you can tell me. And we'll deal with it."
"I, ah, I received a visit this morning just before sunrise. From a cousin of mine."
"And that's not good news?"
"It is . . . Throe."
Instead of a recoil or a curse, the King laughed softly--rather like a great feline would purr when presented with the prospect of a meal. "Wheels within wheels. You didn't tell me he was a relation of yours."
"I did not know. I received a phone call from my third cousin once removed. I believe the tie is through marriage. If I had had any idea--"
"Don't worry about it. You can't help what's in your family tree." Again those nostrils flared. "Guess he wasn't welcome at your house, was he."
"No, my lord. I let him in only because he offered information on the Band of Bastards. He states that he has left them and is prepared to reveal their location, strategy, positions."
The King smiled, revealing fangs as long as daggers. "Then by all means, I want to meet with him."
Abalone gave in to his instinct, walked over and lowered himself onto the bald wooden floor. "My lord, you must know that--"
The King laid his hand on Abalone's shoulder, and that palm was so great, it seemed to engulf Abalone's entire torso. "Your loyalty is to me and me alone. I can smell it. I can feel it. Ditch the guilt. He at your house now?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll go to him."
"Would you not rather send an emissary?"
"I got nothing to hide, and I'm not scurred of him or Xcor's little band of girls. They tried to kill me once, remember? Didn't work. Tried to dethrone me? Still here. They can't fucking touch me."
As if Wrath could read minds, he held out the black diamond, and Abalone clasped what was offered, pressing his lips to the sacred stone that had been warmed by the great male's flesh.
"Butch," Wrath called out. "Call the Brotherhood. We gotta make a social call."
The Brother hollered back on the far side of the door as the King moved his face downward as if he could look into Abalone's eyes. "Now, First Adviser, I want you to reschedule the first two hours of my audiences."
"Aye, my lord. Right away."
"And then we're going to your house."
"Whate'er you command, my lord. Whate'er you command."
THIRTEEN
Trez's savior from his captivity turned out not to be a person. It wasn't even an object, really.
His freedom, when it came, was courtesy of an unassuming vent located in the upper right corner of the vast suite he was imprisoned in.
Three nights before his eventual escape, he had been lying flat, contemplating absolutely nothing, when a flush of cool air hit the jewels on his robing and chilled his skin. Frowning, he looked up and saw the grate screwed into the smooth white wall.
First-generation security ca
meras watched his every move, so he knew better than to show any specific interest. But it got him thinking. Shadows could dematerialize, and they could also smoke out--which allowed you to travel vast distances, and stay invisible when you got wherever you were going.
He had tried both many times, and failed--and at first, he relegated any thought of ventilated escape to failure on that basis.
But the next night, for no particular reason, he looked down at what they had put on his body. The gems . . . the sparkling, precious gems that he had assumed were set in gold. The metal was silver in color. White gold, yes?
Unless . . . it was stainless steel. Which was the one thing vampires, even those of Shadow lineage, couldn't dematerialize through.
He had looked across the marble room to the bathing suite. Even when he was in the bath, when his body was ritually cleansed . . . they kept him festooned with sapphires and diamonds, collars of the gems set upon his neck and shoulders and wrists and ankles before he got into the water. As soon as he was out? The chain mail of jewels was locked upon his flesh yet again.
He closed his eyes. Why had he never considered this before?
It had taken him two further nights, two cycles of dawn and dusk, before he had developed a plan. The schedule of feedings, bathings, exercise, and study was never the same, as if purposely manipulated to a lack of pattern, and iAm's comings and goings were likewise random, for as he was not the Anointed One, he had certain freedoms of movement, certain allowances to go out into the palace for exercise or nutrition--although even that was not set in stone.
During his deliberations, Trez had been assiduous about changing nothing about his affect, his attitude, his habits, but internally his mind had been creating, crafting, testing theories for complications or potential failures.
He had anticipated tarrying for even longer, but the moment came unexpectedly, courtesy of a dropped meal tray. A maidservant had slipped on the freshly polished marble floor, and food and plates and silverware had gone everywhere. iAm, ever the helpful one, had volunteered to help deal with the mess, and he and the maidservant had left in search of cleaning aids out in the corridor's supply closets.
Click went the lock on the hidden cell door.
And that was that.
Moving fast, Trez had unclothed his body, tearing the fine mesh and the gemstones off of himself, ripping free the fasteners, popping all manner of buckles, belts, and securities. Then, naked and bleeding from the effort, he had closed his eyes and concentrated.
His anxiety had been so great, he had nearly failed, especially as he heard shouts outside of his door, the security cameras having reported his activities with alacrity and accuracy.
His conviction that this was his one and only chance had given him the grab to reach down and pull some greater strength out from his core.
Just before he went airborne, s'Ex had burst through the door, and they had locked eyes for a split second.
Then it was up and out through the air vent.
Poof!
He had followed the duct system by staying with the current that ran against him, figuring that the draft would show him the way to the great outdoors. He'd been right. Moments later, he had scrambled out into the night, expelling himself high above his previous confines, so shocked that he had gotten away with it that he had nearly re-formed and fallen to the roof of the palace.
A quick collection of his wits and he had been off, with no direction, no further plan, no supplies, no money.
But freedom was priceless . . . and would eventually lead him to cross paths with a vampire who had changed the direction of his life--
*
"Trez? Buddy?"
Trez exploded out of his sleep just as he had that venting system, and for a split second, he had no fucking clue where he was.
A heartbeat later, though, a pair of amethyst eyes directly in front of his face brought everything back: the training center, Selena, the present, not the past.
"Selena--"
Rehvenge put a hand out. "Whoa, easy. They're almost finished bathing her."
"Bathing her . . ." Trez rubbed his face and looked around, seeing a whole lot of concrete wall.
Christ, he was so exhausted, he'd crashed in the corridor outside of the examination room in the four-point-two seconds it had taken for him to sit his ass down and take a deep breath.
Rehvenge grunted as he used his cane to help himself down to the hard concrete floor. Stretching his legs out, he folded his full-length mink coat around his thighs, even though it was no colder than sixty-eight degrees.
"My Ehlena called me." Rehv gave Trez the once-over and, going by his tight expression, didn't like what he saw. "I would have been here sooner, but I was dealing with business up north."
"How're your colonists? Still psycho?"
"How are you?"
"I'm great, Your Highness."
"Don't try to fuck me, okay?"
"Sorry." Trez let his head fall back against the cool wall. "I'm not at my best."
Rehv glanced at the exam room's closed door. "Where's iAm?"
"Locker room. I think he went in there for a shower."
"Knew he'd be down here with you."
"Yeah."
There was a stretch of quiet. And then Rehv said, "How long have we known each other?"
"A million years."
The sin-eater laughed tightly. "Feels that way."
"Yeah."
"So why didn't you tell me?"
"About . . . ?" When Rehv just popped a brow, Trez took a shuddering breath. Of course the guy wanted to know about Selena and the bonding. "Look, I didn't even want myself to be aware of how I felt about her. I just . . . shit, you know what I was like with the whores. How the hell am I bringing that to the table with someone like a Chosen? But now this. For fuck's sake, all that wasted time. Not that we would have been together necessarily, but . . . maybe I could have helped. Or . . ."
Although, from what the other Chosen had had to say, it seemed like the disease or disorder, or whatever the fuck it was, was going to have its own course, regardless of what anyone did.
"I got some experience with that," Rehv murmured. "When I met Ehlena? She didn't know that I was half sin-eater, much less the heir to the throne of the symphaths. I sure as shit wasn't in a big hurry to tell her, but it wasn't like I could hide the tracks in my arms, or my impulses, or who I was. And remmy, I had the same night job you do now. Not exactly good news to bring on home to the little female. I fought it for as long as I could, and when the truth came out? I knew she was going to leave. Was convinced of it. For a while she did, and I had nothing but love for her anyway. In the end, though? Worked out."
Trez wished he could take some inspiration from that. "Selena's going to die."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Listen, I'm no fan of my subspecies, but we have know-how up north. Let me see what I can bring back for you."
Trez cranked his head around and stared at the guy. "You don't have to--"
"Stop it."
Trez had to look away. "Don't make me cry. I hate feeling like a pussy."
"You'd do the same for me."
"You've already saved me once."
"I like to think we saved each other."
Trez thought about the night the pair of them met. The how and the where, up in that cabin on the mountain, the one that was the first structure Trez had run into when he'd finally dropped himself out of the air . . . also the one where Rehv had had to do the duty with that nasty symphath Princess who'd been blackmailing him.
Trez had taken shelter when Rehv had arrived and fucked the bitch standing up a couple of times. Afterward, she had left him in a mess on the floor, the poison she'd put on her skin having leveled Rehvenge.
Caring for the guy had only seemed natural.
And in return? He and that purple-eyed bastard had become brothers of a sort. To the point where, when iAm had turned up on the outside, the three of them had fallen in together, Trez's loyalty and g
ratitude indenturing him and his kin to the sin-eater.
If he knew one and only one thing about Rehvenge after all these years, it was that he was a male of worth. In spite of being a pimp and a club owner, a degenerate and a reprobate, an evil-hearted, sadistic SOB . . . he was, and always would be, one of the finest males Trez had ever known.
"I'll get going then," Rehv said.
With another round of that grunting, the male got to his feet, and when he was on the vertical with that mink coat dusting the bald floor of the training center, he cleared his throat and didn't look at Trez. Not a surprise, and kind of a gift. Trez didn't deal well with big emotions either.
"Thank you," Trez said roughly.
"Save the gratitude for if I bring back something worth having."
"That's not what I'm talking about."
Rehv leaned down, offering his dagger hand. "Anything I got is yours."
Trez had to blink hard. Then pass his hand over his eyes. "Your friendship's all I need, my man. 'Cuz it's pretty damn priceless."
*
As iAm walked out of the men's locker room, he checked to make sure the buttons on his shirt had been done up properly. The shower lasted only five minutes, tops, but the water had been ice-cold, and he guessed he felt a little more with it.
Hard to tell with all the brain fry he had going on.
He stopped as he looked up and saw Trez and Rehv linked by their palms. For some reason, the quiet moment between the males took him back to the night Trez had escaped.
So strange the paths that crossed when you least expected it.
Rehv glanced over as the pair released their grips. "Hey, iAm."
"Hey, man."
Like they were at some kind of funeral, the two of them met in the middle and did the backslapper embrace guys rocked when there were too many feels in the air. A moment later, Rehv left without a backward glance, striding down to the office, his floor-length mink billowing out behind him, his red cane plugging into the floor to keep his balance.
"Glad he showed," iAm said as he glanced at the shut door of the exam room. Guess they were still cleaning Selena up.
What a fucking night. Day. Whatever it was.
"Yeah."
iAm checked his watch. Well, whaddaya know. It was eight p.m. After sundown. They'd been here for, like, over twelve hours straight.
"So are you going to tell me what's on your mind?"