Trez all but stumbled from the room, and he didn’t remember anything of the trip down the stairs, through the dark house, and out into the bright, snowy side yard. Closing his eyes, it was a while before he could focus and concentrate enough to dematerialize …
… but he eventually made it to the Commodore, re-forming behind the rear service entrance’s Dumpster. Stepping out from it, the deliverymen who were unloading commercial cleaning supplies into the holding area ignored him, and so did the bike messenger who was streaking down the back alley.
But there were plenty of people waiting for him up on the eighteenth floor.
As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he cursed under his breath.
iAm was leaning up against the closed door, all casual except for the murder in his eyes. And with him? The whores Trez had arranged for s’Ex.
The queen’s executioner was undoubtedly on the terrace outside. Or prowling around the inner rooms after having broken in, in a rage.
Trez shoved his hands in his pockets—no keys. Fuck.
Did he forget them? Or were they on the floor of Selena’s bedroom?
Goddamn it.
“Missing something?” his brother drawled.
“Hey, boss,” one of the prostitutes said.
“Boss—”
“What’s up—”
The women spoke over themselves as they pumped their extensions and rearranged their bra cups. They were each wearing some version of keep-it-legal, but everything was short and tight and low-cut.
Not that they were going to stay clothed for long.
“Allow me,” iAm muttered, taking out his copper key.
After doing the deed with the lock, he swung the door wide and nodded for the girls to go inside.
As they shimmied in, the male narrowed his eyes. “What the f**k are you doing?”
“Taking care of business,” Trez hissed back. “The only way I know how.”
Pushing past his brother, he strode into the living room. And just like the wraith he was, the executioner was waiting on the far side of the glass, his black robes wafting in the cold wind.
As the three prostitutes noticed him, they froze, either spellbound or scared shitless. Maybe both.
“Give me a minute, ladies,” Trez said as he went to the sliding doors. “I’ll send him down to you in the bedroom off that hall over there.”
“Yeah, okay, boss,” the one in the front answered.
He waited until they were out of the room before letting s’Ex in. Good thing—the executioner was pissed off, all but tearing the hood from his head.
Jabbing a finger into Trez’s face, he barked, “You be on time in the future. Or our agreement is null and void.”
Just as Trez was about to get all up in the bastard’s face, iAm stepped in. “We had a mandatory engagement for the King. Nothing we could get out of, and nothing that’s going to happen again.”
Black, glittering eyes swung in his brother’s direction. “You make sure of that.”
iAm nodded once, his face deceptively calm: His tell was the twitch in his left eyebrow—shit, Trez was going to hear allllll about this as soon as it was over.
Great. Something else to look forward to.
s’Ex reached up to the black brooch at his throat. Big as a fighter’s fist, it was studded with black stones, the metal twisting in and around itself—and when he removed the thing, all those robes fell to the floor.
Exposing a pedestrian-looking wife beater and a pair of black combat pants.
What was not pedestrian was the rest of him: Every inch of his skin was marked with that white ritual tattooing, his heavily muscled arms and shoulders patterned with the shit. And yet, he could still pass for human.
Good news for the prostitutes.
“In spite of the fact that you’re late,” s’Ex gritted out, “I did you all a favor.”
“So our parents are alive?” Trez said.
“Oh, yeah, that, too. They are losing their quarters, however—at the queen’s request. Last time I checked, your mother was having a nervous breakdown as her jewels were being repossessed.” The executioner smiled slowly. “Her majesty is actually pleased with their suffering. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you planned this all perfectly.”
“What’s the favor?”
“Her majesty is about to be occupied with things that don’t involve you for a little while.”
Trez narrowed his eyes. “How so?”
“About nine months.”
“I’m sorry, what? I don’t get what you’re—”
“She’s pregnant.”
Trez stopped breathing. And then forced his lungs to get back with the program as he shot a glance over at his brother. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Of all people, I’d assume you don’t need a diagram.”
“But I thought her consort died ten years ago?”
“Yeah. Such a shame.” s’Ex cracked his knuckles. “He had a bad fall.”
“So whose is it.”
s’Ex smiled with a sly edge. “It’s a miracle.”
Holy … shit.
s’Ex nodded. “The timing’s good for you because she’s going to have to wait to see if it’s another daughter. At that point, the star charts will have to be read to figure out which will be the next queen. Obviously, if it’s a son? You’re screwed. If not, you might have a shot—after all, you were promised to that particular daughter. If another is to be queen? You’re good.”
iAm exhaled slowly. “This is … pretty f**king great news. Potentially.”
“But you still owe me,” s’Ex growled. “From now going forward? You take care of me … or I’ll take care of you both.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Trez jacked up his slacks, his mind reeling. “Whatever you need.”
“That’s more like it.”
Jesus … this changed everything. Or at least, it could.
A far better outcome than he could have engineered.
As s’Ex’s obsidian stare shifted to the hall the girls had gone down, Trez refocused. “A couple of rules.”
The executioner glanced back. “I don’t hear that.”
Trez stepped in tight, meeting the huge male grille-to-grille. “The rules are this—you do not hurt them. Rough sex is okay if it’s consensual, but no permanent scars or marks. And you may not eat them. Those are my only two constraints, and they are not negotiable.”
With Shadows, you always had to set limits. Especially a Shadow like this one.
“Wait, are they yours?” the male asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, shit, why didn’t you just say?” s’Ex put out his palm. “My vow. Nothing permanent and no lunch.”
What a relief, Trez thought as he clasped that hand and gave it a hard shake. “But I’m giving them to you for however long you want them. And the apartment, too, of course. When you want something fresh? You know where to find me.”
As the executioner smiled and went to walk off, Trez snagged a hold on the male’s arm. “One more thing—those are humans. As far as they know, vampires are fiction—and you need to keep it like that if you want this to continue.”
s’Ex looked bored. “Fine. But it would have been more fun the other way.”
As he stalked out of the room, his heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor, and then there were voices. Followed by a door shutting.
Trez went directly to the bar even though it was only just after noon, and picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark. He didn’t bother with a glass; straight from the bottle was good enough for him.
As the liquor burned its way down to his gut, his only thought was that he should feel more relief than he did. Then again, he wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.
And he’d taken the virtue of a good female about a half hour ago.
No get-out-of-jail-free card was going to change that.
“Nine lives,” iAm said as he came over and put his hand out.
Trez passed the bourbon over. “Not yet—”
The moan that rippled distantly was female in origin. And so was the one that followed.
“He’s going to do all three of them at once,” iAm muttered.
A quick image of the executioner on his back with one female straddling his hips, another riding his face, all while he fingered a third made Trez take the bottle back and drink hard.
Goddamn, Trez thought, he hoped he could stay ahead of that appetite.
FIFTY-FOUR
Fresh snow began to fall at six, as if it had been waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon before it made its appearance—and by midnight, the storm wasn’t showing any signs of lightening up.
As Xcor stared out his bedroom window, he tracked the thick flakes, thanks to the streetlights that marked the cul-de-sac’s circle in front of the house.
“Are you coming?”
At the sound of Throe’s voice, Xcor looked over his shoulder. His fighter was standing in the doorway, dressed in a proper suit.
His Chosen would be waiting for him, Xcor thought. In this bad weather.
Assuming she showed.
But he couldn’t miss the crowning.
“Yes,” he said gruffly, getting off the chair he’d pulled over to the window.
Gathering up his holsters, he strapped them on his shoulders and his waist and slid in various guns and blades. But as he went to pick up the scythe, Throe shook his head.
“I think you should leave that here, no?”
“She comes with me.”
After Xcor put her on his back, he covered everything up with his leather duster. “Let us proceed.”
As he walked by Throe, he refused to meet the male’s eyes. He knew what he would find if he did and was uninterested in the scrutiny.
Joining the Bastards down below, he was silent as they filed out into the chilly evening and dematerialized from the backyard …
… to the formal grounds of Ichan, son of Enoch’s modern house.
Through the swirling snow, he saw that others had already arrived, members of the Council in formal dress milling around the interior rooms, passing by the glowing windows.
The celebration was warranted, as this was, indeed, a triumph—or it should have been. But all he could think about was the female who was out in a meadow, hopefully bundled against the winter elements, waiting for him. Glancing up to the sky, snow fell into his eyes and he blinked.
How long would she stay there—
“This way,” Throe said, indicating a front entrance that had all the subtlety of a billboard on the side of the highway. “As if one could miss it.”
So many spotlights, all focusing on the colored glass around a red-painted door that had some kind of sun-like symbol in it.
“How garish,” Throe muttered as they started across the snow. “Unfortunately, the inside is worse.”
Xcor, on the contrary, didn’t have an opinion about the decor. And he was unimpressed by all the uniformed staff who opened the way in and passed around little pieces of food on silver trays and took drink orders.
No, he was in a field far away, under a maple tree, waiting for a female to arrive so he could give her his coat against the flurries.
He was not here—
“May I take your coat?” a doggen asked at his elbow.
Shifting his eyes over, the butler stepped back. “No.”
“As you wish, sire.” The bow that he gave was so low, the doggen nearly touched the glossy floor. “But of course—”
At that moment, Ichan approached with all the flourish of a bandleader. Indeed, he was wearing a satin smoking jacket that was red as blood and a pair of loafer-shoes that bore his initials in gold thread. Quite a dandy, at least in his own mind.
“Welcome, welcome. Have a drink—Claus, serve them?”
Xcor let his Bastards answer for him, deciding to move off into another room.
And indeed, the aristocrats silenced as he passed them, their eyes widening from fear and respect—which was why he’d worn his weapons. He had wanted his personage to be a potent reminder of who was actually in charge.
As he proceeded around, he noted idly that Throe was correct about the furnishings. Modern “art” choked the spaces, filling up corners and walls, crowding chairs and tables and sofas that were so contorted, one had to wonder where a guest could actually sit down. And the color scheme was all over the place, the only commonality appearing to be that the bright, discordant hues affront the retina—
How long would she wait? Would she have worn a coat?
Of course she would have.
What if someone questioned why she was leaving? What if she was caught coming back into the house—?
“Xcor?” Throe said quietly.
“Yes.”
“It’s time.” Throe nodded in the direction of a library that was nothing but shelving and books, the furniture having blessedly been emptied out.
Or at least, most of it. Centered in the middle of the space, there was a large, throne-like chair set up as well as a table with a big piece of parchment, wax for sealing, and many, many ribbons.
Ah, yes. The site of Ichan’s precious little zenith.
Which was not going to last.
Xcor went over and stood at the room’s entrance, meeting the eyes of each member of the glymera as they had to go by him. When there were none left to gather, he turned his attention to the assembled, his Bastards standing around him such that their bodies choked the way out of the library—
From behind, the main door opened one last time, a rush of cold, dry air barging in like an errant guest. Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned.
… but he eventually made it to the Commodore, re-forming behind the rear service entrance’s Dumpster. Stepping out from it, the deliverymen who were unloading commercial cleaning supplies into the holding area ignored him, and so did the bike messenger who was streaking down the back alley.
But there were plenty of people waiting for him up on the eighteenth floor.
As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he cursed under his breath.
iAm was leaning up against the closed door, all casual except for the murder in his eyes. And with him? The whores Trez had arranged for s’Ex.
The queen’s executioner was undoubtedly on the terrace outside. Or prowling around the inner rooms after having broken in, in a rage.
Trez shoved his hands in his pockets—no keys. Fuck.
Did he forget them? Or were they on the floor of Selena’s bedroom?
Goddamn it.
“Missing something?” his brother drawled.
“Hey, boss,” one of the prostitutes said.
“Boss—”
“What’s up—”
The women spoke over themselves as they pumped their extensions and rearranged their bra cups. They were each wearing some version of keep-it-legal, but everything was short and tight and low-cut.
Not that they were going to stay clothed for long.
“Allow me,” iAm muttered, taking out his copper key.
After doing the deed with the lock, he swung the door wide and nodded for the girls to go inside.
As they shimmied in, the male narrowed his eyes. “What the f**k are you doing?”
“Taking care of business,” Trez hissed back. “The only way I know how.”
Pushing past his brother, he strode into the living room. And just like the wraith he was, the executioner was waiting on the far side of the glass, his black robes wafting in the cold wind.
As the three prostitutes noticed him, they froze, either spellbound or scared shitless. Maybe both.
“Give me a minute, ladies,” Trez said as he went to the sliding doors. “I’ll send him down to you in the bedroom off that hall over there.”
“Yeah, okay, boss,” the one in the front answered.
He waited until they were out of the room before letting s’Ex in. Good thing—the executioner was pissed off, all but tearing the hood from his head.
Jabbing a finger into Trez’s face, he barked, “You be on time in the future. Or our agreement is null and void.”
Just as Trez was about to get all up in the bastard’s face, iAm stepped in. “We had a mandatory engagement for the King. Nothing we could get out of, and nothing that’s going to happen again.”
Black, glittering eyes swung in his brother’s direction. “You make sure of that.”
iAm nodded once, his face deceptively calm: His tell was the twitch in his left eyebrow—shit, Trez was going to hear allllll about this as soon as it was over.
Great. Something else to look forward to.
s’Ex reached up to the black brooch at his throat. Big as a fighter’s fist, it was studded with black stones, the metal twisting in and around itself—and when he removed the thing, all those robes fell to the floor.
Exposing a pedestrian-looking wife beater and a pair of black combat pants.
What was not pedestrian was the rest of him: Every inch of his skin was marked with that white ritual tattooing, his heavily muscled arms and shoulders patterned with the shit. And yet, he could still pass for human.
Good news for the prostitutes.
“In spite of the fact that you’re late,” s’Ex gritted out, “I did you all a favor.”
“So our parents are alive?” Trez said.
“Oh, yeah, that, too. They are losing their quarters, however—at the queen’s request. Last time I checked, your mother was having a nervous breakdown as her jewels were being repossessed.” The executioner smiled slowly. “Her majesty is actually pleased with their suffering. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you planned this all perfectly.”
“What’s the favor?”
“Her majesty is about to be occupied with things that don’t involve you for a little while.”
Trez narrowed his eyes. “How so?”
“About nine months.”
“I’m sorry, what? I don’t get what you’re—”
“She’s pregnant.”
Trez stopped breathing. And then forced his lungs to get back with the program as he shot a glance over at his brother. “How the hell did that happen?”
“Of all people, I’d assume you don’t need a diagram.”
“But I thought her consort died ten years ago?”
“Yeah. Such a shame.” s’Ex cracked his knuckles. “He had a bad fall.”
“So whose is it.”
s’Ex smiled with a sly edge. “It’s a miracle.”
Holy … shit.
s’Ex nodded. “The timing’s good for you because she’s going to have to wait to see if it’s another daughter. At that point, the star charts will have to be read to figure out which will be the next queen. Obviously, if it’s a son? You’re screwed. If not, you might have a shot—after all, you were promised to that particular daughter. If another is to be queen? You’re good.”
iAm exhaled slowly. “This is … pretty f**king great news. Potentially.”
“But you still owe me,” s’Ex growled. “From now going forward? You take care of me … or I’ll take care of you both.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Trez jacked up his slacks, his mind reeling. “Whatever you need.”
“That’s more like it.”
Jesus … this changed everything. Or at least, it could.
A far better outcome than he could have engineered.
As s’Ex’s obsidian stare shifted to the hall the girls had gone down, Trez refocused. “A couple of rules.”
The executioner glanced back. “I don’t hear that.”
Trez stepped in tight, meeting the huge male grille-to-grille. “The rules are this—you do not hurt them. Rough sex is okay if it’s consensual, but no permanent scars or marks. And you may not eat them. Those are my only two constraints, and they are not negotiable.”
With Shadows, you always had to set limits. Especially a Shadow like this one.
“Wait, are they yours?” the male asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, shit, why didn’t you just say?” s’Ex put out his palm. “My vow. Nothing permanent and no lunch.”
What a relief, Trez thought as he clasped that hand and gave it a hard shake. “But I’m giving them to you for however long you want them. And the apartment, too, of course. When you want something fresh? You know where to find me.”
As the executioner smiled and went to walk off, Trez snagged a hold on the male’s arm. “One more thing—those are humans. As far as they know, vampires are fiction—and you need to keep it like that if you want this to continue.”
s’Ex looked bored. “Fine. But it would have been more fun the other way.”
As he stalked out of the room, his heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor, and then there were voices. Followed by a door shutting.
Trez went directly to the bar even though it was only just after noon, and picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark. He didn’t bother with a glass; straight from the bottle was good enough for him.
As the liquor burned its way down to his gut, his only thought was that he should feel more relief than he did. Then again, he wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.
And he’d taken the virtue of a good female about a half hour ago.
No get-out-of-jail-free card was going to change that.
“Nine lives,” iAm said as he came over and put his hand out.
Trez passed the bourbon over. “Not yet—”
The moan that rippled distantly was female in origin. And so was the one that followed.
“He’s going to do all three of them at once,” iAm muttered.
A quick image of the executioner on his back with one female straddling his hips, another riding his face, all while he fingered a third made Trez take the bottle back and drink hard.
Goddamn, Trez thought, he hoped he could stay ahead of that appetite.
FIFTY-FOUR
Fresh snow began to fall at six, as if it had been waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon before it made its appearance—and by midnight, the storm wasn’t showing any signs of lightening up.
As Xcor stared out his bedroom window, he tracked the thick flakes, thanks to the streetlights that marked the cul-de-sac’s circle in front of the house.
“Are you coming?”
At the sound of Throe’s voice, Xcor looked over his shoulder. His fighter was standing in the doorway, dressed in a proper suit.
His Chosen would be waiting for him, Xcor thought. In this bad weather.
Assuming she showed.
But he couldn’t miss the crowning.
“Yes,” he said gruffly, getting off the chair he’d pulled over to the window.
Gathering up his holsters, he strapped them on his shoulders and his waist and slid in various guns and blades. But as he went to pick up the scythe, Throe shook his head.
“I think you should leave that here, no?”
“She comes with me.”
After Xcor put her on his back, he covered everything up with his leather duster. “Let us proceed.”
As he walked by Throe, he refused to meet the male’s eyes. He knew what he would find if he did and was uninterested in the scrutiny.
Joining the Bastards down below, he was silent as they filed out into the chilly evening and dematerialized from the backyard …
… to the formal grounds of Ichan, son of Enoch’s modern house.
Through the swirling snow, he saw that others had already arrived, members of the Council in formal dress milling around the interior rooms, passing by the glowing windows.
The celebration was warranted, as this was, indeed, a triumph—or it should have been. But all he could think about was the female who was out in a meadow, hopefully bundled against the winter elements, waiting for him. Glancing up to the sky, snow fell into his eyes and he blinked.
How long would she stay there—
“This way,” Throe said, indicating a front entrance that had all the subtlety of a billboard on the side of the highway. “As if one could miss it.”
So many spotlights, all focusing on the colored glass around a red-painted door that had some kind of sun-like symbol in it.
“How garish,” Throe muttered as they started across the snow. “Unfortunately, the inside is worse.”
Xcor, on the contrary, didn’t have an opinion about the decor. And he was unimpressed by all the uniformed staff who opened the way in and passed around little pieces of food on silver trays and took drink orders.
No, he was in a field far away, under a maple tree, waiting for a female to arrive so he could give her his coat against the flurries.
He was not here—
“May I take your coat?” a doggen asked at his elbow.
Shifting his eyes over, the butler stepped back. “No.”
“As you wish, sire.” The bow that he gave was so low, the doggen nearly touched the glossy floor. “But of course—”
At that moment, Ichan approached with all the flourish of a bandleader. Indeed, he was wearing a satin smoking jacket that was red as blood and a pair of loafer-shoes that bore his initials in gold thread. Quite a dandy, at least in his own mind.
“Welcome, welcome. Have a drink—Claus, serve them?”
Xcor let his Bastards answer for him, deciding to move off into another room.
And indeed, the aristocrats silenced as he passed them, their eyes widening from fear and respect—which was why he’d worn his weapons. He had wanted his personage to be a potent reminder of who was actually in charge.
As he proceeded around, he noted idly that Throe was correct about the furnishings. Modern “art” choked the spaces, filling up corners and walls, crowding chairs and tables and sofas that were so contorted, one had to wonder where a guest could actually sit down. And the color scheme was all over the place, the only commonality appearing to be that the bright, discordant hues affront the retina—
How long would she wait? Would she have worn a coat?
Of course she would have.
What if someone questioned why she was leaving? What if she was caught coming back into the house—?
“Xcor?” Throe said quietly.
“Yes.”
“It’s time.” Throe nodded in the direction of a library that was nothing but shelving and books, the furniture having blessedly been emptied out.
Or at least, most of it. Centered in the middle of the space, there was a large, throne-like chair set up as well as a table with a big piece of parchment, wax for sealing, and many, many ribbons.
Ah, yes. The site of Ichan’s precious little zenith.
Which was not going to last.
Xcor went over and stood at the room’s entrance, meeting the eyes of each member of the glymera as they had to go by him. When there were none left to gather, he turned his attention to the assembled, his Bastards standing around him such that their bodies choked the way out of the library—
From behind, the main door opened one last time, a rush of cold, dry air barging in like an errant guest. Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned.
