The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood 12)

With a chuffing war cry, the Brotherhood rose en masse, their hard, frozen faces the very worst commentary on the state of things. But as they arranged themselves before his mated door, Wrath knew in his heart that they would lay down their lives for him or for his shellan.

Yes, he thought. His private guard.

As he departed, Tohrture fell in front of him, and Ahgony came in behind, and whilst the three of them proceeded forth, Wrath felt the protection cloak him to the point of chain mail.

“Who is awaiting us,” Wrath said softly.

“We snuck him in,” came the quiet reply. “None can know his identity or he will not last the fortnight.”

Tohrture was the one who opened the door, and on account of his heft, there was no seeing who was—

In the far corner, a cloaked and hooded figure stood, but was not still: whoe’er it was, was shivering, the draping fabric about them animated by the fear they contained within their body.

The door was shut by Ahgony, and the Brothers did not leave his side.

Breathing in, Wrath recognized the scent. “Abalone?”

Ghost-pale hands trembled their way up to the hood and removed it.

The young male’s eyes were wide, his face devoid of color. “My lord,” he said, dropping to the floor, bowing his head.

It was the young, family-less courtier, the end of the lineup of dandies, the one who was there by the grace of the blood in his veins and nothing else.

“What say you?” Wrath asked, inhaling through his nose.

He caught the scent of fear, yes—but there was something more. And when he defined it for himself, he was … impressed.

Nobility was not ordinarily an emotion to be scented. That was more the purview of fear, sadness, joy, arousal … but this sapling of a male, barely a year out of a transition that had done little to increase his body weight or his height, had a purpose beneath his fear, a driving motivation that could only be … noble.

“My lord,” he choked out, “forgive me my cowardice.”

“In regard to what?”

“I knew … I knew what they would do and I did not…” A sob escaped. “Forgive me, my lord…”

As the male broke down, there were two approaches. One aggressive. The other conciliatory.

He knew he would get farther with the latter.

Walking over to the male, he extended his palm. “Rise.”

Abalone seemed confused at the command. But then he accepted the hand up and the direction that took him over to one of the carved oak chairs by the fireplace.

“Mead?” Wrath asked.

“N-n-n-no thank you.”

Wrath sat opposite the male, his chair groaning under the weight in a way Abalone’s had not. “Imbibe a deep breath.”

When the command was obeyed, Wrath leaned in. “Speak unto me the truth and I shall spare you whate’er you fear. None can touch you—as long as you bear no falsity.”

The male put his face in his hands. Then he breathed in deep again. “I lost my father before my transition. My mother, too, died on the birthing bed. In these departures, I am as you are.”

“It is terrible for one to be left without parents.”

Abalone dropped his hands, revealing eyes that were steady. “I was not supposed to discover what I found. But three dawns ago, I was down in the cellars of the castle. I could not sleep, and my melancholy caused me to walk in the underground. I was without a candle, and my feet were held within soft leather shoes—therefore, when I heard voices, they knew not of my approach.”

“What did you see,” Wrath asked gently.

“There is a hidden room. Beneath the kitchens. I had never seen it before, because its door has a facade to match the walls down below—and I would not have noticed it … except the false panel had failed to close properly. Caught upon a stone, there had been a crack through which mine eyes could focus. Inside, there were three figures, and they were circled about a cauldron o’er a flame. Their voices were hushed as one of them added greens of some kind into whate’er they were warming. The stench was horrible—and I was about to turn around and proceed about my concerns … when I heard your name.”

Abalone’s eyes fixed on a middle distance, as if he were seeing and hearing anew that which he was recounting. “Except it wasn’t you. It was your father. They were discussing how he had sickened and died—and attempting to determine the proper amount for someone of smaller stature.” The male shook his head. “I recoiled. Then hurried off. My mind was twisted by what I had witnessed, and I convinced myself … I must have imagined thus. Surely they could not have been talking about your father, your mate. It was just—they had pledged their troth unto you and your blood. So how could they have such things pass from their lips unto the ears of others?” Clear, guileless eyes met Wrath’s. “How could they do such?”

Tempering an inner fury, Wrath reached out and placed his hand upon the youth’s shoulder. Even though their ages were not that far apart, he felt as though he were speaking unto one of a vastly different generation than his own.

“Worry not of their motivation, son. The impure are confounding to the righteous.”

Abalone’s eyes appeared to well. “I convinced myself that I had been mistaken. Until the queen…” He put his face back into his palms. “…Dearest Virgin Scribe in the Fade, when the queen went down unto the floor, I knew I had failed you. I knew I was no different from them who had caused harm, because I did not stop that which I should have known—”

To prevent a complete unraveling, Wrath squeezed that spare shoulder. “Abalone … Abalone, arrest yourself.”

When there was a modicum of composure returned, Wrath kept his voice level, even though in his interior, he was seething. “You are not responsible for the actions of the nefarious.”

“I should have come to you—they killed the queen.”

“My mate is alive and well.” No reason to dwell on the near loss. “I assure you, she is very well indeed.”

Abalone sagged. “Thank the blessed Virgin Scribe.”

“And you are forgiven by me and mine. Do you understand? I forgive you.”

“My lord,” the male said, dropping anew to the floor and putting his forehead to the black diamond ring Wrath wore. “I do not deserve this.”

“You do. Because you came unto me, you can make the amends you seek. Can you take one of the Brothers down unto this hidden place?”

“Yes,” the male said without hesitation. Springing to his feet, he put up his hood. “Now I shall show them.”

Wrath nodded to Ahgony. “Go with him?”

“My lord,” the Brother said, accepting the command.

“There is just one thing before you go,” Wrath said on a growl. “Can you tell me who they were.”

Abalone’s eyes locked on his own. “Yes. Each of the three.”

Wrath felt his lips lift in a smile even though he knew no joy or happiness in his heart. “Good. That’s very good, son.”

THIRTY-NINE

There was an advantage to living alone and being disowned by your remaining parent: When you didn’t come home for an entire day, no one was gnashing their teeth over your possible demise.

Certainly cut down on the phone calls, Saxton thought as he sat across from the double doors of Wrath’s study.

Rearranging himself on the ornate bench, he looked over the gold-leaf banister. Silence. Not even doggen cleaning. Then again, something was up in the house, something big—he could feel it in the air, and although he didn’t have a lot of experience with females, he knew what it was.

Somebody was in their needing.

It wasn’t the Chosen Layla again, of course. But he had heard that one female going into her time could spur others along, and clearly that had happened.

God, he hoped it wasn’t Beth, he thought as he rubbed his tired eyes.

Things needed to be sorted before she—

“Do you know where he is?”

Saxton looked over the banister again. Rehvenge, the leahdyre of the Council, had managed to get halfway up the grand staircase without his presence even registering.

And apparently, something else was definitely up: As always, the male cut an imposing figure with his mink coat and his red cane, but his nasty expression put him into downright deadly territory.

Saxton lifted a shoulder to shrug. “I’m waiting for him myself.”

Rehv stomped onto the second story and paced over to the study’s doorway as if to see for himself that no one was in there. Then he frowned, pivoted on the heel of his LV loafer, and looked up at the ceiling—while discreetly rearranging himself in his pants.

At which point, he blanched. “Is it Beth?”

No reason to define what the “it” was. “I think so.”

“Oh, for f**k’s sake.” The leahdyre sat down on the opposite bench and it was then that Saxton noticed the long, thin cardboard tube he was carrying. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“They did it,” Saxton whispered. “Didn’t they.”

Rehv’s head whipped around and amethyst eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Do you hate me?

Yes, I do.

Saxton looked away. “I tried to warn the King. But … he was going to take care of his shellan.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I went to my father’s house for a command performance. And when I was there, I figured out the whole thing.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his photos, showing them to Rehv. “I snuck these. They’re books of the Old Laws, all open to references of heirs and blood. Like I said, I’d hoped to get to him last night.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Rehv swept his hand over his cropped Mohawk. “They had all the wheels in motion already—”

Across the way, by the head of the hall of statues, the door leading up to the top floor opened. What emerged was …

“Holy shit.” Rehv shook his head and muttered, “Now we know what the zombie apocalypse looks like.”

The lurching, heavy-lidded, floppy-limbed nightmare bore only a passing resemblance to the King—the long hair, damp from a shower, still fell from that famous widow’s peak, and the wraparounds were right, and yes, the black muscle shirt and leathers were his uniform. But everything else was all wrong. He had lost so much weight, his pants were hanging loose as flags around his legs, the waistband sitting at his thighs, even the supposedly skintight shirt billowing off his chest. And his face was just as bad. The skin had shrink-wrapped around his high cheekbones and heavy jaw—and his throat … dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat.

His veins on both sides had been taken so often and with such force, he looked like an extra in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

And yet the male was floating on a cloud. The air that preceded him was soft as a summer breeze, his sense of satisfaction and happiness a bubble that surrounded him.

Such a shame to ruin it.

Wrath recognized the pair of them immediately, and as he halted, his head turned from side to side as if he were measuring their faces. Instead, Saxton was sure it was their auras.

“What.”

God, that voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. There was strength behind it, though.

“We gotta talk.” Rehv smacked the tube into his palm like it was a baseball bat. “Now.”

Wrath responded with a vile string of curses. And then gritted out, “Fuck me, can you give me one hour to feed my f**king shellan after her needing?”

“No. We can’t. And we need the Brothers. All of them.” Rehv got to his feet with the help of his cane. “The glymera voted you out, my friend. And we need to drum up a response.”

Wrath didn’t move for the longest time. “On what grounds?”

“Your queen.”

That already pale face turned positively ashen.

“Fritz!” the King bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The butler materialized from the second-floor sitting room, as if he had been waiting to be summoned for hours.

“Yes, sire?”

It was with utter exhaustion that the King muttered, “Beth needs food. Bring her everything she could want. I put her in the bath—you’d better check on her now. She was weak and I don’t want her passing out and drowning.”

Fritz bowed so low, it was a wonder his baggy face didn’t brush the carpet. “Right away. At once.”

As the doggen hurried off, Wrath called after him, “And will you take my dog out? And then bring him into my office.”

“Of course, sire. My pleasure.”

Wrath turned and faced the open doors of his study like he was going to the gallows. “Rehv, call the Brotherhood.”

“Roger that. And Saxton needs to be in on the meeting. Someone’s got to render an opinion on the legalities of all this.”

Wrath didn’t respond. He just went into the pale blue room, a living shadow in the center of all the fussy French furniture.

In that moment, Saxton could see the weight bearing down on the male, feel the heat of the fire that burned at those feet, sense the lose-lose that had presented itself in this bend in the road. Wrath was the bow of the race’s ship, and as such … he was going to hit the glaciers first.

It was so thankless, all of it. The hours that male had spent chained to his father’s desk, the paperwork passing in front of him, a blur of pages that had been prepared by others, presented by Saxton, ruled upon by Wrath, and sent back out into the world.

An endless stream of sucking need. a chuffing war cry, the Brotherhood rose en masse, their hard, frozen faces the very worst commentary on the state of things. But as they arranged themselves before his mated door, Wrath knew in his heart that they would lay down their lives for him or for his shellan.

Yes, he thought. His private guard.

As he departed, Tohrture fell in front of him, and Ahgony came in behind, and whilst the three of them proceeded forth, Wrath felt the protection cloak him to the point of chain mail.

“Who is awaiting us,” Wrath said softly.

“We snuck him in,” came the quiet reply. “None can know his identity or he will not last the fortnight.”

Tohrture was the one who opened the door, and on account of his heft, there was no seeing who was—

In the far corner, a cloaked and hooded figure stood, but was not still: whoe’er it was, was shivering, the draping fabric about them animated by the fear they contained within their body.

The door was shut by Ahgony, and the Brothers did not leave his side.

Breathing in, Wrath recognized the scent. “Abalone?”

Ghost-pale hands trembled their way up to the hood and removed it.

The young male’s eyes were wide, his face devoid of color. “My lord,” he said, dropping to the floor, bowing his head.

It was the young, family-less courtier, the end of the lineup of dandies, the one who was there by the grace of the blood in his veins and nothing else.

“What say you?” Wrath asked, inhaling through his nose.

He caught the scent of fear, yes—but there was something more. And when he defined it for himself, he was … impressed.

Nobility was not ordinarily an emotion to be scented. That was more the purview of fear, sadness, joy, arousal … but this sapling of a male, barely a year out of a transition that had done little to increase his body weight or his height, had a purpose beneath his fear, a driving motivation that could only be … noble.

“My lord,” he choked out, “forgive me my cowardice.”

“In regard to what?”

“I knew … I knew what they would do and I did not…” A sob escaped. “Forgive me, my lord…”

As the male broke down, there were two approaches. One aggressive. The other conciliatory.

He knew he would get farther with the latter.

Walking over to the male, he extended his palm. “Rise.”

Abalone seemed confused at the command. But then he accepted the hand up and the direction that took him over to one of the carved oak chairs by the fireplace.

“Mead?” Wrath asked.

“N-n-n-no thank you.”

Wrath sat opposite the male, his chair groaning under the weight in a way Abalone’s had not. “Imbibe a deep breath.”

When the command was obeyed, Wrath leaned in. “Speak unto me the truth and I shall spare you whate’er you fear. None can touch you—as long as you bear no falsity.”

The male put his face in his hands. Then he breathed in deep again. “I lost my father before my transition. My mother, too, died on the birthing bed. In these departures, I am as you are.”

“It is terrible for one to be left without parents.”

Abalone dropped his hands, revealing eyes that were steady. “I was not supposed to discover what I found. But three dawns ago, I was down in the cellars of the castle. I could not sleep, and my melancholy caused me to walk in the underground. I was without a candle, and my feet were held within soft leather shoes—therefore, when I heard voices, they knew not of my approach.”

“What did you see,” Wrath asked gently.

“There is a hidden room. Beneath the kitchens. I had never seen it before, because its door has a facade to match the walls down below—and I would not have noticed it … except the false panel had failed to close properly. Caught upon a stone, there had been a crack through which mine eyes could focus. Inside, there were three figures, and they were circled about a cauldron o’er a flame. Their voices were hushed as one of them added greens of some kind into whate’er they were warming. The stench was horrible—and I was about to turn around and proceed about my concerns … when I heard your name.”

Abalone’s eyes fixed on a middle distance, as if he were seeing and hearing anew that which he was recounting. “Except it wasn’t you. It was your father. They were discussing how he had sickened and died—and attempting to determine the proper amount for someone of smaller stature.” The male shook his head. “I recoiled. Then hurried off. My mind was twisted by what I had witnessed, and I convinced myself … I must have imagined thus. Surely they could not have been talking about your father, your mate. It was just—they had pledged their troth unto you and your blood. So how could they have such things pass from their lips unto the ears of others?” Clear, guileless eyes met Wrath’s. “How could they do such?”

Tempering an inner fury, Wrath reached out and placed his hand upon the youth’s shoulder. Even though their ages were not that far apart, he felt as though he were speaking unto one of a vastly different generation than his own.

“Worry not of their motivation, son. The impure are confounding to the righteous.”

Abalone’s eyes appeared to well. “I convinced myself that I had been mistaken. Until the queen…” He put his face back into his palms. “…Dearest Virgin Scribe in the Fade, when the queen went down unto the floor, I knew I had failed you. I knew I was no different from them who had caused harm, because I did not stop that which I should have known—”

To prevent a complete unraveling, Wrath squeezed that spare shoulder. “Abalone … Abalone, arrest yourself.”

When there was a modicum of composure returned, Wrath kept his voice level, even though in his interior, he was seething. “You are not responsible for the actions of the nefarious.”

“I should have come to you—they killed the queen.”

“My mate is alive and well.” No reason to dwell on the near loss. “I assure you, she is very well indeed.”

Abalone sagged. “Thank the blessed Virgin Scribe.”

“And you are forgiven by me and mine. Do you understand? I forgive you.”

“My lord,” the male said, dropping anew to the floor and putting his forehead to the black diamond ring Wrath wore. “I do not deserve this.”

“You do. Because you came unto me, you can make the amends you seek. Can you take one of the Brothers down unto this hidden place?”

“Yes,” the male said without hesitation. Springing to his feet, he put up his hood. “Now I shall show them.”

Wrath nodded to Ahgony. “Go with him?”

“My lord,” the Brother said, accepting the command.

“There is just one thing before you go,” Wrath said on a growl. “Can you tell me who they were.”

Abalone’s eyes locked on his own. “Yes. Each of the three.”

Wrath felt his lips lift in a smile even though he knew no joy or happiness in his heart. “Good. That’s very good, son.”

THIRTY-NINE

There was an advantage to living alone and being disowned by your remaining parent: When you didn’t come home for an entire day, no one was gnashing their teeth over your possible demise.

Certainly cut down on the phone calls, Saxton thought as he sat across from the double doors of Wrath’s study.

Rearranging himself on the ornate bench, he looked over the gold-leaf banister. Silence. Not even doggen cleaning. Then again, something was up in the house, something big—he could feel it in the air, and although he didn’t have a lot of experience with females, he knew what it was.

Somebody was in their needing.

It wasn’t the Chosen Layla again, of course. But he had heard that one female going into her time could spur others along, and clearly that had happened.

God, he hoped it wasn’t Beth, he thought as he rubbed his tired eyes.

Things needed to be sorted before she—

“Do you know where he is?”

Saxton looked over the banister again. Rehvenge, the leahdyre of the Council, had managed to get halfway up the grand staircase without his presence even registering.

And apparently, something else was definitely up: As always, the male cut an imposing figure with his mink coat and his red cane, but his nasty expression put him into downright deadly territory.

Saxton lifted a shoulder to shrug. “I’m waiting for him myself.”

Rehv stomped onto the second story and paced over to the study’s doorway as if to see for himself that no one was in there. Then he frowned, pivoted on the heel of his LV loafer, and looked up at the ceiling—while discreetly rearranging himself in his pants.

At which point, he blanched. “Is it Beth?”

No reason to define what the “it” was. “I think so.”

“Oh, for f**k’s sake.” The leahdyre sat down on the opposite bench and it was then that Saxton noticed the long, thin cardboard tube he was carrying. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“They did it,” Saxton whispered. “Didn’t they.”

Rehv’s head whipped around and amethyst eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Do you hate me?

Yes, I do.

Saxton looked away. “I tried to warn the King. But … he was going to take care of his shellan.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I went to my father’s house for a command performance. And when I was there, I figured out the whole thing.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his photos, showing them to Rehv. “I snuck these. They’re books of the Old Laws, all open to references of heirs and blood. Like I said, I’d hoped to get to him last night.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Rehv swept his hand over his cropped Mohawk. “They had all the wheels in motion already—”

Across the way, by the head of the hall of statues, the door leading up to the top floor opened. What emerged was …

“Holy shit.” Rehv shook his head and muttered, “Now we know what the zombie apocalypse looks like.”

The lurching, heavy-lidded, floppy-limbed nightmare bore only a passing resemblance to the King—the long hair, damp from a shower, still fell from that famous widow’s peak, and the wraparounds were right, and yes, the black muscle shirt and leathers were his uniform. But everything else was all wrong. He had lost so much weight, his pants were hanging loose as flags around his legs, the waistband sitting at his thighs, even the supposedly skintight shirt billowing off his chest. And his face was just as bad. The skin had shrink-wrapped around his high cheekbones and heavy jaw—and his throat … dearest Virgin Scribe, his throat.

His veins on both sides had been taken so often and with such force, he looked like an extra in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

And yet the male was floating on a cloud. The air that preceded him was soft as a summer breeze, his sense of satisfaction and happiness a bubble that surrounded him.

Such a shame to ruin it.

Wrath recognized the pair of them immediately, and as he halted, his head turned from side to side as if he were measuring their faces. Instead, Saxton was sure it was their auras.

“What.”

God, that voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. There was strength behind it, though.

“We gotta talk.” Rehv smacked the tube into his palm like it was a baseball bat. “Now.”

Wrath responded with a vile string of curses. And then gritted out, “Fuck me, can you give me one hour to feed my f**king shellan after her needing?”

“No. We can’t. And we need the Brothers. All of them.” Rehv got to his feet with the help of his cane. “The glymera voted you out, my friend. And we need to drum up a response.”

Wrath didn’t move for the longest time. “On what grounds?”

“Your queen.”

That already pale face turned positively ashen.

“Fritz!” the King bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The butler materialized from the second-floor sitting room, as if he had been waiting to be summoned for hours.

“Yes, sire?”

It was with utter exhaustion that the King muttered, “Beth needs food. Bring her everything she could want. I put her in the bath—you’d better check on her now. She was weak and I don’t want her passing out and drowning.”

Fritz bowed so low, it was a wonder his baggy face didn’t brush the carpet. “Right away. At once.”

As the doggen hurried off, Wrath called after him, “And will you take my dog out? And then bring him into my office.”

“Of course, sire. My pleasure.”

Wrath turned and faced the open doors of his study like he was going to the gallows. “Rehv, call the Brotherhood.”

“Roger that. And Saxton needs to be in on the meeting. Someone’s got to render an opinion on the legalities of all this.”

Wrath didn’t respond. He just went into the pale blue room, a living shadow in the center of all the fussy French furniture.

In that moment, Saxton could see the weight bearing down on the male, feel the heat of the fire that burned at those feet, sense the lose-lose that had presented itself in this bend in the road. Wrath was the bow of the race’s ship, and as such … he was going to hit the glaciers first.

It was so thankless, all of it. The hours that male had spent chained to his father’s desk, the paperwork passing in front of him, a blur of pages that had been prepared by others, presented by Saxton, ruled upon by Wrath, and sent back out into the world.

An endless stream of sucking need.