Wrath mutely put out his hand, the one on which the huge black diamond that signified his station rested. In the Old Language, the King proclaimed, “Swear your fealty unto me, this night and forever more, placing none upon the earth above me and mine.”
Xcor’s own hand trembled as he reached forth. Grasping Wrath’s palm, he kissed the ring and then placed it upon his bowed forehead. “Fore’ermore, I pledge my allegiance unto to you and yours, serving none other.”
Both males took a deep breath. And then Wrath put his hand on top of Xcor’s head, as if in benediction. Looking up, the King sought Layla out with his blind eyes.
“You should be proud of your male. This is no small thing for a warrior.”
She brushed at her eyes. “Yes.”
Wrath turned his hand over, offering Xcor a palm with which to help himself to his feet. And Xcor … after a moment … accepted the aid.
When the two fighters were standing eye to eye, Wrath said, “Now, you get each one of your fighters to do that, and you’re all free to go back to the Old Country. But I’m going to need that pledge from them all, do you understand.”
“What if they’ve already returned across the ocean?”
“Then you’re going to bring them back to me. This is the way it’s going to be. The Brotherhood who serve me have to buy in on this, and that is the only path to get them to stop hunting you fuckers down.”
Xcor rubbed his face. “Aye. All right, then.”
“You will stay here while you’re looking for your boys. This will be our meeting site. I will have V leave you a phone to use to get in touch with us. Assuming your fighters are still on this side of the pond, you will call us when you are ready and we will do this one by one, here. Any deviances from our agreement will be regarded as a declaration of aggression and dealt with accordingly. Do you understand this.”
“Aye.”
“I’m willing to be lenient, but I’m not going to be a pussy. I will eliminate any and all threats against me, do you further understand this.”
“Aye.”
“Good. We’re done.” Wrath shook his head ruefully. “And shit, you think you have problems? At least you don’t have to go back home with that.”
As the King pointed up to the ceiling, Vishous let a particularly hardy step fall—like he knew he was a topic of discussion.
Just as Wrath was turning away, Xcor spoke up. “My Lord—”
The King looked over his shoulder. “You know, I like the sound of that.”
“Indeed.” Xcor cleared his throat. “With regard to threats against you. I would care to apprise you of a certain individual you would be wise to watch with care.”
Wrath cocked an eyebrow over the rim of his wraparound. “Do tell.”
TWENTY-SIX
Sacrifice was also in the eye of the beholder.
Like beauty, it was a personal, subjective assessment, a cost-benefit analysis that had no right answer, only a compass that spun around an individual’s variant of true north.
Throe, begotten and then forsaken son of Throe, pulled his fine cashmere coat closer around his lithe body as he strode down a cracked sidewalk. The neighborhood, if one could refer to the grungy walk-ups and shitty little shops with such an otherwise homey word, was more a demilitarized area than anything one would wish to claim for housing.
But for him, the sacrifice of beholding such decay and decrepitness was worth what awaited him.
What hopefully awaited him.
In large measure, he could not believe he was on his current quest. It seemed … unseemly … for a gentlemale of his stature. But life had gone in many directions that he would not have predicted or chosen of his own volition, so he was rather used to such surprises—although he supposed, even under those auspices, this tangent was still rather out there.
Even for an aristocrat who had been conscripted into the Band of Bastards, become a fighter, tried to topple the crown, and then been freed from that group of outlaws to fend with the rich and ambitious on his own … only to narrowly survive being burned alive when his lover was killed for keeping a blood slave in her basement.
Craziness, indeed.
And his strange destiny had had much effect upon him. There had been a time when he had been ruled by conventional principles of loyalty and decorum, when he had conducted himself as a male of worth in high society. But then he had had to rely upon Xcor to ahvenge a disgrace that, in retrospect, he should have addressed on his own. Once in Xcor’s circle of fighters, after he’d risen above his torture in a manner that had surprised not only those bastards but he himself, he had started to learn that one only had oneself to rely upon.
Ambition, once disdained by him as an affect of the nouveau riche, had taken root, and culminated in that coup against the Blind King that had almost worked. Xcor had lost the will to go any further with it, however.
And Throe had discovered that he himself had not.
Wrath may have won a populist vote and castrated the glymera’s Council, but Throe still believed at his core that there was another ruler far better for the race.
Himself, as it were.
So indeed, he was going to press on alone, finding levers and pulling them to engender the result he wanted.
Or in the case of tonight’s endeavor? Creating the lever, as it were.
He stopped and looked around. The promise of heavy snow was thick in the air, the night humid and cold at the same time, the clouds gathering above in such density that the sky ceiling was getting lower and lower to the ground.
The numbers on a street such as this were hard to ascertain as this was hardly a sector of Caldwell where people tended well their real estate. Here, they were more likely to break into their neighbors’ and steal than borrow cups of sugar or screwdrivers. Thus, there were few markers, and even the street identifiers had been taken down on some corners.
But his destination must be here somewhere—
Yes. There. Across the street.
Throe narrowed his eyes. And then rolled them.
He couldn’t believe there was actually a flashing psychic sign in the window. Right next to the obligatory open palm sign that was up-lit. In purple.
As he waited for a car to pass, and then had to place his suede loafer into a snowbank to get over the curb, he decided that, yes, the sacrifices he’d had to make were distasteful, but they were necessary, things that he had to endure only for as long as he was forced to. For example, he didn’t abide living off of wealthy females the way he’d done since leaving the Band of Bastards. But even with the money he’d managed to scrape together over the last two hundred years, he couldn’t possibly keep himself to the standard he deserved. No, that required capital in the millions of dollars, not the hundreds of thousands.
Sacrifices, though. For certain, he’d turned into a bit of a whore, fucking these females in exchange for shelter, lodging, and sartorial necessities worthy of the venerable legacy of his bloodline. But he’d had it with slumming it after his years under Xcor.
If he never saw another cheap sectional sofa with empty pizza boxes on it again, it would be far too soon.
As it stood now, the sex was a small price to pay for all he got in return—and besides, all would be worth it when he was the one on the throne.
Reaching the far side of the road, he jumped the snowbank and stomped his loafers free of slush. “A psychic, though,” he muttered. “A human psychic.”
Approaching the door, which was painted purple, he nearly turned away. This whole thing was beginning to feel like an ill-conceived practical joke.
How else could his presence here be explained—
The three human males who rounded the corner next to him announced their arrival in three different ways. First, he caught a whiff of the cigarette the one in the middle was smoking. Then there was the cough of the guy on the left. But it was the chap on the right who really sealed the deal.
The guy stopped dead. And then smiled, revealing an incisor made of gold. “You lost?”
“No, thank you.” Throe turned back to the door and tried the handle. It was locked.
The three men came closer, and God, had they never heard of aftershave? Cologne? Indeed, it appeared that shampoo might be a foreign concept to the happy little group. mutely put out his hand, the one on which the huge black diamond that signified his station rested. In the Old Language, the King proclaimed, “Swear your fealty unto me, this night and forever more, placing none upon the earth above me and mine.”
Xcor’s own hand trembled as he reached forth. Grasping Wrath’s palm, he kissed the ring and then placed it upon his bowed forehead. “Fore’ermore, I pledge my allegiance unto to you and yours, serving none other.”
Both males took a deep breath. And then Wrath put his hand on top of Xcor’s head, as if in benediction. Looking up, the King sought Layla out with his blind eyes.
“You should be proud of your male. This is no small thing for a warrior.”
She brushed at her eyes. “Yes.”
Wrath turned his hand over, offering Xcor a palm with which to help himself to his feet. And Xcor … after a moment … accepted the aid.
When the two fighters were standing eye to eye, Wrath said, “Now, you get each one of your fighters to do that, and you’re all free to go back to the Old Country. But I’m going to need that pledge from them all, do you understand.”
“What if they’ve already returned across the ocean?”
“Then you’re going to bring them back to me. This is the way it’s going to be. The Brotherhood who serve me have to buy in on this, and that is the only path to get them to stop hunting you fuckers down.”
Xcor rubbed his face. “Aye. All right, then.”
“You will stay here while you’re looking for your boys. This will be our meeting site. I will have V leave you a phone to use to get in touch with us. Assuming your fighters are still on this side of the pond, you will call us when you are ready and we will do this one by one, here. Any deviances from our agreement will be regarded as a declaration of aggression and dealt with accordingly. Do you understand this.”
“Aye.”
“I’m willing to be lenient, but I’m not going to be a pussy. I will eliminate any and all threats against me, do you further understand this.”
“Aye.”
“Good. We’re done.” Wrath shook his head ruefully. “And shit, you think you have problems? At least you don’t have to go back home with that.”
As the King pointed up to the ceiling, Vishous let a particularly hardy step fall—like he knew he was a topic of discussion.
Just as Wrath was turning away, Xcor spoke up. “My Lord—”
The King looked over his shoulder. “You know, I like the sound of that.”
“Indeed.” Xcor cleared his throat. “With regard to threats against you. I would care to apprise you of a certain individual you would be wise to watch with care.”
Wrath cocked an eyebrow over the rim of his wraparound. “Do tell.”
TWENTY-SIX
Sacrifice was also in the eye of the beholder.
Like beauty, it was a personal, subjective assessment, a cost-benefit analysis that had no right answer, only a compass that spun around an individual’s variant of true north.
Throe, begotten and then forsaken son of Throe, pulled his fine cashmere coat closer around his lithe body as he strode down a cracked sidewalk. The neighborhood, if one could refer to the grungy walk-ups and shitty little shops with such an otherwise homey word, was more a demilitarized area than anything one would wish to claim for housing.
But for him, the sacrifice of beholding such decay and decrepitness was worth what awaited him.
What hopefully awaited him.
In large measure, he could not believe he was on his current quest. It seemed … unseemly … for a gentlemale of his stature. But life had gone in many directions that he would not have predicted or chosen of his own volition, so he was rather used to such surprises—although he supposed, even under those auspices, this tangent was still rather out there.
Even for an aristocrat who had been conscripted into the Band of Bastards, become a fighter, tried to topple the crown, and then been freed from that group of outlaws to fend with the rich and ambitious on his own … only to narrowly survive being burned alive when his lover was killed for keeping a blood slave in her basement.
Craziness, indeed.
And his strange destiny had had much effect upon him. There had been a time when he had been ruled by conventional principles of loyalty and decorum, when he had conducted himself as a male of worth in high society. But then he had had to rely upon Xcor to ahvenge a disgrace that, in retrospect, he should have addressed on his own. Once in Xcor’s circle of fighters, after he’d risen above his torture in a manner that had surprised not only those bastards but he himself, he had started to learn that one only had oneself to rely upon.
Ambition, once disdained by him as an affect of the nouveau riche, had taken root, and culminated in that coup against the Blind King that had almost worked. Xcor had lost the will to go any further with it, however.
And Throe had discovered that he himself had not.
Wrath may have won a populist vote and castrated the glymera’s Council, but Throe still believed at his core that there was another ruler far better for the race.
Himself, as it were.
So indeed, he was going to press on alone, finding levers and pulling them to engender the result he wanted.
Or in the case of tonight’s endeavor? Creating the lever, as it were.
He stopped and looked around. The promise of heavy snow was thick in the air, the night humid and cold at the same time, the clouds gathering above in such density that the sky ceiling was getting lower and lower to the ground.
The numbers on a street such as this were hard to ascertain as this was hardly a sector of Caldwell where people tended well their real estate. Here, they were more likely to break into their neighbors’ and steal than borrow cups of sugar or screwdrivers. Thus, there were few markers, and even the street identifiers had been taken down on some corners.
But his destination must be here somewhere—
Yes. There. Across the street.
Throe narrowed his eyes. And then rolled them.
He couldn’t believe there was actually a flashing psychic sign in the window. Right next to the obligatory open palm sign that was up-lit. In purple.
As he waited for a car to pass, and then had to place his suede loafer into a snowbank to get over the curb, he decided that, yes, the sacrifices he’d had to make were distasteful, but they were necessary, things that he had to endure only for as long as he was forced to. For example, he didn’t abide living off of wealthy females the way he’d done since leaving the Band of Bastards. But even with the money he’d managed to scrape together over the last two hundred years, he couldn’t possibly keep himself to the standard he deserved. No, that required capital in the millions of dollars, not the hundreds of thousands.
Sacrifices, though. For certain, he’d turned into a bit of a whore, fucking these females in exchange for shelter, lodging, and sartorial necessities worthy of the venerable legacy of his bloodline. But he’d had it with slumming it after his years under Xcor.
If he never saw another cheap sectional sofa with empty pizza boxes on it again, it would be far too soon.
As it stood now, the sex was a small price to pay for all he got in return—and besides, all would be worth it when he was the one on the throne.
Reaching the far side of the road, he jumped the snowbank and stomped his loafers free of slush. “A psychic, though,” he muttered. “A human psychic.”
Approaching the door, which was painted purple, he nearly turned away. This whole thing was beginning to feel like an ill-conceived practical joke.
How else could his presence here be explained—
The three human males who rounded the corner next to him announced their arrival in three different ways. First, he caught a whiff of the cigarette the one in the middle was smoking. Then there was the cough of the guy on the left. But it was the chap on the right who really sealed the deal.
The guy stopped dead. And then smiled, revealing an incisor made of gold. “You lost?”
“No, thank you.” Throe turned back to the door and tried the handle. It was locked.
The three men came closer, and God, had they never heard of aftershave? Cologne? Indeed, it appeared that shampoo might be a foreign concept to the happy little group.