"Don't you think that's a little bloodthirsty, sin-eater?" Wrath drawled.
"From one king to another, know that I'm giving you the middle finger right now. " And he was, with a smile. "Symphaths are known for efficiency. "
"Yeah, and I can feel where you're coming from. Unfortunately, the law provides that you have to make an attempt on my life before I can bury you. "
"That's where this is headed. "
"Agreed, but our hands are tied. My ordering the assassination of what is otherwise an innocent male is not going to help us in the eyes of the glymera. "
"Why do you need to be associated with the death?"
"And if that bastard's innocent," Rhage spoke up, "I'm the fucking Easter bunny. "
"Oh, good," someone quipped. "I'm calling you Hop-along Hollywood from now on. "
"Beasty Bo Peep," somebody else threw out.
"We could put you in a Cadbury ad and finally make some money - "
"People," Rhage barked, "the point is that he is not innocent and I'm not the Easter bunny - "
"Where's your basket?"
"Can I play with your eggs?"
"Hop it out, big guy - "
"Will you guys fuck off? Seriously!"
As various cottontail comments were lobbed like Jell-O at a food fight, Wrath had to pound the desk another time or two. It was obvious where the humor was coming from: The stress was so high, if they didn't blow off a little steam, shit was going to get grim fast. It didn't mean the Brotherhood wasn't focused; if anything, they all felt like Qhuinn did - socked in the gut.
Wrath was the fabric of life, the basis for everything, the living, breathing structure of the race. After the brutal raids by the Lessening Society, what was left of the aristocracy had fled Caldwell to their safe homes out of town. The last thing the vampires needed was further fragmentation, especially in the form of a violent overthrow of the rightful ruler.
And Rehv was correct: That was where this was going. Hell, even Qhuinn could see the path: Step one, create doubt in the minds of the glymera about the Brotherhood's ability to protect the race. Step two, fill the "void" in the field with those soldiers of Xcor's. Step three, create allies on the Council and stir up anger and lack of confidence against the king. Step four, dethrone Wrath and weather the storm. Step five, emerge as the new leader.
When order in the study was finally reestablished, Wrath looked downright nasty. "Next one of you mouthy assholes makes me pound my desk again, I'm throwing you the fuck out. " On that note, he reached down, picked up the cowering ninety-pound retriever, and settled George in his lap. "You're freaking out my dog and it's pissing me off. "
As the animal put his big boxy head in the crook of the king's arm, Wrath stroked all that silky, blond fur. It was absolutely incongruous, the tremendous, cruel-looking vampire calming that handsome, gentle dog, but the two had a symbiotic relationship, trust and love thick as blood on both sides.
"Now, if you're ready to be reasonable," the king said, "I'll tell you what we're going to do. Rehv is going to stall the guy for as long as he can. "
"I still think we should put a knife in his left eye," Rehv muttered, "but in the alternative, we've got to hold him in place. He wants to see and be seen, and as leahdyre of the Council, I can stonewall him up to a point. His voice in the ears of the glymera is not what we need. "
"In the meantime," Wrath announced, "I'm going to go out and meet personally with the heads of the families, on their turf. "
At this, there was an explosion in the room, irrespective of his warning: People jumped out of their seats, throwing up their dagger hands.
Bad idea, Qhuinn thought, agreeing with the others.
Wrath let them go for a minute, like he'd expected this. Then he resumed control of the meeting. "I can't expect support if I don't earn it - and I haven't personally seen some of these people in decades, if not centuries. My father met with folks every month, if not every week, to resolve disputes. "
"You're the king!" someone bit out. "You don't need to do shit - "
"You see that letter? It's the new world order - if I don't respond proactively, I'm undermining myself. Look, my brothers, if you were out in the field, about to face the enemy, would you fool yourself about the landscape? Would you lie to yourself about the layout of the streets, the buildings, the cars, or whether it was hot or cold, raining or dry? No. So why should I bullshit myself that tradition is something I can take cover behind in a shoot-out? Back in my father's time. . . that shit was a bulletproof vest. Now? It's a sheet of paper, people. You gotta know that. "
There was a long period of silence, and then everyone looked at Tohr. Like they were used to turning to him when shit got sticky.
"He's right," the Brother said gruffly. Then he focused on Wrath. "But you gotta know you're not doing this alone. You need to have two or three of us with you. And the meet-and-greets have to be staggered over a period of months - cram them in too tight and you look desperate, but more to the point, I don't want anyone getting organized to do a hit on you. Sites must be prescreened by us, and. . . " At this, he paused to glance around. "You need to be aware that we're going to be trigger-happy. We will shoot to kill when your life's on the line - whether it's a female or a male or a doggen or the head of a family. We will not ask permission, or merely wound. If you can live with those terms, we will let you do this. "