by J. R. Ward
Abalone opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a squeak.
"Is that a yes?" came a murmur.
"Indeed. Yes."
The fighter reached up to his chest harness and withdrew a dagger, the silver blade of which seemed long as a grown male's arm. With a quick toss, he flipped the weapon up in the air, the light flashing on the sharp edge--and with equal assurance, he caught the handle and stabbed one of the apples.
All without breaking eye contact with Abalone.
Removing his due from the bowl, his hard eyes drifted over to the drawing. "She's quite beautiful. For now."
Abalone put his body in the way of the depiction, prepared to sacrifice himself if it came to that: He didn't want the warrior even looking at the picture, much less commenting on it--or doing so much worse.
"Anon, then," the fighter said.
He left with the apple held upright, impaled to the core.
When Abalone heard the front door shut in the distance, he all but collapsed, falling onto the silk-covered sofa with limp limbs and a pounding heart. Even though his hands were shaking, he managed to take a cigarette out of a crystal box and ignite it with a heavy crystal lighter.
Inhaling, he stared at the picture of his daughter and knew true terror for the first time in his life.
"Dearest Virgin Scribe..."
There had been signs of unrest for a good year: rumors and rumbling indicating that the King was falling into disfavor among certain quadrants of the aristocracy; gossip that an assassination attempt had been made; insinuations that a cabal had formed and was prepared to move. And then there had been that Council meeting where Wrath had come forward with the Brotherhood and addressed the assembled with a bald-faced threat.
It had been the first time people had seen the King for ... well, longer than Abalone could remember. In fact, he couldn't recall when anyone had had an audience with the ruler. There had been proclamations disseminated, of course--and edicts that had been progressive and, in Abalone's mind, long overdue.
Others didn't agree, however.
And were obviously prepared to force the hands of those who didn't concur with them.
Shifting his eyes to the portrait of his father, he tried to find some bravery in his deeper self, some kind of bedrock to plant his feet upon and stand up for what he knew was right: If Wrath had mated a half-breed, so what, if he loved her? A lot of the Old Laws that he was reforming were discriminatory, and if anything, the King's choice of shellan showed that he walked the talk of his modernizing.
And yet there was some old-school in the King, however: Two aristocrats had been killed recently. Montrag. Elan. Both violently and in their homes. And both had been associated with dissent.
Clearly, Wrath was not going to sit back idly whilst plots simmered against him. The bad news was that his enemies in court were stepping up the stakes as well, bringing their own muscle.
Abalone reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and took out his iPhone. Pulling up a number from his contacts, he initiated a call and listened to the ringing with half an ear.
When a male voice answered, he had to clear his throat. "I need to know if you've been visited."
His cousin hesitated not a moment. "Yes. I have."
Abalone cursed. "I don't want any part of this."
"No one does. But this legal angle of theirs?" His cousin took a deep breath. "About the heir? People are responding."
"It's not right. Wrath has been doing good things, moving us in the ways of the modern world. He's abolished blood slavery and set up that home for abused females and their young. He's been fair and even handed with proclamations--"
"They've got him on this, Abalone. They're going to win this one--because there are more than enough left who are repulsed by the notion of a half-breed queen and a seriously diluted heir." His cousin's voice dropped lower. "Do not be on the wrong side of this, my blood. They're prepared to do anything that's necessary to secure a unanimous vote when the time comes, and the law is what it is."
"He could change it. I'm surprised he hasn't."
"No doubt he's had a few more pressing matters to contend with than some dusty old books. And frankly, even if he reworded the provision? I don't know if there's enough support to carry him."
"He could retaliate against the aristocracy."
"What's he going to do--kill us all? Then what?"
When Abalone finally hung up, he stared into the eyes of his father. His heart told him the race was in good hands with Wrath, even if the King isolated himself in many ways. But his cousin made a lot of sense.
After a long while, he made another call that sickened his stomach. When it was answered, he didn't bother with any preamble. "You have my vote," he said roughly.
Before Ichan could laud his good sense, he ended the call. And promptly dragged over a wastepaper basket so he could vomit.
The only thing worse than having no legacy at all ... was not living up to the one you'd been given.
As Xcor strode out of the aristocrat's house, he was annoyed to find that Ichan, the Council's representative, and Tyhm, the lawyer, were waiting for him in the moonlight.
"I think we were persuasive enough," Ichan announced.
So much pride in that haughty voice--as if the male had already placed his sagging arse upon the throne.
Xcor looked back at the Tudor mansion. Through the diamond-pane windows, the male they had confronted was on the phone, smoking a cigarette like his lungs required nicotine more than oxygen. Then he paused and stared up at something. A moment later, shoulders sloping in defeat, he put the cell back to his ear.
Ichan's phone went off and he smiled as he took it out of his pocket. "Hello? How lovely of you to call--" There was a pause. "Oh, I think that's so wise of you--hello? Hello?"
Ichan put the cellular device away with a shrug. "I shan't even be offended that he hung up on me."
And another one falls to the logic.
Xcor gripped his stolen apple and wrenched it from his blade. With a sure hand, he began to peel the bloodred skin from its crisp, white flesh, whittling around and around until a curling strip formed beneath his weapon.
As opposed to his favored stance of assassination, this new legal approach to a forced abdication was going well. They had another half dozen members of the First Families to meet and brief, and then it was time to make this official at the Council level. After that? The killings would have to be done--no doubt one or all of the aristocrats they were dealing with would have delusions of the crownal variety.
Easily cured, however, and then he would have what he wanted.
"...meal of our choice?"
As Ichan and Tyhm looked at him, he realized that he'd just been asked out to eat.
Xcor let the strip of skin fall to the snow at his feet. No doubt the dandy inside had groundspeople who would pick it up, although given how unsettled the dear boy was, mayhap he would venture out for a walk amongst his fucking topiaries and see it himself.
Threats were best made on multiple levels.
"The field awaits me the now," Xcor said as he carved out a section of flesh and bared his fangs, bringing his knife up to his mouth along with the piece.
The crack as he bit down had its desired effect.
"Yes, well, of course, indeed, for truth," Ichan said, his words like a ballerina spinning off her pointed shoes and careening into the orchestra pit.
How cute.
And then there was a pause, as if the adieu was to be repaid. When Xcor merely cocked a brow, the two dematerialized sure as if there were emergencies afoot at their respective manses.
So irrelevant these pawns were--he had used some up already and no doubt one or both of the pair that had just departed would find their graves in service to him.
Inside the great house, the Council member they had come to see was still hanging his head--but not for long. Someone entered the room, and whoever it was, the aristocrat didn't want them to know of his upset.
He pulled himself together, smiling and holding out his arms. As a young female went unto him, Xcor figured her to be the daughter.
She was beautiful, it was true--the drawing had been accurate.
But she was not a patch on another.
Unbidden, memories flooded his mind, images of fair skin and hair, and eyes that were capable of stopping him in his tracks sure as a bullet, tangled his thoughts until he was the one tripping over his boots even as he remained standing.
No, however pretty and young that daughter was, she was but a far-off echo of loveliness compared to his unattainable Chosen.
"You must stop this," he said into the cold night breeze. "Stop this the now."
A fine command, indeed--and yet it was several minutes before he could calm himself enough to focus and dematerialize from the front lawn.
A blink later and Xcor was finally in his element: The alley before him was an urban armpit, the snow filthy from the tire grab left over after countless dump and delivery trucks had passed o'er this stretch behind half a dozen cheap restaurants. In spite of frigid December gusts, the stench of spoiled meat and denaturing green matter was enough to make the inside of the nose tingle.
Breathing in, he searched for the sickly sweetness of the enemy.
He had been born deformed and cast away unto the world by the female who had brought him forth from her womb. Reared in the Bloodletter's war camp, he had been honed as a blade in that sadist's fire pit of aggression and pain, any weakness pounded out of him until he was as deadly as a dagger.
This theater of combat was where he belonged.
And he was not alone for long.
Wrenching his head around, he braced his weight into his thighs. A group of human men came into view, clearing the corner, walking in a pack. When they saw him, they stopped and drew in on themselves.
Xcor rolled his eyes and resumed his promenade in the opposite direction--
"Whadafuckyadoin'," came the shout-out.
Turning back, he eyed the five of them. They were wearing some sort of coordinated theme of tough human: leather jackets, black skull caps, bandannas tied to the bottoms of their faces.
They had clearly intended to come upon someone or someones else.
Not the kind of foe he bothered with. For one thing, humans were so inferior physically, it was like biting into that apple. Secondly, they were liable to involve others of their species, either on purpose through that dreaded 911 thing or inadvertently, by causing a noise that alerted passersby.
"Whadafuckyadoin'!"
If he stayed silent, mayhap this would escalate into a coordinated song-and-dance number? How frightening.
"Go about your night," he said in a low voice.
"Go about your--whatreyasomekindaforiegnfuck?"
Or something to that effect. Their accents were difficult to decipher--moreover, he was disinterested in making much effort on that front--
From out of nowhere, a car careened around that corner, its tires losing traction as its driver pounded on the brakes.
Gunshots rang out, echoing through the night, scattering the assembled, including himself.
Wrong place, wrong time, Xcor thought as he caught a slug in the shoulder, the pain blazing through his head--and making it impossible for him to dematerialize.
He wanted nothing of this silly fight amongst the rats without tails. But it appeared as if he were going to have to engage.
He was not dying as the result of a human's bullet.
THREE
I-87, A.K.A. THE NORTHWAY
Oh, that new-car smell.
A combination of too-fresh carpeting, still-viscous hinge oil, and glue that was only surface dry.
Sola Morte loved a fresh start in the automotive department, which was why she always leased her Audi A4s. Every three years she got a new one--sometimes more often if there was a program that let her jump ship a month or two early.
So, yeah, this was familiar territory ... except for the fact that she was getting a whiff of heaven from the trunk of whatever sedan she had been shut into.
Not the way she'd planned on ending her night, but sometimes free will was out on break when you needed it.
The question now was, how to survive the kidnapping and get back home.
Given her line of work as a burglar, she was used to improvising in dangerous situations. She wasn't exactly MacGyver-capable; it wasn't like she could build a nine-millimeter autoloader out of duct tape, a tube of toothpaste, twelve cents, and a Bic lighter. But she was smart enough to feel around, looking for a tire iron, a tool kit ... a forgotten soda can. Anything she could use as a weapon.
When she'd been abducted from her house, she'd had nothing but the parka on her back and a desperate hope that whoever it was got her out before her grandmother made it down the stairs and was dragged into all this. The latter happened. The former? Bad news, because she didn't even have a cell phone.
And so far, her palm expeditions around the trunk had yielded a big fat nada.
She also had no clue where she was being taken. Going by the purr from the undercarriage and the lack of potholes? They must be on the highway--and had been for a while.
Man, her head hurt.
What the hell had they hit it with? A hammer?
Straining her spine upward, she patted under the small of her back, thinking she might be lying on the compartment that held the spare tire--and tools. She didn't feel any seams in the carpeting, though. Maybe you had to lift the whole thing up? Shit.
Reaching over her head, she rechecked the side walls, feeling the soft scratch of the carpeting and the undulation of the wheel wells ... then the netting that might have held groceries in place ... a folded sheet of paper that could have been a map, a receipt for some kind of purchase, a "Top Ten Ways to Torture a Captive" list ...
Drawing her knees into her chest, she turned herself around in the tight space, shoving with her hands and her feet, cramping her head into an angle it really didn't appreciate.
"Jeeeesus..." she groaned as she paused to catch her breath. "Cirque du Soleil is so out for a second career."
Resuming the stretching and twisting, she finally got her prize--the ability to check out the opposite--
"Well, hello..."
Digging her fingertips into a break in the carpeting, she followed the square cutout until she found latches on either end. Disengaging a compartment cover, she popped the panel free and found ...
Toolbox? First aid?
A lottery win manifesting itself in a fully loaded Smith & Wesson?
As she navigated by touch alone, trying to decipher the shape and feel of what was inside, she was reminded of how much she appreciated her vision.
"Gotcha," she hissed, digging her nails into the box and fighting with the hold to get the thing free.
When it popped out, she realized there was a handle on the lid. Dumb-ass.
Its latch was simple to pop free, and inside ...
The cylinder was about eight inches long and an inch and a half wide. On one end there was a cap with a rough patch on its top, and inside? Party time.
This flare was her only shot.
Tightening her hand on the thing, she refocused on trying to figure out where she was going to end up--other than a morgue, of course. The problem was, she had no idea how long they'd been en route--but if they were taking her to Benloise's house? Then they had to be closing in on their destination. West Point wasn't that far from Caldie.
And this was Benloise's doing.
Payback by the narcotics wholesaler for her little home invasion and redecorating gig. Which in turn had been her way of telling him to F-off over a payment issue.
That had involved Assail.
Closing her eyes--even though she couldn't see a damn thing--she imagined that man, everything from his glossy black hair to his deep-set eyes to that body that should have belonged to an athlete ... as opposed to a drug dealer who was probably going to take over the entire eastern seaboar
d as his territory.
For a split second of insanity, she entertained a fantasy that he would come after her and help get her out of this mess. And yup, that was awkward on so many levels--one, she had never relied on anyone before, and two, the whole save-me-big-man bullcrap was enough to make her want to hurl on principle.
But her pride was taking a backseat on this one: She knew waaaay too much about Benloise. It was going to take a miracle to get her free, and Assail was the closest thing to one of those she'd met. Too bad he wasn't going to miss her anytime soon. They knew each other only because she'd been paid--partially--by Benloise to spy on him. Assail hadn't appreciated that and had turned the tables on her.
Which had led to ... other things.
Shaking her head until the pain made things spin, she reminisced on all that had been so important before she'd gotten ambushed in her own kitchen: the cat and mouse between the pair of them, the seductive threat he threw off, the erotic charge she got just by being in his presence.
All of that had been so fucking important.
The current roll of the dice had wiped that slate clean, however. Now she was in survival mode--and if that didn't pan out, she just hoped her grandmother had something left to bury.
Because she wasn't fooling herself. Benloise wasn't going to cut her any slack just because she had been, for a time, almost like a daughter to him in some ways. She shouldn't have pushed him. Temper, temper, temper; her anger had been her undoing.
God, her grandmother.
Tears threatened, stinging her eyes, making her crack her lids and blink to keep them from falling.
Too much loss in her vovo's life. Too many hard things. And this was probably going to be the worst of it all.
Unless Sola got herself out.
As feelings too big and complicated to hold in threatened to short out her brain, she struggled to contain them ... and the eventual solution for that was a surprise. She went with the impulse, however--in the same way she intended to use what she had found in the trunk wall.
Putting her only weapon down by her hip, she clasped her hands over her heart and bowed her head in prayer, chin to chest.
Opening her mouth, she waited for the rote passages of her Catholic childhood to resurface in her brain and tell her tongue what to do.
And they did. "Hail Mary, full of grace..."
The words formed a cadence, a beat like that of her heart, the rhythm uniting her with a whole host of Sundays in her distant past.
