Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  Man, blind or not, he certainly appeared to be a force of nature: Even though he wasn’t dressed in some kind of ermine-trimmed robe, the king was irrefutably in charge, his massive body and long dark hair and black wraparounds making him more menace than monarch.

  And that was the idea.

  Leadership, especially when it came to the glymera, was based in part upon perception—and no one could deny that Wrath looked like a living, breathing representation of power and authority.

  And that deep, commanding voice didn’t hurt, either.

  “I recognize that it has been a long time since I’ve seen you. The raids of nearly two years ago decimated a lot of your families, and I share in your pain. I, too, lost my bloodline in a lesser raid, so I know exactly what you’re going through as you try to get your lives back on track.”

  A male down in front shifted in his chair….

  But it was only a change in position, not the prelude to a weapon coming out.

  Blay eased back on his stance, as did several others. Goddamn, he couldn’t wait to get through this meeting and have Wrath back home safe.

  “Many of you knew my father well, and remember his time in the Old Country. My sire was a wise and temperate leader, a gentlemale of logical thinking and regal bearing who occupied himself solely with the betterment of this race and its citizenry.” Wrath paused, those wraparounds making a circle of the room. “I share a few of my father’s characteristics…but not all. In fact, I am not temperate. I am not forgiving. I am a male of war, not of peace.”

  At this, Wrath unsheathed one of his black daggers, the dark blade flashing in the light of the crystal chandelier overhead. Out in front of the king, the crowd of highfliers reacted with a collective shiver.

  “I am very comfortable with conflict, be it of the legal or mortal kind. My father was a mediator, a bridge maker. I am a grave maker. My father was a persuader. I am a taker. My father was a king who would willingly sit at your dinner tables and converse with you about minutiae. I am not that male.”

  Yeah, whoa. The Council had no doubt never been addressed like this. But Blay couldn’t disagree with the approach. Weakness was not respected. Moreover, with this group, law alone probably wasn’t going to keep Wrath’s throne stable anymore.

  Fear, on the other hand?

  Much better chance.

  “My father and I do have one thing in common, however.” Wrath angled his head down, as if he were staring at the black blade. “My father caused the deaths of eight of your relations.”

  There was a collective gasp. But Wrath didn’t let that slow him up.

  “Over the course of my father’s reign, there were eight attempts on his life, and no matter how long it took, whether it was days, weeks, or even months, he made it his business to find out who was behind each…and he hunted the individuals down personally, and killed them. You may not have heard the true stories, but you will know of the deaths—the perpetrators were beheaded with the tongues removed. Surely, as you cast your mind back, you can recall members of your bloodlines who were interred that way?”

  Fidgeting. Lot of fidgeting. Which suggested memories had been jogged.

  “You will further recall that those deaths were attributed to the Lessening Society. I say unto you now, I know the names, and I know where the graves are, because my father made sure I memorized them. It was the first lesson in kingship he ever taught me. My citizenry is to be honored, protected, and served well. Traitors, on the other hand, are a disease to any lawful society and need to be eradicated.” Wrath smiled in a purely evil way. “Say what you will about me, I studied well at the foot of my father. And let us be clear—my father, not the Brotherhood, was the one who attended those deaths. I know because he beheaded four of them in front of me. That was how important the lesson was.”

  Several of the females moved closer to whatever male happened to be seated beside them.

  Wrath continued. “I will not hesitate to follow my father’s lead in this. I recognize that you all have suffered. I respect your trials and I want to lead you. I will not, however, hesitate to treat any insurgency against me and mine as the act of a traitor.”

  The king lowered his chin, and appeared to glare out from behind the wraparounds, to the point that even Blay felt a frisson of adrenaline.

  “And if you think what my father did was violent, you haven’t seen a goddamn thing yet. I will make those deaths look merciful. I swear on my lineage.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  On some level, Assail could not believe he was walking into a restaurant. For one, he didn’t frequent human haunts as a rule, and two, he had no interest in eating in the dive: The air smelled like fried food and beer, and from what he saw on the trays of the waitresses, he was uncertain whether the entrées were graded safe for non-animal consumption.

  Oh, look. Across the way, there was a stage that had a wall of chicken wire in front of it.

  Classy.

  “Well, hello, there,” someone purred at him.

  Assail cocked an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. The human woman was dressed in a tight shirt and a pair of blue jeans that had clearly been stitched onto her legs. Hair was blond and stick straight. Makeup was heavy, with the lipstick shiny enough to qualify as an exterior oil paint.

  He’d rather spoon his own eyes out then engage in any fashion with the likes of her.

  He willed her to forget she’d seen him and turned back around. There was a heavy crowd, with more people than there were tables and chairs, so he had good cover as he went over to a corner and scanned….

  And there she was.

  His little burglar.

  Cursing under his breath, he dimly recognized the waste of time this all was—especially given that the cousins were, at this very moment, making a deal with that lesser again. Unfortunately, however, as soon as he’d gotten an alert that that black Audi of hers had gone on the move, he’d been compelled to find the thing and follow it.

  He had not been prepared for this.

  Whatever was she doing here? And why was she dressed like that?

  As she found one of the few empty tables and sat down alone, he found himself not approving of the way her hair was down around her shoulders, the dark weight curling about her face. Or the formfitting shirt that was revealed as she took off her coat. Or—she had makeup on, too, for godsakes. And not like that woman who had just oiled her way up to him. His burglar had kept things light, in a way that magnified her features….

  She was beautiful.

  Too beautiful.

  All the men in the restaurant were looking her over. And that made him want to kill each and every one of them by ripping their throats out with his teeth—

  As if they were in agreement with that plan, his fangs tingled and began to descend into his mouth, his body tensing.

  But not yet, he told himself. He needed to find out why she was here. After having followed her to Benloise’s mansion, he had expected any number of destinations…although never this. What was she doing—

  Her head turned, and for a moment, he thought she had somehow sensed him, even though she was not a vampire.

  But then a very tall, very well-built human man approached her table.

  His burglar looked up at the guy. Smiled at the guy. Got to her feet and wrapped her arms around the guy’s big shoulders.

  Assail’s hand went into his coat and found his gun.

  Indeed, he saw himself going over and putting a bullet between the man’s eyes.

  “Hey, you ever been here before?”

  Assail’s head cranked around. A rather large human male had approached him and was staring at him with a certain aggression.

  “I asked you a question.”

  There were two responses, Assail decided. He could verbally reply, thus entering into some kind of dialogue that would consume his attention—arguably not a bad idea, given that his hand remained locked on his gun, and his impulses had not shifted from those of a homicidal
inclination.

  “I’m talking to you.”

  Or he could…

  Assail bared his descended fangs and growled deep in his throat, redirecting his wrath away from the scene of his burglar with that human fool for whom she had dressed and made herself up.

  The guy with the questions threw up his hands and took a step back. “Hey, it’s cool, whatever. My bad. Whatever.”

  The man disappeared into the crowd, proving that in certain circumstances, rats without tails could dematerialize as well.

  Assail’s eyes returned to that table. The “gentleman” who had taken a seat across from his burglar was leaning in, his eyes locked on her face even while she examined the menu and glanced around.

  Something was going to have to be done about this.

  * * *

  Sola closed the menu and laughed. “I never said that.”

  “You did.” Mark Sanchez smiled. “You told me I had nice eyes.”

  Mark was exactly what she needed on a night like tonight. He was really easy to look at, super charming, and as long as he didn’t make her drop and give him ten thousand, she had nothing to worry about: As a personal trainer? He was a demon. She should know.

  “So is this a way to butter me up?” He eased back as the waitress brought them both beers. “Try to get me to go light on you in the gym?”

  “I know better than that.” Sola took a draw from the thick, ice-cold rim of her mug. “No quarter given. That’s your policy.”

  “Well, to be fair, you’ve never asked for any special treatment.” There was a pause. “Not that in your case, I wouldn’t be willing to cut you some slack…in some areas.”

  Sola ducked the eye contact that was flashing her way. “So you don’t date clients, huh.”

  “No. Not usually.”

  “Conflict of interest.”

  “It could get messy—but in certain cases, it’s worth the risk.”

  Sola glanced around the pub. Lot of people. Lot of talk. Air that was hot and thick.

  She frowned and stiffened. In the far corner, something…someone…

  “You okay?”

  She shook herself free of the paranoia. “Yes, sorry—oh, yes, we’d like to order,” she said as the waitress returned. “I’ll have a cheeseburger. Assuming my personal trainer doesn’t throw an embolism from disapproval.”

  Mark laughed. “Make that two. But hold the fries. On both plates.”

  As the waitress took off, Sola tried not to look in the direction of that dark, back corner. “So…”

  “I didn’t think you’d ever take me up on this. I asked you out how long ago?”

  As Mark smiled, she noticed that he had fantastic teeth, straight and really white. “It’s been a while, I guess. I’ve been busy.”

  “So what do you do for a living?”

  “This and that.”

  “In what field?”

  Ordinarily, she got pissed quick when people became nosy. But his affect was calm and easy, so this was just date conversation.

  “I guess you could call it criminal justice.”

  “Oh, you’re into the law.”

  “I’m very familiar with it, yes.”

  “That’s cool.” Mark cleared his throat. “So…you look really good.”

  “Thanks. I think it’s my trainer.”

  “Oh, somehow I think you’d be doing fine without me.”

  As they fell into an uncomplicated back-and-forth, she actually started to relax—and then their dinners arrived and they got another round of beer. It was so…normal being in the bar, doing the one-on-one thing, getting to know somebody else.

  The exact opposite of what she’d played witness to the night before.

  Sola shivered as images came back to her…the candlelight, that black-haired man looming over the half-naked woman like he was going to devour her, the two of them unleashed and uninhibited….Then those glittering eyes looking up and meeting her own through the glass as if he’d known all along that she was watching.

  “You okay?”

  Sola forced herself to focus. “Sorry, yes. You were saying?”

  As Mark resumed talking about his training for the Iron Man, she found herself back in the cold outside of that cottage, watching that man and that woman.

  Shoot. She’d engineered this date only because she’d wanted an outlet. It wasn’t because she particularly cared about Mark, as nice as he was.

  In fact, maybe she had done this because her personal trainer happened to be really tall, and really well built, with very dark hair and very pale eyes.

  When guilt rang her bell, she thought, oh, for chrissakes. She was an adult. Mark was an adult. People had sex for all kinds of different reasons—just because she didn’t want to marry the guy didn’t mean she was breaking some cardinal rule…except, crap. Her grandmother’s morality aside, and his shiny, pearly whites and big shoulders to the contrary, she wasn’t actually attracted to Mark.

  She was attracted to the man Mark reminded her of.

  And that was what made this wrong.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Even though Qhuinn was hardly an arbiter of taste when it came to meetings of the Council, it was pretty damn clear to him that the assembled group had come to the house expecting one thing, only to get something else entirely.

  Wrath didn’t waste or mince words and, after laying the smack-down, wrapped things up within five or ten minutes.

  This was a good thing, actually. The faster he finished, the quicker they could get him home.

  “In closing,” the king said in his bass voice, “I appreciate the opportunity to address this august group.”

  In this case, “august” clearly meant “a-hole-ish.”

  “I have other commitments at this time.” Namely, staying alive. “So I will be departing. However, if you have any comments, please direct them to Tohrment, son of Hharm.”

  A blink of the eye later and the king left the building with V and Zsadist.

  In the wake of the departure, all the fancy-pants in the dining room stayed sitting in their chairs, shock and now-what playing across their attractive features. Clearly, they had expected more…but also less. Kind of like children who had pushed their parents too far and finally gotten a wooden spoon on the ass.

  From Qhuinn’s perspective, it was pretty fucking amusing, actually.

  The party finally began to break up after the hostess rose to her feet and yammered on about what an honor it was to have had all the yada, yada, yada.

  Qhuinn cared about one and only one thing.

  And that was the text that came through on his phone about a minute later: Wrath was home safe.

  Exhaling slowly, he put his cell back in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and thought about setting off a couple of rounds into the floorboards to get this bunch of stiffs to dance a little. He’d probably get in trouble for that, though.

  Bummer.

  The crowd started to file out shortly thereafter, to the clear dissatisfaction of the hostess, as if she had gotten dressed up and rearranged her house with the expectation of a long, socially prominent evening—only to find that all she got were two seconds of celebrity and a bucket of KFC for eats.

  Sorry, lady.

  Tohrment lorded over the exodus, standing in front of the fireplace, nodding his head, saying a few words. In this delegation, Wrath had made a wise choice. The Brother had the appearance of an ass-kicker, with all his weapons, but he’d always been willing and internally inclined to be a peacemaker, and that was no different tonight.

  He was especially nice to Marissa when Butch’s mate left, his face showing a flash of genuine affection as he hugged her and nodded as the cop escorted her out. That slice of real was immediately replaced by his professional mask, however.

  Eventually, the hostess helped her ancient hellren to his feet, and made some noise about taking him upstairs.

  And then there was only one.

  Elan, son of Larex, lingered before the
bank of draped windows.

  Qhuinn had had an eye on the guy the whole time, counting exactly how many of the Council members came up to him, shook his hand, murmured in his ear.

  Each and every one.

  So it was not exactly a surprise that instead of leaving like a good little boy, he made his way up to the fireplace like he wanted an audience.

  Great.

  As Elan approached Tohr, the closer he got, the more he had to lift his chin to keep eye contact with the Brother.

  “It was quite an honor to have an audience with your king,” the gentlemale said gravely. “I hung on his every word.”

  Tohr murmured something in return.

  “And I’ve been struggling with something,” the aristocrat hedged. “I was hoping to speak with him directly about this, but…”

  Yeah, don’t hold your breath for that, buddy.

  Tohr stepped in to fill the silence. “Anything you tell me will go straight to the king’s ears, without filter or interpretation. And the fighters in this room are sworn to secrecy. They will die before they repeat a word.”

  Elan glanced over at Rehv, clearly expecting a similiar pledge from the male.

  “The same goes for me,” Rehvenge muttered as he leaned into his cane.

  Abruptly, Elan’s chest puffed up as if this kind of personalized attention was more what he’d been hoping for out of the meeting. “Well, this has lain heavily upon my heart.”

  Certainly not your pecs, Qhuinn thought. You’re built like a ten-year-old boy.

  “And that is,” Tohr prompted.

  Elan crossed his arms behind the small of his back and paced a bit—as if he were taking time with his words. Something told Qhuinn that they had been prepared beforehand, however—though he couldn’t have said what it was.

  “I expected your king to address a certain rumor that I have heard.”

  “Which is?” Tohr said in an even tone.

  Elan stopped. Turned. Spoke clearly. “That he was shot back in the fall.”

  No one showed any reaction. Not Tohr or Rehv. Not the remaining Brothers in the room. Certainly not Qhuinn or his boys.