by J. R. Ward
It was likely the only wise thing about the group.
His host broke away and approached with a smug smile. “How good of you to come, Assail.”
“Thank you for having me.”
Elan frowned. “Where is my doggen? He should have taken your coat—”
“I prefer to leave it on. And I shall take that seat over there.” He nodded to the one corner that would provide the most visual access. “I trust we will be getting started soon.”
“Indeed. With your arrival, we await only one more.”
Assail narrowed his eyes on the subtle line of sweat that dotted the skin between the male’s nose and upper lip. Xcor had chosen the correct pawn, he thought as he went over and eased himself into his chair.
A sharp draft announced the arrival of the final guest.
As Xcor strode into the room, there was a hell of a lot more than a lull in the chatter. Every one of the aristocrats fell silent, a subtle rearrangement of the crowd being effected as they each stepped back.
Then again—surprise! Xcor had more than a plus-one with him.
The entirety of the Band of Bastards filed in on his heels, forming a semicircle behind their leader.
In person and up close, Xcor was precisely as he had always been: rough and ugly, the kind of male whose countenance and stance suggested his reputation for violence was based on reality, not conjecture. Verily, standing in the midst of these weaklings, in their environment of luxury and civility, he was ready and perfectly capable of cutting down everything that breathed in the room—and the males at his back were just the same, each dressed for war, and prepared to bring it to bear at a mere nod from their liege.
Regarding the lot of them, even Assail had to admit they were impressive.
What a fool Elan was—he and his glymera gadabouts had no clue of the Pandora’s box that they had opened.
With an officious cough, Elan stepped forward to address all and sundry as the one who was in charge—even though he was dwarfed not only by the soldiers’ heft, but their very presence.
“I believe there are no introductions necessary, and it goes without saying that if any one of you”—at this point, he eyed his fellow Council members—“speaks of this meeting, there will be reprisals the likes of which shall make you wish for the raids to return.”
Whilst he spoke, he gathered a certain momentum, as if assuming the mantle of power, even if it was provided by someone else, was a sort of masturbation for his ego.
“I thought it was important to bring all of us together this night.” He began to pace, clasping his hands at the small of his back and leaning forward to address his shiny shoes. “From time to time in the last year, the esteemed members of the Council have each come unto me and expressed not just their catastrophic losses, but their frustration with the current regime’s response to any meaningful recovery.”
Assail’s brows popped at the word current: This uprising had progressed further than he’d guessed if that was being thrown around.…
“These discussions have taken place over a period of months, and there has been an unwavering consistency to the complaints and disappointments. As a result, and after much deliberation with my conscience, I have found myself for the first time in my life eschewing the race’s current leader to the extent that I am compelled into action. These gentlemales”—at that ludicrous term, he waved an open hand to the collection of fighters—“have expressed similar concerns, as well as a certain willingness to—how shall I put it—effect a change. As I know that we are all of one mind, I thought we might discuss our next steps.”
At this point, the assembled dandies decided to piss on the conversational guidepost, reiterating, in their own interminable words, precisely what Elan had just stated.
Clearly they felt it was an opportunity for them to prove to the Band of Bastards how serious they were, but he doubted Xcor was moved by any of the hot air. These members of the aristocracy were fragile, expendable tools, each one of them limited in use and easily broken—and Xcor had to know this. No doubt he was going to work them until he didn’t need them, and then he was going to snap their paltry wooden handles and cast them aside.
As Assail sat back and listened, he had no particular love or regard for the monarchy. But he was clear on the fact that Wrath was a male of his word—the same could not be true of any of these glymera yahoos: This whole group, with the exception of Xcor and his males, would kiss the king’s ass until their lips went numb—right up until they caused his death. And after that? Xcor would serve himself and himself alone—and to hell with anyone else.
Wrath had stated that he would allow commerce with the humans to continue unfettered.
Xcor, however, was the type who would not permit any other seats of power to rise up—and with all the money there was to be made in the drug trade, sooner or later Assail would have a target on his back.
If he didn’t have one already.
“… and my family’s estate is lying fallow in Caldwell—”
When Assail rose up from his chair, all the eyes of the fighters flipped to him.
Stepping forward through the crowd, he was careful to show his hands, lest they believe he had taken out a weapon.
“Please excuse the interruption,” he said without meaning it. “But I must leave now.”
Elan began to sputter as Xcor’s lids lowered.
Addressing the true leader in the room, Assail spoke clearly. “I shall make no reference to this meeting, either to the individuals here in this room or to any others, neither about the statements that have been made nor who has attended. I am not a political individual, nor do I have designs on any throne—I am but a businessman seeking only to continue to prosper in circles of commerce. In leaving this meeting and resigning herewith from the Council, I am acting accordingly, seeking neither to promote nor obstruct any of your agenda.”
Xcor smiled coldly, his eyes locked and loaded with deadly intent. “I shall consider anyone who departs this room to be mine enemy.”
Assail nodded. “So be it. And know that I will defend my interests as appropriate against interlopers of any kind.”
“As you wish.”
Assail left without hurry—at least until he got into his Range Rover. Once inside the SUV, he was efficient in locking the doors, starting the engine, and taking off.
Driving along, he was alert, but not paranoid. He believed Xcor meant every word he’d said about marking him as an enemy, but he was also aware that the male was going to have his hands full. Between the Brotherhood, who were no doubt more than formidable foes, and the glymera, who were going to be like herding cats, there was much to consume his attention.
Sooner or later, however, the male would focus on Assail.
Fortunately, he was ready now, and would stay that way.
And waiting had never bothered him.
SEVENTY-ONE
As Tohr emerged naked and dripping from the shower, the knock on his bedroom’s door was loud and a little muffled, as if it had been made by the heel of a hand, instead of a set of knuckles— and after so many years of being a brother, he knew it could have been made by only one male.
“Rhage?” He put a towel around his waist and walked over to open the way up. “My brother, what’s doing?”
The guy was standing out in the hall, his incredibly beautiful face solemn, his body clad in a white silk robe that fell from his broad shoulders and was tied at the waist with a simple white rope. Across his chest, his black daggers were holstered by white leather.
“Hey, my brother… I, ah…”
In the awkward moment that followed, Tohr was the one to break the tension. “You look like a powdered doughnut, Hollywood.”
“Thanks.” The brother stared down at the carpet. “Listen, I brought you something. It’s from Mary and me.”
Opening his big palm, he held forward a heavy gold Rolex, the one that Mary wore, the one that the brother had given her when they’d been mated. It
was a symbol of their love… and their support.
Tohr took the thing, feeling the warmth that lingered in the metal. “My brother…”
“Look, we just want you to know we’re with you—I added back the links so it’ll fit your wrist.”
Tohr slipped the thing on, and yeah, it clipped just fine. “Thank you. I’ll return it—”
Rhage snapped out his arms and gave the kind of bear hug that he was known for—the sort that put a strain on your spinal cord and made you have to reinflate your rib cage afterward just to make sure you hadn’t punctured a lung.
“I got no words, my brother,” Hollywood said.
As Tohr clapped him on the back, he felt the dragon tattoo seethe, as if it, too, were offering condolences. “It’s okay. I know this is hard.”
After Rhage left, he was just shutting his door when there was another knock.
Peering around the jamb, he found Phury and Z lined up side by side. The twins were wearing the same robing and tie that Rhage had on, and their eyes were just the same as Hollywood’s Bahama blues: sad, so damned sad.
“My brother,” Phury said, stepping up and embracing him. When the Primale eased back, he held out something long and intricate. “For you.”
In his hand was a five-foot-long grosgrain white ribbon on which a prayer for strength had been carefully and beautifully embroidered in gold thread.
“The Chosen, and Cormia, and I are all with you.”
Tohr took a moment to fan out the strip, and trace the Old Language characters, reciting the ancient words in his head. This must have taken hours, he thought. And many, many hands. “My God, it’s beautiful.…”
As he forced back tears, he thought, Fan-fucking-tastic. If just the warm-up to the ceremony was getting to him like this? He was going be a goddamn mess when it actually happened.
Zsadist cleared his throat. And then the brother who hated touching others leaned in and put his arms around Tohr. The embrace was so gentle that Tohr had to wonder if it was from lack of practice. Either that or Tohr looked as fragile as he felt.
“This is from my family to yours,” came the soft words.
The brother offered forward a small piece of parchment paper, and Tohr’s fingers shook as he opened it. “Oh… shit…”
In the center was a tiny handprint in red paint. A young’s. Nalla’s…
There was no greater or more precious thing to a male than his offspring—especially if it was a female. So the palm print was the symbol that everything Z had and all that he was, now and in the future, was pledged in support of his brother.
“Fuck,” Tohr said simply as he took a shuddering breath.
“We’ll see you down there,” Phury stated.
They had to close the door.
Tohr backed up and sat down on his mattress, laying the ribbon across his thighs and staring at the child’s print.
When another knock sounded, he didn’t look up. “Yeah?”
It was V.
The brother seemed stiff and awkward, but then, he was probably the worst out of all of them when it came to mushy shit.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try any of the hugging bullshit, either, which was just as well.
Instead, he placed a wooden case next to Tohr on the bed, exhaled some Turkish smoke, and went back for the exit like he couldn’t wait to get out of the room.
Except he stopped before he left. “I gotchu, my brother,” he said to the door.
“I know, V. You always have.”
As the male nodded and left, Tohr turned to the mahogany case. Freeing the black steel clasp and lifting the lid, he had to curse under his breath.
The set of black daggers was… breathtaking. Taking one out, he marveled at the fit against his hand, and then saw that there were symbols etched into the blade.
More prayers, four of them, one on each side of each of the weapons.
All for strength.
These daggers were really not for fighting—they were too valuable. Christ, V must have worked on these for a year, maybe longer… although of course, as with everything the brother made down in that forge of his, they were deadly as hell—
The next knock was Butch. It had to be.
“Ye—” Tohr had to clear his throat. “Yes?”
Yup, it was the cop. Dressed as all the others were, in that white robe with the white rope tie.
As the brother came across the room, there was nothing in his hands. But he hadn’t come empty-handed.
“On a night like tonight,” the guy said roughly, “I only got my faith. That’s all I got—’cuz there’re no mortal words to ease where you’re at—I know up close and personal.”
He reached up behind his neck and worked at something. When he brought his hands forward once more, he was holding the heavy gold chain and even heavier gold cross that he never, ever took off.
“I know my God is not yours, but can I put this on you?”
Tohr nodded and dropped his head. As the linchpin of the male’s awesome Catholic faith was hung around his neck, he reached up and touched the cross.
It had incredible weight, all that gold. It felt good.
Butch bent over and put a squeeze on Tohr’s shoulder. “I’ll see you down there.”
Fuck. He had nothing to say anymore.
For a while, he just sat there, trying to hold it together. Until he heard something at the door. A scratching, as if…
“My lord?” Tohr said as he forced himself to his feet and went across the way.
You opened the door for the king. No matter what state you were in.
Wrath and George came in together, and his brother was characteristically blunt. “I’m not going to ask how you’re holding up.”
“I appreciate that, my lord. Because I’m pretty fucking ragged.”
“Why wouldn’t you be.”
“It’s almost harder when people are kind.”
“Yeah. Well. Guess you’re going to have to suck some more of that shit up.” The king worked at something on his finger. And then put forward—
“Oh, fuck, no.” Tohr threw his hands up and out of the way even though the male was blind. “Uh-uh. No way. No fucking way—”
“I order you to take it.”
Tohr cursed. Waited to see if the king would change his mind.
Got nowhere on that one.
As Wrath just stared straight ahead, Tohr knew he was going to lose this argument.
With a dizzying feeling of total unreality, he reached out and took the black diamond ring that had only ever been worn by the king.
“My shellan and I are there for you. Wear that during the ceremony so that you know my blood, my body, my beating heart are yours.”
George chuffed and wagged his tail as if backing his master.
“Fucking hell.” This time, Tohr was the one who reached for his brother, and the embrace was returned sharply and with power.
After Wrath left with his dog, Tohr pivoted around and leaned back against the door.
The final knock was soft.
Steeling himself so that he at least appeared to be a male, even though he was feeling like a pussy on the inside, he found John Matthew out in the hall.
The boy didn’t bother signing anything. He just reached out for Tohr’s hand, and pressed…
Darius’s signet ring into Tohr’s palm.
He would have wanted to be here for you, John signed. And his ring is all I’ve got of him. I know he’d want you to wear it during the ceremony.
Tohr stared at the crest that was stamped in the precious metal and thought of his friend, his mentor, the only father he’d really had. “This means… more than you can imagine.”
I’ll be right beside you, John signed. The whole time.
“Right back atchu, son.”
They embraced, and then Tohr shut the door quietly. Going back over to the bed, he looked down at all the symbols of his brothers… and knew that when he faced this crucible, it was with all of the
m with him—not that that had ever been at issue.
Something was missing, though, in all of this.
Autumn.
He needed his brothers. He needed his son. But he needed her, too.
He hoped what he’d said to her would be enough, but there were some things you couldn’t come back from, some things that there was no healing from.
And maybe she had a point about the cycle thing.
He prayed there was more to it than that, however. He truly did.
As Lassiter stood in the corner of Tohr’s room, he kept himself invisible. Good thing. Watching that in-and-out of males had been rough. How Tohr had managed to get through it in one piece was a flipping miracle.
But this was finally coming together, the angel thought. Finally, after all this time, after all this—well, shit, frankly… things were finally turning in a good direction.
After spending the previous night and day with a very quiet Autumn, he had left her at sunset to stew in her thoughts, putting his faith in the fact that she was replaying that Tohr visit over and over in her head and finding nothing but sincerity in what had been said to her.
If she showed tonight, he was home-fucking-free. He’d done it. Well, okay, fine—they had done it. In truth, he had been a sideline player in all this… except for the fact that he kind of fucking cared about the pair of them. And Wellsie, too.
Across the way, Tohr went to the closet and seemed to brace himself.
Taking out a white robe, the Brother put the thing on and then returned to the bed to gird his waist with the magnificent ribbon Phury had brought. After that, the guy picked up the folded piece of parchment Z had given him, tucked it into the tie, and drew on a white holster—into which he slid V’s two spectacular black daggers. The signet ring went on his left middle finger, the black diamond on the thumb of his fighting hand.
With the unfamiliar sense of a job well-done, Lassiter thought about all the months he’d been back on earth, recalling the way he and Tohr and Autumn had all worked together to save a female who would in turn… well, in different ways, free each of them.
