The King

FORTY-TWO

Generally speaking, if your husband refused to say a word until the pair of you were behind closed doors and alone?

Shit was not going well.

As Beth heard the double doors of the study shut behind them, she went over to the banked fire and put her palms out to the heat. She was suddenly feeling very cold … especially as Wrath did not go behind the desk and sit down on his father’s throne.

Her hellren settled into one of the two French-blue sofas, and the effeminate little thing let out a very unlady-like protest as his weight landed.

George settled at his master’s feet, the dog staring up as if he, too, were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Wrath just stared straight ahead even though he couldn’t see a thing, his brow tight behind the bridge of his wraparounds, his aura black as his hair.

Turning, she backed her butt into the heat source and crossed her arms. “You’re scaring me.”

Silence.

“Why aren’t you sitting behind the desk,” she said roughly.

“It’s not mine anymore.”

Beth felt all the blood leave her head. “What are you … I’m sorry, what?”

Wrath took off his sunglasses and braced an elbow on his knee as he rubbed his eyes. “The Council has removed me.”

“What the … fuck. How? What did they do?”

“It doesn’t matter. But they got me.” He laughed in a short burst. “Listen, at least now all that paperwork over there? Not my problem. They can govern themselves—have a ball infighting and arguing about stupid bullshit—”

“What were the grounds?”

“You know what’s really fucked-up? I hated doing the job, and yet now that it’s gone…” He rubbed his face again. “Anyway.”

“I don’t get it. You’re the King by blood and the race is ruled by the monarchy. How did they do this?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Beth narrowed her stare. “What are you not telling me?”

He burst up and walked around, having memorized the furniture layout long ago. “This’ll give us more time together. Not a bad thing, especially if you’re pregnant. And hell, if you have a young now, part of what I was all up in my head about is a non-issue—”

“I’m going to find out, you realize. If you don’t tell me, I’ll get someone who will.”

Wrath went over to the desk and ran his hands down the carved edges. Then he fingered the top of the throne, caressing the ins and outs of the wood.

“Wrath. Talk. Now.”

Even with her laying it down like that, it was a long while before he spoke. And when he finally did, his reply was nothing she expected … and as devastating as any piece of it all.

“They based it on … you.”

Okay, time to have a little sit-down.

Going to the same sofa he’d sat in, she all but fell into the soft cushions. “Why? How? What did I do?”

God, the idea that she’d cost him the throne because of something she’d—

“It’s not anything you’ve done. It’s … who you are.”

“That’s ridiculous! They don’t even know me.”

“You’re half-human.”

Well, that shut her up.

Wrath came over and knelt down in front of her. Taking her hands, he held them in his so-much-larger palms. “Listen to me, and you have to be clear on this—I love you, all of you, each and every part of you. You are perfect in every way—”

“Except for the fact that my mother was human.”

“That’s their fucking problem,” he snapped. “I don’t give a fuck about their goddamn prejudice. It doesn’t affect me at all—”

“Noooooot exactly true, is it. Because of me you’re not sitting on that throne anymore, right?”

“You know what? The shit’s not worth it to me. You’re what’s important. You’re what matters. Everything else—everyone else can fuck off.”

She glanced over at the throne. “You mean to tell me you don’t care that your father’s seat is no longer your own?”

“I hated the job.”

“That’s not my point.”

“The past is the past and my parents have been dead for centuries.”

She shook her head. “Does that really matter, though. I know why you stuck with it all—it’s for them. Don’t lie to me—more important, don’t lie to yourself.”

He sat back sharply. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, I think you are. I’ve watched you these past two years. I know what’s motivated you—and it would be a mistake to think all that commitment up and disappears because some third party says you can’t wear the crown anymore.”

“Number one, it’s not ‘some third party.’ It’s the Council. Number two, it’s a fait accompli. What’s done is done.”

“There must be something you can do. Some way around this—”

“Just drop it, Beth.” He got to his feet, his head turning in the vague direction of the throne. “Let’s move ahead—”

“We can’t.”

“Fuck that.”

“It’s one thing if you resigned, or abdicated or whatever the hell it’s called. That’s free choice. But you don’t do well taking orders from other people.” She tacked on dryly, “We’ve discussed this before.”

“Beth, you gotta let this go—”

“Think about the future, a year from now, two years from now … do you mean to say you’re not going to resent me for this?”

“Of course not! You can’t change who you are. It’s not your fault.”

“You say that at this moment, and I believe you—but a decade from now, when you look your son or daughter in the face, you think you won’t resent me a little for cheating them out of—”

“Getting shot at? Criticized by all comers? Placed on a pedestal you don’t want to be on? Hell, no! All that shit is part of the reason I didn’t want a goddamn kid!”

Beth shook her head again. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, locking his hands on his hips. “Do me a favor and don’t make up my own fucking mind for me, okay.”

“We can’t ignore the possibility—”

“I’m sorry, did I miss something? Did some fortune-teller slip you a crystal ball or some shit? Because no offense, you can’t look into the future any more than I can.”

“Exactly.”

Wrath threw up his hands and started in with the stomping. “You don’t get it, you just don’t fucking get it. This is done, it’s zipped up. The vote of no confidence passed—I’m castrated as a ruler, I have no power or authority. So even if there was anything I could do from a legal standpoint? I’m not the person who can change things anymore.”

“So who is?”

“A distant cousin of mine. Real peach of a guy.”

Her hellren’s tone suggested peach of a guy was a euphemism for total fucking douche.

Beth crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to see the proclamation or document—there had to be one, right? I don’t think they’d just leave you a voice mail.”

“Oh, my God, Beth, will you leave this alone—”

“Does Saxton have it? Or did they send it to Rehv—”

“Will you be fucking normal!” he hollered at her. “You just went through your needing! Most females are in bed for a week, why can’t that be you? You want a young, go lie goddamn down—that’s what you’re supposed to do. I’m surprised with all that time you spent with goddamn Layla she didn’t tell you…”

As he went on and on, she knew this was just steam being released through vocabulary. But they didn’t have time for him to keep it up indefinitely.

Getting up from her seat, she walked over to him and—

Slap.

As Beth followed through with her palm, the sharp cracking sound faded in the room and her beloved mate shut up.

Staring at him calmly, she said, “And now that I have your attention and you’re not ranting and raving like a lunatic, I’d appreciate your telling me where I can find whatever they sent us.”

Wrath let his head fall back as if he were utterly exhausted. “Why are you doing this.”

Abruptly, she thought of what he’d said to her when her needing had hit and he’d found her trying to get at the drugs.

In a voice that cracked, she replied, “Because I love you. And you either don’t want to acknowledge it, or you can’t see that far into the future, but this really, totally matters to you. I’m telling you, Wrath, this is the kind of stuff that people never get over. And like I said, you want to quit? Fine. That’s your choice. But I’ll be good and goddamned if I’m going to let someone take it away from you.”

He brought his jaw back to level. “You don’t get it, leelan. It’s over.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

There was a long moment … and then he reached out and crushed her to him, holding her so tightly she could feel her very bones bend.

“I’m not strong enough for this,” he whispered in her ear—like he didn’t want anyone to hear that coming out of his mouth. Ever.

Running her hands up his powerful back, she held him just as hard. “But I am.”

It was forever.

Wrath waited in the hidden room that smelled like earth and spice for forever. In the blackness, his thoughts were loud as screams, vivid as lightning, indelible as an inscription in stone.

And just when he thought it would never happen, that he and his silent, stewing companion would be always in the dark, literally and figuratively, there was a rasping sound and the camouflaged panel began to slide back.

“No matter what occurs,” he whispered to the Brother, “you are not to interfere. I hereby command you thus, and hear me well.”

Tohrture’s response was no louder than a breath: “As you wish.”

The flickering light of a torch cast only shallow illumination, but it was more than enough for Wrath to identify the male: a cleric who was on the periphery of court … but whose father had been a healer for the race.

A keeper of herbs and potions.

The male was muttering under his breath. “…make more in a night’s time. Cannae do that which is impossible…”

As the male went for the worktable, Wrath’s body acted without benefit of his mind. Springing forth from the shadows in a sloppy fashion, he grabbed upon the thin upper arm, putting his strength into the effort without any finesse. In response, there was a high-pitched yelp of surprise, but then that torch swung about and Wrath nearly lost his hold as the open flames flashed close to his eyes.

“Shut the door!” Wrath called out as he attempted to catch the cleric around the waist.

Even though there was no comparison in their sizes, with Wrath twice as big, the cleric’s robes were slippery to hold on to and the thrashing of his prey difficult to control. And that torch was a danger as both sought to control it: With shadows racing across the walls and the cauldron and the table, Wrath found his hands getting burned as he attempted to—

And then the cape he’d used to hide his identity was afire.

As a searing heat flashed up his side and headed for his hair, he jumped back and fumbled for his dagger for to cut the fabric free—except the blade was under his cloak. All he could do was feel the outline of the hilt in its holster.

Leaping back, he went to pull the voluminous wieght fabric o’er his head, but had to retract his hand with a shout of pain. In the next heartbeat, flames were all over him, and though he tried to bat them away, it was like fending off a cloud of wasps. Flailing, blinded by agony and heat, great woofs! of sound bracketing his ears, he realized …

He was not going to emerge alive from this.

Breath short, heart pounding, soul screaming from the unfairness of it all, he wished he was a different male, a male of the sword, not of the pen, one who could dominate another with alacrity and confidence—

The deluge came from above and it was foul-smelling, foul-tasting—and so viscous, it was more wet wool blanket than liquid. With a hiss and fizzle, and a stench that made his eyes water even more, the flames were gone, the fire out, the mad flailing over.

A great clatter ensued as Tohrture tossed the weighty cauldron aside. “Drink not, my lord! Spit it out if you have partaken!”

Wrath bent over and expelled what had been caught between his lips. And when a rag was shoved into his hands, he was able to clear the dripping sting from his eyes.

Bracing his palms on his thighs, he breathed deeply in hopes that he would stop panting, his exertion making his head spin. Or mayhap that was the smoke. The pain. That mess that had been dumped upon him.

After a moment, he realized that the light had become steady and he glanced in the direction of the illumination. The Brother had captured control of the torch … as well as subdued the cleric, the male down and curled in on himself, his legs flopping about.

“How did you—” A round of coughing cut off Wrath’s inquiry. “What did you wrought unto him.”

“I cut the tendons behind his knees so that he cannot run.”

Wrath recoiled at the thought. But the utility was well apparent.

“He is yours to do with what you will, my lord,” Tohrture said, stepping back.

As Wrath looked over at the cleric, it was hard not to contrast the Brother’s calm demeanor and successful effort with his own frazzled, frothing mess of a self: For Tohrture, the effect had been but the work of a moment to accomplish.

Shuffling over to the compromised male, he forced the cleric onto his back, and there was a slice of satisfaction as those eyes peeled wider when Wrath’s identity became apparent.

“Whom do you serve,” Wrath demanded.

The reply was a sputter that went nowhere, and before Wrath knew what he was doing, he gripped the cleric’s dress and hauled him up off the packed dirt. Shaking him, that loose head flopping this way and that, Wrath was struck by a deep, abiding need to kill.

There was no time to examine the foreign emotion, however.

Dragging the male higher so they were nose-to-nose, Wrath growled, “If you tell me who else, I will spare your young shellan and your son. If I find out there is even one that you leave out? Your family will be bound hand and foot, hung in my great hall by the ankles, and left to expire over time.”

Whilst Tohrture smiled a bloodthirsty grin, the cleric’s face went e’er paler.

“My lord…” the male whispered. “Spare me as well—spare me and I will tell you all.”

Wrath stared into those pleading eyes, watching tears well and fall … and thought about his shellan, his father.

“Please, my lord, show me mercy—I beg of you—show me mercy!”

After a long moment, Wrath inclined his head once. “Proceed.”

In a shaky rush, names came forth, and Wrath recognized them all.

It was the entire composite of his advisers, starting with Ichan and ending before Abalone—who had already proved where his loyalties lay—

The inner vibration of violence began to ratchet up as soon as the final name was uttered and the cleric fell quiet—and the urge to kill would not be denied.

His hand was trembling as it fumbled for the hilt of his dagger, and he withdrew his weapon with herky-jerky motions, the angle wrong for removal, the blade getting caught in its sheath.

But he did manage to free it.

Letting the cleric fall back down to the earth, he clamped a hold on the male’s throat and began to squeeze.

“My lord…” The cleric started to struggle, clawing at Wrath’s wrist. “My lord, no! You vowed—”

Wrath lifted his arm high—

And realized he’d blocked a clear shot at the heart, the jugular, and the major organs with his hold.

“My loooooooooord—”

“This is for mine blood!”

He thrust all of his strength into the downward arc—and was meeting the horrified stare of the cleric as the razor point of the dagger pierced the male’s right eye and proceeded apace into the brain behind it, stopping only when the entirety of the blade was embedded within that skull.

The body beneath his own went into immediate spasms, arms and legs thrashing, the remaining eye rolling back so that only the white showed.

And then all went still except for some minor twitching of the facial muscles and the hands.

Wrath slumped, falling off the now-dead body.

As he regarded the sight of that dagger protruding from a male’s face, he was o’ercome with nausea and had to wrench around, brace his palms on the cool dirt, and vomit until his arms could no longer hold him up.

Rolling to the side, he laid his hot face on the inside of his muck-soaked arm.

He did not cry.

He wanted to.

As the realization that he had killed another being hit him, he desired to go back to the world he knew before this—where his father had died of natural causes, and his shellan had simply had a dizzy spell because of a pregnancy—and the worst thing he had to worry about in court was that others gossiped over his choice of mate.

This new version of reality was nothing he wanted to be a part of.

There was no light on this side. Just midnight black.

“I have never killed someone before,” he said in a small voice.

For all his fierceness, Tohrture’s tone was gentle. “I know, my lord. You did well.”

“I did not.”

“Is he not dead?”

Yes, indeed he was. “I meant what I said about his shellan and son. They shall be spared.”

“Of course.”

As the listing of names ran through his head, that urge to kill rekindled, even as his stomach was barely settling—and his efforts were a mockery compared to what the Brotherhood could do.

And indeed, he would not be alive the now if Tohrture had not stepped in.

Wrath pushed himself off the dirt, his head hanging low. How was he going to—

A large palm presented itself before him. “My lord, allow me to help you.”

Wrath looked up into those bright, clear eyes—and thought that they were like the moon, shedding light upon the darkness, showing a path out of the wild.

“We shall train you,” Tohrture said. “We shall teach you what you need to know such that you may ahvenge your bloodline. I shall remove that body and stage it as if an accident befell him—that will give us the time we need. And from now on, food shall be prepared in your receiving quarters by our own personal doggen, not anyone affiliated with the court—and any and all victuals shall be brought in from the fields and sky by a Brother’s own hands. We shall each eat and drink of it in your presence before you do, and sleep outside your rooms. This is our solemn vow.”

For a moment, all Wrath could do was stare at that palm, outstretched unto him like a benediction from the Scribe Virgin Herself.

He opened his mouth to offer thanks, but there was naught that came out.

By way of reply, he clasped that which was before him … and felt himself lifted up to stand squarely upon his own two feet.