The click of the lock being sprung sounded loudly in the resonant silence.
"Thank you," she murmured politely as she headed out. "Your acquiescence is much appreciated."
After all, far be it from her to forget her manners.
Sitting behind his desk, with his leather-clad ass cozied in the throne his father had had made centuries and centuries ago, Wrath, son of Wrath, was running his forefinger up and down the smooth silver blade of a dagger-shaped envelope opener. Beside him on the floor, a faint snoring rose from George's muzzle.
The dog slept only during rare moments of downtime.
If someone knocked or entered, or if Wrath himself moved in any way, that big head rose, and that heavy collar jingled. The instanta-lert also came if somebody walked by in the hall, or ran a vacuum cleaner anywhere, or opened the vestibule door down in the foyer. Or set a meal out. Or sneezed in the library.
After the head raise, there was a sliding scale of response from nothing (dining room activity, vacuum, sneeze) to a chuff (downstairs door opening, walk-by) to an at-attention sit-up (knock, entry). The dog never was aggressive, but rather served as a motion detector, leaving the decision about what to do to his owner.
Such a gentleman the guide dog was.
And yet, although a tame nature was as much a part of the animal as his soft, long fur and his big, rangy body, Wrath had seen glimmers from time to time of the beast inside the lovely disposition: When you were around a bunch of highly aggressive, heavy-nutted fighters like the Brotherhood, heads got hot from time to time - even toward the king. And the shit didn't bother Wrath - he'd been with the motherfuckers too long to get riled at a little chest pumping or sac grabbing.
George, however, didn't like that. If any of them got into meathead territory toward their king, the hackles on that gentle dog would rise and he would growl in warning as he pressed his body close to Wrath's leg - like he was prepared to show the Brothers just how long real fangs were in the event things got physical.
The only thing Wrath loved more in his life was his queen.
Reaching down, he stroked the dog's flank; then refocused on the feel of his finger on the letter opener.
Jesus Christ. Airplanes falling out of the sky...Brothers getting injured...Qhuinn saving the day again...
At least the night hadn't been all drama of the heart-attack variety. In fact, they'd started out on a good note with the proof that they needed to move on the Band of Bastards: V had done his ballistics testing, and gee-fucking-whiz, the bullet that had come out of Wrath's neck had started its journey in a rifle found at Xcor's lair.
Wrath smiled to himself, his fangs tingling at the tips.
Those traitors were now officially on the hit list, with the full backing of the law - and it was time do to a little flushing.
At that moment, George let out a chuff - and the insistent knock that followed suggested Wrath might have missed the first bang on his door. "Yeah."
He knew who it was before the Brotherhood even entered: V and the cop. Rhage. Tohr. Phury. And at last, Z. Who, going by the thump, seemed to be using a cane.
They shut the door.
When no one sat down or made small talk, he knew exactly why they had come to him. "What's the verdict, ladies," he drawled as he leaned back in the throne.
Tohr's voice answered him. "We've been thinking about Qhuinn."
He bet they had. After introducing the idea at the meeting earlier tonight, he hadn't pressed them for a yes or no. There was plenty of shit that, as king, he was more than willing to cram down people's throats. Who the Brothers were going to welcome into the club was not one. "And?"
Zsadist spoke up in the Old Language. "I, Zsadist, son of Ahgony, inducted in the two hundred forty-second year of the reign of Wrath, son of Wrath, hereby nominate Qhuinn, an orphan in the world, for membership unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood."
Hearing formal words out of the Brother's mouth was a shocker. Z, above all of them, thought the past was a bunch of bullshit. Not when it came to this, apparently.
Jesus, Wrath thought. They were going to run with it. And fast - he'd thought it would take longer than this. Days of mulling over. Weeks. Maybe a month - and then, maybe, a no-go for a variety of reasons.
But they were playing ball - and accordingly, so was Wrath.
"Upon what basis do you make this pledge of your, and your bloodline's, name?" Wrath asked.
Now Z dropped the formal, and went for the real. "He brought me home safe to my shellan and my little female tonight. At the risk of his own life."
"Fair enough."
Wrath scanned the males who were standing around his desk, even though he couldn't see them with his eyes. Sight didn't matter, though. He didn't need operational retinas to tell him where they all were or how they were feeling about shit; the scents of their emotions were clear.
They were, as a group, steadfast, resolved, and proud.
But formalities needs must.
Wrath started with the one all the way on the end. "V?"
"I was ready to get on board when he crawled all over Xcor."
There was a grumble of agreement.
"Butch?"
That Boston accent came across loud and clear. "I think he's a wicked strong fightah. And I like the guy. He's aging up good, dropping all that attitude, getting serious."
"Rhage?"
"You shoulda seen him tonight. He wouldn't let me take that plane up - said two Brothers were too much to lose."
More of that grumbling approval. "Tohr?"
"That night you were shot? I got you out of there thanks to him. He's the right stuff."
"Phury?"
"I like him. I really do. He's the first to run into any situation. He will literally do anything for any one of us - it doesn't matter how dangerous."
Wrath rapped his desk with his knuckles. "It's settled, then. I'll tell Saxton to make the changes, and we'll do it."
Tohr cut in. "With all due respect, my lord, we need to resolve the ahstrux nohtrum designation. He can't be watching John's ass as his primary directive anymore."
"Agreed. We'll tell John to release him - and I can't believe the answer will be no. After that, I'll have Saxton draw up the papers, and then following Qhuinn's induction, V, you take care of the ink on his face. Like if John had died of natural causes or some shit?"
There was a rustling of clothes, as if some of the Brothers were making the symbol of "Dearest Virgin Scribe forbid" over their chests.
"Roger that," V said.
Wrath crossed his arms over his chest. This was a historic moment, and well he knew it. Butch's induction had been legal because of the blood tie the male had with royalty. Qhuinn was a different story. No royal blood. No Chosen or Brotherhood blood, although he technically was an aristocrat.