Dearest Virgin Scribe, the narrowed eyes of that warrior were trained on him like he was a target.
“Long live the proper King,” Ichan said, “is more like it.”
On that note, the natty “concerned citizen” took his leave, filing out of the room with the attorney.
Abalone’s heart thundered as he was left alone with the fighter … and after a moment of screaming silence, the male uncoiled himself and went to the silver bowl of apples.
In a low, heavily accented voice, he said, “These are for the taking, are they not.”
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?”