Trez stood there numbly as iAm patted him down and removed a couple more weapons, and then he allowed himself to be led back to that examination room and the group of people standing shocked and still around its door.
Not before she was gone, he told himself. Not while she was still here.
Unfortunately, he feared that was not likely to be very long at all.
TEN
Paradise, blooded daughter of Abalone, First Adviser to the King, frowned at the screen of her Apple lappy. She’d set herself up here in her father’s library ever since he’d started working each night for Wrath, son of Wrath, because in the old rambling Tudor mansion, Wi-Fi was strongest at this desk. Not that a good signal was helping her at the moment. Her Hotmail account was full of unread messages, because, with iMessage on her phone and her Twitter, Instagram, and FB accounts, there was no reason to sign into it very often.
“So hold up, what was it called?” she said into her cell.
“‘New Trainee Class,’” Peyton, blooded son of Peythone, replied. “I forwarded it to you, like, an hour ago.”
She sat forward in her father’s chair. “There’s just so much junk in here.”
“Lemme resend—”
“Wait, I got it.” She clicked and then clicked again on the attachment. “Wow. It’s on official letterhead.”
“Told you.”
Paradise scanned the date, the personalized greeting to Peyton, the two paragraphs about the program, and the closing. “Holy … it’s signed by a Brother.”
“Tohrment, son of Hharm.”
“Well, if it’s a fake, someone’s going to catch some serious—”
“But did you see in the second paragraph?”
She refocused on the words. “Females? Whoa, whoa … they’re accepting females?”
“I know, right?” There was a bubbling noise and an exhale as Peyton took another hit. “It’s unprecedented.”
Paradise reread the letter, this time more carefully. Operative words leaped out at her: Open tryouts for the training program. Females and civilians welcome to take physical performance test for entrance. Sessions taught by the Brotherhood themselves. Tuition? Nada.
“What are they thinking?” Peyton muttered. “I mean, this is supposed to be for the glymera sons only.”
“Not anymore, apparently.”
As Peyton went off on a commentary about the fairer sex and traditional roles at home and in the field, Paradise sat back in the leather armchair. Next to her, logs set by the household’s doggen crackled with orange flames in the marble-faced hearth, the warmth hitting one side of her face and half of her body. All around, her father’s library glowed with yellow light and polished mahogany and the gold accents on the spines of his collection of first-edition books.
The mansion they lived in was one of Caldwell’s grandest, with forty other rooms that were kitted out with equal luxury to this one, if not even greater: Beautiful silks hung from diamond-paned leaded windows. Fine Oriental rugs stretched out across polished floors. Oil paintings of ancestors were mounted up the stairwells and featured prominently over mantels and sideboards. Fine china was set at a formal table for every meal, food cooked and served by the extensive staff.
She had lived here with her father for years upon years, tutored by other ladies of the glymera in all the things that made an aristocratic female mateable: Clothing. Entertaining. Etiquette. Being the chatelaine of an estate.
And what was it all leading up to? Her presentation party, which had been delayed, as with the Brotherhood’s training program, because of the raids two years ago.
Plans for her were likewise going to be reinstated, however. What was left of the aristocracy had moved back to Caldwell proper from their safe houses, and as she was of age, being at least four years out of her transition, it was time for her to find a mate.
God, how she dreaded all that—
“Hello?” Peyton said. “You still there?”
“Sorry, yes.” She jerked the phone away from her ear at a loud crackling sound. “What are you doing?”
“Opening up a bag of Cape Cod potato chips.” Crunch. Munch. “Oh, my hell, these are amazing…”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I still have half an ounce left. So I’m going to finish it and a bag of chips. Then probably crash—”
“No, about the training center program.”
“My father’s already told me I’m going. It’s fine, whatever. I haven’t really been doing anything for three years now, and I would have matriculated in when they first opened the facility up, but … well, you remember what happened.”
“Yeah, and you’d better stop smoking. They’re not going to like that.”
“What they don’t know can’t hurt them. Besides, I have First Amendment rights.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, for one, you’re not human, so their Constitution doesn’t apply to you. And two, that’s about freedom of speech, not freedom to light up.”
“Whatever.”
As Peyton took another hit, she pictured his handsome face, and his broad shoulders, and his very blue eyes. The two of them had known each other all their lives, their families having inter-married for generations, as all members of the aristocracy did.
It was the worst-kept secret in the glymera that his parents and her father had recently started talking about them getting mated—
The great bass sound of the front entrance’s door knocker brought her head around.
“Who is that?” she said, getting to her feet and leaning forward so she could see out into the foyer.
Their butler, Fedricah, strode across the floor, and though her father never answered the door himself, he, too, came out of his private study across the way.
“Master?” the butler said. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Abalone pulled his suit jacket back into place. “A distant relative. I should have told you, my apologies.”
“I gotta go,” Paradise said. “Have a good sleep.”
There was a pause. “Yeah, you, too, Parry. And you know, you can call me if you get the bad dreams, okay.”
“Sure. Same for you. ’Day.”
“’Day back at you.”
As she hung up, she was glad her friend was still around. Ever since the raids had gone down and so many of their class had been slaughtered, the two of them had used the phone lines to pass the sometimes forever hours of daylight. The connection had been indispensable in the immediate aftermath of the raids, when she and her father had gone out to the Catskills, and she had rattled around that big barn of a Victorian for months.
Peyton was a good friend. As for the mating thing?
She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Going around the desk, she jogged across to the foyer until her father caught sight of her and shook his head. “Out of sight, Paradise. Please.”
Her brows popped. That was the code for her to take cover in the hidden tunnels of the house. “What’s going on?”
“Please go.”
“You said it was a relative?”
“Paradise.”
Paradise ducked back into the library, but she stayed by the archway, listening.
The soft creak of the massive front door opening seemed very loud.
“It’s you,” her father said in a strange tone. “Fedricah, please excuse us, will you.”
“But of course, master.”
The butler walked off, crossing briefly over that part of the foyer Paradise could see. After a moment, the door into the back half of the house closed.
“Well?” a male said. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to die out here. In a matter of minutes.”
Paradise fought the urge to put her head around the molding and see who it was. She didn’t recognize the voice, but the precise pronunciation and haughty accent suggested it was someone from the aristocracy. Which made sense, considering he was a “relative.”
“You are wearing the vestments of war,” her father countered. “I do not abide them across my threshold.”
“Is it my associations or my weapons that frighten you more?”
“I am not afeared of either. You were beaten, if you recall.”
“But not defeated, I’m sorry to say.” Clicking sounds suggested someone was handling things made of metal parts. And then there was a clattering, as if something hit the front stone stoop. “Here, then, I am naked before you. I am utterly unarmed, and my weapons are on your doorstep, not within your walls.”
“I am not your cousin.”
“You are my blood. We have many common ancestors—”
“Spare me. And whatever message your leader wishes to send to the King, have him do it through—”
“I am no longer affiliated with Xcor. In any way.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ties have been cut.” There was an exhausted sigh. “I have spent these months since the election that returned Wrath to the throne trying to convince Xcor and the Band of Bastards to disengage from their treason. Even after such entreaty and reasoning, such extended pleading for a smarter course, I am saddened that I cannot dissuade them from their folly. Finally, I just had to leave. I sneaked away from where they stay, and I now fear for my life. I have nowhere else to go, and when I spoke with Salliah back in the Old Country, she suggested that I pay you a visit.”