Page 8 of Brimstone
My mate.
Fisher’s dark, wavy hair tumbled into his face, flicking up around his ears. It had somehow grown longer in the past day or two. He felt bigger, too. Taller, broader, his presence even more imposing. He was armed to the teeth, dressed in leather, his ever-present gorget flashing at his throat. Tendrils of shadow and glittering black sand wound between his fingers, circling his wrists. They twisted down his legs and spilled across the plush carpet like hunting snakes, heading for the chaise.
They had reached the chair and were weaving up its legs toward Carrion when I let out a sigh, folding my arms across my chest. “Fisher.”
His eyes came alive at the sound of my voice. “Hmm?”
“Stop.”
His nostrils flared, his jaw working. “Ican’t help it if he doesn’t want to live.”
Carrion heaved himself upright, nearly spilling his drink in the process. He was on his fourth whiskey, though he seemed none the worse for wear because of it. It all made sense now—the number of times he’d drunk the other patrons at the House of Kala under the table. The Fae could drink themselves into oblivion if they wanted to; they only had to will it and they were as sober as a judge in their next breath. For as long as I’d known him, Carrion had been hiding his lineage. The glamor Kingfisher’s father had wrought on him as a baby had held his whole life, concealing his true appearance. In fairness, he’d always been tall. But his ears had been rounded, his features less chiseled and sharp, his frame not quite so broad. Therealityof him was taking some getting used to. Thanks to his run-in with Malcolm in the maze, the glamor was gone now, and the male was his natural, true self at last.
“AndIcan’t help it if you aren’t falling over yourself to compliment your girlfriend,” Carrion countered, raising his glass at Kingfisher.
Oh, gods.Thiswas going to be bad.
The threads of shadow and sand became ropes. They darted up the chaise longue, lashing around Carrion’s wrists and throat, slamming him back down onto the crushed velvet cushion behind him. His whiskey went flying. Fisher did nothing to save the glass as it hit the carpet, bounced, and went tumbling across the floor, spilling its contents everywhere as it rolled.
Not content to assault Carrion with only his magic, Fisher had his fists ready and was moving with purpose across the dressing room with murder in his beautiful green eyes.
My chest squeezed.“Fisher!”
Mercifully, Taladaius stepped in, blocking my mate’s path before he reached the smuggler. They were of a height, the two males. Just as broad. Just as fearsome. They were similar in many ways. But where my mate was all darkness and quiet brooding, Taladaius was light, his mood often easier than it had any reason to be. There were counterweights, perhaps. Different sides to the same coin? But also different currencies.
Vampire.
Fae.
Maker.
Mate.
The vampire placed a hand on Kingfisher’s shoulder, shooting him a tight smile. “I may be considered enlightened among my kind, Fisher. But the others who have gathered here tonight . . .” He paused, hiking up an eyebrow for effect. “Arenot. Spill living blood, even here in Saeris’s chamber, and you’re asking for a world of hurt. Guaranteeing your safety here is difficult enough as it is.”
Fisher’s expression was blank. He didn’t seem remotely concerned by Taladaius’s warning. Slowly, he glanced down at Taladaius’s hand resting on his shoulder, as if the point where the two made contact was about to burst into flames. “You aren’tguaranteeinganything,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not here by anyone’s good graces. I’m here because my mate is here. Where she goes, I go. And if any more of your brethren feel like taking a swing at me, then believe me, I’mallfor it. I’ve waited an age to find myself in the same room as these supercilious pricks.”
Taladaius clenched his jaw, exhaling deeply before he spoke again. “You know what those supercilious pricks can scent even more than blood?”
Kingfisher smacked Taladaius’s hand away, snarling under his breath. “I’m notafraid, Tal.”
“Fearwillbe your undoing out there,” the vampire gritted out. “If you’re worried about her, even for a second, theywillknow, and they’ll leap at the opportunity to tear you down because of it. Weaken her claim. Cast her out—”
“Uhhh?” A gurgle came from the chaise behind them, where Fisher’s shadows were still strangling Carrion.“Help?”
“Gods and martyrs, can you stop posturing, all of you! Fisher, let Carrion go. Taladaius . . .” I blew out an exasperated breath. “How much time do we have before we need to go out there?”
Straightening the beautifully tailored black jacket he was wearing, Taladaius composed himself, but his glittering eyes remained fixed on my mate. “The sun’s set. They’re already gathered. If we don’t go soon, they’ll say you’ve abandoned your claim.”
“They’d do that?”
“They’re bureaucrats,” he replied.
At last, Kingfisher released Carrion from his magic’s hold. “They’remonsters,” he countered.
“They are,” Taladaius agreed. “Which is why we have so many rules, and why we stick to them so fiercely. Our court would be carnage without them. Tradition must be honored. The laws of the five must be obeyed. Even byqueens,” he stressed. “Only once she has that circlet on her head will she be in a position to effect change. Change that will benefitallof Yvelia.”
And there it was. The crux of all of this.
