I turn around. Wrath has come up the stairs and is standing at the top like the god he is. He seems to get taller every timeI see him lately, but that’s more the mood he’s in. Behind the wraparounds, his black, slashing brows are drawn tight, and his lips are pressed flat. His huge shoulders under his black leather jacket are tense, and the ropes of muscle that fill out his chest are twitching.
No George. And no one with him.
He has daggers mounted, handles down, on his pecs.
So he’s going out somewhere.
“I can’t stay for long.” His voice is full of bass and tinted with that aristocratic accent. “Sorry.”
He’s not sorry. He’s saying that in a nod at being polite, and I appreciate the effort so much. It’s more than most get around him.
“Feel free to stay however long you like.”
Oh, so he’s leaving right now. With my chance to talk to him slipping away, I face the reality that there wasn’t much we could have talked about anyway. There’s so much he’d shut down—and if you read the story at the end of this book, you’ll know why he’s so tense now and you’ll see the aftermath of what’s about to happen.
As he turns away from me, his long, black hair swings free, and he hits the stairs like he can see them. Then again, he knows well enough how many steps there are.
Of course I follow, but not directly. I go over to the second story landing’s balustrade and look down.
The Brotherhood has gathered for him below. Rhage and Butch. Phury and Z. V, who’s lighting up. Tohr, who’s pacing around and talking into his phone.
Butch has changed into fighting clothes. So have the others who were not in leather.
They don’t even glance in my direction, and in this, it’s like when I’m describing a scene with them from an omniscient narrator perspective: I’m hovering somewhere up in the corner,nothing but a pair of eyes, watching so there’s a recording. Their voices percolate up as Tohr tells them who’s on the advance team already at the location. Which of them is going right now. Who escorts Wrath in about ten minutes.
Wrath doesn’t say a damn thing. He doesn’t give two shits about these logistics. He just wants to get where he wants to go.
As a unit, they head for the vestibule’s door, and file out.
The troika goes first. Wrath is behind them. Tohr is after him. Phury and Z bring up the rear.
At the last moment, Vishous ducks back in and looks up at me. He’s wearing his Boston Red Sox hat so I can’t see his eyes, even with the tilt of his head.
His gloved hand, the one with the cigarette, goes to the brim, and he doffs things ever so slightly.
Then he turns away and disappears out into the vestibule.
The door slowly closes behind them, landing against its jambs with a bump and the shift of a locking mechanism that is quiet, yet audible, even all the way up here.
In the wake of their departure, the mansion is so very quiet, nothing but the soft whistling of the heat blowing in behind me through the grates in the floor.
I start down the grand staircase, following in Wrath’s footsteps, as I have all these years. When I reach the mosaic flooring, I go around, not over, the apple tree out of respect, and head for the exit myself. There’s a temptation to find a bed and lie down on it, enjoy the luxe of it all, pretend this is my house, with all of its beautiful art and antiques, and its grandeur and scale.
But I don’t live here. This is not…my world.
At best, I’m an insignificant intermediary.
The purpose of it all has just left, and with them not here? Making these ghostly rooms breathe with life?
My brain actually does know this is not real.
I lay my hand on the heavy brass handle of the vestibule door, but before I put my shoulder and all my weight into the pull, I look to the billiards room. Look to the dining room. Look up and over to where I have just stood.
As my heart aches, I realized I wanted some kind of acknowledgment from Wrath for my role in all this. I know he’s in charge here, but I do handle the typing. So we both need each other, we’re a kind of team.
But I suppose that’s not really true. I’m not necessary to him. He isverynecessary to me—
Unexpectedly the door opens out of my grip, and my emotions immediately well in my eyes. I should have known the King wouldn’t leave me high and dry.
