that brothers were in the house, all kinds of discreet pointing and commenting going on, a buzz rippling its way through the parlor. Except it was funny—or maybe not so surprising: Not one person who had been at that ill-fated party where Altamere had been killed was in attendance. Sure, there had been a small number of injuries during the shadow attack, but they had been relatively minor in nature, and with the way the species healed? All of those dandies would be back on their loafer’d and stiletto’d feet by now.
“Not a one of them showed up,” Rhage remarked around his Tootsie Pop.
“You read my mind,” Butch murmured.
“The aristocracy only likes scandal from a distance.”
“Pussies,” V announced. “Every one of them.”
As the trainees came over and greeted the Brotherhood, Butch couldn’t help noticing the two worlds that Boone straddled, his bloodline’s and his working life’s. And given the kid’s tight-lipped affect as he turned back to the aristocrats in that drawing room, it was pretty damn clear which one he preferred. Still, he was a good son for doing this—
When a blast of cold air announced a late-arriving attendee, Butch glanced over. A slender blond female with Jackie O sunglasses was coming in, her fine cashmere coat in its tasteful shade of coffee setting off a spectacular pair of legs and brand-new Louboutins. As she closed things behind herself, Butch could smell her tears.
Single female. Fantastic style. Obviously upset?
Sure enough, Boone was on it, immediately going back over and greeting her with a formal bow that she returned with a gracious nod. And then there was an awkward stillness between them, as if in their heads, they were hugging each other.
Well, well, well . . . didn’t this make a guy feel better about all the attention Boone had been paying to that female who was connected to the club deaths. Maybe he was merely being a concerned citizen with her. Clearly, the male had deep history with this lovely lady who had just come in—and he really cared about her, too. He seemed upset that she was obviously shaken by his father’s death.
Rhage leaned in and whispered, “Do I see love in the air over there?”
“They’d make a wicked good couple,” Butch said.
“True that,” V agreed. “I totally see the connection.”
Rhage rolled his eyes. “He writes one Agony Aunt column with my Mary, and he’s an expert on relationships.”
“I still think we should have used the barbecue sauce.”
“Mmmm, barbecue,” Rhage said with a sigh as he crunched into the chocolaty center of his lollipop. “I’m hungry.”
Butch had to laugh to himself. One good thing about his closest friends? You could depend on Rhage always wanting something to eat and V suggesting bodily harm as a conflict resolution and Tohr telling everyone to calm down.
It was good to know where things stood in this dangerous and confusing world they were all in.
I must have gotten through the Fade Ceremony.
This was the thought that went through Boone’s mind as he signaled to the doggen on the periphery of the parlor that it was time for the food to be brought in and served. Yes, indeed . . . somehow it was apparently appropriate for the hors d’oeuvres to come out and the drinks to be offered and the conversational hour to commence.
As the doggen bowed and retreated to the kitchen, people stepped out of the horseshoe that had formed around the urn—and Boone found it impossible to remember what prayers he had said in the Old Language, what recitations had been repeated in a chorus by the assembled, what words of honor he, as the only son and next of kin, had paid to the now late, great Altamere.
“That was a marvelous service. You were most appropriate.”
He glanced down at the older female who addressed him. Whoever it was had on a black cocktail dress, three strands of pearls, and white kid gloves. Which meant she was pretty much interchangeable with all the other females of her generation in the room.
Who is she, he thought with panic.
Something came out of his mouth in response, some string of syllables, and hey, they must have made sense to her because the female said something back. And then she launched into a story, her carefully painted lips enunciating her words with deliberation as if she were used to, and expected, people to hang on her every sentence.
Meanwhile, Boone couldn’t translate a damn thing in any language he knew. Couldn’t feel his legs, either.