immediate bloodline, but they looked like him—because all of the glymera were distantly related anyway. The hearth was dark at the moment, but it would be crackling with dried hardwood on the morrow. The sideboards were prepared to receive vases of flowers and bottles of wine.
The latter never to be served.
In fact, none of the seats would be sat upon and none of the plates would be filled with the food that would be cooked starting at nightfall. But everything needed to look the part and the house had to smell right. And besides, vis-à-vis the meal, he himself would need to eat after everything was done.
Satisfied, he left the stage set and went across to the parlor.
As he entered the gracious room, the antiques were all old in the best sense of the word, and the sofa and chairs were covered with a lovely silk that matched the damask-covered walls. Nice Aubusson on the floor. Stupendous Russian chandelier hanging from a plaster medallion in the center of the room.
He’d had a large folding table brought up from the basement and covered with a monogrammed tablecloth. Glassware was set up off to one side. Liquor bottles and mixers were in a line. There would be lemon and lime slices set out before guests arrived, as well as a bowl of ice.
Self-serve.
He hated it. But as he’d had to kill all of the estate’s doggen, he had no servants to orchestrate the evening, and there was no reason to try to hire any just for tomorrow night—especially given the attack he had planned. Further, the only thing more entrenched in the vampire world over and above the glymera were the doggen who worked for aristocrats.
There were never short-term hires in that sector.
So yes, his guests could pour their own libations. And then he would make sure that his shadows performed their show of aggression soon after all of the invitees had glasses in their hands. The breach in etiquette with regard to the cocktails would soon be forgotten as they scattered for their lives.
He needed two of them to die.
Not the females of course, and not because he cared about the weaker sex. It had to be two of the males because they had the power, and if the others witnessed a pair of their own kind being murdered by an enemy the Brotherhood couldn’t protect them against?
Well, that just took things up a notch, didn’t it.
Back in the foyer, he looked toward the grand staircase.
Then he turned and stared at the front door.
A feeling of unease rippled through him and he quickly glanced over his shoulder. Nothing was there. Or rather … nothing that shouldn’t have been. Just a marble statue. And the hall of paintings that led to the back rooms of the home. And the side table with the antique mirror over it.
No shadows where he didn’t want them.
All was as it should be.
In fact, all was as it had to be. He deserved to be in a house like this, making a power play like this. He had returned to his blue-blooded roots, to the money and the prestige—
Throe quick pivoted and looked into the parlor.
Nothing was there.
Loosening his ascot, he breathed through his nose, and reassured himself that there were no scents that should not have been in the air.
As the tension in his shoulders refused to ease, his ambitions wobbled. Listening for footsteps, for creaks, for the clicks of gun triggers, his mind played tricks on him, pulling out of the silence soft-decibel’d noises that funneled through his filter of fear.
There was no one he could call, he realized.
No one that would come to his aid.
He thought of Xcor. Back when Throe had been a part of the Band of Bastards, there had been fighters who aided him. And he them.
No more the now.
Of course, the corollary to his loner status? The throne would be his and his alone. No need to share or divvy up anything. He would be king—
A fluttering made him jump, but then he recognized the sound.
“My darling?” he said.
Going back to the dining room, he found the Book at the head of the table. The tome had opened itself, and its pages were flipping as they did, an infinite number of folios between its ancient covers.
When they settled, he smiled as the ink rearranged itself into the symbols of the Old Language.
“I have my love,” he translated, “and my love has me. I have my love, and my love has