“Both. I swear to fucking God, I’d rather binge-watch Bubble Guppies than be at a party like this.”
Murhder looked at the brother. “Guppy what?”
“You don’t want to know. The things you learn when there are—”
“You live with young? I mean, I guess I’ve heard there are lots of young around now.”
“I’m not talking about the toddlers. It’s that fucking Lassiter. The Fallen Angel. You’ll meet him at some point. Hell, he probably already knows you’re here.” Those diamond eyes shifted over. “I’m glad you’re back, by the way. All the way back.”
Murhder glanced at the fighter again. Vishous had always been the most intelligent of them all, and also the most cynical—so it was kinda touching that he’d ditched the snark for once.
“Thanks, man,” Murhder said.
“My brother.”
As a leather-gloved fist was presented, Murhder pounded it. And then they both went back to work.
Just like old times.
There was one couple who had yet to arrive, and under any other circumstance, Throe would have told the butler to send them away. Thirty minutes late! What disrespect.
Alas, there was no butler, but the offense still stood.
Over at the bar, he poured himself a sherry, and downed it in two pulls. Other than the tardiness, however, things were progressing well. Following the initial hellos, all of which were as disingenuously warm and effusive as ever, talk had shifted to the attacks in the alleys downtown. How they all knew a family who had lost a son to some nefarious new foe. How the Brotherhood had not made it to the rescue in time. How it had happened again. And a third time.
Yes, this was precisely why Throe had sent his shadows after the offspring of these people. Set the stage. Then create the chaos here at this gathering.
Whereupon he would save the attendees, except for the two who had to die to give it all teeth. And then the tide would begin to turn.
In the direction he dictated.
Before he got things truly going, he made sure to take a mental snapshot of it all, and it was a sustaining sight for a male such as himself: the remaining members of the glymera’s best cut of bloodlines talking with animation, the jewels of the females winking under the chandelier, the fire crackling, the ambiance matching the prestige of the decor.
A shame the way the evening was going to have to end.
“That’s a bit quick, is it not?”
Throe turned to the gentlemale who had spoken. “I beg your pardon.”
“Your sherry is too fine to take that fast.” The male smiled smoothly. “But I suppose we all have our different ways of doing things.”
Altamere, Throe thought. The male’s name was Altamere.
“Cat got your tongue, old friend.” Altamere put his hand on Throe’s shoulder and pushed down. “Although old is a bit of a stretch for us, isn’t it. You have only just arrived.”
Throe narrowed his eyes. “Our bloodlines have mingled for centuries.”
“But not you and I. You’re a newcomer here in Caldwell. An upstart, as it were.” The male indicated the grand room. “Tell me, where is the true master of this house. Does he know you’re using his estate for your own purposes? Or will he be joining us.”
Throe smiled coldly. “No, he will not.”
“A squatter playing sire.” The male leaned in. “Such a cliché.”
“Will you excuse me?” Throe said. “I must go check on the meal.”
“Why? Because you cooked it for us?”
As the male smiled slyly, Throe put his glass down on the makeshift bar. “Your son is in the training center program, isn’t he. Don’t you find that beneath you? I mean, fighting is no longer something that people in our class do. Unless you’re trying to teach him a lesson in social humility?”
The male clamped his teeth together. “It is Rexboone’s honor to serve the race. And with our sons dying in downtown Caldwell, I would say it’s an excellent skill for a male of my class to have.”
Nice little dig there, wasn’t it.
Now Throe was the one leaning in. “If you truly believed that, you would announce that he’s in training. That he’s fighting. That he’s working for the Brotherhood. The only way I found out was through the female that plays tennis with your shellan. Not exactly shouting it from the rooftops, are you.”
As the male’s pale eyes shot across the way and locked on his mate, Throe felt a stab of satisfaction at causing mated strife. After all, the aristocracy was centuries away from any fighting tradition. In this modern