The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,38

and left voice mails had not resulted in any return communication from the King.

Unable to remain still, he went into the parlor on the left with its soft yellow decor, life-size painting of a French king, and the newly arranged stuffed chairs that lined the walls like it was a luxury doctor’s waiting room. Signing into his computer at the desk by the archway, he could not sit down.

Wrath had reassumed the venerable tradition of taking audiences with civilians, and what had long been a vital connection between the rulers of the Race and their citizenry had evolved into a curious mix of the old and the new. Appointments were now arranged by text and e-mail. Confirmations were sent in the same manner. Inquires were cataloged on an Excel spreadsheet that could be sorted by date, issue, family, or resolution. Old Law statutes were likewise searchable not in their ancient tome form, but as part of a database created thanks to Saxton.

The face-to-face interaction, however, remained unchanged and ancient, nothing but the subject and the King, communicating in privacy, reaffirming that important bond and strengthening the fabric of the Race.

Abalone had created, and was maintaining, the new modern record-keeping procedures, and the system was proving invaluable. With the volume of requests ever increasing, however—the number had more than quadrupled in the last three months alone—he was beginning to drown in the paperwork and the scheduling.

The delays were unacceptable, a disrespect to both Wrath and the petitioners.

Accordingly, it was becoming evident that he was going to need help. He had no idea where to find it, though.

Trust was an issue. He needed someone in whom he could place absolute faith.

The trouble was, he didn’t know where to start the search—especially as the only people he knew were aristocrats and the glymera had not only been the source of the treasonous plots that had nearly taken Wrath off the throne, they were also disenfranchised from having had their political power stripped from them.

It would be folly to assume the dissenters had magically disappeared.

And that was just one of the reasons Throe’s uninvited appearance on his doorstep at dawn had been so disquieting.

Forcing himself to focus, Abalone printed out the evening’s dockets and then went into the makeshift throne room to check that all was as it should be. It was. The space that had been previously used for dining was now where audiences with Wrath were held—but, typical of the King, everything was low-key. There were no golden seats nor ermine robes nor velvet drapes nor carpets of grand majesty. Just a number of armchairs set facing each other in front of a fireplace that threw off cheerful flames in the autumn and winter, and sported fresh flowers from the garden during the spring and summer.

The logs were already set and he went over and lit them.

The true throne, the one that Wrath’s father had sat in, and his sire before that, and his sire before that, was back at the Brotherhood’s mansion. Or at least that was what Abalone had heard. He had never been to the secret compound and had no interest in knowing its location or paying the facility a visit.

Some information was too dangerous to be worth knowing.

And in the end, that was the only reason he hadn’t kicked out his cousin halfway through the day when it became obvious that the King was unreachable.

Even if Throe o’ertook Abalone? The male would learn nothing of consequence, nothing that could harm Wrath or the Brotherhood. This location was guarded by Brothers whenever Wrath was on the premises, and the Brother Vishous had insisted on installing bulletproof glass, flame-retardant siding, steel mesh around the dining room and kitchen, and other security measures that Abalone couldn’t begin to guess at.

This residence was now as fortified as Fort Knox.

He was not afraid of the Band of Bastards here. Or the Lessening Society.

Besides, Throe had merely retired to a guest room and slept as if recovering from a vital injury. As aggression went, he had been no more trouble than any other guest could have been.

Yet.

As minutes continued to pass, Abalone paced around the audience room—

“You all right?”

Abalone wheeled around so fast, his Bally loafers squeaked on the polished floor. “My lord…!”

Wrath had somehow managed to make it not just into the house, but into the very room, without making a sound—and not for the first time, Abalone found himself in awe of the male. The King was nearly seven feet tall, and