he walked into the room, his face never changed position, his wraparound sunglasses straight ahead and not varying as he wound his way around the bodies who were standing, the people who were seated, the furniture, the everything. His ability to circumnavigate the space was not just the result of memorization. By his side, George, his golden retriever service dog, brushed against his outer calf, guiding him through a set of subtle cues invisible to those outside of the symbiotic relationship between owner and animal.
They were a hell of a pair. Like a sawed-off shotgun and a homemade quilt. But it worked—and you want to talk about true love? Sometimes that dog was the only thing that kept Wrath’s temper in check.
So yup. Everyone in the household was a huge fan of George’s.
The doors to the study closed in the same way they opened, without the benefit of a hand—and hey, at least they didn’t slam hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Although again, that was only because it would have scared the dog.
Over at the desk, Wrath lowered his three-hundred-pound, 0% body fat, mesomorphic bulk down on his throne, the old-growth timber bearing his weight with a tired groan. A lot of the time, George got picked up and settled in his lap. Not today.
Butch put the steak back in place and waited.
Three . . .
Two . . .
. . . and—
“What the fuck is going on out there,” Wrath yelled.
Boom!
In the silence that followed, Butch looked over at V. Who looked at Tohr. Who slowly shook his head back and forth.
“Am I sitting in here alone?” Wrath demanded. “Or did all of you check your cock and balls at the door.”
“You know, I wondered what that basket was for,” someone said.
“Mine are so big they wouldn’t fit in it—”
Wrath slammed his fist into the desk, making everyone, including the dog, jump. “Fine, I’ll fill in the blanks for you bunch of pussies. The Omega shows up in a back alley, and you—”
Butch closed his eyes and shrank into the settee as the wraparounds swung in his direction.
“—decide it’s a great idea to call an all clear even when you needed backup.” Wrath’s face then swung around in the opposite direction, at Syn. “And then you decide that tackling the evil is the right move.” Wrath then looked around the room. “After which all of you arrive on scene and circle jerk each other.”
Butch raised his hand even though no one was going to call on him. “I had a plan.”
The Oakleys of Death came back at him. “Oh, really. What was it? Getting killed? ’Cuz Jesus Christ you almost pulled that off with room to spare—”
“Save the father at any cost.”
Wrath frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Qhuinn.” Butch shifted himself on the petit point throw pillows, and decided that the last thing his aching head needed was that blind stare boring into him. So he shut his peepers and prayed like he was back in parochial school and one of the nuns had heard him cuss. “Save Qhuinn, that was my plan—and it worked. He had just taken down a slayer when I sensed the Omega coming in for a landing. I knew Qhuinn wasn’t going to leave me so I did what I had to to get him to go.” He kept quiet about his little bargain with the Omega. “You think you’re pissed off now? Imagine how you’d feel if we were having a mourning ceremony at the Tomb for Rhamp and Lyric’s dad instead of this thoroughly enjoyable little holler session in here.”
Over in the corner, Qhuinn rubbed his face. Next to him, his hellren, Blay, put a supportive hand on the brother’s shoulder.
“I’d do it again,” Butch said as he reopened his eyes. “So am I suspended or something? I mean, V was already talking like I was going to be put on lockdown, like I’m some kind of lightweight who can’t take care of myself. Is that where you’re heading with this? Or are you going to let me live up to the Prophecy bullshit? Huh? What’s it going to be?”
A looooooot of stares moved his way, everybody in the room giving him the hairy eyeball with a combination of respect and oh-boy-this-was-going-to-hurt.
Wrath stared at him for a long moment, during which Butch figured he was probably going to need a lot more strip steaks.
“Now I know what she meant,” the King muttered.
“I’m sorry?” Butch asked. “What?”
“You and the fucking questions. I