The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12) - J.R. Ward Page 0,144

modicum of composure returned, Wrath kept his voice level, even though in his interior, he was seething. “You are not responsible for the actions of the nefarious.”

“I should have come to you—they killed the queen.”

“My mate is alive and well.” No reason to dwell on the near loss. “I assure you, she is very well indeed.”

Abalone sagged. “Thank the blessed Virgin Scribe.”

“And you are forgiven by me and mine. Do you understand? I forgive you.”

“My lord,” the male said, dropping anew to the floor and putting his forehead to the black diamond ring Wrath wore. “I do not deserve this.”

“You do. Because you came unto me, you can make the amends you seek. Can you take one of the Brothers down unto this hidden place?”

“Yes,” the male said without hesitation. Springing to his feet, he put up his hood. “Now I shall show them.”

Wrath nodded to Ahgony. “Go with him?”

“My lord,” the Brother said, accepting the command.

“There is just one thing before you go,” Wrath said on a growl. “Can you tell me who they were.”

Abalone’s eyes locked on his own. “Yes. Each of the three.”

Wrath felt his lips lift in a smile even though he knew no joy or happiness in his heart. “Good. That’s very good, son.”

THIRTY-NINE

There was an advantage to living alone and being disowned by your remaining parent: When you didn’t come home for an entire day, no one was gnashing their teeth over your possible demise.

Certainly cut down on the phone calls, Saxton thought as he sat across from the double doors of Wrath’s study.

Rearranging himself on the ornate bench, he looked over the gold-leaf banister. Silence. Not even doggen cleaning. Then again, something was up in the house, something big—he could feel it in the air, and although he didn’t have a lot of experience with females, he knew what it was.

Somebody was in their needing.

It wasn’t the Chosen Layla again, of course. But he had heard that one female going into her time could spur others along, and clearly that had happened.

God, he hoped it wasn’t Beth, he thought as he rubbed his tired eyes.

Things needed to be sorted before she—

“Do you know where he is?”

Saxton looked over the banister again. Rehvenge, the leahdyre of the Council, had managed to get halfway up the grand staircase without his presence even registering.

And apparently, something else was definitely up: As always, the male cut an imposing figure with his mink coat and his red cane, but his nasty expression put him into downright deadly territory.

Saxton lifted a shoulder to shrug. “I’m waiting for him myself.”

Rehv stomped onto the second story and paced over to the study’s doorway as if to see for himself that no one was in there. Then he frowned, pivoted on the heel of his LV loafer, and looked up at the ceiling—while discreetly rearranging himself in his pants.

At which point, he blanched. “Is it Beth?”

No reason to define what the “it” was. “I think so.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The leahdyre sat down on the opposite bench and it was then that Saxton noticed the long, thin cardboard tube he was carrying. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“They did it,” Saxton whispered. “Didn’t they.”

Rehv’s head whipped around and amethyst eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Do you hate me?

Yes, I do.

Saxton looked away. “I tried to warn the King. But … he was going to take care of his shellan.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I went to my father’s house for a command performance. And when I was there, I figured out the whole thing.” He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his photos, showing them to Rehv. “I snuck these. They’re books of the Old Laws, all open to references of heirs and blood. Like I said, I’d hoped to get to him last night.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Rehv swept his hand over his cropped Mohawk. “They had all the wheels in motion already—”

Across the way, by the head of the hall of statues, the door leading up to the top floor opened. What emerged was …

“Holy shit.” Rehv shook his head and muttered, “Now we know what the zombie apocalypse looks like.”

The lurching, heavy-lidded, floppy-limbed nightmare bore only a passing resemblance to the King—the long hair, damp from a shower, still fell from that famous widow’s peak, and the wraparounds were right, and yes, the black muscle shirt and leathers were his uniform. But everything else was all wrong. He had lost so much weight, his pants were hanging loose as flags around