always wondered why the Scribe Virgin refused to let us ask questions of her. Now I know.” Before Butch could throw out another one, in the form of a “why,” Wrath answered the unspoken. “Because it’s fucking annoying, that’s why.”
Standing off to the side, with Balthazar next to him like the bastard was holding the leash of a hungry bear, Syn wondered why he was at the meeting. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the ass kicking Wrath was warming up to. He kind of liked it when the leader of the vampires got all riled up. It made Syn feel like he was working with someone he could understand and respect.
After all, he’d grown up around a male with a temper. He was familiar with the ranting and the raving, and in a sick way, he was comfortable with it—although in Wrath’s case, the hellfire was backed up with a formidable intelligence and a strong sense of right and wrong. Sure, the Blind King had a tongue like a sword, and had been very, very aptly named, but Wrath was a true North, the kind of thing you could bet on to be fair even when he was furious.
“I’m not staying indoors like some kind of little bitch,” Butch said from over on a dollhouse-sized sofa. “I’m not going to do that.”
The Brother had clearly been in a fistfight since Syn had faded out from the alley where the shit with the Omega had gone down. Butch’s left eye was the color of one of Rhage’s grape Tootsie Pops, and that piece of beef in a plastic bag he kept putting on the bruise seemed like excellent first aid. Plus, hello, you could cook it up and eat it once the cool had faded to room temperature—and who could say that about commercial-grade ice packs.
“And the lockdown is not even necessary,” the Brother said.
“Bullshit,” Wrath shot back from over on the throne. “And I’ve got four centuries of fighting with the Omega under my belt to prove you wrong.”
“The evil is not what it used to be.” Butch sat forward. “And I’ve had the close-ups under my belt to prove you wrong. Unless I need to remind you about how you and I came to know we’re related.”
“He’s right.”
As the eyes in the room reoriented in Syn’s direction, he was surprised to find that the two words had come out of his mouth.
Shrugging, he muttered, “I should have been incinerated or blown into chunks when I tackled the fucker.”
“Which brings me to my next agenda item,” Wrath said dryly. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I came on scene and I was ready to fight. That’s it.”
“So you picked the evil on a just-’cuz? Ambitious—or self-destructive, depending on how you look at it.”
“Both.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Butch spoke up. “I’m going back into the field at sunset, and I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing. We’re so close—” The Brother made a pinchie with his thumb and forefinger“—and that’s why it’s safe for me to go out there.”
“I will tell you what you can and can’t do,” Wrath cut in. “Unless you think this big-ass chair is a prop?”
“This is our shot.” Butch looked around the room. “And I’m not going to be the one who blows it.”
“But you need to be protected,” V gritted.
As arguments popped up in all corners, Syn let the various debates recede into the background. He already knew what the outcome was going to be. Butch was going to be allowed to go out into the field— because he was right. They were getting close to the end and the King knew that. No one wanted to put somebody as mission critical as the fucking Dhestroyer at risk. On the other hand, how the fuck was the cop going to be able to fulfill the prophecy if he were cooling his heels at home like he was made of cut glass?
The meeting broke up sometime later. Maybe it was five minutes. Maybe it was an hour. Syn didn’t care. And guess what. Butch was free to do his job, even though V looked like he wanted to file a protest to that royal decree with a dagger.
Syn never waited for anyone, and with his position close to the double doors, he was the first out.
As he headed to his room to crash, the footfalls in his wake stuck with him as he passed through the second-story sitting room—and were still hanging