“So they can appoint someone else?” Wrath asked. “Just like that?”

“I’m afraid so. I found a hidden procedural note that in the absence of a King, the Council can appoint a ruler de facto with a super-majority, and that is what they have done. The passage was intended to be triggered in wartimes, in the event the entire First Family was wiped out along with any immediate heirs.”

Been there, done that, Wrath thought.

Saxton continued. “They have triggered that provision, and unfortunately, from a legal standpoint, it is valid—even though it’s being used in a way that was not contemplated by the original drafters of the laws.”

“How did we not see this coming?” someone said.

“It is my fault,” Saxton said roughly. “And accordingly, in front of you all, I tender my resignation and removal from the bar of solicitors. It is unforgivable that I missed this—”

“Fuck that,” Wrath said with exhaustion. “I do not accept your—”

“My own father is the one who did this. Just as bad, I should have researched this. I should have—”

“Enough,” Wrath snapped. “If you follow that argument, I should have known all along, because my sires are the ones who drafted that shit. Your resignation is not accepted, so shut the f**k up about all the quitting and sit the f**k down. I’m going to need you.”

Man, he had such great interpersonal skills.

Wrath cursed some more, and then muttered, “So if I hear this right, there is nothing I can do.”

“From a legal standpoint,” Saxton hedged, “that would be correct.”

In the long pause that followed, he surprised himself. After having been so miserable for not just the centuries before he’d decided to live up to his father’s legacy, but the actual nights on the job, you’d think he’d be relieved. All that paperwork weighing him down, the demands from the aristocracy, the antiquated everything—oh, and then there was the stuck-in-the-house, only-sparring-with-Payne, dagger-hand atrophy that went along with everything.

To the point where he felt like a Hummel figurine.

So yeah, he should be pumped to be free of the bullshit.

Instead, he felt nothing but despair.

It was losing his parents all over again.

In the end, Wrath had to see the hidden chamber himself. Cloaking his form in a humble robe so that none would know it was he, he proceeded through the castle with Ahgony, Tohrture, and Abalone—who had resumed his disguise as well.

Moving quickly through the stone corridors, they passed members of the household, doggen, courtiers, soldiers. Unburdened by all the bowing and the ritual greetings that would have been his due as King, they made excellent time, the finish of the castle growing coarser as they proceeded away from the court areas and down into the servants’ purview.

The smells were different, here. No fresh rushes and flowers, or hanging bundles of spices, or sweet-smelling females. In these extensive quarters, it was dark and dank, and the fires were not changed with rigid regularity, so there was a sooty undertone to every inhale. However, as they came upon the kitchen, the glorious perfume of roasting onions and baking bread elevated all that.

They did not enter the cooking arena properly. Instead, they took a narrow set of stone steps down farther into the underground. At the bottom, one of the Brothers took a lit torch from its perch and brought the flickering yellow illumination along.

Shadows followed them, scattering across the packed dirt floor like rats, tangling underfoot.

Wrath had never been down here. As the King, he was only ever in the prettified parts of the estate.

This was an appropriate place to do evil, he thought as Abalone came to a halt in front of a stretch of wall that appeared no different from any other.

“Here,” the male whispered. “But I know not how they entered.”

Ahgony and Tohrture began feeling around, utilizing the light to search.

“What of this?” Ahgony said. “There is a lip.”

The “wall” was indeed a lie, a flimsy fabrication colored to appear as if it were part of the stone-and-mortar construction. And inside …

“No, my lord,” Ahgony said before Wrath was even aware of stepping forward. “I shall go first.”

With the torch held aloft, the Brother penetrated the darkness, the flames revealing what appeared to be a cramped workspace: Off to one side, there was a rough table on graceless legs, on which sat glass jars capped with heavy metal lids; a mortar and pestle; a chopping block; many knives. And in the center of the squat room, a cauldron sat o’er a fire pit.

Wrath strode over to its cast-iron belly. “Bring unto me the light.”

Ahgony directed the illumination into the thing.

A vile stew, cold now, but clearly having been cooked, lay like the leftovers of a sewage flood.

Wrath dipped his finger in and brought up some of the brownish sludge. Sniffing it, he found that in spite of its consistency and the depth of its color, it had little fragrance.

“Do not taste, my lord,” Tohrture cut in. “If you require that, allow me.”

Wrath wiped his hand upon his cloak and went over to the glass jars. He recognized not the various twisted roots contained in the set, nor the flakes of leaves, nor the black powders. There was no recipe, either, no slip of parchment with notes for the preparer.

So they knew the ingredients by heart.

And they had used this space for some time, he thought, running his fingers over the pitted tabletop, and then going over to inspect the crude venting hole o’er the cauldron.

He turned to the assembled and addressed Abalone. “You have done honor to your bloodline. You have proven your worth this night. Go forth and know that what shall happen the now shall not fall upon you.”

Abalone bent low. “My lord, again, I am not worthy.”

“That is for me to decide and I have made my declaration. Now go. And be of silence of all this.”

“You have my word. It is all I have to offer, and ’tis yours and no one else’s.”

Abalone reached for the black diamond and affixed a kiss upon the stone. Then he was gone, his shuffling footsteps retreating as he made his way back along the corridor.

Wrath waited until even his keen ears could hear nothing. Then in a hushed tone, he said, “I want that young male taken care of. Supply him from the treasury enough wealth to carry his generations forth.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Now, shut that door.”

Soundless. Seamless. They were closed in with nary a squeak.

For the longest time, Wrath walked around the claustrophobic space, imagining the fire kindled and throwing off warmth as it broke down aspects of the plant material, the roots, the powders … turning nature’s bounty into poison.

“Why her?” he asked. “If they killed my father and want the throne, why not me?”

Ahgony shook his head. “I have asked myself that. Mayhap they did not want an heir. Who succeeds you in your line? Who would be the next on the throne if you had no young?”

“There are cousins. Distant ones.”

The royal families tended to have limited offspring. If the queen survived one birthing, they did not want to risk her unnecessarily, especially if the firstborn was male.

“Think, my lord,” Ahgony prompted. “Who would be in line for the throne? Mayhap one who is soon to be born? They could be biding their time for a birth, after which they would target you.”

Pulling up the sleeves of the cloak, Wrath looked down at his forearms. Following his transition, he had been inked with the family lines, and he traced what was permanently in his skin, tracking who was was living, who was dead, who had young, and who was pregnant—

He closed his eyes, the solution to the equation presenting itself. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“My lord?”

Wrath let the cloak’s sleeving fall back into place. “I know who they are thinking of. It is a cousin of mine and his mate is heavily with young the now. The other evening they were saying they prayed unto the Scribe Virgin for a son.”

“About whom do you speak?”

“Enoch.”

“Indeed,” Tohrture said grimly. “I should have known.”

Yes, Wrath thought. His chief adviser. Seeking the throne for a son who would carry the family fortunes into the future—whilst the male himself placed the crown upon his own head for centuries.

In the silence, he thought of his own receiving room, the desk with parchment covering every square foot of its surface, the quill pens and ink pots, the lists of issues for him to tend to. He loved all of that, the conversations, the judgments, the calming process of coming to a decision thoughtfully.

Then he saw his father’s dead body with its gloved hands, and his shellan’s blue fingernails.

“This shall be handled,” he declared.

Tohrture nodded. “The Brotherhood shall find and dispatch the—”

“No.”

Both of the Brothers stared at him.

“They went after my blood. I shall shed theirs in response—personally.”

The faces of the two trained and bred fighters became impassive—and he knew what they were thinking. But it mattered not. He owed vengeance unto his lineage and his beloved.

Across the way, there was a squat, coarse bench beneath the table and he pulled it out. Taking a seat, he nodded over at the cauldron.

“Ahgony, go forth and extol the life force of my mate. Make it known far and wide that she survived. Tohrture, stay herein with me, and await the return of the murderers. As soon as they hear the news, they shall come here again to make a second attempt—and I shall greet them.”

“My lord, mayhap I could offer my service unto you in a different fashion.” Ahgony looked at his Brother. “Let us escort you back to your mate, and allow us to engage whomever shall come here.”

Wrath crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Take the torch with you.”

FORTY-ONE

Beth just had to go and look at herself in the mirror.

Even though she was in a whole new territory of exhaustion, she simply had to get out of bed, stiff-walk across the thick carpet, and zero in on the glowing light over the sinks in the bathroom. As she went along, her body was a contradiction of sore, tense muscles and liquefied, loosey-goosey innards—and her brain apparently had voted to go with the latter: She couldn’t keep a thought in her head, fragments of the previous day and night burping to the forefront, but not having the traction to offer any concrete cognition.

Catching sight of her reflection, she was taken aback: It was as though she were looking at her own ghost—and not because she was pale. Actually, her skin was radiant and her eyes sparkling even though she was bone tired, like she’d gone to Sephora and had her makeup done professionally. Hell, even her hair belonged in a Pantene ad.

No, the specter part was all about the Lanz nightgown she’d put on: flannel, and big as a circus tent, the white-and-pale-blue pattern was like a cloud around her, billowing everywhere.

It made her think of Beetlejuice, the movie. Geena Davis and a lower-BMI, less angry Alec Baldwin stuck in the afterlife, prowling around their house in baggy sheets, about as scary as Casper.

Looking down, she bent over and picked up the drugging kit that had never been used. Rezipping it, she put it back where she’d found it, on the counter between their two sinks.

God, whether it was the aftermath or all the hormones still in her bloodstream, the whole experience was a dreamscape, as hazy a memory as it had been a wrenching, vivid experience.

But what had come before her needing was getting crystal clear. Like someone whose symptoms didn’t tie together until they received a diagnosis, she thought back over the previous four months … and strung together the mood swings, the yearning for a child, the cravings, the weight gain.

PMS, vampire style.

This whole getting-fertile thing had been on its way for a while. She just hadn’t strung together all the signs …

Refocusing on the mirror, she went in for a close-up. Nope, her features were all the same. She just felt as though they should be different.

Like with her transition.

Wrath had helped her through all that as well. And it was funny, as with the needing, she’d had vague weirdnesses for some time before her change had come, too: restlessness, appetite stuff, headaches in the sun.

She had to wonder if finding out she was pregnant was going to be as big as discovering she was a vampire.

Putting her hand on her lower belly, she thought … actually, it probably would be.

For some reason, she went back to waking up after her transition. First thing she’d done was go into the bathroom for the mirror. At least then she’d had fangs to show for all of it. Now, any changes that might be going on were on the inside.

At least her abdomen was still swollen. Although that was more likely just the weight she’d put on thanks to her Breyers diet.

Or she could be pregnant. Like, right now.

As she pictured the guy in the AT&T infinity x infinity commercial, she knew that even though Wrath had serviced her, she’d be crazy to think he’d magically turned a corner in the road and was suddenly going to be all happy-happy about starting a family.

Again, assuming she was pregnant.

Meeting the reflection of her own eyes, she wondered what the hell she’d put into motion. There were things in life you could undo.

This was not one of them—

Her stomach let out a noise like her heart was spelunking down to her butt. Glancing at the thing, she muttered, “Okay, people, let’s all get along.”

With her guts grinding on the food she’d thrown into them, she turned around and walked back for the bed.