Lover Enshrined (7 page)

Family crest pressed into ten ounces of gold: five thousand dollars.

Getting it from your father when you became a true male: priceless.

Qhuinn’s transition had occurred about five months ago. He’d stopped waiting for his ring four months, three weeks, six days, and two hours ago.

Roughly.

Man, in spite of the friction between him and his dad, he’d never thought he wouldn’t get one. But surprise! New way to feel out of the fold.

There was another rustle of the paper and this one was impatient, as if his father were shooing a fly away from his hamburger. Although, of course, he didn’t eat hamburgers, because they were too common.

“I’m going to have to talk to that
doggen
,” his father said.

Qhuinn shut the door on his way out, and when he turned to go down the hall, he nearly bumped into a
doggen
who was coming from the library next door. The uniformed maid leaped back, kissed her knuckles, and tapped the veins running up her throat.

As she scampered off, muttering the same phrase his father had, Qhuinn stepped up to an antique mirror that hung on the silk-covered wall. Even with the ripples in the leaded glass and the blackened flecks where the reflective part had flaked off, his problem was obvious.

His mother had gray eyes. His father had gray eyes. His brother and sister had gray eyes.

Qhuinn had one blue eye and one green eye.

Now, there were blue and green eyes in the bloodline, of course. Just not one of each in the same person, and what do you know, deviation was not divine. The aristocracy refused to deal with defects, and Qhuinn’s folks were not only firmly entrenched in the
glymera
, as both were from the six founding families, but his father had even been
leahdyre
of the Princeps Council.

Everyone had hoped his transition would cure the problem, and either blue or green would have been acceptable. Yeah, well,
denied
. Qhuinn came out of his change with a big body and a pair of fangs and a craving for sex . . . and one blue eye and one green eye.

What a night. It had been the first and only time his father had lost it. The first and only time Qhuinn had ever been struck. And since then, no one in the family or on the staff had met his stare.

As he headed out for the night, he didn’t bother to say good-bye to his mother. Or to his older brother or sister.

He’d been sidelined in this family since the moment of his birth, set apart from them, benched by some kind of genetic injury. The only saving grace to his pitiable existence, according to the race’s value system, was the fact that there were two healthy, normal young in the family, and that the oldest male, his brother, was considered acceptable for breeding.

Qhuinn always thought his parents should have stopped at two, that to try for three healthy children was too much of a gamble with fate. He couldn’t change the hand that had been dealt, though. Couldn’t stop himself from wishing things were different, either.

Couldn’t keep from caring.

Even though the gala would just be a bunch of stuffy types wearing gowns and penguin suits, he wanted to be with his family during the
glymera
’s big end-of-summer ball. He wanted to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother and be counted for once in his life. He wanted to dress up like everyone else and wear his gold ring and maybe dance with some of the high-bred, unmated females. In the glittering crowd of the aristocracy, he wanted to be acknowledged as a citizen, as one among them, as a male, not a genetic embarrassment.

Not going to happen.
As far as the
glymera
were concerned, he was less than an animal, no more suitable for sex than a dog.

Only thing missing was a collar, he thought, as he dematerialized to Blay’s.

Chapter Four

Over to the east, in the Brotherhood’s mansion, Cormia waited in the library for the Primale and whoever it was he thought she should spend time with. As she paced from couch to club chair and back, she heard the Brothers talking in the foyer, discussing some upcoming fete of the
glymera
’s.

The Brother Rhage’s voice boomed. “That bunch of self-serving, prejudicial, light-in-the-loafer—”

“Watch the loafer references,” the Brother Butch cut in. “I have some on.”

“—parasitic, shortsighted motherfuckers—”

“Tell us how you really feel,” someone else said.

“—can take their
fakakta
ball and blow it out their asses.”

The king’s laugh was low. “Good thing you’re not a diplomat, Hollywood.”

“Oh, you gotta let me send a message. Better yet, let’s have my beast go as an emissary. I’ll have him rip up the place. Serve those bastards right for how they’ve treated Marissa.”

“You know,” Butch announced, “I’ve always thought you had half a brain. In spite of what everyone else has said.”

Cormia stopped pacing as the Primale appeared in the library ’s entrance, a glass of port in his hand. He was dressed in what he usually wore to First Meal when he wasn’t teaching: a pair of perfectly tailored slacks, cream tonight; a silk shirt, black per normal; and a black belt, the buckle of which was an elongated, golden H. His square-toed shoes were buffed to a shine and bore the same H as the belt.

Hermès, she thought she’d overheard him say at one meal.

His hair was loose, the waves breaking on his heavy shoulders, some in the front, some down the back. He smelled of what the Brothers called aftershave, as well as the coffee-scented smoke that lingered in his bedroom.

She knew precisely how his bedroom smelled. She had spent a single day lying beside him in his room, and everything about the experience had been unforgettable.

Although now was not the time to remember what had happened between them in that big bed of his when he’d been asleep. Hard enough to be in his company with a whole room between them and people out in the foyer. To add those moments when he’d pressed his naked body to hers—

"Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, taking a sip from his glass.

“Yes, indeed. And you, your grace?”

He was about to reply when John Matthew appeared behind him.

The Primale turned to the young male and smiled. “Hey, my man. Glad you’re here.”

John Matthew looked across the library at her and lifted his hand in greeting.

She was relieved by the choice. She didn’t know John any more than she knew the others, but he was quiet during meals. Which made his size not quite as intimidating as it would have been if he’d been loud.

She bowed to him. “Your grace.”

As she straightened, she felt his eyes on her and she wondered what he saw. Female or Chosen?

What an odd thought.

“Well, you two visit.” The Primale’s brilliant golden eyes shifted her way. “I’m on duty tonight, so I’ll be out.”

Fighting, she thought, with a stab of fear.

She wanted to rush over to him and tell him to be safe, but that was not her place, was it? She was barely his First Mate, for one thing. For another, he was the strength of the race and hardly needed her concern.

The Primale clapped John Matthew on the shoulder, nodded at her, and left.

Cormia leaned to the side so she could watch the Primale going up the staircase. His gait was smooth as he went along, in spite of his missing limb and his prosthesis. He was so tall and proud and lovely, and she hated that it would be hours before he would return.

When she glanced back, John Matthew was over at the desk, taking out a small pad and a pen. As he wrote, he held the paper close to his chest, his big hands curling up. He looked much younger than the size of his body suggested while he labored over his letters.

She’d seen him communicate with his hands on those rare occasions he had something to say at the table, and it dawned on her that perhaps he was a mute.

He turned the pad to her with a wince, as if he were not impressed with what he’d written.
Do you like to read? This library has lots of good books.

She looked up into his eyes. What a lovely blue color they were. “What is the difficulty of your voice? If I may ask.”

No difficulty. I took a vow of silence.

Ah . . . she remembered. The Chosen Layla had said he’d taken such a pledge.

“I see you using your hands to talk,” she said.

American Sign Language
, he wrote.

“It’s an elegant way of communicating.”

It gets the job done.
He wrote some more and then flashed the pad again.
I’ve heard the Other Side is very different. Is it true it’s all white?

She lifted the skirting of her robe as if to give an example of what is was like where she was from. “Yes. White is all we have.” She frowned. “All we need, rather.”

Do you have electricity?

“We have candles, and we do things by hand.”

Sounds old-fashioned.

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Is that bad?”

He shook his head.
I think it’s cool.

She knew the term from the dinner table, but still didn’t understand why temperature would have anything to do with an apparently positive value judgment.

“It’s all I know.” She went over to one of the tall, narrow doors that had glass panes. “Well, until now.”

Her roses were so close, she thought.

John whistled, and she looked over her shoulder at the pad he was holding face-out.
Do you like it here at all?
he’d written.
And please know you can tell me you don’t. I won’t judge.

She fingered her robe. “I feel so different from everyone. I am lost in the conversations, though I speak the language.”

There was a long silence. When she glanced back at John, he was writing, his hand pausing every once in a while, as if he were choosing a word. He crossed something out. Wrote some more. When he was finished, he gave the pad to her.

I know what that’s like. Because I’m a mute, I feel out of place a lot of the time. It’s better since my transition, but it still happens. No one judges you here, though. We all like you, and we’re glad you’re in the house.

She read the paragraph twice. She wasn’t sure how to respond to the last part. She’d assumed she was tolerated because the Primale had brought her in.

“But . . . your grace, I thought you had assumed the mantle of silence?” As he flushed, she said, “I’m sorry, that’s not my concern.”

He wrote and then showed her his words.
I was born without a voice box.
The next sentence was crossed out, but she was able to get the gist. He’d written something like,
But I still fight well and I’m smart and everything.

She could understand the subterfuge. The Chosen, like the
glymera
, valued physical perfection as evidence of proper breeding and the strength of the race’s genes. Many would have viewed his silence as a deficiency, and even the Chosen could be cruel to those they viewed as beneath them.

Cormia reached out and put her hand on his forearm. “I think not all things have to be spoken to be understood. And it is well obvious you are fit and strong.”

His cheeks bloomed with color, his head dropping to hide his eyes.

Cormia smiled. It seemed perverse that she should relax in the face of his getting awkward, but somehow she felt as though they were on more level footing.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

Emotion flickered across his face as he went back to the pad.
Eight months or so. They took me in because I had no family. My father was killed.

“I am so sorry for your loss. Tell me . . . do you stay because you like it here?”

There was a long pause. Then he wrote slowly. When he flashed her the pad, it said,
I like it no more or less than I would any other house.

“Which makes you displaced like me,” she murmured. “Here but not here.”

He nodded, then smiled, revealing bright white fangs.

Cormia couldn’t help but return the expression on his handsome face.

Back at the Sanctuary, everyone had been like her. Here? No one was at all. Until now.

So do you have any questions you’d like to ask about stuff?
he wrote.
The house? The staff? Phury said you might have some.

Questions . . . oh, she could think of a few. For instance, how long had the Primale been in love with Bella? Had there ever been any feelings on her side? Had the two of them ever layed together?

Her eyes focused on the books. “I don’t have any questions right now.” For no particular reason, she added, "I just finished Choderlos de Laclos’s
Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
”

They made that into a movie. Sarah Michelle Gellar and Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon.

“A movie? And who are all those people?”

He wrote for quite a while.
You know television, right?
That flat panel in the billiards room? Well, movies are on an even bigger screen, and the people in them are called actors. They pretend to be people. Those three are actors. Actually, they’re all actors, when they’re on TV or in the movies. Well, most of them.

“I’ve only glanced into the billiards room. I haven’t been in it.” There was a curious shame to admitting how little she’d ventured out. “Is television the glowing box with the pictures?”

That’s the one. I can show you how it works if you like?

“Please.”

They went out of the library into the magical, rainbowed foyer of the mansion, and as always, Cormia glanced up to the ceiling, which floated three stories above the mosaic floor. The scene depicted far above was of warriors mounted on great steeds, all of them going off to fight. The colors were outrageously bright, the figures majestic and strong, the background a brilliant blue with white clouds.

There was one particular fighter with blond-streaked hair that she had to measure every time she passed through. She had to make sure he was all right, even though that was ridiculous. The figures never moved. Their fight was always on the verge, never in the actuality.