Lover Reborn (75 page)

T
he following evening, as soon as night fell, Assail, son of Assail, stalked through his glass house, heading for the garage. As he passed by the mansion’s rear door, he glanced at the glass that had been replaced back in the fall.

The repair was neat as a pin. To the point that one could not tell that anything violent had ever transpired.

The same could not be said about the events that had gone down that horrid night. Even as calendar days churned by, and seasons shifted, and moons rose and fell, there was no repairing what had happened, no way of patching up that mess.

Not that Xcor wanted to, he supposed.

Indeed, tonight he was finally going to get a sense of exactly how much damage had been done.

The
glymera
were so fucking slow, it was ridiculous.

Initializing the alarm system with his thumbprint, he went into the garage, locked up, and walked around the Jaguar. The Range Rover on the far side had huge tires with clawlike treads—his newest purchase having
finally been delivered last week: As much as he loved the XKR, he was tired of feeling as though he were driving a greased pig on ice.

Once inside the heavily modified SUV, he hit the garage door and waited; then he reversed, K-turned, and waited again until the door was down.

Elan, son of Larex, was a right little shit, the kind of aristocrat who truly set Assail’s teeth on edge: too much inbreeding and too much money had insulated him too utterly from the realities of life. The male was no more capable of forging his way without the trappings of his station than a babe out in the cold.

And yet by the exigencies of fate, that male was in a position now to effect more change than he was worthy of: Following the raids, he was the highest-ranking non-Brother on the Council, but for Rehvenge—who was so entangled with the Brotherhood, he might as well have had a black dagger strapped on his chest.

Therefore, Elan was the one calling tonight’s little “unofficial” get-together.

Which would again not be including Rehvenge. And which was going to likely be about an insurrection.

Not that someone as highbrow as Elan would call it such. No, traitors who wore cravats and silk socks tended to couch their reality in much more refined terms—although the wording would change naught…

As Assail sped along, the trip to Elan’s house took a good forty-five minutes even though the highways were all salted and the streets plowed. Naturally, he could have saved himself time by dematerializing, but if things got out of hand, if he were to be injured and unable to disappear himself, he needed to make sure he had effective cover and escape.

He had taken for granted safety only once, and long ago. Never again. And, indeed, the Brotherhood were highly intelligent. There was no telling whether this nascent cabal would be raided tonight or not—especially if Xcor were to make an appearance.

Elan’s retreat was a gracious brick house, Victorian in derivation, with lacelike woodwork marking its every peak and corner. Located in a sleepy little hamlet of only thirty thousand humans, it was set well back from the lane it was on, and had a river snaking down one side of the property.

As he got out, he did not fasten the tortoiseshell buttons on the front of his camel-hair coat or put on gloves. Nor did he do up his double-breasted suit jacket.

His guns were close to his heart, and he wanted access.

Closing in on the front door, his fine black boots clapped over the shoveled walkway and his breath left his mouth in puffs of white. Overhead, the moon was bright as a halogen light and fat as a dinner plate, the lack of clouds and humidity allowing its true power to rain down from the heavens.

The drapes on all the windows had been pulled, so he could not see how many others had arrived, but it would not surprise him if they were already assembled, having dematerialized to the site.

Imbeciles.

Punching the doorbell with his bare hand, the entry was immediately pried wide, a formal
doggen
butler bowing at the hips.

“Master Assail. Welcome—may I take your coat?”

“No, you may not.”

There was a hesitation—at least until Assail cocked a brow at the servant. “Ah, but of course, my lord—please come this way.”

Voices, all of them male, flooded his ears as the cinnamon scent of mulled cider eased into his nose. Falling in behind the butler, he allowed himself to be led into a grand living room that was crammed with heavy mahogany furniture as per the period of the house. And in and amongst the antiques, there were a good ten males attending upon the host, their trim forms dressed in suits with ties or cravats at the throat.

There was a noticeable dip in conversation as he made his appearance, suggesting that at least some of them did not trust him.

It was likely the only wise thing about the group.

His host broke away and approached with a smug smile. “How good of you to come, Assail.”

“Thank you for having me.”

Elan frowned. “Where is my
doggen
? He should have taken your coat—”

“I prefer to leave it on. And I shall take that seat over there.” He nodded to the one corner that would provide the most visual access. “I trust we will be getting started soon.”

“Indeed. With your arrival, we await only one more.”

Assail narrowed his eyes on the subtle line of sweat that dotted the skin between the male’s nose and upper lip. Xcor had chosen the correct pawn, he thought as he went over and eased himself into his chair.

A sharp draft announced the arrival of the final guest.

As Xcor strode into the room, there was a hell of a lot more than a lull in the chatter. Every one of the aristocrats fell silent, a subtle rearrangement of the crowd being effected as they each stepped back.

Then again—surprise! Xcor had more than a plus-one with him.

The entirety of the Band of Bastards filed in on his heels, forming a semicircle behind their leader.

In person and up close, Xcor was precisely as he had always been: rough and ugly, the kind of male whose countenance and stance suggested his reputation for violence was based on reality, not conjecture. Verily, standing in the midst of these weaklings, in their environment of luxury and civility, he was ready and perfectly capable of cutting down everything that breathed in the room—and the males at his back were just the same, each dressed for war, and prepared to bring it to bear at a mere nod from their liege.

Regarding the lot of them, even Assail had to admit they were impressive.

What a fool Elan was—he and his
glymera
gadabouts had no clue of the Pandora’s box that they had opened.

With an officious cough, Elan stepped forward to address all and sundry as the one who was in charge—even though he was dwarfed not only by the soldiers’ heft, but their very presence.

“I believe there are no introductions necessary, and it goes without saying that if any one of you”—at this point, he eyed his fellow Council members—“speaks of this meeting, there will be reprisals the likes of which shall make you wish for the raids to return.”

Whilst he spoke, he gathered a certain momentum, as if assuming the mantle of power, even if it was provided by someone else, was a sort of masturbation for his ego.

“I thought it was important to bring all of us together this night.” He began to pace, clasping his hands at the small of his back and leaning forward to address his shiny shoes. “From time to time in the last year, the esteemed members of the Council have each come unto me and expressed not just their catastrophic losses, but their frustration with the current regime’s response to any meaningful recovery.”

Assail’s brows popped at the word
current
: This uprising had progressed further than he’d guessed if that was being thrown around.…

“These discussions have taken place over a period of months, and there has been an unwavering consistency to the complaints and disappointments. As a result, and after much deliberation with my conscience, I have found myself for the first time in my life eschewing the race’s current leader to the extent that I am compelled into action. These gentlemales”—at that ludicrous term, he waved an open hand to the collection of fighters
—“have expressed similar concerns, as well as a certain willingness to—how shall I put it—effect a change. As I know that we are all of one mind, I thought we might discuss our next steps.”

At this point, the assembled dandies decided to piss on the conversational guidepost, reiterating, in their own interminable words, precisely what Elan had just stated.

Clearly they felt it was an opportunity for them to prove to the Band of Bastards how serious they were, but he doubted Xcor was moved by any of the hot air. These members of the aristocracy were fragile, expendable tools, each one of them limited in use and easily broken—and Xcor had to know this. No doubt he was going to work them until he didn’t need them, and then he was going to snap their paltry wooden handles and cast them aside.

As Assail sat back and listened, he had no particular love or regard for the monarchy. But he was clear on the fact that Wrath was a male of his word—the same could not be true of any of these
glymera
yahoos: This whole group, with the exception of Xcor and his males, would kiss the king’s ass until their lips went numb—right up until they caused his death. And after that? Xcor would serve himself and himself alone—and to hell with anyone else.

Wrath had stated that he would allow commerce with the humans to continue unfettered.

Xcor, however, was the type who would not permit any other seats of power to rise up—and with all the money there was to be made in the drug trade, sooner or later Assail would have a target on his back.

If he didn’t have one already.

“… and my family’s estate is lying fallow in Caldwell—”

When Assail rose up from his chair, all the eyes of the fighters flipped to him.

Stepping forward through the crowd, he was careful to show his hands, lest they believe he had taken out a weapon.

“Please excuse the interruption,” he said without meaning it. “But I must leave now.”

Elan began to sputter as Xcor’s lids lowered.

Addressing the true leader in the room, Assail spoke clearly. “I shall make no reference to this meeting, either to the individuals here in this room or to any others, neither about the statements that have been made nor who has attended. I am not a political individual, nor do I have designs on any throne—I am but a businessman seeking only to continue to prosper
in circles of commerce. In leaving this meeting and resigning herewith from the Council, I am acting accordingly, seeking neither to promote nor obstruct any of your agenda.”

Xcor smiled coldly, his eyes locked and loaded with deadly intent. “I shall consider anyone who departs this room to be mine enemy.”

Assail nodded. “So be it. And know that I will defend my interests as appropriate against interlopers of any kind.”

“As you wish.”

Assail left without hurry—at least until he got into his Range Rover. Once inside the SUV, he was efficient in locking the doors, starting the engine, and taking off.

Driving along, he was alert, but not paranoid. He believed Xcor meant every word he’d said about marking him as an enemy, but he was also aware that the male was going to have his hands full. Between the Brotherhood, who were no doubt more than formidable foes, and the
glymera
, who were going to be like herding cats, there was much to consume his attention.

Sooner or later, however, the male would focus on Assail.

Fortunately, he was ready now, and would stay that way.

And waiting had never bothered him.

A
s Tohr emerged naked and dripping from the shower, the knock on his bedroom’s door was loud and a little muffled, as if it had been made by the heel of a hand, instead of a set of knuckles— and after so many years of being a brother, he knew it could have been made by only one male.

“Rhage?” He put a towel around his waist and walked over to open the way up. “My brother, what’s doing?”

The guy was standing out in the hall, his incredibly beautiful face solemn, his body clad in a white silk robe that fell from his broad shoulders and was tied at the waist with a simple white rope. Across his chest, his black daggers were holstered by white leather.

“Hey, my brother… I, ah…”

In the awkward moment that followed, Tohr was the one to break the tension. “You look like a powdered doughnut, Hollywood.”

“Thanks.” The brother stared down at the carpet. “Listen, I brought you something. It’s from Mary and me.”

Opening his big palm, he held forward a heavy gold Rolex, the one
that Mary wore, the one that the brother had given her when they’d been mated. It was a symbol of their love… and their support.

Tohr took the thing, feeling the warmth that lingered in the metal. “My brother…”

“Look, we just want you to know we’re with you—I added back the links so it’ll fit your wrist.”

Tohr slipped the thing on, and yeah, it clipped just fine. “Thank you. I’ll return it—”

Rhage snapped out his arms and gave the kind of bear hug that he was known for—the sort that put a strain on your spinal cord and made you have to reinflate your rib cage afterward just to make sure you hadn’t punctured a lung.

“I got no words, my brother,” Hollywood said.

As Tohr clapped him on the back, he felt the dragon tattoo seethe, as if it, too, were offering condolences. “It’s okay. I know this is hard.”

After Rhage left, he was just shutting his door when there was another knock.

Peering around the jamb, he found Phury and Z lined up side by side. The twins were wearing the same robing and tie that Rhage had on, and their eyes were just the same as Hollywood’s Bahama blues: sad, so damned sad.

“My brother,” Phury said, stepping up and embracing him. When the Primale eased back, he held out something long and intricate. “For you.”