So the rest of this was just high-class junk, really, all of which needed to be sold or donated so they could put the mansion on the open human market and cash the fuck out.
“Or we can just light this bitch on fire.” He paused by a gilt-framed mirror and deliberately moved it off-kilter. “And get out the marshmallows—”
“Did someone say ‘Stay Puft?’?”
He swung around with his weapon pointed at chest level—but was already lowering it before Rhage shoved a grape Tootsie Pop into his mouth and put his palms up.
“You can keep your s’mores,” Hollywood maintained. “Just don’t shoot me before I get my licks in.”
Qhuinn cursed. “You could have made a little noise—”
“I did. I asked you about the Stay and the Puft. Very important stuff.”
The Brotherhood’s golden boy lowered his hands and crunched down into the chocolate center. That he was eating was no surprise. And go figure, he was still resplendently handsome, big as a house, blond as a sunny day.
Then again, he’d been all that long before Qhuinn had even been on the planet.
“Entering,” a deep male voice announced.
“See?” Qhuinn pointed at Zsadist as the brother came in. “That’show you do it.”
Rhage popped the lollipop stick out of his mouth and pointed with it. “You know what I like about you, kid?”
It seemed stupid to remind the male that he was mated and had two full-grown young of his own. “Tell me.”
“You always follow the rules.” Rhage clapped Qhuinn on the shoulder. “Which means you’re good backup.”
Qhuinn blinked. He’d been called a lot of things in his life. Rule follower…?
As some of the other brothers filed in, he reassured himself that his piercings were all in place.
Even—discreetly—his Prince Albert.
“I’ll clear the first floor,” he announced, getting his second gun out.
Walking fast, he put both weapons up as he continued through the standard category of formal rooms, all of which had their drapes drawn. Even though the whole place had been camera’d and mic’d up ever sincethey’d assumed ownership last week, no one could take any chances tonight.
They already knew shit was clear. But again, that didn’t matter.
He wasn’t about to trust a bunch of cameras with what was coming. None of them were.
Opening up his senses, he sent a healthy dose of paranoid out into the drawing room. The study. The library. The music room. As he went along, refreshing his memory of the silk-covered furniture and the museum quality antiques, the Persian rugs on the floors and the portraits on the walls, he heard the others walking around upstairs through the bedrooms, the closets, the laundry room. Another team went all the way to the attic, and a final one dove into the basement and the garage.
As he came to the kitchen, he tracked every shadow thrown by the bright ceiling lights. In contrast to the rest of the house, which was a showcase forglymeravisitors, back here it was all business, the appliances stainless steel, the pans hanging on racks in descending size, the ladles and knives and utensils all organized and within reach of the cutting boards, the stoves and ovens, the service line.
Big-ticket setup for a house that catered to a big-ticket master.
After checking the walk-in refrigerator and then the freezer—because hey, aristocrats, like all snakes, were cold-blooded—he did a pass through the pantry, and came out into the dining room.
That was when he stopped.
The table was what pulled him up, that long, glossy run down the middle of the formal room with all those chairs tucked in tight like soldiers called for inspection: twenty-two chairs, the two at the ends sporting arms.
“Now is not the time,” he said under his breath.
Nonetheless, his memory banks coughed up a hairball of the past, the room before him replaced by a what-once-was. Instead of this grand setup, he saw a downright imperial one, and instead of empty chairs, there were familiar faces in candlelight… the Brotherhood, their mates, and the fighters, along with the First Family. And all the young were there, too, everybody eating, drinking… being merry.
It was so clear, so painfully clear. Even though it had been thirty years and change since they’d gathered in that gargoyle’d royal house up on Great Bear Mountain, he could picture the amalgam of countless Last Meals vividly, like it was a dream he was in, rather than a memory that stalked him.
