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“No, I’m fine.”
The doggen headed for the doorway. Pausing in between the jambs, he said absently, “I had a mind that we could serve lamb for Last Meal?”
Darius shook his head. “He’s not coming back at the end of the night. He never stays two days in a row.”
“But of course.” The exhale was an expression of grief and regret. “Please summon me if there is aught I may do.”
“I shall—and Fritz?” As the doggen looked over his shoulder, Darius wished he could have embraced his faithful servant. Given the doggen code of conduct, however, such a display of emotion would cause total paralysis on the butler’s part. Maybe even cardiac arrest. “It’s not your fault, okay? And there’s nothing you can do. Try not to take things with him personally.”
“Thank you, sire. I shall endeavor to heed your advice.”
With a final bow, Fritz stepped out—although there was another pause at the base of the stairs as if he were struck anew by his inability to serve the brother who slept the dreamless sleep of the vengeful behind that heavy door.
“Go on, Fritz,” Darius ordered.
The butler did as instructed, mounting the lantern-lit stone steps that wound their way up to the first floor of the mansion. When footfalls sounded overhead, quiet and as ever respectful, Darius did some pining of his own.
Without conscious command, his own feet took him out of his private quarters and across the little open area. Standing in front of the stout oak panels, he considered the truism that leaving bears unpoked was a jolly good idea—
He reached forward and took hold of the latching mechanism.
Without making a sound, he lifted the pin from its seat and pulled on the grip. The weight of the door was such that he added his shoulder into the effort, but contrary to its ancient and dungeon-worthy appearance, there was no vampire-worthy creak of the hinges.
Flickering light from the stairwell’s lanterns pierced the chamber’s darkness, illuminating the figure lying on the red-and-black bedding platform with a tentative glow.
As if even flame was afraid of the male.
Wrath, son of Wrath, the last purebred vampire on earth, the heir to what was, under his tenure, the unclaimed throne of the species, lay fully clothed and facedown across the king-sized bed, his long black hair a shroud that covered his face. He was so tall that his lower legs hung free off the side, and so broad that he filled the space between the stacks of soft pillows and the folded duvet at the footboard. He hadn’t even taken his steel-toed boots off, the soles flashing Darius their heavy tread.
And he was armed, even at rest: In his left hand, a silver throwing star was locked in a tense grip, and though Darius couldn’t see the right side of things, he was willing to bet there was a dagger hilt in the other palm.
The war with the Lessening Society’s pallid, soulless killers had gone on for too long, the vampire community struggling to survive against the Omega’s legion of slayers, the Black Dagger Brotherhood their first, and only, line of defense. And Wrath had clearly found a fight or two before crashing over day. The baby powder smell of the enemy’s blood saturated the chamber’s air, but that wasn’t the only scent. Wrath had been freshly injured—
“What.”
Darius took a deep breath. “Just checking to see if you’re alive.”
“What time is it?”
“Do you want me to go get Marissa? Do you need to feed?”
Though posed as questions, they were actually statements. Clearly, the male needed to—
Wrath’s head lifted and slowly turned to look over his hulking shoulder. With the hand that clasped the deadly martial arts weapon, he swept a fall of black hair out of his face, those sharp points of the star oh-so-close to tender areas. Not that he seemed to care.
Pale green eyes with tiny pupils stared myopically across the chamber. “Time.”
“You’ve got a good two hours still,” Darius lied. Because if he told the brother that there were only about fifteen to twenty minutes left before it was safe to go out, Wrath would leave now and to hell with the nuclear sunburn.
That head went back down and the rib cage expanded and contracted.
“You’re always welcome here,” Darius said.
When he didn’t get a response, he glanced around the familiar room. Over on a side table, three mismatched, lidded jars were in a cluster. One was blue and shiny but cheap, the kind of thing you’d find at a neighborhood store or on a home goods shelf at Sears. The other two were old, the patina of age dulling enameled contours that had been hand-, not machine, made.
“Do you want me to take these to the Tomb?” Darius asked.
“It’ll save me time.”
“Okay. I’ll go for you later.”
Not that the King who would not lead cared much about the tradition. No doubt he only captured the jars of his kills when it was convenient—and regarded putting them in the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s sacred ante hall with the thousand or so others a waste of time.
