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It had been a long time since he’d believed any of that fantasy.
Now, he saw not just a King who would not lead, but no more Kings, ever: There was no possibility for any offspring to come from the current Wrath because though he was promised unto a female of worth, he refused to lie with her—and with him ending the most important bloodline of them all, it was not hard to extrapolate that there was no future for the race, either. And then there were the problems within the Brotherhood. There was no cohesion among its current members, no coordination of effort, no way to get backup if you needed it. Therefore, this era of what had once been the best line of defense against the enemy wasn’t winning the war with the Lessening Society; hell, they weren’t even holding ground. They were losing.
Where exactly did anyone think all of this was heading? A King who refused to unite the species, a foe with endless inductees, and a dwindling number of brothers, as no one was bothering to develop and replenish any of the membership…
“Are you okay?” he heard Anne ask from a vast distance.
She was right, he thought. Just as she’d pointed out the night before, it had all happened so incrementally that the now-inevitable culmination wasn’t something he or anybody had noticed.
Until this precise moment.
“I think… I’m going to sit down.”
At least that’s what he thought he said. Abruptly, he couldn’t feel anything in his body, much less hear what was coming out of his mouth. All he knew was that if he walked quickly enough across the chamber, he’d make it to Wrath’s bed before he fainted.
And crushed the woman who he sensed was following him—
The mattress arrived just in time. As his legs let go, the softness came up to greet him, and on the bounce, it dawned on him that this was how Wrath must do it, just fall onto the bed face-first. A collapse. Like dead weight.
Like a corpse.
“Darius? Darius… talk to me.”
Small, strong hands rolled him over, and then Anne’s visage appeared before his own, her silken hair falling forward in dark, fragrant waves, her lips moving, though he couldn’t hear anything she was saying.
He really wanted to listen to her. His ears weren’t functioning, however—and she seemed frantic with his lack of response. To make sure she knew he was conscious, he reached up and drew his fingers through the wavy brunette lengths that trailed forward, a bridge between the two of them.
“I would always touch you thus,” he said in the Old Language. “Oh, lovely female, so full of beauty and grace… I fear thou art mine pyrocant, sent to warm me with a fire that could as easily destroy me.”
For a reason that he did not understand, her quiet gasp broke through his deafness. And then she withdrew sharply.
Shifting his eyes to the door, he saw Fritz standing in the guest chamber’s open doorway, a glass of what appeared to be orange juice in one hand… and an expression as if he had seen a ghost on his hangdog face.
Oh. Anne hadn’t been the one to gasp at what he’d said. That had been his butler.
Well, at least she didn’t understand the mother tongue.
His admission was the kind of thing that would no doubt scare her off.
* * *
“I can’t understand anything he’s saying,” Anne implored the butler. “Can you… is he okay?”
As she knelt on a bed the size of her living room—bent over a man who had gone white as a sheet in front of her and then face-planted—she was prepared to call an ambulance. Or maybe his employer had a private doctor? Meanwhile, over in the open doorway, the old man seemed so shocked, he was totally frozen.
Fortunately, he snapped into action.
“Here,” he said as he rushed forward with the juice. “Perhaps this shall revive him.”
Refocusing on Darius, she was relieved to find his eyes open and locked on her. The pupils seemed okay, but what did she know? And was he babbling or speaking in that other language?
“I think we need a doctor—”
“Lift him, mistress,” the butler said. “I shall offer this unto his mouth.”
Shifting her position, she tucked her legs under her and propped Darius’s head in her lap, making sure his chin was tilted so he could drink. Then the butler put the glass up to those lips, and when a sloppy hand tried to bat it away, she captured the palm.
“Please,” she said, “drink.”
Instantly, Darius complied, as if he had been taking orders from her his whole life, and as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple undulated under the tight, high collar of his turtleneck. She quickly glanced down his body. His slacks were of a fine material that draped his thighs and calves, and the belt he wore was of good leather locked by what appeared to be a polished gold buckle. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised he was dressed in all black. It seemed to be his wardrobe staple, and he did look good in it.
