The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(10)

That last word lingered, carrying the pronunciation of an expletive and the threat of a cocked gun.

“No, you would not,” Ichan answered for himself.

In truth, Abalone wasn’t so certain. If the male loved her enough? But that was not the point of all this, was it.

Ichan paused to glance over the oil paintings that hung in front of the family’s vast collection of shelved first editions. The artwork was, naturally, of ancestors, with the most prominent among them mounted over the marble fireplace’s grand mantel.

A famous male in the history of the race, and of Abalone’s bloodline. The Noble Redeemer, as he was known among the family.

Abalone’s sire.

Ichan waved his hand around, including not just the room, but the house, all of its contents, and all the persons under its roof. “This is worthy of conservation, and the only way that happens is if the Old Ways are respected. The tenets that we, the glymera, seek to uphold are the very basis of what you hope to provide your daughter—without them, who knows where she could end up.”

Abalone closed his eyes briefly.

And didn’t that make the aristocrat assume a kinder, gentler voice. “That King you just spoke of so reverently—he’s mated to a half-breed.”

Abalone’s lids flipped open. As with all members of the Council, he had been informed of the royal union, and that was the extent of it. “I thought he was mated unto Marissa, daughter of Wallen.”

“In fact, not. The ceremony took place just a year before the raids, and the assumption was that the King had followed through on the promise to Havers’s sister—but suspicions arose when Marissa was subsequently unioned with a Brother. Later, it came out to us through Tyhm”—he nodded to the lawyer—“that Wrath had taken another female—who is not of our race.”

There was a pause, as if Abalone were being given the chance to gasp at the revelation. When he didn’t become woozy from shock, Ichan leaned in and spoke slowly—as if to a mental deficient. “If they have offspring, the heir to the throne would be a quarter human.”

“No one is of truly pure blood,” Abalone murmured.

“More’s the pity. Surely you will agree, however, that there is a tremendous difference between distant human relations … and a King who is substantially of that horrid race. But even if you are not offended—and surely that is not the case—the Old Laws provide the dictate. The King is to be a full-bred male—and Wrath, son of Wrath, cannot provide that for us in an heir.”

“Assuming this is true—”

“It is.”

“What do you expect of me?”

“I’m simply making you aware of the situation. I am nothing more than a concerned citizen.”

Then why come with the violent backup? “Well, I appreciate your keeping me informed—”

“The Council is going to have to take action.”

“In what form?”

“There will be a vote. Soon.”

“To disavow any heirs?”

“To remove the King. His authority is such that he could change the laws at any time, eradicating the provision and further weakening the race. He must be taken down lawfully as soon as possible.” The aristocrat glanced over at the drawing of Abalone’s daughter. “I trust that at the Council’s special session, your bloodline will be well represented by your seal and your colors.”

Abalone glanced at the fighter leaning against his wall. The male seemed barely to breathe, but he was far from asleep.

How long until ruination came upon this house if he did not pledge his vote? And what form would it take?

He imagined his daughter mourning the loss of her only parent and being forsaken for the rest of her future. Himself tortured and then killed in some gruesome way.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, the narrowed eyes of that warrior were trained on him like he was a target.

“Long live the proper King,” Ichan said, “is more like it.”

On that note, the natty “concerned citizen” took his leave, filing out of the room with the attorney.

Abalone’s heart thundered as he was left alone with the fighter … and after a moment of screaming silence, the male uncoiled himself and went to the silver bowl of apples.

In a low, heavily accented voice, he said, “These are for the taking, are they not.”

Abalone opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a squeak.

“Is that a yes?” came a murmur.

“Indeed. Yes.”

The fighter reached up to his chest harness and withdrew a dagger, the silver blade of which seemed long as a grown male’s arm. With a quick toss, he flipped the weapon up in the air, the light flashing on the sharp edge—and with equal assurance, he caught the handle and stabbed one of the apples.

All without breaking eye contact with Abalone.

Removing his due from the bowl, his hard eyes drifted over to the drawing. “She’s quite beautiful. For now.”

Abalone put his body in the way of the depiction, prepared to sacrifice himself if it came to that: He didn’t want the warrior even looking at the picture, much less commenting on it—or doing so much worse.

“Anon, then,” the fighter said.

He left with the apple held upright, impaled to the core.

When Abalone heard the front door shut in the distance, he all but collapsed, falling onto the silk-covered sofa with limp limbs and a pounding heart. Even though his hands were shaking, he managed to take a cigarette out of a crystal box and ignite it with a heavy crystal lighter.