Lassiter skidded in from the billiards room, the fallen angel glowing from his black-and-blond hair and white eyes, all the way down to his shitkickers. Then again, maybe the illumination wasn’t his nature, but that gold he insisted on wearing.
He looked like a living, breathing jewelry tree.
“I’m here. Where’s my chauffeur hat?”
“Here, use mine,” Butch said, outing a B Sox cap and throwing it over. “It’ll help that hair of yours.”
The angel caught the thing on the fly and stared at the red S. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Do not tell me you’re a Yankees fan,” V drawled. “I’ll have to kill you, and frankly, tonight we need all the wingmen we’ve got.”
Lassiter tossed the cap back. Whistled. Looked casual.
“Are you serious?” Butch said. Like the guy had maybe volunteered for a lobotomy. Or a limb amputation. Or a pedicure.
“No fucking way,” V echoed. “When and where did you become a friend of the enemy—”
The angel held up his palms. “It’s not my fault you guys suck—”
Tohr actually stepped in front of Lassiter, like he was worried that something a lot more than smack talk was going to start flying. And the sad thing was, he was right to be concerned. Apart from their shellans, V and Butch loved the Sox above almost everything else—including sanity.
“Okay, okay,” Tohr said, “we have bigger things to worry about—”
“He has to sleep at some point,” Butch muttered to his roommate.
“Yeah, watch yourself, angel,” V sneered. “We don’t like your kind.”
Lassiter shrugged, like the Brothers were nothing more than yappy dogs circling his ankles. “Is someone talking to me? Or is that just the sound of losing—”
Lot of shouting at that point.
“Two words, bitches,” Lassiter sneered. “Johnny. Damon. Oh, wait, Kevin. Youkilis. Or Wade. Boggs. Roger. Clemens. Is it that the food sucks in Boston? Or just the ball game?”
Butch lunged at that point, clearly prepared to light the guy up like a Christmas tree—
“What the fuck is going on down there!”
The bellowing voice from above shut off the Sox-versus-Yankees showdown.
As Tohr hauled the cop out of angel range, everyone looked over while the king was led downward by his queen. Wrath’s presence tightened everyone up, the crew going professional. Even Lassiter.
Well, except for Butch. But then, he’d been “wicked hyped up,” as he’d call it, for the last twenty-four hours—and he had good reason to be tetchy: His shellan was going to be at the Council meeting. Which, from the Brother’s point of view, was like having two Wraths there. The trouble was, Marissa was the oldest of her line, and that meant if Rehv wanted full attendance, she had to be present.
Poor bastard.
In the lull that followed, Blay’s dagger hand started to tingle, and he had an almost irresistible urge to palm a weapon. All he could think about was that this was nearly identical to the prelude to Wrath’s shooting back in the fall—on that night, they had all gathered here, and Wrath had come down with Beth…and a bullet had been shot out of a rifle and ended its trajectory in the king’s throat.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one thinking like that. A number of hands went to holsters and stayed put.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Tohr said.
Blay turned with a frown, and had to swallow his reaction. It wasn’t Payne who joined them; it was Qhuinn. And man, the male looked more than ready to fuck some shit up, his eyes grim, his body taut as a bowstring in its black leather.
For a moment, a fissure of pure, sexual awareness shot through Blay.
To the point that a totally inappropriate fantasy occurred to him: namely, he and Qhuinn ducking into the pantry for a quick, clothes-stay-on fuck.
With a groan, he refocused on the king. Which was only appropriate. Wrath was what mattered here, not his frickin’ love life….
A feeling of unease replaced the lust.
Were he and Qhuinn ever going to be together again?
God, what a strange thought. It wasn’t like the sex was a good idea emotionally. Arguably, it was an extremely bad one.
But he wanted more of it. God help him.
“All right, let’s do this,” Tohr spoke up. “Everyone know where we’re going?”
It was a troubling relief to have the grave nature of the assignment in front of them clear his brain of everything but the commitment to save Wrath’s life…even if it cost him his own.
That was better than worrying about the Qhuinn shit, though.
For certain.
FIFTY-ONE
Qhuinn took form on a snow-covered terrace, and as everyone in the Brotherhood but Butch materialized alongside of him, he was not surprised by all the swank. The estate that the Council meeting was being held at was your standard glymera setup: lot of land that had been cleared and landscaped. Little cottage down by the entrance that looked like it belonged on a postcard of the Cotswalds. Big-ass mansion that, in this case, was made of brick and had dentil molding, shiny shutters, and slate roofing.
“Let’s do this,” V said, walking over to a side door.
The instant he pounded on it, the thing opened, as if that, along with so much, had been prearranged. But oh, man, if this was their hostess? The female who stood in the doorway was dressed in a long dark evening gown that was cut down to her navel, and she had a ring of diamonds around her throat the size of a Doberman’s collar. Her perfume so heavy it was like a slap in the sinuses—in spite of the fact that he was still outdoors.
“I’m ready for you,” she said in a low, husky voice.
Qhuinn frowned, thinking that even in that designer whatever it was, the chick came off as a tart. Not his problem, though.
As he filed in with the others, the room they entered was some kind of conservatory, the oversize potted green things and grand piano suggesting many an evening with guests staring up at some opera singer yodeling in the corner.
Gag.
“This way,” the female announced with a flourish of a hand that sparkled.
In her wake, that perfume—maybe it was more than sprays from a single source, like a layering of all kinds of crap?—nearly colored the air behind her, and her hips were doing double duty with every step, like she was hoping they were all looking at her ass and wanting a piece of it.
Nope. As with the others, he was searching every nook and cranny, ready to shoot and ask questions after the body dropped.
It wasn’t until they came out to the front hall, with its oil paintings spotlit from the ceiling, and its dark red Oriental rugs, and the…
Shit, that mirror was exactly like the one that had hung in his parents’ house. Same position, same floor-to-ceiling, same curlicue gold leafing.
Yeah, he had the creeps. Bad.
The whole house reminded him of the mansion he’d grown up in, everything in its place, the decor far, far, far from middle-class, yet not anything gaudy and Trumpilicious. Nah, this shit was that subtle blend of old wealth and classic sense of style that could only be bred, not taught.
His eyes searched out Blay.
The guy was doing his job, staying tight, checking the place out.
Blay’s mom and pops hadn’t been quite this rich. But his home had been so much nicer on so many levels. Warmer—and that hadn’t been about the HVAC systems.
How were Blay’s parents? he wondered abruptly. He’d spent almost more time under their roof than his own, and he missed them. The last time he’d seen them…God, long time. Maybe that night of the raids, when Blay’s father had gone from Mr. Suit accountant to serious ass-kicker. After that, the pair of them had moved out to their safe house, and then he and Blay had completely fallen apart.