Lover At Last(143)

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.

He hoped they were well—

The image of Blay and Saxton standing chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, in Blay’s bedroom sliced into his brain.

God…damn…that had hurt.

And man, karma was good at its job.

Replugging into reality, he followed that double-jointed pelvis and the Brotherhood into a huge dining room that had been set up to Tohr’s specifications: All the drapery had been pulled across the bank of windows that overlooked the back gardens, and the flap door that he figured led into the kitchen had been barricaded by a weighty antique sideboard. Whatever table had sat in the center of the room had been removed, and twenty-five matching mahogany chairs with red silk seats had been lined up in rows facing a marble fireplace.

Wrath was going to stand in front of the mantel to make his address, and Qhuinn went over and checked that the steel flue was closed. It was.

On either side of the fireplace, there were two sets of paneled doors that opened into an old-fashioned receiving salon. He and John Matthew and Rhage did a walk-through of the room, closed the thing off, and then he took up res in front of the entrance on the left, and John Matthew did the same on the right.

“I trust all is to your liking?” the female said.

Rehv went over to the fireplace and turned to face all the empty chairs. “Where’s your hellren?”

“Upstairs.”

“Get him down here. Now. Otherwise, if he moves through the house, he’s liable to get shot in the chest.”