But they were playing ball—and accordingly, so was Wrath.
“Upon what basis do you make this pledge of your, and your bloodline’s, name?” Wrath asked.
Now Z dropped the formal, and went for the real. “He brought me home safe to my shellan and my little female tonight. At the risk of his own life.”
“Fair enough.”
Wrath scanned the males who were standing around his desk, even though he couldn’t see them with his eyes. Sight didn’t matter, though. He didn’t need operational retinas to tell him where they all were or how they were feeling about shit; the scents of their emotions were clear.
They were, as a group, steadfast, resolved, and proud.
But formalities needs must.
Wrath started with the one all the way on the end. “V?”
“I was ready to get on board when he crawled all over Xcor.”
There was a grumble of agreement.
“Butch?”
That Boston accent came across loud and clear. “I think he’s a wicked strong fightah. And I like the guy. He’s aging up good, dropping all that attitude, getting serious.”
“Rhage?”
“You shoulda seen him tonight. He wouldn’t let me take that plane up—said two Brothers were too much to lose.”
More of that grumbling approval. “Tohr?”
“That night you were shot? I got you out of there thanks to him. He’s the right stuff.”
“Phury?”
“I like him. I really do. He’s the first to run into any situation. He will literally do anything for any one of us—it doesn’t matter how dangerous.”
Wrath rapped his desk with his knuckles. “It’s settled, then. I’ll tell Saxton to make the changes, and we’ll do it.”
Tohr cut in. “With all due respect, my lord, we need to resolve the ahstrux nohtrum designation. He can’t be watching John’s ass as his primary directive anymore.”
“Agreed. We’ll tell John to release him—and I can’t believe the answer will be no. After that, I’ll have Saxton draw up the papers, and then following Qhuinn’s induction, V, you take care of the ink on his face. Like if John had died of natural causes or some shit?”
There was a rustling of clothes, as if some of the Brothers were making the symbol of “Dearest Virgin Scribe forbid” over their chests.
“Roger that,” V said.
Wrath crossed his arms over his chest. This was a historic moment, and well he knew it. Butch’s induction had been legal because of the blood tie the male had with royalty. Qhuinn was a different story. No royal blood. No Chosen or Brotherhood blood, although he technically was an aristocrat.
No family.
On the other hand, that kid had proven himself again and again on the field, living up to a standard that, as far as the Old Laws currently stated, was reserved only for those of specific lineages—and that was bullshit. It wasn’t that Wrath didn’t appreciate the Scribe Virgin’s breeding plan. The prescribed matings between the strongest males and the smartest females had in fact produced extraordinary results when it came to fighters.
But it had also resulted in defects like his blindness. And it restricted merit-based promotions.
Bottom line, this recasting of the laws concerning who could and could not be in the Brotherhood was not only appropriate in terms of the kind of society he wanted to create—it was a matter of survival. The more fighters the better.
Plus, Qhuinn had truly earned the honor.
“So be it,” Wrath murmured. “Eight’s a good number. A lucky number.”
That low growl of agreement rippled through the air once again, the sound one of complete and utter solidarity.
This was the future, Wrath thought as he smiled and bared his fangs. And it was right.
TWENTY-THREE
As Sola Morte stood in her “boss’s” office, her body was poised for a fight. Then again, that was her SOP, and not anything specific to the environment—or the way the conversation was going.
The latter certainly didn’t improve her mood, however.
“I’m sorry, what?” she demanded.
Ricardo Benloise smiled in his typical cool, calm way. “Your assignment is completed. Thank you for your time.”
“I haven’t even told you what I found out there.”
The man eased back in his chair. “You may collect your fee from my brother.”
“I don’t get this.” When he’d called her no more than forty-eight hours ago, it had been a priority. “You said—”
“Your services are no longer required for that particular purpose. Thank you.”
Was he working with someone else? But who in Caldwell did the kinds of things she did?