He could see figures moving inside. Large ones.
With fear tightening his throat and weakening his knees, he walked up to the front door. There was a button for chiming by the brass door handle, and as soon as he hit it, the broad portal was opened wide.
“Hi! You must be Abalone?”
All he could do was blink. The brunette in front of him was wearing loose clothes, her hair curling at the ends, her bright, blue eyes friendly and attentive.
“I’m Beth.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m really happy you came.”
He looked down at her hand and frowned. Was that … the Saturnine Ruby on her finger? Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was the—
Abalone fell to his knees before her, bowing his head nearly to the polished floor. “Your Highness, I am not worthy of—”
Two massive black boots came into his vision. “Hey, my man. Thanks for coming.”
This had to be a dream.
Abalone lifted his eyes up, up, way up … the most tremendous male vampire he had e’er beheld. And indeed, with that long black hair and those wraparound sunglasses, he knew exactly who it was.
“Your Highness, I—”
“No offense, but could you get up? I’d like to shut this door. My wife is getting cold.”
Scrambling off the floor, he realized he’d forgotten to remove his hat. With a jerky move, he ripped it from his head and put it in front of his body.
And then all he could do was look back and forth—and then behind, as two males so huge that they had to be Brothers, moved chairs across the foyer.
“Is this him?” the splendidly handsome one asked.
“Yup,” the King replied, sweeping his arm to the right. “Let’s go in here, Abe—”
“Are you going to kill me?” Abalone blurted without moving.
The queen’s brows popped. “No. Good God, no—why would we do that?”
Wrath put a hand on Abalone’s shoulder. “I need you alive, buddy. I need your help.”
Convinced he was going to wake up at any moment, Abalone followed numbly into a lovely room that must have been for dining purposes, given its crystal chandelier and prominent fireplace. There was no long thin table, however, no row of chairs, no sideboard for serving. Instead, in front of the hearth, a pair of armchairs had been angled to face each other, and there were other comfortable sofas and seats set off to the side. A desk had been arranged in the near corner, at which there was a handsome blond male in a natty three-piece suit shuffling papers around.
“Have a seat, Abe,” the King said as he himself took one of the armchairs.
Abalone obliged—’twas far better than a guillotine, after all.
The King smiled, his harsh, aristocratic face warming some. “I don’t know how much you know about my father. But he used to do audiences with commoners. My wife read your e-mail the night of that Council meeting—and you mentioned you work with an organization of them?”
Abalone looked back and forth between the King and his mate, who had taken a seat on one of the other padded chairs—and was pouring herself a ginger ale.
The pair of them lied, he thought suddenly. They were very much together, their deference and devotion to one another obvious.
“Abe?”
“Ah…” Not at all what he had expected from this on any level—although he was o’erjoyed at the idea the glymera had been thwarted. “Yes, but it’s … it’s more of a loose affiliation, really. There are issues that need sorting, and—not that I was trying to step into your role—”
The King put up his hands. “Hey, I’m grateful. I just want to help.”
Abalone swallowed past a dry throat.
“You want a soda?” someone asked.
It was a Brother with jet-black hair, a goatee, and icy silver eyes—as well as a set of tattoos on one of his temples.
“Please. Thank you,” Abalone replied weakly.
Two seconds later, the fighter delivered a cold Coke in a glass. Which turned out to be the best thing Abalone had ever tasted.
Composing himself, he mumbled, “Forgive me. I feared that I had found your disfavor.”
“Not at all.” Wrath smiled again. “You’re going to be very, very useful to me.”
Abalone stared into the fizzing glass. “My father served yours.”
“Yeah. Very well, I might add.”
“Through your blood’s generosity, mine has prospered.” Abalone took another sip, his shaking hand making the ice tinkle. “May I say something about your father?”
The King seemed to stiffen. “Yeah.”
Abalone looked up to the sunglasses. “The night he and your mother were killed, a part of my father died, too. He was never the same thereafter. I can remember our house being in mourning for a full seven years, the mirrors draped in black cloth, the incense burning, the threshold marked with a black jamb.”