The King(180)

How long would she stay there—
“This way,” Throe said, indicating a front entrance that had all the subtlety of a billboard on the side of the highway. “As if one could miss it.”
So many spotlights, all focusing on the colored glass around a red-painted door that had some kind of sun-like symbol in it.
“How garish,” Throe muttered as they started across the snow. “Unfortunately, the inside is worse.”
Xcor, on the contrary, didn’t have an opinion about the decor. And he was unimpressed by all the uniformed staff who opened the way in and passed around little pieces of food on silver trays and took drink orders.
No, he was in a field far away, under a maple tree, waiting for a female to arrive so he could give her his coat against the flurries.
He was not here—
“May I take your coat?” a doggen asked at his elbow.
Shifting his eyes over, the butler stepped back. “No.”
“As you wish, sire.” The bow that he gave was so low, the doggen nearly touched the glossy floor. “But of course—”
At that moment, Ichan approached with all the flourish of a bandleader. Indeed, he was wearing a satin smoking jacket that was red as blood and a pair of loafer-shoes that bore his initials in gold thread. Quite a dandy, at least in his own mind.
“Welcome, welcome. Have a drink—Claus, serve them?”
Xcor let his Bastards answer for him, deciding to move off into another room.
And indeed, the aristocrats silenced as he passed them, their eyes widening from fear and respect—which was why he’d worn his weapons. He had wanted his personage to be a potent reminder of who was actually in charge.
As he proceeded around, he noted idly that Throe was correct about the furnishings. Modern “art” choked the spaces, filling up corners and walls, crowding chairs and tables and sofas that were so contorted, one had to wonder where a guest could actually sit down. And the color scheme was all over the place, the only commonality appearing to be that the bright, discordant hues affront the retina—
How long would she wait? Would she have worn a coat?
Of course she would have.
What if someone questioned why she was leaving? What if she was caught coming back into the house—?
“Xcor?” Throe said quietly.
“Yes.”
“It’s time.” Throe nodded in the direction of a library that was nothing but shelving and books, the furniture having blessedly been emptied out.
Or at least, most of it. Centered in the middle of the space, there was a large, throne-like chair set up as well as a table with a big piece of parchment, wax for sealing, and many, many ribbons.
Ah, yes. The site of Ichan’s precious little zenith.
Which was not going to last.
Xcor went over and stood at the room’s entrance, meeting the eyes of each member of the glymera as they had to go by him. When there were none left to gather, he turned his attention to the assembled, his Bastards standing around him such that their bodies choked the way out of the library—
From behind, the main door opened one last time, a rush of cold, dry air barging in like an errant guest. Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned.
Errant guest, indeed: Rehvenge, the Council’s titular leahdyre, strode in like he owned the place, his full-length mink coat sweeping after him, a red cane that was not an umbrella, helping him along.
He was smiling, purple eyes showing a calculation that was a warning.
“Am I late?” he shouted out. As he came up to Xcor, those eyes stared directly into his own. “I’d hate to miss this.”
Who the hell had invited him, Xcor wondered. The male was solidly on the former King’s side, a mole who was more like a jaguar in their midst.
From inside the library, Ichan turned in mid-gesture, a cigarette in an old-fashioned ebony holder waving about—only to freeze when he saw who had arrived.
Rehvenge lifted his cane in lieu of greeting. “Surprise,” the male said as he barged into the crowd. “Oh, did you not expect me? I was on the list of invitees.”
As Throe stepped forward, Xcor grabbed a hold of the male and dragged him back to heel. “No. He may not be alone.”
At once, all of his soldiers’ hands disappeared into their clothes. As did his.
And yet no Brothers showed up.
So this was a message, Xcor thought.
Ichan glanced across as if he expected Xcor to deal with the intrusion, but when nobody from the group of fighters budged, the aristocrat cleared his throat and approached Rehvenge.
“A word, if you will,” Ichan said. “In private.”
Rehvenge smiled as if he already had his fangs in the idiot’s throat. “No, not private. Not for this.”
“You are not welcome herein.”