The King(41)

Turning to the Chosen, he said in a low voice, “Watch yourself.”
On that note, he took Goddamn and his own sorry ass out of there.
No doubt for the best. He was feeling like going Wrath on his brother, and nothing good was going to come of that.
Striding to the stairs, he retraced his steps. Sometime along the way, he got to tending to the animal in his arms again, fingertips finding that chin and settling into a tight circular stroke.
Back down in the kitchen, which was now full of staff on shift once again, it was time to part company with his shadow.
“Fritz.”
The butler rushed over from the crudité arrangement he was working on. “Yes, master! I am eager to be of aid.”
“Take this.” iAm peeled the cat off himself, prying both of its front claws out of his fleece. “And do whatever it is you do with it.”
As he turned away, he felt like glancing back and making sure Goddamn was okay. But why the fuck would he do that?
He had to get to Sal’s and check on his staff. Usually he hit the restaurant in the early afternoon, but shit had not been “usual,” what with that migraine: Every time his brother had one, they both got a headache. Now, though, with Trez rebounding and no doubt soon to be on the grind with that Chosen, it was time to get back on his own track.
If only to keep himself from going psychotic.
Jesus Christ, Trez was now going to fuck that female. And God only knew where that was going to land them all.
Just as he hit the exit, he called out over his shoulder, “Fritz.”
Through the din of First Meal prep, the doggen answered back, “Yes, master?”
“I never find any seafood in this place. Why is that?”
“The King does not favor any manner of fin.”
“Would he allow it in here?”
“Oh, yes, master. Just not upon his table, and certainly never upon his plate.”
iAm stared at the panels of the door in front of him. “I want you to get some fresh salmon and poach it. Tonight.”
“But of course. I will not have it ready afore First Meal for you—”
“Not for me. I hate fish. It’s for Goddamn Cat. I want him served that regularly.” He pushed the door open. “And get him some fresh veggies. What kind of cat food does he eat?”
“Only the best. Hill’s Science Diet.”
“Find out what is in his food—and then I want everything hand-prepared. Nothing out of the bag for him from now on.”
Approval bloomed in the old doggen’s voice: “I’m sure Master Boo will appreciate your special interest.”
“I’m not interested in that bag of fur.”
Totally annoyed with himself and everybody else on the planet, he got the fuck not just out the kitchen, but out the entire mansion. Good timing. The sun had set and the light was draining from the sky.
He loved the night and took a moment to breathe in deep. The cold winter air made his sinuses sing.
If he had been his own male, free of the tether of his brother and the prison imposed upon Trez by their parents, he would have chosen such a different existence. He would be out west somewhere, living off the land and far from anyone else.
It wasn’t just that he was a recluse by nature. He saw no value in what so many others did. In his mind, the world simply did not need another iPhone, or faster Internet service, or a twenty-seventh Real Housewives franchise. Hell, who the fuck cared if your neighbor had a bigger house/car/boat/trailer/mower. Why be bothered if somebody had a better watch/ring/phone/TV/lottery ticket. And don’t get him started on sneakers. Fashion-forward anything. Makeup ads, movie-star drama, manic home-network shoppers and mindless human drones who actually believed what their preachers forced down their throats.
And no, it wasn’t just humans who bought into all that shit.
Vampires were equally guilty—they just clothed their cow mentality in superiority over those rats without tails.
So many sublimating who they really were to the dictates of what they were told to want, need, seek, acquire.
Then again, he hadn’t managed to break free of his brother’s drama, so who was he—
As his phone went off in his fleece’s pocket, he shoved a hand in and grabbed it. He knew who was calling him even before he looked at the screen, accepted the ring-a-ding-ding, and put the cell up to his ear.
What small part of him had flared to life died in the center of his chest once again.
“Your Excellency,” he greeted the high priest. “To what do I owe this honor.”
As Assail paced around his kitchen, he checked his watch. Turned in front of the sink. Strode back toward the bar. Checked his watch again.
Ehric had left about twenty-one—no, twenty-two minutes ago—and the trip that he’d been sent on should have required twenty-five at the most.