“No. Where would I go?”
“London?” Lothaire looked surprised. “Hasn’t Cesare summoned you for your coven?”
“Oh yes. I believe I heard something about that. I’ll find my way there at some point.”
The French king’s laugh echoed through the macabre chambers. “I can just imagine Cesare’s face when he hears you are lingering here in Paris.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“No, but I won’t have to. Your Lady Hallow has spies all around me.” Lothaire growled. “Your brother wants my packs for his war, so he’s virtually colonized my court.”
“So you’ve committed to him already?”
Lothaire kicked a rib cage, sending it skittering across the floor. “Gareth, I believe your brother has stirred up this war just to force a clan alliance that he will control.”
Gareth tilted his head in mute agreement.
The French king pursed his lips in concern. “But what if I’m wrong? Cesare claims that humans have weapons much more powerful than during the Great Killing. And they don’t fear us as they once did.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know. Many do. My cousin, the king of Orleans, wants to join Cesare because he’s afraid of the humans. I hear they smashed Grenoble. And if Lyon falls, the Equatorians will pour out into central France, which is full of weak, bickering clans. Bordeaux was obliterated just last year by a handful of airships.” Lothaire prodded the skull with the dusty toe of his shoe. “If only Cesare wasn’t going to become the king of kings. I don’t trust him. But, frankly, I don’t see an option but to join him.”
“I can give you an option.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“What if I were king of Britain?”
Lothaire stood against a wall of bones, looking at his old friend. “When I told Lady Hallow that I would only ally myself with a king, not a prince, she assured me that you had abdicated your claim to the throne, and that Cesare was the unquestioned heir. Is Lady Hallow a liar?”
“She is, and a prodigious one. Though she was correct at that time.”
“And now?”
“Things change, Lothaire. At my advancing age, my brow grows chilly and needs a crown to warm it.”
“Damn.” The French king breathed in conspiratorial delight. “What will Cesare do?”
“I’m afraid he will die.”
Lothaire looked askance. “What of your brother’s terrible claws? What of the lovely Flay?”
Gareth smiled with evil relish. “Flay is no concern.”
The king laughed and blinked with wide eyes. “Truly? You’re going to do it, aren’t you? Finally. You’re going to kill your brother. Are you prepared to be king?”
Gareth’s smile vanished. He suddenly noticed the smell of the chill air unfiltered by Greyfriar’s scarf. He felt the absence of a heavy gun belt or dangling sword on his hips. He looked deep into the warm eyes of his friend as if seeking some comfort. “There is nothing else I can do now.”
“You were born to be king and you have my support, Your Majesty. I’ll fight the Equatorians at the side of King Gareth with gusto.” Lothaire picked up the skull and lofted it across the chamber.
Gareth reached out and snatched the dead thing from the air with great and unusual facility, much to the surprise of his friend.
IT WAS A balmy evening heralding spring would soon be on them. Gareth stepped between two smashed French windows onto a veranda outside the Tuileries. The week spent among Lothaire's family had been hectic. Cesare would be foaming at the mouth to have the coronation done, and if Lothaire was right about spies in the court, surely his brother knew Gareth was delaying here. He was about to lift into the air when a voice behind him softly called out his name. He turned. Lothaire's wife approached, tall and regal, in a simple but elegant dress that swept the floor behind her.
“Katerina,” he replied, coming toward her.
“I finally have a quiet moment with most of the brood asleep, and I thought we might chat without the din.” Her smile was genuine. “Lothaire has been regaling me of your exploits as the lonely prince.”
Gareth stifled a groan, wishing he had left a minute earlier. He was in no mood to be nagged by married friends about being the consummate bachelor. Katerina didn't let him escape.
“You must quite love Scotland,” she continued.
“Scotland is quiet.”
Katerina took his hands and guided him to a chaise. “Well, Baudoin is known for his profound silence, but surely you don't spend all your time in that damp castle.”