Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (77 page)

“I am not one who seeks political or social power.”

Bullshit. “Of course not.”

“I am…worried about the future of the race—in this, Elan and I were aligned. I did not agree with

the tactics he proposed, however. Assassination carries too many risks, and ultimately, it will not accomplish what is warranted.”

Au contraire
, Xcor thought. A bullet through the brain fixed many things—

“The law is the way to bring down the king.”

Xcor frowned. “I do not follow.”

“With all due respect, the law is mightier than the sword. To paraphrase a human saying.”

“Your oblique references are a waste of words to me. Be specific, if you do not mind.”

“The Old Laws provide the power that Wrath wields. They spell out his unilateral dominion over

all manner of our lives and our society, giving him free rein to act as he chooses, with a complete lack of accountability.”

Which was why Xcor wanted the job, thank you very much. “Go on.”

“There are no restrictions on what he may do, what courses he may take—in fact, he can also

change the Old Laws if he so chooses, and alter the very fabric of our traditions and foundations.”

“I am well aware of this.” He checked his watch. Assuming he didn’t get stuck on this damn

phone for the next two hours, there was still plenty of time left to fight. “Mayhap you and I should get together in person tomorrow evening—”

“There is but one caveat.”

Xcor frowned. “Caveat?”

“He must needs be capable of producing, and I quote, ‘a full-blooded heir.’”

“And this is relevant how? He is mated already, and no doubt in the future—”

“His
shellan
is a half-breed.”

Now Xcor was the one who fell silent—and Elan’s solicitor took advantage of the quiet: “Let us

be clear with each other. There is human blood in the species. From time to time, there have been

matings outside the race. One could argue nobody is truly ‘full-blooded.’ There is, however, a vital difference between a civilian straying into the human mating pool, and the king producing an offspring whose very mother is a half-breed—said offspring to inherit the throne upon his death.”

Throe leaned around the corner of the HVAC blower. “All is well?” he mouthed.

Xcor cupped the phone. “Take the others down to the streets. I shall join you apace.”

“As you wish,” Throe said with a brief bow.

As his fighter ducked away, the aristocrat on the other end continued. “There is disquiet among

many members of the ruling class, as you are well aware. And I believe if someone comes forth with

this, it will be far more effective at displacing Wrath, son of Wrath, than any attempt on his life.

Especially after he made such a show of strength at the Council meeting the other evening. Indeed,

many were frightened into a kind of submission thereafter, their wills conscripted unto his physical bearing, which was rather fierce.”

Xcor’s mind began to turn over the possibilities. “So tell me, gentlemale, in your mind, you would

succeed him, no?”

“No,” came the strident response. “I am a solicitor, and as such, I value logic above all else. In

this climate of unrest and war, only a soldier could lead the race—and should. Elan was a fool for his ambitions, and you have been taking advantage of this. I know because I saw you at his house that

night in the fall—you were positioning him where you wanted him, even as he thought it was the other way around. I want change, yes. And I am prepared to make it happen. But I have no illusions as to

my utility, and no interest in Elan’s outcome becoming my own.”

Xcor found himself turning in the direction of that mountaintop. “No king has been dethroned in

this manner.”

“No king has e’er been dethroned.”

Good point.

As he stared to the northeast, where that strange disturbance in the landscape was located, he

thought of the king there with his queen…and Xcor’s pregnant Chosen.

There was a time when he would have much preferred the bloodier path, the one that was marked

with the satisfaction of ripping the throne away from Wrath’s dying hand. But this war of letters

was…safer. For his female.

The last thing he wanted to do was raid where she ate, where she slept…where her condition was

treated.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head at himself. Oh, how the mighty had fallen…and yet they would

rise up nonetheless, he vowed.

“How would you suggest proceeding?” he said roughly.

“Quietly, at first. I must needs gather precedents for the manner in which ‘full-blooded’ has been

construed in cases brought forth for decision. The advantage is that there has been a long-standing discrimination against humans, and it was even more pronounced in the past—when Wrath’s father

was actually issuing proclamations and interpreting the law. That will be the key. The stronger the precedent, the more successful this will be all around.”

How ironic. Wrath’s own sire’s reading of the wording was going to be what brought the son

down.

“The issue for us will be the king himself. He needs to remain breathing—and he needs to not

recognize the weakness inherent in his reign and fix it before we can get things in order.”

“You will e-mail my associate the relevant passages, and then you will meet with me.”

“This will take a number of days.”

“Understood. But I expect your call promptly.”

As names were exchanged, and Xcor gave over Throe’s e-mail address, he began to feel a certain

buoyancy. If this male was correct? Wrath’s kingship was going to be over without any more

bloodshed. And then Xcor would be free to determine the future of the race: As far as he knew, Wrath had no direct family, so if he were removed, there was no one with a strong claim to the throne.

Although that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be relations coming out of the woodwork.

Interlopers he could deal with, however. And with the support of the Council? He was willing to

bet he could become a populist leader—provided everyone got in line.

Wrath wasn’t the only one who could change the laws.

“Do not waste time with this,” Xcor said. “You have a week. No longer.”

The answer that came back at him was gratifying: “I shall proceed with all haste.”

And wasn’t that a lovely way to end a phone call.

SEVENTY-FOUR

The tunnel that connected the mansion with the training center was cool, dim, and quiet.

As Qhuinn walked through it, he was by himself and glad of it. Nothing worse than being

surrounded by happy people when you felt like death.

When he got to the door that led into the back of the office’s closet, he put in the code,

waited for the lock to pop, and pushed his way inside. A quick trip past the stationery and pens, and through another door, and he was going around the desk. Next thing he knew, he was in the corridor in front of the weight room, but exercise wasn’t what he was looking for. After what the Brotherhood

had done to him, he was stiff and achy—especially in the arms, thanks to having held himself upright on those pegs.

Man, his hands were still numb, and as he flexed his fingers, he knew what arthritis felt like for

the first time in his life.

Moving along, he stopped again when he got to the clinic area. As he went to straighten his

clothes, he realized he was still wearing only the robe.

He wasn’t going back to change; that was for sure.

Knocking on the recovery room’s door, he said, “Luchas? You up?”

“Come in,” was the hoarse reply.

He had to brace himself before he entered. And he was glad he did.

Lying on the bed with his head propped up, Luchas still looked as if he were on the verge of

extinction. The face that Qhuinn had remembered as intelligent and young was lined and grim. The

body was painfully thin. And those hands…

Jesus Christ, the hands.

And he thought his ached a little bit?

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Hello.”

“So…yeah. How you been?”

Fucking duh on that one. The guy was staring at weeks of bed rest, and then months of PT—and

was going to be lucky if he could ever hold a pen again.

Luchas winced as he tried to lift his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m surprised you came.”

“Well, you’re my—” Qhuinn stopped himself. Actually, the guy was not, in fact, any relation of

his. “I mean…yeah.”

Luchas closed his eyes. “I have always, and will always, be your blood. No piece of paper can

change that.”

Qhuinn’s eyes went to that mangled right hand, and its signet ring. “I think Father would very

much disagree with you.”

“He’s dead. So his opinion is no longer relevant.”

Qhuinn blinked.

When he didn’t say anything, Luchas popped his lids open. “You seem surprised.”

“No offense, but I never expected to hear that come out of your mouth.”

The male indicated his broken body. “I have changed.”

Qhuinn reached over and pulled a chair out for himself; as he sat down, he rubbed his face. He

had come here because seeing your previously dead estranged brother was the only remotely

acceptable reason for skipping a party thrown in your honor.

And spending the night watching Blay and Saxton together? Not going to happen.

Except now that he was here, he didn’t think he was up to any kind of conversation.

“What happened with the house?” Luchas asked.

“Ah…nothing. I mean, after…what happened went down, no one claimed it, and I had no rights to

it. When it reverted to Wrath, he gave it back to me—but listen, it’s yours. I haven’t been inside of it since I got kicked out.”

“I don’t want it.”

Okaaaaaaaaaaay, another big surprise. Growing up, his brother had talked nonstop of everything

he’d wanted to accomplish when he was older: the schooling, the social prominence, taking over

where their father left off.

Him saying no was like someone turning down a throne—unfathomable.

“Have you ever been tortured?” Luchas murmured.

His childhood came to mind. Then the Honor Guard. But he sure as shit wasn’t going to bust the

guy’s balls. “I been knocked around some.”

“I’ll bet. What happened afterward?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get used to normal again?”

Qhuinn flexed his sore hands, looking at his own fingers that were all perfectly functional and

intact in spite of the aches. His brother wasn’t going to be able to count to ten anymore: Healing was one thing, regeneration another entirely.

“There is no normal anymore,” he heard himself say. “You kind of…just keep going, because

that’s all you got. The hardest thing is being with other people—it’s like they’re on a different

wavelength, but only you know it. They talk about their lives and what’s wrong with them, and you

kind of, like, just let them go. It’s a whole different language, and you’ve got to remember that you can only respond in their mother tongue. It’s really hard to relate.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Luchas said slowly. “That’s right.”

Qhuinn scrubbed his face again. “I never expected to have anything in common with you.”

But they did. As Luchas looked over, those perfectly matched eyes met Qhuinn’s fucked-up ones,

and the connection was there: They had both been through hell, and that lockstep was more powerful

than the common DNA they shared.

It was so weird.

And funny, he guessed tonight was the night for him to find family everywhere.

Except the one place he wanted it.

As silence prevailed, with nothing but the steady beeping of the machinery by the bedside to break

up the quiet, Qhuinn stayed for a long while. He and his brother didn’t talk much, and that was okay.

That was what he wanted. He wasn’t ready to open up to the guy about Layla or the young, and he

supposed it was telling that Luchas didn’t ask if he was mated. And he sure as hell wasn’t bringing up the Blay thing.

It was good to sit with his brother, though. There was something about the people you grew up

around, the ones you’d seen throughout your childhood, the folks you couldn’t remember not knowing.

Even if the past was a complicated mess, as you aged, you were just glad the sons of bitches were

still on the planet.

It gave you the illusion that life wasn’t as fragile as it actually was—and on occasion, that was the only thing that got you through the night.

“I’d better go so you can rest,” he said, rubbing his knees, waking up his legs.

Luchas turned his head on that hospital pillow. “Odd dress for you, isn’t it?”

Qhuinn glanced down at the black robe. “Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on.”

“Looks ceremonial.”

“You need anything?” Qhuinn stood up. “Food?”