The Unseelie King (The Kings Book 6) (5 page)

However, if Drummar said it was true, then it probably was.

Caliban glanced at him. The old man shook his head. “The world is fortunate she failed,” he said surely. “Vengeance needs a vessel, my boy. Anger must have its queen.”

The advisor nodded once, as if to himself, and his gaze became introspective and far-off as he turned away to head toward the room’s exit on the far side. “And so must you,” he said, just before he stepped through the door – without opening it – and disappeared somewhere on the other side.

Chapter Four

Cal knew she wasn’t sleeping. He could feel the flux in her power even as he stood there at the foot of his massive bed in the back of his jet and gazed down at the woman who was going to be the end of him. But he chose not to say anything in order to prevent an unnecessary confrontation. They were in the air, and mortals were flying the plane, and the fae gods only knew what kind of damage she would cause if he provoked her.

So he simply watched her, feeling his eyes heat up from the inside as he shrugged off his outer suit jacket, unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up, and then pulled off his tie. The skin on his chest stretched around the wounds she’d given him, wounds that were barely beginning to heal and that wouldn’t be healed fully for years to come. But he didn’t have time to convalesce.

This plane belonged to the human company he’d begun years ago as a cover for his existence in the mortal world. Every king had
something
, some kind of cover in this realm, that explained who and what they were about to mortal satisfaction. After that, any doubts were manipulated and tended to with magic, and life went on. Humans were easy that way.

But the occasional mortal “emergency” did arise, and the timing of it was never fortuitous. Such was what had occurred that morning, and Caliban had been forced to expend considerable energy casting spell upon spell over his destined mate to keep her under long enough for him to tend to the emergency.

He’d received a call from headquarters that a number of deals were very unexpectedly about to go south, and if that happened, the company would take a financial dive. It would be one that if solved with magic, would be far too obvious. Too many people were already aware of the falling stocks; this information was traded globally. There would be no correcting human perception with fae or warlock spells this time. As president and CEO of his company, his immense charm and incredibly deft social and business skill was needed to make things right and get the company back on course.

Once the Band-Aid was applied, he would figure out why the hell it had happened in the first place. It shouldn’t have. He suspected magic, in fact. And he would deal with it.

But not before dealing with more important issues.

Cal’s violet eyes took on the red tinge that warned of fire, as they so often did when his emotions were high and he was certain no one was looking. His gaze trailed over one the black silk pillowcases on the pillows where he’d placed Minerva. Long snow-white, shimmering locks of hair had spread themselves across the satiny surface like icicles in the darkness.

No one had hair like Minerva. Some had ash-blonde locks, a few Scandinavian individuals and the occasional albino. But ash-blonde hair was yellow tinged, and when the mortal aged, it became dingy, like stained teeth. Minerva’s hair reminded him of the unwritten lines of a new journal, or snow that had yet to be spoiled by footsteps. It was the shade of a dove’s feathers, the very essence of what it meant to be “angelic.”

For what felt like the thousandth time since he’d first looked upon her, Caliban experienced a sharp pang of doubt. He thought of his life, seeing it in a slide-show of dark scenes that played out before his mind’s eye with systematic cruelty. And he wondered how the hell he was supposed to woo someone like the fair-haired creature in his bed.

Then, perhaps due to a sudden stab of frustrated irritation and inherent, kingly stubbornness, and in exactly the manner he’d sworn he would
not
do, Caliban suddenly said, “I know you’re awake, Minerva.”

He cursed himself at once after speaking the words, but that was just his way. Straight into the fire with him. He was the Unholy King, after all.

“And?” she quipped back, not even bothering to open her eyes. “Did you want me to get up and cook you breakfast or something?” Her tone was filled with ice, ice that splintered into deadly shards and pierced through his nerve endings.

But despite the cold tone and the sarcastic words, there was a part of Caliban that could have jumped for joy at hearing them. It was a step forward. At least the first words out of her mouth were not a wish for his violent, bloody death.

He eyed her for a moment more, coming to a decision, and then took his very life into his own hands by taking things a step further. He rounded the bed and sat on the edge of it – not quite close enough to touch her, but most certainly on the same mattress.

Her power swelled; it was suffocating for a moment, and he worried about the plethora of charms he’d placed on the jet to keep it in the air should she decide to go postal. But everything held, and she didn’t move a muscle. After what must have been a full minute of uncertainty, probably on both ends, Caliban took a deep breath.

“Are you hungry?” This time, he placed himself in check and refrained from saying what he would normally say, which was, “You’re hungry. I want you to eat.” Being overbearing wasn’t working with Minerva – it wasn’t ever
going
to work. He needed to get that through his head, and there was no time like the present.

But when she did nothing but open her eyes, stare off into space, and shrug very slightly, his temper flared dangerously. This was why he normally just
insisted
on things. It bypassed the stubborn bullshit altogether.

Still, he reigned that in too, and said, “There is a Hollow Box on that counter there.” He gestured with a nod to a simple black box that measured approximately a cubic foot. It rested on the counter against one wall in the plush “bedroom” of the private jet. Beside it were a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a cupboard of dinnerware for normal “human” appearances.

“The Hollow Box will provide any food you like,” he explained. Hollow Boxes were fairly rare in either of the main fae realms, as they were a goblin invention. Damon Chroi, the Goblin King, had gifted this particular one to Caliban for Winter Solstice years ago. Avery had always been secretly jealous of it. And as it was in his nature, Cal was not-too-secretly quite pleased about that.

All one needed to do to use a Hollow Box was imagine what food they’d like as they touched the lid of the box, then pull off the lid – and that food would be waiting for them inside. It worked for drinks as well, taking everything from temperature to consistency into account. The result was always nothing less than perfection.

He was hoping it could serve as a sort of peace offering. Or a beginning.

There was a very long pause. In which time, Caliban thought of a million different terrible things she could do at any given moment and that he would have to do in response.

And then, finally, like a soft sigh of breeze on a hot, humid night, Minerva shifted, turned her head, and looked up at him.

Eyes like midnight searched his, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw galaxies spinning in their depths. They were the impossible indigo that did not exist in reality, that kind touched by purple and embraced by galactic light – a shimmery, glowy kind of deep, deep blue that seemed well and truly endless. He was lost at once.

Whatever he’d been about to offer, whatever he’d been planning to say, anything he might have only a second ago been prepared to cast upon her, at once slipped away as he floated, trapped, in that miasma of wonder.

“Can it make pastel rainbow mille crepe cakes with whipped cream frosting and fine strawberry compote?”

To say her sudden and quietly worded inquiry took him by surprise would have been the understatement of the millennium. It was unexpected in the extreme. For several moments, it actually left him speechless, but that was okay because it took him that long to process what it was she was asking for.

Of
course
the Hollow Box could make her rainbow mille crepe cake… whatever the heck it was. It could make anything she
wanted
. But the fact that she was asking him for it in the first place made him want to stick his head out the jet plane window, loss in air pressure and all, and hoot at the tops of his lungs like a love sick moron.

But he kept himself together with impressive and practiced expertise, turning slightly away so she couldn’t see him smile. Then he made his way to the counter, took the box, and went back to the bed. He held the box up in offering. It weighed almost nothing, as much as an empty gift box, no more.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” he suggested softly.

Minerva watched him in very quiet contemplation for a moment before reaching up and taking the box from him. To be on the safe side, he then retreated to lean against the counter, where he crossed his legs at the ankles, and his arms over his chest.

She continued to watch him for some time, the wariness in her eyes a combination of outright distrust and slowly simmering fury. Her parents had been murdered, after all, and despite the fact that he’d made it clear to her earlier that there was no one left alive who was responsible for the timed trap left for them eons ago, she very understandably wanted revenge. Revenge flowed through her blood; it was the very basis for Wisher magic.

At last, she looked away, releasing him from his simultaneous apprehension and hope. She placed the box on her knees, stared at the top for a second, and lifted the lid.

A wonderful aroma drifted toward Caliban, and he found himself rising off the counter, his neck craning to gain a peek into the box. Minerva made it easier on him when she reached inside and pulled out a plate containing what looked like a massive wedge of pastel rainbow. The layers must have been fifty deep, nearly as thin as paper, interspersed with layers of very fine white that smelled divine. The color gradiation was more perfect than anything he’d seen created by the fae cooks of his realm.

“That’s… rainbow crepe cake?” he found himself asking.

Minerva gazed steadfastly at the aromatic pastry for some time, and Caliban was well and truly lost as to what the woman was thinking. The expression on her face was completely unreadable.

Her lips parted. And in the softest of voices, which he could now recognize was raw from screaming and crying, she said, “It is. I’ve never actually seen it in person.” She swallowed hard enough for him to hear it, then continued. “I’ve only ever seen pictures. On Pinterest and stuff.” She looked up at him, and when her eyes met his this time, a part of him, a part that had at one time been hard and cold and unyielding, uncurled and softened and died a little then and there.

“I’ve always wanted to taste it,” she told him.

Caliban had no idea what to say. Her complete and utter honesty in that moment, her fragile openness and suddenly delicate nature reminded him of diamond bubbles as hollow as the Hollow Box, and were just as wondrously surprising.

The future Unseelie Queen licked her lips – tentatively, uncertainly. Then she moved, turning on the bed and lifting the plate of cake slightly toward him. She shrugged a little, and that raw voice asked, “Do you want to share it?”

Chapter Five

When everyone had finally finished coming into the meeting room on the 65
th
floor of the Sears Tower, by portal or front door or transportation, and taken their seats at the massive polished oak table, Roman knew that his instincts had been correct.

There were only twelve kings at the table that night. There were four queens. Twenty seats, nine on each side, one at each head, only seventeen of them taken. Of course, Caliban’s absence was both understandable and excused, as was Minerva Trystaine’s, his queen. So was Diana Chroi’s, an expecting mother on the verge of labor, as fae gestation periods were surprisingly fast compared to those of mortals.

Their absences weren’t what had him worried. It was the spell he’d cast prior to calling the meeting in the first place that troubled him. It verified the High Witch’s claims. But he’d been a fool to doubt her, even for a second. And from where she sat at the opposite end of the table, Lalura Chantelle’s stern gaze brooked no recourse in reminding him of that fact.

Never doubt Lalura Chantelle. Lesson learned.

However, this was hard for Roman. They were the
Thirteen Kings
. There was not supposed to be a force on earth strong enough to penetrate their loyalties. Much less turn them against one another.

And yet, here he was – staring at the evidence to the contrary.

The Thirteen Kings were too powerful for any spell to work in a more accurate capacity amongst them. When Lalura had approached him with her news, they’d worked together to create a spell that would have a chance at working at all. The Thirteen were enormously powerful, and that magic permeated any space they occupied to the point that there was a miasma of magic in the air, filling every nook and cranny, alleviating all sense of normalcy to the point that the beginning of one man’s magic and the end of another’s simply couldn’t be deciphered. They were frankly the most powerful men in the realms – gathered together in a single room. It was quite literally magically overwhelming.

But as Offspring of a warlock and an Akyri, vampires possessed magic of their own. Roman’s skills in the art, combined with Chantelle’s perplexingly immense capabilities, alas managed to procure a spell that would not necessarily give them the exact answers they required, but would at least verify their concerns.

They’d settled on an “aura.” As a mortal’s aura changed with intent and emotion, so would the aura in the room. It was the best they could do.

Now Roman gazed rather dejectedly at only the vaguest proof that deception sat among them. The opposing magics of everyone in the room also caused the spell to lag, so that it could not be pinned to any one king’s arrival or entrance, further complicating the situation. It took a few minutes for the darkness to arrive, and he had no indication of who was causing it.

But the fact that it had come to fruition at all was devastating enough. Roman’s heart sank to know that the worst scenario they could encounter had actually come to pass. There was a traitor among them. One of the Thirteen was not on their side.

The men and women at the table watched him in a strange sort of silence, as if they could sense that something enormous was occurring and was about to be revealed. His gaze trailed over each and every one of them. To his left sat his queen, Evelynne. At the moment, she watched him with knowing apprehension; she’d been with them since Lalura had arrived, and was well aware of what was happening. She also knew him well by now, and could read the expression on his face. She knew he’d learned the worst.

Her brown, gold-flecked eyes were large in her beautiful face, their gold highlights made more intense with her vampirism. He gazed upon her, feeling the warmth in his chest that he always felt when he realized that she was his – that he had turned her. That she’d
wanted
him to. No man’s luck would ever be greater than his.

He tried to give her a reassuring look, wanted to put her quick, comprehending mind at ease. But for the first time in a very long while, he simply did not have it in him. There was too much that was wrong.

So instead, he looked away.

To Evie's left sat the Phantom King, Thanatos, dressed in the black leather jacket and jeans that signified he’d come directly from his “job” the moment he’d received Roman’s message. Thane was good at knowing when things were serious. A man who worked with wrongful deaths for a living
would
come to recognize deadly situations when they occurred.

Roman considered this man, who had so long been a close friend, and his gut clenched. Was it possible that Thane could have turned on them? That
any
of them could have?

On one level, Roman, himself, couldn’t comprehend why this was so difficult for him to accept. They’d been betrayed by one of their own before, after all. Two, in fact. The former Warlock King had been a bad seed. As had the former Akyri King. Maybe it was something about the nature of warlock magic… and all who were borne or drawn from it.

Like vampires? Roman suppressed an all-too-human shiver and continued to peruse the people at his table.

To Thane’s left sat his queen, Siobhan. Speaking of warlocks, she was one such creature of
immense
capabilities. So immense that her power had drawn out the evil in the former Akyri King.

To
her
left sat the newest member of their burgeoning court, and the latest addition to this ever-expanding table. Selene Trystaine looked nervous. She looked uncomfortable and uncertain. Roman couldn’t blame her. If he’d been seated in her chair, he would have been nervous and uncertain too.

Selene’s sister was out there somewhere, in some unknown state and capacity, dealing with an immense amount of anger and power she could not control. She was with a man Selene did not know, but for the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, her future brother-in-law. Family, in and of itself, did not make ties strong. Selene had no idea what was going to happen to her twin. And she was still reeling from her parents’ deaths, herself.

There was a vast store of vengeful magic inside that girl; Roman could feel it from where he stood. He could only imagine what Caliban was dealing with at that time.

To Selene’s left sat her king, the Seelie King, Avery. He looked nervous too. Again, Roman couldn’t blame him.

Beside Avery sat Damon Chroi, the Goblin King. His queen was currently absent and “out of commission,” as their triplets were due to arrive any day. Also, there was the reality that Diana was admittedly better at running Chroi’s kingdom than he was; the goblins took a natural liking to her and had been steadfastly loyal and supportive since she’d taken her throne. A courtesy they had very much
not
shown their king.

To Chroi’s left, then, was an empty chair.

But on the other side of that chair sat Stephen Lazarus, the Akyri King. Lazarus had once been an exceedingly good police detective among mortals, but had taken the position of Akyri King, otherwise known as the Demon King, when he’d been murdered by the
last
sovereign of the Akyri nation and had shown up in Thanatos’s realm as something a bit more than a mortal ghost. It turned out he’d been a born Akyri all along, and when he killed the Akyri King, he rightfully took his place as lord of his kind.

Akyri were an odd and special breed, borne of sheer magic. In fact, they fed upon magic for subsistence, and hence had over the years developed a symbiotic relationship with some of the most magical of the supernatural creatures, the warlocks. Warlock magic had to be freely given to an Akyri. In exchange, Akyri served warlocks as would employees. It was only that their paychecks consisted of power rather than money. Not that there was much difference in the mortal world.

As their king, Lazarus was the sole Akyri capable of
taking
magic – without asking for it. Had he wanted to, he could have begun feeding upon warlock magic right then and there at that table. He had, after all, two of the biggest potential donors sitting at that table with him.

Since he’d become king, Lazarus had brought the Akyri nation under long-awaited and stead-fast rule, tending to issues other kings had let slip, and bringing order to a species that had become as lost as sheep in the realms and rules of the supernatural.

Lazarus had yet to locate his queen, so the seat to his left was occupied by the next king on the list, Kristopher Scaule. The Winter King.

Roman watched the air frost in front of Kristopher with every one of the king’s breaths. The man’s eyes were the color of ice, and his hair ranged from dark blond in the early Spring to the blue-tipped white of icebergs in the dead of Winter. At the moment, it was simply blond. If it were longer, he would very much have resembled a well-dressed and groomed Viking from one of the northlands he so often frequented.

If Kristopher wanted, he could have dropped the temperature in the room by a hundred degrees in a matter of split seconds. With a cold glance at the window, he could have forced a blizzard to overtake Chicago. The glass would have shattered, and rime would have coated every inch of their meeting room in sheer heartbeats.

A short time later, most life in Chicago would either be dead or hanging by a thread. And it would take very little for that winter to spread. Kristopher was an un-tapped potential for enormous destruction. But in that way, he was like the A-bomb. It was too
much
destruction, with too many innocents in its path. In essence, it was largely un-usable.

The Winter King also had yet to locate his foretold queen. Therefore, beside him were two empty seats, which had been reserved for the Unseelie King and
his
future queen – should everything turn out in their favor.

Across the highly polished table from these empty chairs were seated the two most enigmatic men to occupy places amongst the Thirteen. The first was the Shadow King, who went by the name Keeran Pitch.

Rather, it was
Mr. Pitch
to any one of his thousands of employees. Pitch was a very, very wealthy man. It seemed that working “in the shadows” and over vast reaches of time was not only beneficial for vampires – but for anyone who could pull it off with some degree fortitude and intelligence.

Pitch normally wore a suit to the meeting of the Thirteen, but there were times, when punctuality was necessary, that he was pulled directly from his realm and into this one without having a chance to “change.” Unlike the majority of the other sovereigns at the table, Pitch was unable to use most types of magic. Simply snapping his fingers or waving his hand or speaking a few cryptic words would not outfit him in the finest, tailor-cut clothing.

Nor would it transport him from one location to the next. He needed the shadows for that.
That
was where his power lie. There, in that darkened realm of indistinct lines and endless possibilities was where his power became vast indeed.

At the moment, the Shadow King was draped in the protective shade of a simple, though most likely exceedingly expensive and designer black hoodie, which he’d pulled up and over his head. From beneath its modern-aged cowl, his eyes glowed iridescent and strange. In his native darkness, the Shade Lord’s eyes were akin to the reflective eyes of an animal’s in moonlight. But glimpsed during the day and in direct light, they were as black as his hair except where they were graced with thin, cold gray rings around their pupils.

His coloring was fair enough that those eyes were stark in his handsome face, giving him the kind of “hungry” appearance that would have made the average passer-by on the street believe he was some sort of model, or perhaps a rock star, incognito.

The Shadow King had yet to locate his queen either, and hence beside Keeran sat the other of the two most mysterious men at Roman’s table: The Time King.

William Balthazar Solan. This was not his actual name; the Time King had no actual name, but had gone by Solan between friends for millennia. He’d added the other two names over the years, as fads directed.

Of the lot of them, the Time King had once unarguably been the most powerful. But ironically, that was long ago. In the eons since then, the quietest among them, referred to as the Lone King in closed quarters, had not manipulated the laws of physics in any supernatural capacity whatsoever. Not even once.

Years and experiences chased the king’s heels, dogged and relentless. Stoically, he remembered, and sat in silence amidst the swarms of ghosts that made up the moments of his very long, long, past. No one had lived longer.

In essence, the Time King sat at the table for two reasons. One, it always helped to have history on your side. That way, mistakes were never repeated. And two, there was always the possibility that he would one day wield that power again. If he did, he would hold heaven and earth in his grasp.

Arach, the Dragon King sat beside the Time King, his green eyes burning with green flame, the scar on his cheek more pronounced than ever. He was agitated; these were sure signs. No doubt he, too, could sense the odd foreboding in the room.

Beside Arach, who also had yet to find his queen, sat the Gargoyle King.

The Gargoyle King had been a difficult one to get ahold of lately. He’d been very busy in his own right, ruling over a species of beings that were divided amongst themselves. As was usual for the Thirteen, Mason Rushmore was one of the oldest gargoyles to walk upon the earth. Whether he was the
very
oldest or not would always remain an unanswerable question. Stone was simply ancient.