The hostess’s mate was nowhere to be seen. But then again, that male had difficulty standing for long periods of time.

Not long for the world, he was.

The receiving line that had formed proceeded apace, and soon enough Abalone was kissing the powdered cheek of the female.

“So glad you could come,” she said grandly, flicking a hand in the direction behind her. “The dining room, if you will.”

As her rubies flashed, he pictured his daughter as such, a grand lady in a grand house with glassy eyes.

Mayhap the punishment for not going along with this affront to the throne was worth it. He had found love with his shellan for the years she had been on the Earth, but that had been luck, he’d come to realize. Most of his contemporaries, now slaughtered in the raids, had been in loveless, sexless relationships that had revolved around the party circuit instead of the familial dinner table.

He did not want that for his daughter.

Yet, if love had happened for him, surely there was a chance for her even in the glymera?

Right?

Walking into the dining room, he found that it was just as it had been when the King had addressed them all so recently: the long thin table was moved out and the twenty or so chairs were set up in rows. This time, however, the survivors of the aristocracy were settling in along with their mates.

Usually shellans were not included in Council meetings, but there was nothing usual about this gathering. Or the last.

And indeed, the gathered should have been more somber, he thought as he picked a silk-covered seat in the back: As opposed to showing any respect for the historical significance, the danger, the unprecedented nature of all this, they were chatting among themselves, the gentlemales blustering, the ladies casting their hands this way and that so that their jewels flashed.

Indeed, Abalone was alone in the back row, and instead of greeting those whom he knew, he freed the button on his suit jacket and crossed his leg at the knee. When somebody lit up a cigar, he took a cheroot out and did the same, just to give himself something to do. And as a doggen immediately showed up at his elbow with an ashtray on a brass stand, he nodded thanks and focused on tapping the ash.

He was small potatoes to all of them, because he had long ago decided that under the radar was best. His blood had seen firsthand the cruelties of court and society, and he had learned that lesson through reading the diaries that had been passed down to him. The truth was, he had financial resources that all of them in this room collectively could barely meet.

Thank you, Apple computer.

Best investment anyone in the eighties could have made. And then there had been big pharma in the nineties. And before that? The steel corporations and railroad companies around the turn of the century.

He’d always had a knack for where humans were going to want to go with both their enthusiasms and their necessities.

If the glymera knew this, his daughter would be a commodity of great value.

Which was another reason he didn’t talk about his net worth.

Incredible how far his bloodline had come over the centuries. And to think they owed it all to this King’s father.

Ten minutes later, the room was full—and that, more than the party-party affect, was the sign that the glymera had at least some appreciation of the magnitude of what they were doing. Fashionably late did not apply this evening; the doors were going to be locked right about …

He checked his watch.

… now.

Sure enough, there was a reverberation of sound as heavy wood slid home.

All and sundry sat and went silent, and that was when he was able to count the heads and find out who was missing. Rehvenge, the leahdyre, of course—he had allied himself with Wrath and no one was going to shake that tie. Marissa was also missing, although her brother, Havers, was here—but then she was mated to that Brother no one really knew who was supposedly from Wrath’s line.

Naturally, she would be absent as well—

The paneled doors on the right side of the fireplace opened and six males walked in. Instantly, the assembled straightened in their seats. He recognized two of them immediately—the aristocratic-looking one in the front … and the ugly harelipped one in the back who had come to visit him with Ichan and Tyhm. The four in between were shades of the same dark hue: big-bodied, sharp-eyed fighters, who were alert but not twitchy, ready but not jumping the gun.

Their control was the scariest thing about them.

Only the unafraid could be that relaxed in this situation—

The lady of the house led her hellren in, the male bent like the head of the cane he used with his free hand, his hair white, his face lined like pleated drapes.

She sat him down as if he were a child, arranging his suit coat, smoothing his bright red tie.

Then she addressed the assembled, hands clasped like a soprano about to belt out an aria to a packed house. Her glow at the attention turned upon her was wholly inappropriate, in Abalone’s mind.

In fact, this whole thing was a nightmare, he thought as he tapped his ashes again.

As her mouth got to working, spewing out thank-yous and acknowledgments, he wondered how things were going to fare for her after her “beloved” went unto the Fade. Undoubtedly, that depended upon the will and whether this was a second mating and if there were young of the blooded line preceding her in the race to the assets.

Ichan was the next to take the stage. “…crossroads … necessary action … work of Tyhm to expose the weakness set before the race … half-breed mate … quarter-bred heir…”

It was the rhetoric that had been spelled out to him, the recap simply posturing to pretend that this was the first anyone had heard of it. But all had been prepped, the expectations laid out beforehand, the repercussions avowed as necessary.

Abalone glanced over to the far corner of the room. Tyhm, the solicitor, was standing with all the prepossession of a coatrack, his long, thin body held tightly upon its vertical. He was nervous, his eyes both rapt and blinking over much.

“…vote of no confidence must be unanimous for this super-majority of the Council. Further, your signatures will be affixed with seals upon this document prepared by Tyhm.” Ichan held up a parchment with its Old Language symbols drawn with care in blue ink—and then motioned to a lineup of multicolored ribbons, a sterling-silver bowl of red candles, and a stack of white linen napkins. “All of your colors are present here.”

Abalone glanced down at the massive gold signet ring that sat heavily on his hand. It was the one his father had worn, the crest carved so deeply in the metal that even after the passage of centuries, the outline, the swirls, the icons were obvious.

Verily, the ring’s gold had no doubt been shiny back when it had been cast, but now it was matte from a patina of wear and tear well-earned by the males of his family. Honorably earned.

This was wrong, he thought once again. This entire construct against Wrath was false, drummed up only to serve the ambitions of aristocrats who were not worthy of the throne: They did not care about the purity of the heir’s blood. It was just the vocabulary assigned to justify their goal.

“May we have a vote?” Ichan looked out over the crowd. “Now.”

This was wrong.

Abalone’s hand began to shake such that he dropped the cheroot on the floor—and he could not move to pick it up.

Say no to this, he told himself. Stand up for what is—

“All in favor, say, ‘Aye.’”

He did not speak. Although not because he had the courage to be the sole “nay” when dissent was requested.

He did not open his mouth then, either.

Abalone hung his head as the gavel hit wood.

“The motion is carried. The vote of no confidence passed. Let us all now join as one to send this message of change out unto our race.”

Abalone bent down and retrieved his cheroot. The fact that it had burned a small hole in the varnished floor seemed apt.

He was leaving a smudge on the legacy of his ancestors this night.

Instead of going forward to the parchment, he stayed where he was as each family representative and all the females went up and postured at Ichan, playing their part as seals and ribbons were affixed. It was like watching actors on a stage, each of them enjoying their moment in the light, the focus on them.

Did they know what they were doing? he thought. Turning over the reins to whom—Ichan? As a front for those fighters? This was disastrous—

“Abalone?”

Shaking himself at the sound of his name, he looked up. The entire room was staring at him.

Ichan smiled from up front. “You are the last, Abalone.”

Now was the opportunity to live up to the name of his grandfather. Now was his moment to voice his opinion that this was a crime, this was—

“Abalone.” Ichan was still smiling, but there was stark demand in his tone. “Your turn. For your blood.”

As he put the cheroot down in the ashtray, his hand was shaking anew, his palm sweaty. Clearing his throat, he got to his feet, thinking of the bravery of his bloodline, the way his ancestor had done what was right in spite of the risk.

The image of his daughter cut through his wellspring of emotion.

And he felt the eyes of the others like a thousand laser sights trained on him.

With intent to kill.

As Wrath heard a knocking upon the vaulted door of his mated chamber, he cursed under his breath and ignored it.

“Wrath, you must receive whoe’er it is.”

He took another spoonful of the rich soup that had been prepared before him from vegetables he had gone out and dug from the earth himself. The taste was subtle, the broth fragrant, the pieces of meat from a freshly dispatched cow hand-raised in his stables.

That he himself had killed.

The knocking came again.

“Wrath,” Anha chided as she pushed herself up higher upon her pillows. “You are needed by others.”

He had no sense of the time, whether it was light or dark, how many hours or nights had passed since she had come back to him. And he did not care. Just as he cared naught for the vagaries of court or the concerns of the courtiers—

More knocking.

“Wrath, give me the spoon and you answer that door,” his female commanded.

Oh, that made him smile. She was truly returned.

“Your wish is my command,” he said, placing the broad bowl in her lap and giving her the utensil he had used.

He would have so much preferred to continue to feed her himself. But to see her able to manage the effort without spilling and effect the process of getting further nourishment into her belly? It eased him in ways internal.

And yet sadly, a pall still hung over them both: Neither he nor she had spoken about the young—about whether or not what had befallen Anha had robbed them of their dearest wish.

It was too painful to speak of—especially in light of the revelation made by Tohrture—

“Wrath. The door.”

“Yes, my love.”

Stalking across the throw rugs, he was ready to behead whoever dared to intrude on the healing.

Except as he opened the heavy panels, he froze.

Outside in the corridor, the Black Dagger Brotherhood had amassed, their fighter bodies choking what was otherwise more than ample space.

Instinct to protect his shellan made him wish for a dagger in his hand as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Indeed, that urge to defend his turf had him curling his fists up even though he had never been trained to fight. But he would die to save her—

Without a word, their black blades came out, the torchlight catching and flashing across those killing surfaces.

Heart pounding, he prepared for an attack.

Except it was not: As one, they went down upon bended knee, bowed their heads, and struck at the ground, their daggers chipping up flakes from the stone floor.

Tohrture lifted those incredible blue eyes first. “We pledge ourselves unto you and only you.”

And then they all looked up at him, their respect plain on their faces, those incredible bodies prepared to be called into service for him, by him—and only in that fashion.

Wrath put his hand over his heart and could not speak. He had not realized until this moment how alone he had been, just his shellan and him against the world—which had felt like enough. Until now.

And this was such the opposite of the glymera. The courtiers’ gestures were always done in public, and had no more depth than any performance—once executed, it was past.

But these males …

By tradition and custom, the King bowed to no one.

And yet he bowed the now. Deeply and reverently.

Remembering words he’d heard his father speak, he pronounced, “Your vow is accepted with gratitude by your King.”

Then he tacked on something that was all his own: “And it is returned. I pledge unto you, each and every, that I shall provide to you the very fealty that you have offered and I have accepted.”

He met each of the Brothers in the eye.

His father had used these specially bred males for their brawn, but his alliance had been with the glymera primarily.

Instinct told the son the future was safer if the opposite was true: With these males behind him, he and his beloved and any young they might have would have the better chance of survival.

“There is someone who desires to meet with you,” Tohrture said from his position on the floor. “We would be honored to stand guard here at your door whilst you attend to this necessary in your receiving chamber.”

“I shall not leave Anha.”

“If you will, my lord, please proceed unto your other chamber. This is one with whom you need to speak.”

Wrath narrowed his stare. The Brother was unwavering. All of them were unwavering.

“Two of you come with me,” he heard himself say. “The rest remain here to stand guard o’er her.”