Chapter Twenty–Eight

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

T here’s an aristocrat in the waiting room. He’s demanding to see the King.”

Tohr was sitting in the steel core of the Audience House when Saxton ducked into the corridor to make the announcement. And go figure, after the previous two nights, it was the last thing he wanted to hear.

“He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?” Tohr shook his head as he hopped off his stool. “I mean, of course he doesn’t.”

“We do have time to accommodate him.” Saxton glanced at Qhuinn and Vishous. “If the King wants to see him? We’ve been efficient tonight.”

“I’ll go check.” Tohr tucked the back of his black shirt into his leathers. “What’s the name?”

“Whestmorel.”

Great. The squeaky wheel of the glymera . Just what they needed.

“Did he give a reason?” Although Tohr could guess. “Or a pretext.”

“He’s refusing to say.” Saxton glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “We have over a half hour.”

As V muttered something ugly, Tohr nodded at the solicitor. “I’ll go ask Wrath—and tell Deena we’ll handle this—one way or the other, I’ll take care of him. She doesn’t need to worry about the guy.”

That receptionist was totally not going to be put on the front lines of dealing with an aristocrat like Whestmorel, especially if it was a “no” from the King. That male was a member of the new guard, which was not a compliment. He’d taken to sending memos on behalf of a “number of interested parties,” as he called them, about issues they felt were pressing. So far it was all about festivals, social standards, and bullshit like that, but the frequency had been increasing.

And Tohr knew—he could just feel it in his bones—that something was cooking.

“Deena will be well pleased she’s released of that duty.” Saxton inclined his head. “Thank you very much.”

With that settled, Tohr walked down to the door that had a black dagger with the handle down and the tip pointed up on it. He knocked with a single knuckle and waited.

“Come in,” came the muffled response.

As Tohr triggered the door release, the panel slid into the wall. The entry into the Audience Room from the steel corridor could be opened four different ways: To the left, to the right, and into the wall either way, depending on what was going on inside. Usually, it was just disappeared into the slot. But if something bad was happening—and everything was designed in the facility to ensure that was never what was going on—you could detach it and use it as cover. Or not—

“What we got.”

Across a room that was draped in royal silks of red and black, Wrath was sitting in one of the two armchairs, and George, his golden retriever, was in his lap. The great Blind King was wearing his usual black muscle shirt, and the black wraparounds on his aristocratic face made him seem even harsher than his impatient greeting. Off to the side of him, a folding tray table was sporting a foot-long sub that had been cut into bite-sized pieces. There was also a Coke and a bag of Doritos with the turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, and mayo, hold the onions.

Well, at least he’s having something to eat , Tohr thought. The King was not going to be happy about the newsflash, and hopefully having a little food on board was going to dull the—

“Tohr,” came the impatient prod. “What’s going on.”

Tohr cleared his throat, and gave the dog a little wave. As he got a wag in return, the Marco/Polo he and George always did refocused him.

“We have someone in the waiting room who’s not on the schedule.”

A section of the sub was given to George, and the golden took it with his soft mouth, neatly munching the nubbins down.

Wrath’s nostrils flared. “Who.”

“It’s a member of the glymera .”

“They don’t exist anymore.”

“Well, yes, that’s right. But I was using the term more as a descriptor—”

“So what you’re saying”—Wrath took a draw from the glass bottle—“is that we have an entitled toddler with a self-importance problem bullying my receptionist and demanding to see me.”

“That’s pretty much where we’re at—and FYI, that’s what glymera means to me.” Tohr walked across and straightened the Kleenex box on the corner of Saxton’s desk. “It’s Whestmorel. And we have the time, just so you know. Not advocating an audience, though.”

The King’s black brows lowered behind his wraparounds, but he continued with his lunch, taking a bite for himself. Sharing another with the dog.

Finally, he announced, “Whestmorel can wait until I finish this—and the only reason I’m seeing him is because I don’t want my receptionist to be in his presence when he throws a hissy fit. Has he deigned to give us a topic?”

“Nope. But I’m more than happy to go get one out of him.”

Wrath nodded. Then said, “Deena doesn’t need to see that, though. Tell her to go take a break first.”

“Of course.”

Like a lot of people who worked as part of Saxton’s staff, the female had come up out of Safe Place, the domestic violence treatment center run by Rhage’s shellan , Mary. Wrath was protective over everybody under this roof, but he was especially sensitive to Deena after learning her story.

He was like that. You came at him, he’d strike your jugular. You were a decent, hardworking person who needed help? There was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

“Give me five minutes,” Wrath said, “and then you bring him in to me. And have Qhuinn with you. Saxton, too. I want witnesses in addition to our cameras.”

“You don’t want me to get the subject to you first?”

“No. You and I both know what this is really about—so I don’t need to hear it.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Tohr bowed, even though the King couldn’t see him, and then he left by the door the civilians were brought in through.

The front of the house, so to speak, was totally different than the security-focused core: The hallways that formed the loop the males and females were processed through were well lit and cheerful, with a cottage theme. Oil paintings of landscapes and still lifes of fruits and flowers and dogs from the nineteenth century, alternated with needlepoint samplers from the same period. Underfoot, woven rugs in red and black covered honey-colored pine floors, and the scents of fresh-cooked baked goods as always suffused the air.

Unlike the other Audience House, back decades ago, which had been like a museum—no offense to Darius’s incredible sense of style—they’d deliberately designed this one to be welcoming, homey, and relaxed. Like visitors were just going to their grandmahmen ’s from the Old Country.

And it works to bring down the tension , he thought as he walked into the receptionist’s room.

Most of the time.

The male who was standing in the center of the waiting area had an expression on his face like he was liable to catch a disease if he sat down in any of the comfy-cozies. Talk about central casting. In his three-piece dark suit, his ascot, and those shiny wingtips, Whestmorel was a cross between an English dandy and a Wall Street money manager. Which was the new aristocracy, wasn’t it. They were always trying to thread that needle, desperate to be what their predecessors had actually been: Exclusive by virtue of their bloodlines.

When all they could flex were bank accounts and stock portfolios.

And really, that wasn’t saying much.

“Well,” Whestmorel said. Then he made a show of kicking up his wrist and checking his gold watch.

Tohr turned his back on the guy. Behind her desk, Deena was sitting up straight in her chair, her worried eyes clinging to Tohr.

He smiled gently at her. “Would you be willing to refresh the tray? I’d be very grateful.”

She bolted to her feet. “Yes, of course.”

Even though it wasn’t her job—not that she wouldn’t do anything that was asked of her—she hightailed it around the aristocrat, picked up the perfectly fresh supply of tea sandwiches, and disappeared out into the hall.

“So is Wrath coming in?”

Tohr frowned. And then stepped into the male. “No, you’re going to go see him. In about five minutes.”

Whestmorel’s eyes narrowed. “This is important.”

“You seem to think so. You want to tell me what this is about?”

“I didn’t come to see you.”

“Well, this is going to be a problem.” Tohr glanced over and made sure the door Deena had left out of was fully closed. “No one gets in to Wrath without telling me what they’re looking for.”

“You’re awfully protective of him.”

“He’s the King.”

“Yes,” Whestmorel said with calculation. “But you’d think, if he were a proper leader, there would not be so many barriers to access. It does not make one feel very aligned with the throne.”

Tohr moved in very close. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here. And while you’re at it, step off that line you’re walking. Your night’s going to go a lot better as soon as you do.”