The motherfucker was implied.
Balz shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, you bunch of chest-thumping, I’ll-handle-it’s are great. But if you want someone to scale a building, especially in conditions like this, you should use somebody who’s done it before.”
“Well, ain’t you Spider-Man.”
“No, I’m a thief.” Balz made a ring around the inside of the little container, turned the spoon to his tongue, and licked things clean. “I’ve climbed more shit than you all have stabbed—and in weather as bad as this. Besides, if I slip off and break my head, who cares? Oh, and don’t give me that I’ll-justdematerialize-out-of-the-fall bullshit. You get twenty or thirty feet up, freezing cold in a storm, trying to fight with exterior shutters on tracks that were mounted in, what, the seventies? Eighties, in a best case? Good luck going into a free fall and getting ghost in a split second. You will hit hard, even with the snowpack, and hurt something that can’t grow back. And need I remind you that most of you—oh, wait, all of you—have shellans to worry about? Let a dummy like me do this, will ya?”
“You know”—Rhage crossed his arms over his chest like the blond Adonis he was—“he’s not talking stupid.”
Balz pointed across the sitting room with his spoon. “You, sir, are smarter than you look and you’ve never looked stupid.”
“You’re willing to go up on the house then?” V asked.
“Yup. I’ll figure out what’s wrong and we can fix it together—”
“I’ll spot you,” Z cut in. “We’ll use ropes and I’ll be your ground. And fuck off with the you-can-handle-it. Death bores me after all these years. I’m way too familiar with it.”
Balz shook his head. “You’re going to stand out there in a blizzard for nothing.”
Z’s eyes flashed black. “You think I can’t handle the cold.”
Instantly, the Bastard ducked his stare. “Actually, I’m very sure you can—”
Without any brownout or blink warning, the mansion was plunged into absolute darkness, the electricity cut.
“Shit on a shingle,” someone muttered. “Does anyone else think this is going to be a really long night?”
Qhuinn was just stepping out of the cold garage and into the warm back hall when everything went dark. Immediately, he reached back and took Blay’s arm—and worried his fantasy about the tarp and the flamethrower was about to get derailed.
“You okay?” he demanded.
“Really.” Blay chuckled. “If a piano had fallen on my head, you’d have heard it even in the dark.”
The door slammed shut behind them, and Qhuinn stayed where they were, waiting for the emergency generator to kick on. When nothing happened, he looked around. But like that was going to help? He felt like someone had thrown a black felt bag over his head—
Light flared, emanating from Blay’s phone, a pinpoint of here-ya-go that diffused into a shallow, blue-bright illumination that pulled the tile floor out of the void. The beam moved around, illuminating the closed doors of the mudroom, the snow boots of the doggen lined up by an Orvis mat, the outerwear hanging on pegs.
“Twins are safe and sound up in the bedroom,” Blay said. “Xcor just had Syphon text us both. He’s lit candles, so they’re not scared.”
Qhuinn’s worry deflated instantly. “I love that Bastard.”
Down the hall, voices from the kitchen rose in volume and velocity, the doggen cooking staff clearly nervous—although knowing the way they thought, they were more worried about Last Meal being late eight hours from now rather than any kind of home invasion.
Then again, anyone tried to get inside who wasn’t allowed? Not going to be pretty. And hey, Fritz would have plenty of blood to clean up, which was one of his favorite hobbies. #BOGO
Blay led the way forward with his phone, and as they emerged into the culinary area where preparations for Last Meal were indeed in full swing—or had been until it was lights-out—the doggen were clustered together, holding hands in their chef whites.
“Don’t worry,” Blay told them. “We’ll figure this out. Let’s get you guys some candles—”
Fritz came in from the pantry with a miner’s light on his head and a bundle of wax-and-wicks in his arms. For once, he was not smiling.
“What shall we do about the bread,” he said as he began passing out the candles. “Light these, yes, light them, please. We must needs recalibrate our offerings for the end of the night.”
As the staff shared a box of matches, pinpoints of lights flared in a circle around the stainless steel island, drawing anxious faces out of the dark.
“You all are safe here,” Qhuinn told them. “The shutters are in place in this wing, so nothing is going to get through any windows or the foot-thick stone walls. But we need to check for damage elsewhere.”
“Whatever may we do to assist you?” Fritz asked as he tucked his hands up close to his throat. “May we help in some manner?”
“Call your staff down here, all of them. If we know where you are, we don’t have to worry about you. God only knows what else has gone wrong.”
Fritz bowed low and took out his phone. “Yes, sire. Right away!”
When Qhuinn motioned over his shoulder, Blay nodded, and they walked out into the dining room. Everything from First Meal had been cleared, but there were tall stacks of china and bundles of sterling silver flatware that had already been put out to reset the table.
“Where’s the generator?” Blay asked.
“Not a damn clue.”
As they entered the foyer, others in the household were gathering at the base of the stairs, various camera phones and candles doing the duty with the light thing. There was a lot of talk, and then a voice broke through.
“I can fix the generator.”
All the chaos turned to the male who had spoken. Ruhn, mated of Qhuinn’s cousin Saxton, was calm-eyed and handyman-ready in his flannel shirt and his low-hanging jeans.
“Just show me where it is,” the guy said. “And I’ll figure out why it hasn’t kicked in.”
“‘They,’ you mean,” somebody said. “We’ve got three. And right this way.”
As Ruhn followed Phury around the base of the grand staircase, Qhuinn decided, not for the first time, that his cousin Sax had picked a real winner. Ruhn was an all-around good guy, quiet and steady.
And hey, the pair were clearly in love—which mostly took the sting out of the fact that Blay and Saxton had had a thing once. For a little while. Because Qhuinn had been a douche and a coward.
“Anyone want to help with the shutters out back?” a voice said in the dark.
“Yes,” Qhuinn replied, without knowing the details or caring about them. “I’m in.”
Anything to avoid going back to that part of his and Blay’s past. Even if the distraction involved minus-four-degree windchill, chapped lips, and frostbite.
Blay stepped in close. “I’m in, too.”
Outside the pools of light, Qhuinn reached to the side and found his true love’s hand. As he squeezed the palm he so often held within his own, he had a thought.