No new territory. And he made the trip again.
He was retreading the behind-the-desk stretch when a soft knock brought his head around. “Yes?”
Except he knew what it was. He could scent the—
The heavy wooden panels opened. Fritz, butler extraordinaire, was standing out in the shallow hall at the base of the stone steps. In between his hands, a sterling-silver tray that was polished to a high sheen supported a cloche-covered, traditional First Meal of eggs, toast, sausage, and hash browns. There was also plenty of fresh coffee and orange juice, because the doggen never forgot the beverages.
Like Darius, the elderly male was dressed for his work, the formal black suit and tie, and spit-and-shine black shoes, what he always wore until Last Meal, when he changed into black tie and tails. As well, the worry etched into his wrinkled face was a perennial part of his uniform: In spite of being the very personification of perfect service, he was always anxious, as if dire consequences were about to land like a piano on his head.
And currently, Darius knew what the problem was, but he couldn’t help the male.
“Sire.” The butler bowed low over the food he had so lovingly prepared. “Upon your desk?”
“Thank you, Fritz.”
The doggen walked across and placed the tray on the blotter. Then he stepped back, straightened his formal jacket, and stared at the floor.
“He’s not going to eat anything,” Darius said gently.
“But mayhap if I were to ask him—”
“Do you honestly want to wake him up?”
“Mayhap you could, sire?” The old male trembled at the temerity of asking his master for aid of any kind. But according to his entrenched, traditional dictate of serving whoever stayed the day, he was stuck between a real rock and a hard place. “He is much, much less likely to kill you, sire.”
The latter was tacked on with a shot of hopeful optimism, although it was hard to say whether that was tied to Darius acquiescing to the request… or living through the proposed interaction.
Darius shook his head. “I don’t want to give him any excuses not to come here. At least we know where he is when he’s across the hall.”
The pair of them looked out of the master suite. On the far side of the shallow space, the door to the guest quarters was closed tight—and considering what was inside, the chamber should have been triple locked. Chained. Barricaded.
Which was what you did to keep monsters away from the general public.
“Shelter is all we can provide him,” Darius said.
“I wish there was more, sire.” The doggen bowed again, and then changed the subject with a palpable resignation. “Your car is in the garage. You did not provide me with instructions as to whether it should be repaired or sent to the junkyard. So I thought it best to keep the remains on-site until you decide.”
Like it was a dead body—and the whole autopsy thing was up in the air.
“Thank you, Fritz.” God, he’d forgotten all about the BMW. “I’ll deal with it later.”
“As you wish. Is there aught more I may do for you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
The doggen headed for the doorway. Pausing in between the jambs, he said absently, “I had a mind that we could serve lamb for Last Meal?”
Darius shook his head. “He’s not coming back at the end of the night. He never stays two days in a row.”
“But of course.” The exhale was an expression of grief and regret. “Please summon me if there is aught I may do.”
“I shall—and Fritz?” As the doggen looked over his shoulder, Darius wished he could have embraced his faithful servant. Given the doggen code of conduct, however, such a display of emotion would cause total paralysis on the butler’s part. Maybe even cardiac arrest. “It’s not your fault, okay? And there’s nothing you can do. Try not to take things with him personally.”
“Thank you, sire. I shall endeavor to heed your advice.”
With a final bow, Fritz stepped out—although there was another pause at the base of the stairs as if he were struck anew by his inability to serve the brother who slept the dreamless sleep of the vengeful behind that heavy door.
“Go on, Fritz,” Darius ordered.
The butler did as instructed, mounting the lantern-lit stone steps that wound their way up to the first floor of the mansion. When footfalls sounded overhead, quiet and as ever respectful, Darius did some pining of his own.
Without conscious command, his own feet took him out of his private quarters and across the little open area. Standing in front of the stout oak panels, he considered the truism that leaving bears unpoked was a jolly good idea—
He reached forward and took hold of the latching mechanism.
Without making a sound, he lifted the pin from its seat and pulled on the grip. The weight of the door was such that he added his shoulder into the effort, but contrary to its ancient and dungeon-worthy appearance, there was no vampire-worthy creak of the hinges.
Flickering light from the stairwell’s lanterns pierced the chamber’s darkness, illuminating the figure lying on the red-and-black bedding platform with a tentative glow.
As if even flame was afraid of the male.
Wrath, son of Wrath, the last purebred vampire on earth, the heir to what was, under his tenure, the unclaimed throne of the species, lay fully clothed and facedown across the king-sized bed, his long black hair a shroud that covered his face. He was so tall that his lower legs hung free off the side, and so broad that he filled the space between the stacks of soft pillows and the folded duvet at the footboard. He hadn’t even taken his steel-toed boots off, the soles flashing Darius their heavy tread.
And he was armed, even at rest: In his left hand, a silver throwing star was locked in a tense grip, and though Darius couldn’t see the right side of things, he was willing to bet there was a dagger hilt in the other palm.
The war with the Lessening Society’s pallid, soulless killers had gone on for too long, the vampire community struggling to survive against the Omega’s legion of slayers, the Black Dagger Brotherhood their first, and only, line of defense. And Wrath had clearly found a fight or two before crashing over day. The baby powder smell of the enemy’s blood saturated the chamber’s air, but that wasn’t the only scent. Wrath had been freshly injured—
“What.”
Darius took a deep breath. “Just checking to see if you’re alive.”
“What time is it?”
“Do you want me to go get Marissa? Do you need to feed?”
Though posed as questions, they were actually statements. Clearly, the male needed to—
Wrath’s head lifted and slowly turned to look over his hulking shoulder. With the hand that clasped the deadly martial arts weapon, he swept a fall of black hair out of his face, those sharp points of the star oh-so-close to tender areas. Not that he seemed to care.
Pale green eyes with tiny pupils stared myopically across the chamber. “Time.”
“You’ve got a good two hours still,” Darius lied. Because if he told the brother that there were only about fifteen to twenty minutes left before it was safe to go out, Wrath would leave now and to hell with the nuclear sunburn.
That head went back down and the rib cage expanded and contracted.