The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(97)
Author: J.R. Ward

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.