Lover Enshrined (42 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

There were two things the
glymera
liked above all else: a good party and a good funeral.

With the slaughter of Lash’s parents, they had both.

Phury sat in front of the computer in the training center’s office, a headache directly behind his left eyeball. He felt like the wizard was taking an ice pick to his optic nerve.

Actually, it’s a drill, mate
, the wizard said.

Right, Phury thought. Of course it is.

Is that sarcasm?
the wizard said.
Ah, right. You’d planned to be a washed-up junkie and a disappointment to your brothers, and now that you’ve succeeded you’re getting cheeky. You know, perhaps you should start a seminar for others. Phury, son of Ahgony’s ten steps to success at being an utter, irredeemable failure.

Shall I get the ball rolling? Let’s start with the basics: being born.

Phury planted his elbows on either side of the laptop and rubbed his temples, trying to stay grounded in the real world instead of the wizard’s boneyard.

The computer screen in front of him glowed, and as he stared at it, he thought of all the shit that was coming into the Brotherhood’s general e-mail box. The
glymera
just wasn’t getting it. In the message he’d sent out to them, he’d reported on the attacks and urged the aristocracy to get out of Caldwell and take shelter in their safe houses. He’d been careful with the wording, trying not to incite panic, but evidently, he hadn’t been dire enough.

Although you’d think the slaughter of their
leahdyre
and his
shellan
in their own home would be enough.

God, there had been so much death from the Lessening Society last night and tonight . . . and given the
glymera
’s responses, there was going to be more. Soon.

Lash knew where every single aristocratic family lived in town, so there was a chance that a significant portion of the
glymera
was at risk for exposure. And the poor kid didn’t have to give each of the addresses out under duress, either. If the
lessers
got into just a couple of those homes, they’d find clues to so many others—address books, party invitations, meeting schedules. Lash’s leaks were going to be like an earthquake hitting a fault line, blowing the whole landscape apart.

But was the
glymera
going to be smart about the threat? No.

According to the e-mail he’d just gotten from the Princeps Council’s treasurer, the idiots were not going to their safe houses. Instead, they had to mourn this “staggering loss of such a well-appointed male and female of worth” by throwing another party.

No doubt so that they could wage a power struggle for who would be the next
leahdyre
.

And in closing? The guy had tacked on a little ditty that the
glymera
’s Council would be collecting on the debt owed to Lash’s family as a result of Qhuinn’s actions.

Well, weren’t they givers. It wasn’t like they wanted the cash for themselves to . . . say . . . fete a new
leahdyre
. Oh, hell, no. They were “safeguarding the important precedent of ensuring that bad deeds were punished.”

Sure they were.

Thank God Qhuinn was free of them, although Wrath’s appointment of the kid as John’s
ahstrux nohtrum
was a shocker. Bold move, especially as it was retroactive. And just over what appeared to be a fight that Qhuinn had stopped in an inappropriate way? There had to be something more to what had happened in that shower, something that was being kept on the down-low. Otherwise, it made no sense.

The
glymera
was going to know Wrath was protecting Qhuinn, and the appointment was going to come back to bite the king at some point. Even so, Phury was glad that was the way it had all shaken out. John, Blay, and Qhuinn had been the cream of the trainee crop, and Lash . . . well, Lash had always been trouble.

Qhuinn might have had the mismatched eyes, but Lash had had the defect. There had always been something off with that kid.

The computer beeped as another e-mail landed in the Brotherhood’s inbox. This time it was the late
leahdyre
’s right-hand man. And what do you know, the guy advocated a “strong stance against what is a tragic series of losses, but ultimately a low threat to our secured abodes. It is best at this time that we come together and go through the appropriate mourning rituals for our dearly departed. . . .”

Okay, talk about stupid. Anyone with half a brain would pack up their matched sets of LV and hightail it out of town until the dust settled. But no, they’d rather get their spats and their gloves out and make like they were in a Merchant-Ivory movie, with all the black clothes and the ceremonial expressions of condolence. He could just hear the elaborate, phony-ass sympathy exchanges they’d volley back and forth to one another while mushroom puffs were passed by
doggen
in uniform and a polite fight for political control ensued.

He only hoped they would come to their senses, because even though they pissed him off, he didn’t want them waking up dead, so to speak. Wrath could try to order them out of Caldwell, but chances were that would just make them dig their heels in even harder. The king and the aristocracy were not friends. Hell, they were barely allies.

Another e-mail came in, and it was more of the same.
We’re staying and throwing a party.

Man, he needed a blunt.

And he needed . . .

The closet door swung open, and Cormia stepped out of the secret passageway to the tunnel. There was a lavender rose in her elegant hand and a graceful reserve to her face.

“Cormia?” he said, then felt ridiculous. Like she’d changed her name to Trixie or Irene sometime in the last day? “Is there something wrong?”

“I don’t mean to bother you. Fritz suggested . . .” She turned around as if she expected the butler to be right behind her. “Ah . . . he brought me here.”

Phury stood up, thinking this might just be payback from the butler for his untimely interruption the night before. And didn’t that make the
doggen
a hero. “I’m glad.”

Well, maybe
glad
wasn’t exactly the right word. Unfortunately, his urge to smoke was replaced with the urgent need to do something else with his mouth. Although sucking would still be involved.

Another e-mail came through, and the laptop let out a peep. They both looked at the computer.

“If you’re busy, I can go—”

“I’m not.” The
glymera
was like a brick wall, and considering he already had a headache, there was no reason to keep banging his brain up against their stubbornness. Tragically, there was nothing he could do until the next bad thing rolled out and he e-mailed . . .

Although it wouldn’t be him though, would it. He’d been riding the keyboard only because everyone else’s hands were busy doing dagger business.

“How are you?” he asked to shut himself up. And because the answer mattered.

Cormia looked around the office. “I would never have guessed this was down here.”

“Would you like a tour of the place?”

She hesitated and brought forward the perfect lavender rose . . . which was the color of the bracelet John Matthew had given to her. “I think my flower needs a drink.”

“I can fix that.”Wanting to give her something, anything, he reached over to a twenty-four-pack of Poland Spring and pulled a bottle out. Cracking the lid, he took a swig to lower the level and then put it on the desk. “Plenty in here to keep her happy.”

He watched Cormia’s hands as she put the rose in the makeshift vase. They were so lovely and pale and . . . they really needed to be on his skin.

All over him.

Phury untucked his shirt as he stood up and came around the desk, making sure that the tails covered the front of his slacks. He hated sloppy dressing, but better to schlub it than run the risk of her seeing that he was aroused.

And he was. Totally. He had a feeling that it was always going to be like this around her: Something about his coming into her palm the night before had changed everything.

He held open the door into the hall. “Come see our training facility.”

She followed him out of the office and he took her all around, narrating the things that were done in the gym and the equipment room and the PT facility and the shooting range. She was interested but mostly silent, and he had the feeling she had something to say to him.

He could guess what it was.

She was going to go back to the Other Side.

He paused at the locker room. “This is where the boys shower and change. The classrooms are down here.”

Christ, he didn’t want her to go. But what the hell did he expect her to do? He’d left her with no role here.

You
have no role here
, the wizard pointed out.

“Come on, let me show you a classroom,” he said to draw things out.

He walked her into the one he used, feeling a curious pride at showing her where he worked.

Had
worked.

“What’s all that?” she asked, pointing to the blackboard, which was covered with figures.

“Oh . . . yeah . . .” He walked over and picked up a felt eraser, quickly running it over the casualty analysis on a bomb detonating in downtown Caldwell.

She crossed her arms over her chest, but it was more like she was holding herself than a big defensive thing. “Do you think I don’t know what the Brotherhood does?”

“Doesn’t mean I want you reminded of it.”

“Are you going to go back into the Brotherhood?”

He froze and thought,
Bella must have told her.
“I didn’t know you’d heard I was out of it.”

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my concern—”

“No, it’s fine . . . and, yeah, I think my fighting days are done.” He glanced over his shoulder and was struck by how perfect she looked, with her backside braced against one of the tables the trainees sat at and her arms intertwined. “Hey . . . mind if I draw you?”

She flushed. “I suppose . . . well, if you wish. Do I need to do anything?”

“Just stay where you are.” He put the eraser back on the blackboard’s lip and picked up a piece of chalk. “Actually, would you take your hair down?”

When she didn’t reply, he looked back at her and was surprised to find her hands up at her hair, working at the gold pins. One by one, sections of blond waves came down and framed her face, her neck, her shoulders.

Even under the dulling fluorescent lights of the classroom, she was radiant.

“Sit up on the table,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Please.”

She did as he asked and crossed her legs . . . and, holy hell, didn’t that robe of hers fall open, splitting wide up to her thigh. When she tried to close the gap, he whispered, “Leave it.”

Her hands stilled, then shifted back and flattened on the table to support her upper weight. “Is this all right?”

“Don’t. Move.”

Phury took his time as he drew her, the chalk becoming his hands going over her body, lingering on her neck and the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hip and the long, smooth expanse of her legs. He made love to her as he transferred her image onto the blackboard, the sound of the chalk a rasping noise.

Or maybe that was his breath.

“You’re very good,” she said at one point.

He was too busy and greedy with his eyes to answer her, too preoccupied with what he imagined himself doing to her when he was finished.

After an eternity that lasted only a moment, he stepped back and measured his work. Perfection. It was her, but more—although there was a sexual undertone to the composition that even she had to see. He didn’t want to shock her, but he couldn’t have changed that aspect of the work. It was in every line of her body and her pose and her face. She was the feminine sexual ideal. At least for him.

“It’s done,” he said roughly.

“Is that . . . who I am?”

“It’s how I see you.”

There was a long silence. Then she said with a kind of astonishment, “You think I’m beautiful.”

He traced the lines he’d drawn. “Yes. I do.” Silence expanded the distance between them, making him feel awkward. “Well, now . . .” he said. “We can’t leave it up like this—”

“Please! No!” she said, putting her hand out. “Let me look at me a little longer. Please.”

Okay. Fine. Whatever she wanted. Hell, at this point, she could have told his heart not to beat, and the thing would have complied with the order quite cheerfully. She had become his control tower, his body’s master, and anything she told him to do or say or get for her, he would. No questions asked. No care of the means.

In the back of his mind, he knew that all of this was characteristic of a bonded male: Your female commanded you and that was that. Except he couldn’t have bonded with her. Right?

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, her green eyes on the board.

He turned to face her. “That is you, Cormia. You’re like that.”

Her eyes flared, and then, as if she felt uncomfortable, her hands went to the slit in her robe and closed it.

“Please, no,” he whispered, repeating her words. “Let me look a little longer. Please.”

Tension boomed between them, positively pounded.

“I’m sorry,” he said, annoyed with himself. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

Her hands released, and that luscious white fabric fell open with such complete obedience, he wanted to pat it on the head and give it a bone.

“Your scent is so strong,” she said in a deep voice.

“Yes.” He put the chalk down and inhaled, smelling jasmine. “So is yours.”

“You want to kiss me, don’t you.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“You untucked your shirt. Why?”

“I’m hard. I got hard the moment you came into the office.”

She hissed at that, her eyes traveling down his chest to his hips. As her lips parted, he knew exactly what she was thinking about: him coming into her hand.

“It’s amazing,” she said softly. “When I’m around you like this, nothing seems to matter. Nothing but . . .”