As Rehvenge apologized for nothing that was his fault--and nothing that was actually a surprise, Trez shook his head. The pair of them were standing in the grand foyer of the mansion, their feet planted on the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in bloom.
He put his hand on the male's fur-clad shoulder. "Seriously, Rehv. Thank you for giving it a shot."
Rehv plugged his red cane into the floor and walked around. "I looked everywhere in our records. Asked people--"
"Rehv, listen, I appreciate your going up to the colony. But honestly, I didn't expect some magical answer." Shit knew he was used to bad news at this point. "So don't beat yourself up about it."
That floor-length mink flared out behind the huge male as he continued to stride about. Eventually, he stopped dead. "Do you remember the night we met?"
"How could I forget."
"Always felt like that was supposed to happen." The male stared down at his ostrich-skin shoes. "I don't want . . . this for you. Especially considering what else is waiting for you."
Rehv was one of the few who knew about his being the Anointed One back in the s'Hisbe.
God, Trez thought. That mess at the Territory wasn't on his radar in the slightest. Selena was the great sanitizer of all his other concerns, not just wiping his slate clean, but scrubbing the shit raw.
"I'm going to see this through with Selena," he heard himself say. "I'm not going anywhere else while she's . . . you know."
"Anything you need, you got it." Rehv came over. "I just . . ."
It was unsettling to see such a great male, who was known for his brash arrogance, appear so defeated.
Trez had to cut off the commiseration or it was going to take him down. "Look, you don't have to say anything else. Frankly, I'd rather you didn't. Not for nothing, I gotta stay focused on where I'm at right now--Selena is going to come down those stairs and I can't be all up in my head for tonight."
"Understood. But I'm going to hug ya."
"Please don't--oh, no, come on, man--"
As he was enveloped in mink, he stiffened--and felt like an asshole. For fuck's sake, the guy was just being real, but damn, all Trez wanted to do was run into the billiards room. Maybe hit himself over the head with a cue stick.
Until the damn thing broke.
His head, not the stick.
"Wow, this stuff is soft," he said, stroking the coat.
Rehv stepped back. "I'm gonna go crash upstairs in the guest room. I'm whipped and Ehlena has been up all day with Luchas. I think we're going to go sleep for the whole night."
"Sounds like heaven to me."
Awkward. Moment.
"You gotta stop looking at me like that." Trez rubbed his face. "She's not dead yet."
"I know, I know. Sorry. I'll leave you alone."
Rehv clapped him on the back and then hit the grand staircase, ascending with the help of that cane. And as Trez stayed where he was, he realized why he had not hunted down his brother to talk about things. Usually, he and iAm would have spoken eight times already--and it was only seven o'clock in the evening.
But if Rehv being a good guy got under his skin, Trez really wouldn't be able to handle that shit with his blooded brother right now. He was barely holding on to himself--one look into iAm's black stare?
He was afraid he wouldn't be able to put things back together from the rubble.
Sometimes, the honesty was too much--
Oh, fuck him. Was he seriously quoting seventies Muzak now?
Pacing, pacing, pacing. He and Selena were set to leave at seven-thirty, and he'd planned to help her down to the car. That had been a big-ass no-go, however: a good hour ago, he'd headed to the third floor to check on her, but Xhex had barred his entry and informed him he wasn't welcome in his own bedroom. Then the fighter had thrown one of his black suits at him, along with a black button-down, black tuxedo loafers and silk socks, and his black-on-black Audemars Piguet watch.
And slammed the door in his face.
Females. Honestly.
But he had changed into the clothes. Like a good boy. And come down here to wait.
As Rehv's draped figure disappeared up above, Trez took out his phone and checked his texts. He expected to find something from iAm, but, typical of his brother, the guy knew when he needed space and was giving it to him.
He fired off a quick update to the male, telling him that he was going out with Selena and that he'd touch base later on when they came back. Then he reached out to Big Rob and Silent Tom, and informed them to route everything that had to do with the clubs through Xhex--assuming she could get herself free of the extreme makeover stuff going down in his room. He was about to put the phone away, when he saw he'd missed a text.
From Rhage.
The Brother had reached out and--
"Hey, we ready to go? Where's your female?"
Speak of the Hollywood. The Brother in question came jogging down the main staircase, weapons jangling like human Christmas bells off various holsters that he had yet to strap on his body.
"Just got your text," Trez said. "Sorry I didn't respond."
"You got shit on your mind. It's cool."
The two clapped palms. Clinched up. Pounded shoulders. Stepped back.
"Check you out." Rhage did a walk around. "Lookin' fine."
Trez snapped out both of his French cuffs. "I can't embarrass the female."
"Lookin' like that, she'll be lucky to stand next to you." Rhage stopped in front of him. "See, this is what I'm telling my Mary. She wants me to add color to my wardrobe--it's been a thing, like, for the last couple of years."
As the Brother shuddered as if his shellan had suggested he wear women's panties under his leathers, Trez started to smile.
"You're into the black, Hollywood?" he said.
"She wants to match my eyes." Rhage pointed to his unbelievably teal peepers. "Like, seriously. I say, I've already got aqua on me all the time with these things. Why do we need redundancy."
"So how much color is in your closet?"
"I don't want to talk about it. Too depressing--"
Lassiter poked his head out of the billiards room. "Hey! Dragon boy--Project Runway's on if you wanna come watch. Maybe pick up some pointers on your threads."
Rhage's stare narrowed, but he refused to look at the angel. "Isn't there a Saved by the Bell marathon you have to go watch?"
"Don't hate on Zack. He's like your little fucking brother, beauty queen." Lassiter wandered over, the gold he had on creating an aura around his blond-and-black head and his long body--or maybe the glow actually was an aura. "So, where are we off to? Your club, Shadow?"
"No."
"An embalmer's ball then? With all that black on, it's like you're getting into the funereal arts--"
Rhage moved so fast it was impossible to track. One moment, he was gritting his teeth beside Trez; the next, he was nose-to-nose with the angel, his hand locked on Lassiter's throat.
Words were spoken so softly, Trez couldn't track them, but a moment later the smart-ass drained out of the angel's face and attitude.
Rhage dropped the vise grip and stepped off. "So that happened," he muttered as he came back over and started strapping up. "Might as well get this shit on. I'm riding shotgun with Manny tonight."
"Oh, yeah." Trez took a deep breath. "Hey, thanks for doing--"
"But only because he promised me steak."
Trez popped a brow. "I'm sorry?"
"Steak? You know, cow? Meat? Heaven on a plate? I know you've had some before."
"I'm familiar with it, yes. But you're coming to help with--"
"The steak consumption. That's why I'm going."
There was an awkward pause. During which Rhage simply stared at him, as if making the statement that he was not going to be a drama zone.
And Jesus, that was probably the most helpful thing the Brother could have done. It was like a lifeline out of the emotional suck zone, and Trez grabbed on.
"Steak, huh. You going to orde
r takeout from Circle the World?"
Rhage recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "So, okay, clearly you are not aware of this, which is a stunning lapse in your formal education, but the best steakhouse in Caldie, 518, is right across the street from the skyscraper your restaurant is in. My plan? While you and your girl are up there getting your jollies on and going around in circles, I'ma be down at the ground floor eating, like, a filet mignon, a roast beef end cut, a Kobe beef burger, a New York strip."
"Sounds good. Which one are you having? You decide yet?"
Rhage frowned. "All of them. With thirds on the mashed potatoes. See, you gotta get your mashed-to-meat proportion right. Makes all the difference. And then there are the rolls. I'ma get three baskets delivered out."
Trez put up his forefinger. "You know what you need? A meal at Sal's. You should come eat at my brother's joint."
"Is that Italian?"
"Yup. Talk about best in the city--"
"Shit, why haven't I--"
"Holy . . . motherfucker . . ."
At Lassiter's barked curse, Trez and Rhage glanced over at the angel. The PITA didn't notice them, however, his unusually colored eyes focused upward, as if the Second Coming had arrived at the top of the grand staircase.
Just then, a telltale scent reached Trez's nose and rocketed through his blood, the impact wrenching his head and his body around. . . .
Whereupon he lost all thought. All breath. And all of his soul.
Selena stood at the head of the bloodred-carpeted steps, her lovely hand resting on the gold-leafed balustrade, her body held stiffly, as if she weren't sure about her shoes, or her dress, or maybe even her hair.
There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Unless she had a problem with being an H-bomb.
Her long dark hair was down around her shoulders, falling to the small of her back. Curled from tip to base, it was such a feminine glory, so overwhelming with its weight and its shine, that he fisted his hands and released them because he wanted to touch it, stroke it, smell it. But that wasn't the half of it. Her face was the only thing that could possibly have put the stuff to shame, her skin radiant, her eyes sparkling, her full lips red as blood.
And then there was the fucking dress.
Black. Simply cut. With a low-cut bodice and a skirt that ended north of mid-thigh.
Very north. Of mid-thigh.
Selena extended a foot, a delicately shod, high-heeled foot that was plugged into a teeny-tiny ankle and a perfectly curving calf that had him grinding his teeth.
He had to swallow hard as she started to descend slowly, each step she took bringing her closer to him being able to touch her, kiss her . . . take her.
Man, that dress was a total knockout, nothing but a sheath that followed the contours of her hips, her waist, and her breasts, with a gathering off to one side at her middle and a second at one of her shoulders. She wore no jewelry at all, but why would she? There was no diamond, no emerald, no ruby, no sapphire that could come near her devastating perfection.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated, glancing left and right, probably at Lassiter and Rhage--were they still in the foyer with him? Who knew. Who the fuck cared?
Selena smoothed the . . . was that silk? Wool? Taffeta?
Tinfoil? Paper bag?
She reached up and pushed at her hair. Then grimaced. "You don't like it, do you. I can change. I was going to wear . . ."
Something knocked him in the side.
". . . traditional dress. But the girls thought . . ." She looked up over her shoulder to the females who stood at the top of the stairs. "I can change--"
Lassiter cursed. "Fuck no. Don't you dare. You look--"
Trez's upper lip curled off his descended fangs. Then he snapped his jaws in the direction of the fallen angel, like a German Shepherd. Or maybe a bull shark doing a test bite before he went chainsaw on his prey.
Lassiter put up his palms. "Whatever, man, I was going to say she looks like a charity case. A football referee. A Martha Stewart impersonator. You want me to keep going? I could break into dumb-ass Disney characters. There are so many of them."
That poke in his rib cage came again. Then Rhage leaned in. "Trez," the Brother hissed. "You gotta fucking say something here."
Trez cleared his throat. "I . . . I . . . I . . ."
He was dimly aware of the females on the second floor breaking into high fives and cheers of, "Nailed it." But his queen remained worried.
Okay, he needed to pull himself together--before Rhage's elbow nailed him in the liver again, and Selena bolted back to his bedroom. "You are . . . I am . . ."
He pulled at the collar of his silk shirt, even though the thing was wide-open.
"You like it?" she said.
All he could do was nod. He was literally nothing but hormones in a black suit. She was that beautiful to him.
"Really?"
More nodding. "Uh-huh. Really."
Selena started to smile. Then she glanced back at the females, who jumped up and down and gave her thumbs-up.
His queen turned back to him. Stepped in close. Took his hands and stretched up to whisper in his ear, "The only thing they didn't give me was underwear."
Naked.
She was n-n-n-n-nakey under that.
THIRTY-ONE
No sleep.
Paradise had gotten absolutely, positively no sleep whatsoever in the beautiful house. At first, it had been because she was so excited to have the run of the place that she'd gone through every parlor, bedroom, and bathroom, marveling at the art, the furnishings, the decor--twice. Then it had been a case of picking a bedroom underground (she'd chosen the one on the left) and unpack, unpack, unpack.
Her beloved doggen, Vuchie, had started to lay a pallet for herself out in the short, stone-walled corridor between the two subterranean suites, but Paradise had insisted her maid go across the way and stay in the other actual bedroom. This had led to a series of protests, whereupon her servant, trapped between a direct order and her discomfort at staying in such luxury, had nearly had a nervous breakdown.
In the end, though, and as usual, Paradise had gotten her way.
At which point, she'd retreated to "her" bedroom, changed into nightclothes and discovered the further good news that the Wi-Fi didn't require a password. Stretching out on the velvet duvet, she'd checked Twitter, Facebook, a couple of blogs, and the New York Post and Daily News--and continued to ignore texts from Peyton. When her eyelids had finally started to drop, she'd put her phone aside and dragged half the covers over on top of herself, her Syracuse b-ball sweatshirt and her yoga pants the kind of pj's she had slept in many, many times.
Annnnnd that was when the no-sleep thing had gotten its groove on.
Even as she'd closed her eyes, her mind had buzzed with what her father had told her she'd be doing at nightfall to help him with the King.
And then there was the fact that that long-lost cousin was alone with her father back at their house. What if he hurt her dad?
So, yup, she thought as she stepped in front of the mirror in the bathroom. No shut-eye . . . even when her lids had been down.
The good news was that the wait was over. And her father had texted her that his ETA was in about fifteen minutes--so clearly, he'd made it through the day okay, too.
Funny, she was shocked by how badly she needed to see him. After so many years of praying for some freedom, she had found the actual experience marked by a whole lot of homesick.
"But now I get to work."
Turning to the side, she straightened her navy-blue blazer. Tugged at her white blouse. Fiddled with her strand of pearls.
As she stepped back, she decided she looked like a 1960s stewardess for PanAm. Like the ones they'd had in Catch Me If You Can.
"Ah, come on." She yanked out the tie she'd pulled her hair back with, and fluffed things out. "Oh, yeah. That's really different."
Not.
Hair down so did not improve t
he situation. But she was out of time, and more to the point, who did she have to impress, anyway?
Okay, bad question to ask in any form if you were about to try to hold down your first job and it was not only for your father, but for the King of your entire race, and his personal guard of straight-up killers.
It was enough to get her praying to the Scribe Virgin.
Stepping out of her--
"Please, mistress. Allow me to make you some breakfast."
Vuchie was standing just inside the room, dressed in her perennial gray-and-white uniform, her weight going back and forth between her crepe shoes. The doggen had brown hair, brown eyes and skin the color of white bread, but she was lovely in her own way--and probably only fifty years older than Paradise. The two had known each other since Parry could remember--as with many daughters of aristocratic parents, the pair of them had been matched with the hopes of a lifelong mistress/servant relationship being formed. In a lot of cases, one's maid was the most important thing taken to your new home when you were mated to a male of similar privilege and breeding.
It was your tie to the past. Your sanity. And, a lot of times, the only person you could trust.
Boy, she much preferred this current relocation--that was because of a job, not some overbred hellren type.
"I'm fine, Vuchie." She tried to smile. "Are you hungry yourself?"
"Mistress, you did not have Last Meal, either."
Parry had no intention of coming clean with the truth--namely that if she had so much as half a nook or a quarter of a cranny, she was going to go golf sprinkler all over her stewardess-ness. That kind of candor was only to going to lead to a fight over bed rest, and likely, Vuchie calling in her father for R&R reinforcement.
"You know what I would love?" Parry forced a smile. "If you could prepare something for me to eat at my desk." She went over and linked arms with Vuchie. "Come on, let's do this."
"But . . . but . . . but--"
"I'm so glad you agree. I just love it when we're on the same page like this."
Up at the top of the curving, rough-cut stone staircase, they stepped through a life-size portrait of a French royal into the parlor, where the receiving area was located.
"It's so quiet," Paradise said, stilling.
The room, like the rest of the house, was just so beautifully decorated, antiques everywhere, silks and satins on the walls and the floors, even the chairs people were to wait in covered in rich fabrics. It reminded her of articles she'd read in Vogue and Vanity Fair about Babe Paley and Slim Keith, the scale of the furnishings so perfect, the objets d'art little whimsies of jade and gold and brass, the colors restrained, but not weak.