9. Chapter 9
9
Graysen
I trailed after the line of suits down the twist and turns of oversized white hallways into Byron’s den. He liked this room and often convened meetings here. I guess it made him feel important to be surrounded by all the antiques. Besides the oil portraits of his ancestors, adorning oak coffers were Ming dynasty urns sitting beside rose-crystal vases, pewter goblets, and ornate Dutch candlesticks. More rare antiques lined Jacobean side tables and Italian Renaissance credenzas. All a reminder to the rest of us they had held the mantle of Great House since the sixteenth century.
Silly little trinkets. Compared to the treasures of my family, Great House Wychthorns’ was the equivalent of shopping at IKEA.
My House was ancient.
A group of armchairs, in a variety of woods and leathers, were arranged in a semi-circle facing the empty fireplace. Sirro chose the one that Byron favored, the leather whispering beneath his weight as he sat down. At his will, all the candles burst into flame, dappling the room in light and shadow.
The Heads of our illegal gambling arm and our brothels—Reska and Zielenski—took seats to Byron’s right.
Ennio Battagli smoothed his tie flat against his shirt with a hand, easing his stocky body into the armchair beside the Horned God. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and clipped the end. House Battagli laundered the dirty money, washing it clean with legal investments.
My family’s boss, Yoran Novak, folded his tall, lean figure into a seat, candlelight undulating across his dark brown skin. We were sworn to Upper House Novak. My brothers and I worked as enforcers for Novak, breaking bones, stealing souls, or ending lives. We cleaned up the messes the other Houses got themselves into and ensured the cartels and crime syndicates were kept in line. Often stepping in if some mortal gang thought they could encroach on our territory. We’d taught the Italian mobsters a lesson in extortion; reminded the Triad and the Yakuza they worked for us, and crushed the Bratvas’ mutiny.
Fun times.
Really —fun times—there was nothing better than breaking bones.
Other than fucking, of course.
Murmuring filled my ears, as the Heads talked about what everyone had been called in for by Byron. This was an impromptu meeting. However, someone among those present had gone behind Byron’s back and informed Sirro about what I’d come across this afternoon.
My money was on Aldert Pellan. A rat-faced man with an unnerving stare, as if he was more interested in what lurked beneath my skin and what it could be used for. He sat, crossing an ankle over a leg, his thin fingers rapping an irritated beat on the wooden armrest. His sons learned their cruelty from him. If Evelene wasn’t a Wychthorn, I might have felt sorry for her. Bruises would decorate her flesh like exquisite necklaces… if they weren’t already.
Byron had given her to that House, even suspicious of Corné’s true nature, merely to secure his placement as Great House.
And they thought I was a cold-hearted bastard.
Sirro’s Familiar refilled drinks from the wet bar and found ceramic dishes for those men smoking cigars, before kneeling on the floor beside her master. Sirro stroked her head, his long fingers raking through her lank, gray locks of hair. His eyes met mine, amusement glimmering in their golden depth as a smirk ghosted his lips. We both knew who he was thinking of—my little bird.
Fury razored down my spine.
Back there in the room full of Pellans, t here’d been just a touch of curiosity if Wychthorn was other . But it had mostly been about something else altogether—he wanted her. His lust for Wychthorn… Gods… The sickly-sweet tang of it coated my mouth and curdled my blood. I wanted to snap the motherfucker’s spine in half… Horned God or not—I didn’t care.
I should have let Sage rip his face off for daring to look at Wychthorn like that. For daring to bind her with his magic, testing her.
Shit, what had given her away?
Something primal and fierce had swept through my veins with the blazing heat of an inferno. Hells. I may as well have pissed all around her to stake my claim…
That’s not a bad idea .
Everyone was aware of the Alverac—signed in our own blood—and knew she belonged to me. Even the Horned Gods couldn’t overturn that boon.
But when Sirro’s dark power lashed out, pinning her to the wall…all that pounded in my head until it drowned every other thought: Protect, protect, protect…
What the fuck?
I didn’t understand what had come over me. Wanting to protect her? Gods, if she needed protecting from anyone, it was from me.
Raking my hands through my hair, I dropped them to rest on my hips. I drew in one breath, two. I needed to shove all that messiness regarding Wychthorn aside to deal with it later or not at all.
Not at all, sounds about right.
As I rolled my neck, a crick cracked in my ears— Fuck, let’s get this over with. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my pants, I strolled before them all.
I understood why I was here.
Byron cut a tall, broad figure, his tawny hair salted with gray. I bowed as shallowly as I could without completely offending him. Still, I saw how his teeth gritted as he took a seat beside Sirro. I tamed the smugness teasing my mouth.
His voice sliced through the room. “What happened?”
I was pretty sure Novak had already informed him, but I suppose he wanted to hear it from me directly. Maybe to mess with me—who knew?