3. Last Will and Testament #3
Miles’s hand closed on his arm. The pressure was light, a familiar weight that anchored him before he could fly apart.
Gabriel’s jaw clicked shut. He looked at Miles. Found his partner’s brown eyes already on him, warm and steady despite the absurdity of their situation.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. What now?
Miles frowned, and Gabriel couldn’t interpret his expression before Miles broke their gaze to address Palthor.
“How did the Crown determine that Gabriel was the legal heir? He wasn’t aware of any possibility of an inheritance until we received the summons.”
Gabriel held his breath and his face steady. Oh. That’s what that look meant .
Palthor blinked behind his spectacles. “All nobility are required to register their current designated heir with the Crown Offices. The relationship to said heir must be documented as well.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Lord Goldmar filed the appropriate forms designating Gabriel as his son and heir.”
The room slid sideways. Gravity seemed to suspend, then double. Gabriel heard the words, understood them individually, but their meaning refused to assemble into anything coherent.
“When?” Miles’s voice had gone very quiet .
Palthor frowned, pulling a different ledger from beneath his desk. Pages rustled as he flipped through decades of entries. “Let me see... Goldmar, Goldmar... ah. Here. The designation was filed...” His finger traced down a column. “Almost twenty years ago. Veilfall of 1068.”
Gabriel did the arithmetic. He’d been five.
“That would have been shortly after the death of Lord Goldmar’s uncle,” Palthor continued, oblivious. “The previously designated heir. Madaze required a replacement, naturally.”
Five years old. His mother was already dead in the basement, a fever burning her away before he could memorize her face. He had been raised by the others. Trained to be silent, pliant, and beautiful.
And the entire time—
The entire time, he’d been Madaze’s son and heir. Legal. Documented. Filed in triplicate with the Crown Offices.
Madaze had been his father and had known it. Bile rose in his throat, and Gabriel wondered how Palthor might react if he threw up all over the desk.
Miles placed a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Solid.
Gabriel couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at Palthor’s bland, ink-stained face. Couldn’t look at anything except the patch of floor between his feet.
Madaze’s hair. Madaze’s height. My father.
No . A lie. A decoy heir for a vampire who intended to live forever. He had been clueless about the possibilities of inheriting and, therefore, unlikely to assassinate him to expedite the process. That had to be it. Because if it wasn’t...
He couldn’t speak.
What was there to say?
Miles would handle it.
“Master Quillmane,” Miles said, deploying a measured, diplomatic tone that Gabriel both admired and found profoundly irritating in moments like these, when what he really wanted was to flip the desk and storm out in a dramatic exit that would at least make him feel better, even if it accomplished nothing. “Let’s approach this pragmatically.”
Palthor’s attention shifted to Miles with something resembling relief. Apparently, even unflappable bureaucrats preferred dealing with the calm one.
Gabriel had no calm to give. If the registry was true, Madaze was a father who had pimped out his own child.
It potentially answered a question Gabriel had never dared ask: why Madaze, a man of infinite gluttony, had never taken Gabriel to his own bed. He had broken Gabriel. He had sold Gabriel. But he had never fucked Gabriel.
Perhaps it was the one line the monster wouldn’t cross? Or perhaps a line he wouldn’t want anyone thinking he’d crossed, should the son named in his will someday be connected to the whore?
A father pimping out his son? Or a strategist pimping out his falsely named heir?
A bubble of hysteria rose in Gabriel’s throat. He swallowed it down. It didn’t matter. Son or not, the result was the same. Madaze was dead, and his heir had killed him.
“If we were to assume,” Miles continued, “that we wish to rid ourselves of this title and its holdings in the most expeditious way possible—keeping in mind that the name Goldmar is unacceptable to be associated in any way with Gabriel—” He paused, spreading his hands in a gesture of openness. “What would be your recommendation?”
Something shifted in Palthor’s demeanor. Not warmth, exactly—the man seemed constitutionally incapable of warmth—but a thawing. Like Miles had asked the secret question which unlocked a different level of engagement.
Palthor reached for a fresh sheet of paper and a pen.
“The most efficient process—and I emphasize efficient only in relative terms, you understand—would be as follows.” He began writing as he spoke, creating what appeared to be a numbered list. Of course it was a numbered list. “First, petition for the title name change. This removes the Goldmar designation from your legal identity.”
“How long does that take?” Miles asked.
“Weeks. Possibly months, depending on the Bureau’s calendar and current backlog.
” Palthor continued writing. “The Bureau is notoriously slow, and if you attempt to initiate other legal processes involving the title while the name change is pending, you’ll invalidate them when the change is approved and need to restart the entire process. ”
Gabriel’s head thunked back against the chair.
“However,” Palthor continued scribbling on his list, “you can—and should—work on inventorying and certifying the estate’s holdings concurrently.
This requires visiting each property, documenting its condition and contents, and filing the appropriate paperwork with this office.
” He gestured at the filing cabinets. “Once the name change is finalized and the holdings are certified, you would then need to identify a suitable heir.”
Miles leaned forward. “An heir?”
“Someone to transfer the title to, yes. At which point you can formally retire as the ruling Lord of—” Palthor paused, pen hovering, “—whatever the title is renamed to.”
“Wait.” Gabriel straightened. “I can just... give it to someone? Anyone?”
“Within certain parameters, yes. The heir must be of legal age, of sound mind, and willing to accept the title and its attendant obligations.” Palthor’s pen scratched against parchment. “Including the tax debt.”
Gabriel seized on that word— willing —as a raft in the maelstrom of his thoughts. “Now wait just a tick. I certainly wasn’t willing to inherit this disaster. Why am I just stuck with the mess, but my heir gets a vote?”
“You were a minor when the designation of heir was made. Lord Madaze Goldmar, as your father, consented for you.”
“Not. My. Father.” Gabriel tried to will it to be true. It must be true.
Palthor blinked. “Hm. You are putting me through my paces today. I have never encountered a son denying the paternity claim of a father. The opposite, of course, is common. You could contest the late Lord Goldmar’s claim in court, although I am unaware of any precedent as to what type of proof might be required. ”
Gabriel shot Miles a pleading look.
Miles frowned. “I think Palthor’s proposition might be faster and more certain than contesting Madaze’s paternity claim. Although if you’re certain he lied, we could clear the record after.” Miles hesitated. “Are you? Certain?”
He couldn’t be. He knew it in his heart, but what proof did he have? Perhaps there would be some confirmation of Madaze’s villainous plot in one of his journals. Perhaps not. He swallowed his outrage, shook his head, and turned back to Palthor.
“So we need to find someone willing to inherit forty-seven thousand gold worth of debt,” Gabriel said flatly, “along with a crumbling manor in the Spires that’s probably worth less than the back taxes, given the state in which we left it, plus whatever other complications Madaze accumulated through his various crimes. ”
“Crimes?” Palthor looked up .
Gabriel’s lips stretched into a smile that was all teeth.
“Oh, didn’t I mention? The late Lord Goldmar ran an exclusive sex trafficking operation out of Rookgate Manor’s basement, catering to depraved tastes outside the boundaries of the legal sex work of Velvet Row.
He enslaved people. Sold their services.
I would know. I was one of his most expensive assets.
” He studied Palthor’s face. “So, whoever inherits gets not just the debt, but also the delightful associations that come with being the new Lord of the Rape Manor. Quite the legacy.”
Miles’s hand tightened on his arm.
Palthor had gone very still. “I... see.”
“Do you?” Gabriel leaned forward. “Because I’m trying to understand what kind of person would want this title, given everything that comes with it. Much of this may have been hushed up, but any heir to this title cannot help but learn the awful truth.”
“Gabriel,” Miles said quietly.
But Palthor surprised him. The clerk set down his pen and folded his hands atop the desk, meeting Gabriel’s gaze directly for the first time since they’d entered the office.
“You’d be astonished at what people are willing to overlook in pursuit of a title.
Wealthy merchants, primarily,” Palthor said.
“Those who’ve accumulated enough gold to be embarrassed by their lack of noble lineage.
A title—any title—grants access to circles that would otherwise remain closed to them.
Social advancement. Political influence.
The ability to arrange advantageous marriages for their children.
” He gestured at the file. “The debt is substantial, yes. But to someone with sufficient liquid assets, it’s.
.. an inconvenience. The price of entry. ”
Gabriel processed this. “You’re saying there are people who would pay to inherit Madaze’s mess?”