Lover of the Shadow Throne

Prologue

Six months ago…

Caldwell, New York

Rhysallhan, blooded son of Chritophe the Younger, had never committed murder before.

Picking up a silver candlestick off the sideboard, he blew out the lit wick on a gasp.

Then he removed the stem of lily-scented beeswax and regarded the object that was one of many in the formal dining room.

Fashioned as a Corinthian column, the holder had an ornate, weighted bottom that was sealed on the underside with aged green felt and a top that was articulated with the delicate curls and flourishes typical of high Greco-Roman architecture.

Gripping the sterling stalk at the top, he turned it upside down and tested the weapon in his hand. Felt the weight of the base as he struck his own palm. Watched the arc it made as he swung his arm from over his shoulder to down at his hip.

He had never killed anybody before, and as a pretrans, he didn’t have much physical strength to bring to the act.

The element of surprise was going to have to work with him.

As thunder rolled overhead and rain lashed at the old-fashioned windows, he walked down the mahogany table that was long as a landing strip, glossy as a still pond.

Arriving at the ornate archway in the rear, he paused and listened through the storm’s rage to the distant piano music.

As his hold bloomed with sweat, he was forced to wipe his hand on the seat of his pressed trousers, and when that wasn’t enough, he had to take the pocket square from the breast of his fitted jacket to wipe the sterling silver off.

Ah, a better grip now. Too bad that wasn’t going to last.

I am not ready, he thought.

But if he was going to commit this murder, it had to be now when the doggen were out running errands and his sister had taken the chauffeured car for the evening. Also, assuming he was successful, there was going to be cleanup, and he needed to account for that.

As a tremendous gust of wind battered the mansion, the lights flickered, causing shadows to seethe all around like evil coconspirators. There was no hiccup in the piano music, no dropped notes, that which had been learned long ago now played by heart.

He tested out the downward strike a couple more times.

No more procrastinating. It had taken him a month, but he had everything all arranged, had gotten the correct legal documentation set up, had even taken the wet vac out of the doggen’s downstairs broom closet. For that cleanup.

He had watched medical documentaries to prepare: Blood loss could be extensive. The face and scalp were highly vascularized.

Slipping his feet out of his loafers, he started silently for the source of the music.

And had to stop. His silk socks made no noise on the marble floor, but the lack of traction was going to be a problem.

Doubling back, he put his shoes on again and proceeded on his tiptoes, crossing the foyer like something out of a cheesy old movie.

His life had boiled down to a round of Clue.

The disaffected son, with the candlestick, in the conservatory…

Another bracing whoosh of wind caused a concert of creaks and groans to harmonize with the piano, and the lights cut out abruptly. As he sucked in his breath, he slapped his free hand over his mouth and nose. The piano music continued, however. And then the illumination sputtered back on.

The ornate frosted doors were open, and his eyes locked on the male whose back was to the entry.

Chritophe the Younger—also the firstborn son of his generation—was seated at the Steinway, facing into the glass cavern of floral flares and static marble statues.

Dressed in a pale gray version of the wool suit Rhysallhan himself wore, the male was bent over the ivory keys, his torso swaying as his elbows extended and retracted, his long, elegant fingers flowing this way and that, his precisely combed head bobbing in time to the plodding beat.

A serviceable player rather than an inspired one, the music produced was good enough to carry a pedestrian ear, the notes executed adequately, the tempo on the slow side due to a lack of dexterity.

Ultimately, he was just a hobbyist, but certainly far, far superior to those at the “Chopsticks” level.

Hatred coiled like a beast in Rhysallhan’s soul.

Stepping over the threshold, he tightened his hold on the candlestick’s head, and the notes coming out of the Steinway seemed very, very loud, even though the delicate volume had not changed.

The piece was an inappropriate soundtrack for what was about to happen.

Mozart’s Sonata No. 16 in C Major, Andante?

So chippy and cheerful, something that should be piped into an elevator.

Better a work from Prokofiev. Perhaps op.

75, no. 6, Montagues and Capulets (Dance of the Knights).

Or fucking Wagner.

Tunnel vision set in as Rhysallhan prowled soundlessly across the slate tiles, all the while measuring the back of his sire’s skull.

When a bloom of sweat gathered under his arms, and a sense of no-return cloaked him in a dissociative panic, he glanced out to the windows.

The storm kicked out another lick of lightning—

He froze.

Between the palm fronds, his reflection was obvious as a TV screen, and he did not recognize the pretrans who stared back at him.

Warped into ugly slices by the leaded frames of the panes, he was a monster dressed in Brooks Brothers, the candlestick as absurd as he was, the two of them drafted into roles that were not part of their design or normal function.

Mouth dry. Sweat across his pathetic chest. Legs quivering.

Only the reality that they were out of time, and not just for this grim duty, got him moving once more, a sloppy stalker, quaking in his loafers.

As he sized up the crown of his father’s head, the cowlick there was a detail he had never noticed before, the trimmed dark hairs growing in an orderly spin.

The pattern reminded him of what water looked like as it funneled down a drain, and didn’t the little bald circle in the center give him something to aim for.

It would be better to strike the frontal lobe, but he wasn’t going to be able to do this head on.

Har. Har.

Besides, even though his father was an aristocrat with no training in physical defense, there was no question who was going to win in any struggle. Not Rhysallhan.

Now, he halted. Three feet behind the piano. The bench. The male who had sired him and his sister.

He was breathing too hard as he lifted the heavy sterling column over his shoulder.

His palm was so very wet, and he added another grip to keep control.

Oh, fuck. That changed the angle. He needed to put things directly over his own head now, otherwise he was going to risk the strike coming down at the wrong—

“Have you come to apologize, then.”

Rhysallhan fumbled the candlestick, and as it tripped out of his grip, his whole body went into a scramble to keep the thing from hitting the floor.

Meanwhile, his father still didn’t miss a single note.

The Mozart was as smooth as the male’s diction, as the lapels of his jacket, as the comb of that hair—

The music snuffed into silence and his father swung around on the piano bench.

Rhysallhan snatched the candlestick out of sight, tucking it at the small of his back.

“Well?” Chritophe prompted tersely.

The male’s posture was perfect, the spine ramrod straight in that tailored gray suit, the narrow shoulders back as if there were a hanger built inside of the jacket.

The expression on the aristocratic face was disdain projected through a bone structure of fine breeding and privilege—which was to say, the loft of that one brow was the glymera equivalent of a screaming load of curses.

“I’m waiting.” Manicured fingers flared into a stretch and then toyed with the precisely folded pocket square at his left breast. “If you’re just going to stand there, I shall go back to my playing. And you may be excused.”

As if Rhysallhan were a nuisance child.

“I… I-I…”

The brows lowered in judgment. “You know, Rhysallhan, this social awkwardness of yours has never been amusing.”

“It’s n-not for your entert-tainment.”

“How fortunate. I have always found your stammering quite tedious.”

From out of nowhere, Rhysallhan noted a strange gathering noise in the distance, the roar making him think of a train approaching or perhaps a plane dive-bombing the mansion.

As the racket redoubled, the blaring rush became so loud that he glanced over his shoulder in case he was about to be run over by an Amtrak anything.

No, it was inside his head.

As he twisted back around, his father’s eyes fixated at a lower angle. “What are you doing with that candlestick?”

Rhysallhan looked down at what was in his hand.

Like so much of the family’s silver collection, the weapon he had chosen was more than a century old, and purchased from Tiffany & Co.

here in the New World. His bloodline had been considered nouveau riche back then, beneath the contempt of the true aristocracy.

After the raids, though, when so many of the glymera had been slaughtered, standards had lowered.

Now even their family tree was considered august and venerable.

“I asked you a question,” his sire snapped. “What are you doing with the candlestick.”

Rhysallhan cleared his throat. “I’m going to kill you with it.”

When he glanced back up, his father was, for once, speechless. For an instant. “I beg your pardon.”

As if the male’s choice of tie had been insulted—

Tennis. Years and years of tennis instruction came back and animated Rhysallhan. With a shocking coordination, he two-handed the candlestick, planted his left foot, and cranked back into a forehand. The swing was level and surprisingly coordinated, the aim right at the side of his sire’s head.

Too bad he’d always sucked at racket sports.