Chapter 5
5
Pace
It’s loud with the sounds of summer when we walk down the drive toward the gate. The sun is low, the sky a blaze of oranges, and the cicadas are screaming—along with the crickets and the frogs. The palace grounds have a certain scent in the summertime, wet and ripe. It’s the roses and wisteria, but also the musty scent of the moat and the surrounding trees.
It’s such a fucking ridiculous place.
I stand by the fact that we don’t need a goddamn castle to raise a kid in. Some people in South Side and West End probably raise their kids in shoeboxes, and they do fine. Hell, Verity herself was raised in a shack behind that ratty gym. It’s stupid for three people and a baby to live in a place like this. It’s too big to ever be a home. Too many nooks and crannies. Too many linear feet for an intruder to gain access to.
That said, as we approach the large wrought iron gate, I can’t deny that the palace has its benefits. The man waiting there has a large ledger tucked beneath one arm. The other lifts a cigarette to his lips, and the pull he takes is hard and aggressive, like he’s trying to get as much nicotine as he can out of the single draw before he tosses it to the ground, stamping it out.
“Ashby,” he greets us, voice like gravel despite the fact he’s fairly young. Maybe in his early thirties. “Ashby, and Ashby. Shouldn’t there be one more of you?”
“No,” I say, the three of us reaching the gate.
He’s dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, a nondescript sedan is idling, no one in the passenger seat.
So he’s working this alone, then.
“Agent Knight,” he says, smoothly pulling the bottom of his blazer aside to flash the badge. Beside it is a gun in a holster. “Mind if I come in and talk for a minute?”
“You’re fucking right, we mind.” My words to the agent are firm and without politeness.
Lex inhales deeply. “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He’s not a fan of your profession.”
“Who is?” Agent Knight covers his badge once again. “I’m here about?—”
Wicker clucks his tongue. “What are we, idiots? We know why you’re here.”
Stella. Although, it could be other things. Like the man we’ve got locked down in the dungeon. Or Danner, who hasn’t been seen in weeks. Or Chuck.
Shit. We’ve been busy.
“If you want through these gates,” I tell him, “get a warrant.”
“East End never changes, does it?” He scans each of us, eyes lingering on Wicker’s head. “Even after all these years, it still smells like hair gel and bullshit.”
“If you want to smell our hair gel,” I say, slowly, so there’s no confusion, “get a warrant.”
A small grin curves the corners of the agent’s lips, as if he’s amused, but there’s an air about him, like he thinks he’s better—smarter—than us. Ballsack’s intel says he was sent in from the State office or has connections in Forsyth. He’s staying down on the Avenue in that shitty flop hotel, but spends most of his time over at the Hideaway fucking the Madam.
“People who don’t cooperate tend to have something to hide.” He looks around the grounds, clocking the various security cameras and sensors I have in place. “What are you hiding behind these ridiculous gates and all the security?”
“It’s mostly brocade drapes and cherub paintings.” Wick draws his attention off me. “But what about you, Agent Knight? Got any secrets? Because the way we heard it, you’re only here for the South Side trim. Are the feds paying for pussy now, too?”
“Whitaker, right?” Knight asks, opening the ledger. His eyes scan it quickly. “Everyone I’ve spoken to so far has described you like a poodle, which confused me at first, but now I get it.” His lips curl. “Well-groomed, yippy little barks, and largely ineffectual.”
“Emphasis on largely.” My brother grabs his crotch. “And you’ve been talking about me? I’m flattered.”
Knight ignores him and turns to me. “You’re Pace.”
I lift my chin. “And you’re wasting our nice evening.”
“Doesn’t have to be a waste.” He flips a piece of paper over in his ledger, giving me an intentional view of what’s underneath. My court documents. “Just got out of an eighteen-month stint in the Forsyth Penitentiary for wire fraud, right?”
This guy.
“Agent,” Lex steps between us, aware I’m about to pop off, “we know our rights. You’re not getting past the gates without a warrant. Go downtown, talk to the judge, and get one signed. Then we’ll happily let you in.”
There’s a reason Lex is the smartest. He operates on facts and not emotion like me and Wick. There’s not a judge in the whole damn town that’ll issue a warrant on Ashby’s Palace. Each and every one is a frequent flier down at the Chamber. Father’s got more dirt on these men than our gardener’s boots.
Agent Knight shrugs. “I’m just trying to find the girl; Stella St. James.” He digs through the folder and pulls out a sheet of paper. It’s one of the flyers Rory’s been passing around. “It’s my understanding you’ve been looking for her, too.”
“Sure, Stella’s a sweet girl,” Lex says, “and yeah, we’ve put in the effort to find her. Trust me when I say that no one in East End wants to fuck with a South Side asset. But she didn’t go missing in the palace.” He nods outside the gate. “She went missing out there.”
“True,” Knight says, his gaze ticking back over to me, “but she worked here, and this house isn’t the only place you’ve got cameras, is it? I hear there’s footage of the day Stella went missing.”
I stare blankly. “And?”
He stares boldly back. “And it seems like it’d be in both of our interests for you to share that so I can have it officially examined.”
“Sure,” I say, with a small shrug, “when you get a warrant.”
Wick barely conceals a snort.
“Let me get this straight,” Knight says, his tone shifting from friendly good cop to something darker. “Six women have gone missing in Forsyth and instead of feeling concerned about that, you’re impeding the investigation.”
Straightening my spine, I crowd up on him. “You don’t get to show up at our house and accuse us of not doing enough to find Stella. These women have been going missing for months, and we’re the only ones doing anything about it. Those flyers have been posted for weeks and not one single law enforcement agency has shown up until now. And instead of organizing a search party, you’re in our faces doing fuck-all. Why is that?” Blood thrums in my ears. “You’re not here because you give a shit about the missing girls. You’re here to rack up credit from a whore you’ve gotten too invested in.”
Knight’s olive complexion turns a deep shade of red. He snaps the ledger shut. “Fuck you.”
“Get a warrant for that, too,” I mutter, done with this bullshit. I turn and walk back toward the palace, my brothers following close behind.
“Christ,” I hear Knight say down by the gate, “you Royals are real pains in my ass, you know that?”
He has no idea how much of a pain we really can be if we have the time to put our minds to it. But we’ve got much bigger and more pressing things to deal with, like finding a man named William.
“This is it?” Verity asks, looking out the window. “I thought this place was abandoned.”
Father’s club is in a nondescript brick building. No windows, no neon signs. “It’s not a trashy strip club out on the highway for truck drivers and pathetic men from the suburbs to haunt,” I tell her. “It’s an exclusive club for the powerful, wealthy, and connected in Forsyth.”
Dubiously, she guesses, “People who happen to enjoy doing business while women dance and serve them mostly naked.”
“Well,” I grin, “obviously.”
It’s my idea to bring Verity with me to deliver the proof of life to the Baron King. Wicker obviously couldn’t come without triggering WW3 and Lex wanted to stay back and make sure Father didn’t have any life-threatening injuries. But now that I see her sitting next to me in a pale green, summery dress that has flowy little sleeves and a sexy tie nestled under her breasts, I’m not sure I want to take her into this den of sin.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.
I look at her exactly like that. “Like what?”
“Like I’m a fragile flower who can’t handle a strip club.” She smooths her skirt out over her knees, but her belly is so big now that the hem keeps riding up, revealing the creamy skin of her thighs. “I started hanging out with the cutsluts when I was in elementary school. There’s little I haven’t seen or heard.” She gives me a pointed look. “And it’s not like you guys handled me with kid gloves for the first half of our relationship.”
My lips tip up. “You’re kind of a badass, aren’t you?”
She opens the door. “You just figured that out?”
Leaning over the center console, I grab her arm and pull her back into the car. The kiss is hard and forceful, opening her mouth with a tug on her lower lip. She tastes so fucking good. There’s this thumping in my heart, a beat different than I’ve ever felt before. Not for my brothers. Not for anyone.
She’s appropriately breathless when I pull back, holding her face in my hands. “Look at me, Rosi.” When her dazed eyes blink open, they’re sparkling with the reflection of the dash lights, hypnotizing me. “I need you to follow my lead,” I whisper. For a moment, my whole world feels contained to the sheen of her lips when her tongue sweeps out to wet them. “We can’t let emotion lead with the Baron King. Where he is, the shadows aren’t far behind.”
She gives a slow nod. “I understand. But you, too, right?” At my raised brow, she points out, “You’re the one who was talking about killing them all.”
“Rosi, if you know anything about me, it’s that I have the patience of a saint. Sure, I’m decisive. When I make a decision that’s that. Like how I knew the first time I saw your picture that you belonged to me.” I push a soft tendril of hair behind her ear. “We’re here to give him proof of life. And then, to get the Williams.”
When we enter the bar moments later, natural light and sounds vanish, consumed by the dark moodiness of the club. Despite Father’s lack of presence, the place is packed, a testament to a well-run business. In the back of the room, I see a group huddled around a gaming table. That’s where I find the Baron King, gold mask firmly in place, tucked in the back corner, holding cards. I recognize the others as Mayor Kenneth Strong, Louis Mercer, and Judge Marjorie Klein. Lex wasn’t kidding when he said that Father has dirt on every judge—even the women.
There’s a fifth person at the table, a young woman with dark eyes and blood-red lips. She’s perched on Maddox’s lap, head resting on his shoulder.
The Baroness.
I nod at Monroe, the barkeep, as we pass, going straight to the darkened booth in the back. Father’s table. It’s empty unless he’s here—or well, unless we’re here. It’s a place to do business off the books, much like the Barons’ Crypt or the Lords’ Hideaway. It’s the equivalent of making a deal on a napkin. Maybe it won’t hold up in a court of law, but it sure as hell will out on the streets.
I help Verity ease around the curve of the booth, the pink light overhead giving her skin a warm glow. Before we even take our seats, a server approaches, likely noting the importance of the table. Her dress is beyond skimpy, the top a tight corset to show off her tits and the skirt flaring out in a ruffle. Unsurprisingly, Father has a thing for a sexy bar wench.
“Pace Ashby.” Her eyes are steely as she juts out her hip, a tray tucked beneath her arm. “It’s been a while.”
“Autumn.” I throw my arm over Verity’s shoulders and glance down at her belly. “I’m sure you heard we’ve been a little busy over at the palace.”
“I heard. Congratulations.” She makes no attempt to hide the bitterness in her tone. “Although that’s not the only gossip going around.”
“Yeah?” I jerk my chin. “What else have you heard?”
Autumn is bitter, but she’s East End, through and through. She’d never deny a Prince what he seeks. Eyes rolling, her shoulders sink. “The King hasn’t been in for weeks. No poker. No meetings.” She taps her fingers against the silver tray. “He hasn’t even been by to see his favorite girls.”
Verity looks up at me, mouth gaping. “Rufus hooks up with these women?”
I stroke her cheek, thinking it’s kind of sweet how innocent she can be sometimes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“His personal little harem,” Autumn says, but also pulls a face. “Not me. I don’t meet his standards.”
“Failed Princess,” I not-so-quietly whisper in Verity’s ear. Reaching over to stroke the swell of her belly, I tell Autumn, “No worries, the King will be back soon.”
“Great.” She looks anything but thrilled.
“In the meantime, grab me a beer? Rosi will have something non-alcoholic. Something… sweet.”
Autumn’s mouth forms a tight purse. “Of course.”
“And send a round of whatever they’re drinking to the front table. Judge Klein is looking a little thirsty.” Even though Her Honor is more focused on the dancers on the stage than the card game. I lean back, placing my hand on Verity’s thigh under the table, and notice her green eyes following Autumn’s backside as she walks off. “You know her?” I wonder.
But Verity shakes her head. “No. I mean, I saw her around when she was Princess, at the Furies and stuff. It’s just…” She trails off, looking away. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
I tilt her chin to face me. “It’s something. Tell me.”
She turns, glancing over at Autumn by the bar where she’s placing our order with Monroe. “Back then, I didn’t know what she’d been through. The throning and all of that.” She frowns. “Were you there when it happened?”
“Nah,” I assure. “I was a little busy serving my sentence in the Pen last year.”
Her frown deepens. “But Wick and Lex were.”
“I assume so.” I watch as Autumn takes the first tray of drinks across the room and delivers them to the poker table. Maddox picks up his glass of top shelf and glances over at us. Message delivered. “You know she didn’t mean anything to them.”
Groaning, she insists, “It’s not that I’m jealous. I just…” She truly seems like she’s at a loss for words, finally settling on, “I just know she went through all of that, and now she’s here. She went from the top of the Royal game to… this. It’s just really sad, isn’t it? How this machine can just chew you up and spit you out?”
Probably like me when I see people I was in prison with, like seeing DK the other day on my way into the courtroom. It’s like meeting a fellow combat soldier. Names, territory lines, kingdoms, loyalties… for a second, it’s like they don’t even matter. There’s a connection you can’t dismiss.
“If it makes you feel any better, I heard she wasn’t dethroned. And hey, at least she’s not buried in the solarium.”
Verity cuts me an unamused glance. “Neither of those things makes any of this better, Pace.”
I shrug. “Fair.”
Autumn returns to the table with my bottle of beer and a red, fizzy-looking drink for Verity. “Shirley Temple,” Autumn says, placing it in front of her. “I delivered your other drinks.”
“Perfect.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a roll of cash, grabbing the money for the drinks and adding a fat tip on top.
Autumn notices, eyes widening for a long, awkward pause. Ultimately, she stammers out a quiet, “Wow. Thanks.”
I squeeze Verity’s leg under the table. “Thank her.”
Their eyes meet, and sure enough, I see a flicker of understanding pass between them.
“May she reign,” Autumn says, and it doesn’t even sound sarcastic.
Jesus, sometimes it’s absurdly obvious that we’re not just Royals, but royally fucked.
After Autumn saunters off, Verity takes a sip of her drink, sucking in a cough. “Jesus, that’s sweet.”
All I want to do is lick that cherry syrup off her lips, but then a shadow hovers over the table.
“Regina,” a quiet rumble sounds from behind the mask, “be a good girl and wait for me by the bar.”
She keeps her eyes cast down, hands folded in front of her. “Yes, Daddy.”
Maddox watches her walk away, his dark eyes chilling from behind the mask. “It’ll be a shame to see her go at the end of the summer. I’d only just gotten her trained up right. That’s the bitter pill of Kinghood. You get them just long enough to make them sufferable, and then they’re on to greener pastures.” He sighs, as if to say ‘what can you do?’
Verity’s wide eyes say enough about what she thinks about those two.
There’s something that’s always bugged me, and the chance to ask the question is the only thing distracting me from the fact the man in front of me might be responsible for Verity’s stint in the hospital.
“What’s with the Barons’ whole daddy roleplay thing, anyway?” I ask, sipping from my glass. “What, you sucked so bad at the real thing, you have to make up a fantasy about kids who actually love you?”
It’s the first time any of us have touched on the ‘mutually assured destruction’ that was given to us the day we made our deal with the Kings.
The Baron King—Maddox—adjusts the golden cufflink on his jet-black suit, appearing unbothered that I know his identity. “The last place a father in Forsyth would look for love is from his own children. No one knows that better than the two of you,” he says, greeting Verity with a nod while lowering himself in the seat normally occupied by my father.
My smile drips with disdain. “Just seems a bit creepy and incestuous, is all. You should consider your public image.”
Maddox doesn’t even blink. “You’ve fucked the boy you call your brother.” He tilts his head toward Verity. “She’s fucked the boys her father adopted, and all of you are fucking your sister.” A tsk. “Glass palaces, Pace.”
I’m not sure what he sees in my expression, but internally, I’m wondering how the everloving fuck this piece of shit knows anything about what me and Wick have done behind closed doors.
Whatever he sees, it brings a low, ominous chuckle from behind his mask. “Oh, I’ve been keeping tabs on the Kayes heir for a while now. In truth, I’m surprised he’s not here. It seems like an opportunity he’d be eager to pursue—looking me in the eye.”
Verity squeezes my hand, and I realize I’m vibrating with anger. “He’s a little busy handling that Forsyth fatherhood thing.”
“Pity,” Maddox says, the word glaringly insincere. “I assume that if you’re interrupting my game, you have something for me?”
It’s difficult to look him in the eye with the storm cloud hanging over me. It’s entirely possible this man is responsible for almost killing my Princess and our child. And the thought of him watching Wicker? It makes me want to fly over this table and stab him in the fucking eye. But I meant what I said to Verity before.
So I slide over a tablet and a thin manila folder. “I think you’ll find this satisfactory. Tomorrow’s Royal Gazette, online and in print.” He opens the tablet to a color image of Rufus Ashby standing in front of a shiny modern skyscraper in Indonesia—Jakarta, specifically. “This should satisfy anyone questioning Father’s whereabouts. As you can read, he’s busy checking out operations for a new cybersecurity firm that only began launching operations on Saturday.”
The ‘shopping job was easy enough. It took a little more effort to make a believable paper trail, but it should hold up to scrutiny.
It’s impossible to tell what Maddox is thinking behind the mask as he reads the article. “You have flight records? Credit card statements? Banking logs?”
I give him a long, derisive look. “Don’t insult me.”
Humming, he scans the papers in the file folder. “A video would have been better,” he laments, but despite the daggers I’m staring, he shuts the folder. “However, I agree that this should keep Trudie Stein from calling my office every fifteen minutes, and allow me and the other Kings a shred of plausible deniability if the truth comes out.” He hands me back the tablet, but keeps the folder for himself. “And how is your dear father? Are you going to need our services soon? The crypt always welcomes fallen crowns.”
One day, hopefully yours.
“Not yet,” I say, feeling the slight uptick in my pulse. “We’ve been encouraging him to share some of his darker secrets with us.”
Maddox folds his fingers against the tabletop. “More women buried in the backyard?”
“Actually, no,” Verity grits out. “Something current.”
There’s a tense beat, and then Maddox’s clipped sigh. “Why do I get the impression you have something else to annoy me with?”
Keeping my temper in check, I inhale deeply. “We’ve known for some time that the attack on our Princess came at my father’s command. It was a test for me and my brothers—to be sure that we’re fit for parenting an heir.” I twist my neck, stretching my muscles. “The actions of a crazed, desperate man.”
“Seems like it.” He nudges his drink aside, still untouched. His mask doesn’t even have an opening for his mouth.
“But whoever he hired, they went off script, and we’ve had some trouble figuring out who he contracted.” I don’t even blink in fear of missing a tell. I scrutinize him for anything. A blink. A twitch. A fucking exhale. And I find nothing. The pointed horns of his golden mask gleam in the ambient light, but whatever’s beneath it is hidden. Leaning back, I continue, “Luckily, after some persuasion by my brother, Verity was able to get a name.”
A sigh. “And that name is?”
Verity’s the one to pitch forward, hurling the name like an accusation. “William.”
Slowly, Maddox unlaces his fingers, back straightening. “Impossible.”
To drive home just how possible I believe this is, I take the knife from the sheath strapped to my belt and stab it right into the middle of the manila folder—a bare inch from his hand.
The resounding clunk draws a flinching sea of stares.
I tighten my grip on the hilt. “I’m going to need a little more convincing.”
I’m clocked into my periphery on a good day, but right now, it might as well be a laser focus. It’s how I catch the movement in the shadows near the back, without even having to break Maddox’s eerie stare. There’s another to our left, and while I don’t see the shadow shifting behind me, I can sense it, like a prickle on the back of my neck.
Beside me, Verity’s throat clicks with a swallow.
But Maddox just raises a hand, gesturing casually with two fingers. “I don’t know anything about a contract,” he says, the figures in the dark corners bleeding away, “and I never gave such an order. My Barons are as faithful to me as the shadows.”
Verity audibly gnashes her teeth. “For someone keeping tabs on the Kayes heir, it certainly seems like you have a motive.”
“I don’t keep tabs on Whitaker because I’m threatened by him,” he replies, glaring at her from beneath his mask. When his gaze shifts to me, it’s thin and flinty. “Your father is lying.”
“One of you is lying,” I correct, falling back to leave the knife buried between us. “And since he’s the only one whose balls I’ve had hooked up to a car battery this week, you’ll understand if his words hold a little more weight.”
Maddox’s voice twists into a mocking tone. “Well, you’ll excuse me if I don’t have a car battery handy.”
I grin. “I do.”
“Who’s going to kill Rufus?” he asks, catching me off guard. “Someone needs to take the crown and it’s clearly going to be one of you. After you’re finished getting your pounds of flesh, who’s going to be holding that knife?”
Shrugging, I reply, “You’ll know when we need you to know.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he sighs. “If I were speaking to a King right now, there’d be a mutual understanding.”
Verity snorts. “And what kind of understanding is that?”
But instead of answering her, he stares at me. “Do you know why my house sigil is a pentagram, Pace? There are plenty of rumors. Some say we worship the devil with blood magic, but that’s ridiculous, and everyone at this table knows it.” He tips his head down, eyes intense. “Do you know the true reason?”
“Can’t say I care.”
“Of course, you care.” There’s a grin in his voice. “It’s your brother’s birthright. Maybe even your son’s.”
Verity goes rigid at my side. “Why the pentagram?”
When he reaches out to clutch the hilt of the knife, yanking it free from the table, I jolt in front of Verity.
But he just rucks up his sleeve, slashing a shallow cut into his flesh.
I snap, “What the fuck are you?—”
“Five points,” Maddox says, dragging his fingertip through the pooling blood. He then presses it to the table, drawing a crude star with the blood. “One for each Royal house. North, south, east, west, and nowhere.” The blood smears against the wood as he drags it down, completing the star. “I realize this must be difficult for you to comprehend, considering who raised you, but there’s a reason the Barons don’t claim territory. It’s the same reason I’m wearing a mask right now. It’s why Clive Kayes wore one of his own.” Locking onto my glare, he draws a slow, bloody circle around the star. “Unlike the rest of you, we’re servants of Forsyth—of life and death. Not ourselves.”
“That’s horseshit,” I argue, sneering at the display. “Every Royal house serves itself.”
“Then let me speak this language you know so well. My son—my real son—sees this girl,” he nods toward where Verity is peeking over my shoulder, “as a sister. Harming her and her baby would be unforgivable in his eyes. That trumps your flimsy motive.”
The puff of laughter that tumbles from her lips is dry and harsh. “You’ve done enough unforgivable things to him. I don’t think it’d make much of a difference.”
Maddox slams the knife back into the table—this time, in the middle of the pentagram. “If Rufus is telling the truth, this goes deeper,” he says, grabbing his drink. I watch, frustrated as he tips it over his bloody wrist, the expensive alcohol washing the blood away.
Verity wonders, “What do you mean?”
But he’s already standing, fixing the black cuff of his shirt. “I’ll call the Williams to the crypt tomorrow and see if there’s any legitimacy to Rufus’ claims.”
I give him an incredulous look. “And we’re supposed to take your word for it?”
“A Baron always honors a promise made in blood.” Maddox gestures at the drawing on the table, and then at Verity. “Ask your fists and their fury. She’ll tell you what this means.”
When he stalks toward the door, half of the patrons around the room—at the bar, by the stage, even some in the middle of playing a game—stand and begin exiting with him. These, I know, are his shadows.
In the midst of the display, I give a stunned, gawking Verity an unimpressed glance, reaching to tug the knife from the table.
“Fucking drama king.”