Chapter 10
10
Pace
“This is bullshit,” I say, checking my phone again. “He should be back by now.” Verity promised she’d text me the moment Ballsack was released from the station, but it’s been thirty-two hours. How long are they planning on keeping him?
In the driver’s seat, Wicker downshifts, turning onto an old, overgrown road. “He’s probably sleeping off the interrogation in West End or something.”
“The Dukes would have told her,” I point out. Wick’s caught only a brief glimpse of what Verity’s life is like in West End, but I spent the last month going back and forth, running supplies to Lex as he nursed Nick Bruin back to something resembling health. I’ve seen the way the Dukes are with her. A little too close, in my opinion, brotherly or not. But they wouldn’t leave Verity hanging.
I suppose that’s the difference between my brother and me.
I observe.
Wicker does.
Case in point…
I peer through the break in the trees, unable to miss the looming structure. “Huh.”
“What?” Wicker asks, opening the glove compartment and stashing his gun inside. I know he has the blade from Father’s office in his boot. He seems partial to it lately.
Shrugging, I swipe the gun before he can close the compartment, sliding it into my waistband. “I’d heard the Baron King did Royal business out of an old church, but I always thought it was an urban legend or something.”
Wicker scoffs, tossing me a look. “There’s no such thing as an urban legend in Forsyth. Every ridiculous rumor you hear is not only true, but the reality is probably even more absurd.” He stares out at the stone chapel, craning his neck to look up at the steeple, the cross missing at the top. “And that’s a lot more than just a church. It’s the House of Night. It’s probably the oldest building in Forsyth.”
It’d be a lie to say it doesn’t worry me a little, seeing this new flash of energy in his eyes whenever anything Baron-esque comes up. The way he’s looking at this building, with all its vines and stones, has an unnerving hunger to it. If I thought it’d make a lick of difference, I’d drag him back, but the hard truth is that there’s nowhere better to drag him to. Are the tattered remains of Wicker’s Baron legacy any better or worse than the ones waiting for us in East End?
“Well, we either need to take care of our business or get the fuck out of here,” I say, “before someone notices two relatively under-armed Princes are lurking outside the King’s office at night.”
Coming into brN territory wasn’t on my bingo card for the day, but Wicker casually announced his need to run an “errand” after dinner. It was obvious to everyone but him that he wasn’t going alone, so a coin flip later, here we are. “I still don’t get why you couldn’t have this delivered by courier the way he had it sent to you.” Wick and I stand at the edge of the stone pathway that leads to the front door. “There’s no reason to do this face to face.”
“This was the return address on the envelope,” he tells me, as if that was some kind of invitation. “You’re welcome to wait out here.”
I point between him and the church. “You think I’m letting you go into the Baron King’s creepy, decrepit forest armpit without backup?” I’m still pissed that he and Verity went to the mausoleum alone. The whole thing could’ve been a colossal disaster. I know Wicker thinks I’m too paranoid, but there’s a reason for it. It’s a bit of a stretch to say he’s lived a charmed life, but there are few situations Whitaker Ashby doesn’t think he can’t charm himself out of unscathed.
When he glances at me though, he stalls, releasing a measured breath. “Look, I can’t explain it, but this is just something I need to do. It’s like…” He makes a frustrated gesture. “It’s like closure or something.”
“Closure,” I repeat, brow arching. “Okay, so you’re not planning on claiming your right to Clive Kayes’ throne, leaving the rest of us to rot away in East End.”
Wicker’s forehead scrunches. “And give up my cars?” He laughs when I reach out, slamming my fist into his shoulder. Still, I see the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “Jesus, do you really think I’m that fickle?”
“You?” I ask, deadpan. “Fickle?”
He rolls his eyes. “I know you were committed to this whole fatherhood and mutiny thing on day one, but the road is a little more winding for the rest of us. This,” he nods at the chapel, “is a pit stop.”
Thinking that I can probably understand that, I take a deep breath, nodding. “Then let’s get this over with.”
As Wicker lifts his fist to rap on the door, he mutters, “God, you’re such a jealous freak.” And before I can argue, the door is swinging open, revealing?—
I draw in a sharp breath, reaching for my gun, but it’s only a short thing.
The guy in the doorway looks just like a William. Slick hair. Unsettling eyes. Black suit, completely murdered-out. Tattoos just below the collar of his black shirt, which is straining at the biceps, even though he’s fairly lean. He’s a bit baby-faced in a way that might be disarming if his stare wasn’t made of razor blades.
But he’s not any of the Williams I know.
Wicker snorts. “Looks like the King appointed a new Baron already. William, is it?”
The guy looks from me to Wicker, a twitch of disdain on his lips. “No.” He doesn’t elaborate.
My brother shoots me a look. “See? As if I could ever survive being that terse.”
I start, “We’re here?—”
“To see the King,” the guy says. There’s something about his voice that niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite place my own familiarity with it. He turns, walking off and leaving me and Wick in the doorway. Once he’s halfway down the entry, he turns and fixes us with a blank stare. “Well?” he asks. He may be terse, but that one word speaks volumes, infused with some pretty thick implications as to our intelligence.
My bones are instantly met with a chill, and the weight of the gun on my hip feels strange as I step into what used to be the narthex of the chapel. We’d certainly never invite another Royal into the palace armed.
But I’m not handing it over if no one makes me.
Small alcoves set with votive candles flank each side of the small entry, and straight ahead, through a carved, arched double doorway, is the chapel itself. Pews sit in solitary, vacant rows, all facing the altar at the front. Before I can get a better look, the Baron turns down a hall and leads us to a smaller version of the arched doors.
The room is long, with high ceilings and more arches, but this time on the windows. Stained glass obscures the view to the outside. The purpose of the room itself seems to be a library of some kind, and that’s what stands out to me most.
The room is practically stuffed to the gills.
Thick, old-looking books fill the shelves that line the walls, and binders and boxes cover every other available surface. Where everything in East End seems coated in a gossamer sheen, this appears to carry a layer of history. But there’s an obvious system to the chaos, each stack and row aligned with some system of intent. For a blink, I wonder if this is a Maddox thing. A speck of mania, the kind that’s evident with his son. I look to Wicker to see if he’s thinking the same but his gaze is across the room, focused on the far wall.
Maddox stands in front of it, his fingers laced behind his back, seemingly unaware that we’ve entered the room.
The wall in front of him is much like the meticulous collection filling the room. A finely organized web of maps and photographs, mugshots and lists, scribbled notes, and official-looking government paperwork.
I only manage to zero in on one name—Arianette—before the Baron announces us. “He’s here, Father.”
“So soon?” The King unwinds his fists to reach for a heavy rope. Immediately, a curtain falls over the wall. He’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him, his signature black suit jacket draped across a chair in the corner. His sleeves have been rolled up, revealing muscular forearms and an expensive watch, which sits right below a faded tattoo of a pentagram. My Father always wielded his power through intimidation and instruments. But the Baron King looks strong, like he could dole out the abuse himself.
When he turns, I see Wicker’s hands curl into tight fists in my periphery. “Take it off.”
The King’s head tilts. It’s impossible to read his expression under the mask he’s wearing, the two horns gleaming. “I conduct my business in this place as the Baron King, not myself.”
“We already know your identity,” I tonelessly remind him, keeping an eye on the Baron. “There’s no reason for pretense.”
“Very well.” The King answers by reaching up, plucking at some buckle beneath the cowl, and lifting the mask from his head. Maybe because I’ve glimpsed them through the mask this whole time, the green eyes are the first thing I notice. They’re not a pale green like Verity’s, but deep emerald. His dark hair has gone gray at the temples, and there’s a bit of attitude in his features, sharpened and aloof, just like all the other Kings I know.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” he says, hanging the mask on a hook attached to the shelf. “From what I understand, you and the Princess received and were satisfied with your gift.”
“We did. I wanted to thank you in person,” Wicker’s hand dips into his pocket and he pulls out the key, “and return this.”
“Ah.” Maddox turns to the Baron. “Hunter, you may leave us. Prince Ashby and I have some further business to attend to in private.”
“Pace is staying,” Wicker quickly adds.
“Suit yourself.” Maddox shrugs, waiting until the Baron—Hunter—has exited the room to nod at Wicker. “That key belongs to you and your biological family. Why are you bringing it back to me?”
“I got what I needed.” Jaw tight, Wicker sets the iron key on the long table in the middle of the room. “And besides slitting your traitor's throat, it was the realization that I know who my family is, and they’re not rotting bones encased in marble. Now that I’ve finally looked the man who killed my first family in the eye, I think we can consider our business done.”
Maddox’s mouth ticks up. “Is that what you think I’ve done?”
“You killed my father.” Wicker lifts his chin, doing just as he’d wanted. Looking Maddox—not the King, not the mask, but the man—in the eye. “You killed my father’s father.”
Blandly, I muse, “Probably killed more.”
Maddox’s gaze shifts to me, that same malicious grin ticking upward. “Probably. But then, so have you. Rufus is dead, or presumably will be soon. One of you will take the position of King. Patricide under the weight of a crown.” His eyebrow lifts. “That would make us contemporaries.”
“I’ve seen what the Kings do,” Wicker says, disdain thick in his voice. “Squabbling over petty negotiations, dividing territory lines, keeping brothers and pledges in line. But most of all, you’re all in the flesh trade; whores, fights, trafficking, breeding.” Every muscle in Wick’s well-honed body tenses. “I’m not interested.”
For so long, Wick buried the trauma he experienced from Mayfield, but I think the prospect of having his own child has brought it bubbling to the surface. I get it. Seeing Father on the other side of the dungeon bars, my truth hit me like the coiled tip of his whip.
I’ll never be caged again. Not by him. Not by anyone.
“I can’t say I blame you,” Maddox says surprisingly. “It’s lonely at the top. Isolated. As much as I’m loath to admit it, Payne and Perilini may have the right idea. They’re not doing this alone. They’ve surrounded themselves with their family.” He chuckles darkly. “Perilini even has my family. The irony is that what they’ve created is what I tried to do in my own house. With the Williams, and before that, with my wife, Amber, and our son.”
Wicker and Verity told us what the Baron had said moments before he died on top of the marble casket. How the King was lost without his son and wife, and that William’s attempted assassination was to give his King a death—a purpose. Is that what we’re looking at here? A man with no purpose?
My gaze flicks over to the curtain and the board he covered when we walked in. I’m not sure what that was all about, but it doesn’t seem without intent. If the kingdoms are a chess game, then Maddox has memorized the board we only just realized existed.
“The Baron confessed he was working outside your direction,” Wicker says in that artificial way of his, like Maddox should be grateful he’s not being blamed.
And he fucking well should be.
Maddox exhales, looking away. “Will’s loyalty was misguided. He’d developed a fanaticism that went against the order of my rule. He’d felt I’d grown soft by not acting after the announcement of a potential future Kayes. He worried about an uprising, or worse, a claim by you. But if I’ve learned anything from my son, it’s that the new generation’s loyalties lie not with blood, but with emotion.” I can’t tell if he’s impressed by this or not. Maybe just resigned. “In any case, while you were getting your vengeance, I was getting something of my own.”
“A new baby Baron?” I ask, scoffing. “Doesn’t seem like much of an upgrade.”
Maddox braces his hands on the table, shadows blotting his eyes. “Hunter? Oh, I choose my darklings meticulously, and this one will have a very specific role to serve.” Before I can question that, he goes on, “I was referring to intelligence, however. The way young Whitaker here left that body.” He feigns a shiver—of delight, of disgust. Hard to tell. “We dragged him out in sacks. That’s how I knew.”
Wicker stiffens. “Knew what?”
“The baby your Princess is carrying.” Maddox grins, and for a moment, it’s hard to believe he’s anyone’s father. There’s no warmth in the steel. No paternal comfort in the aging lines of his face. “It’s yours.”
My heart ticks up, and I don’t even think before snapping out, “He’s ours.”
Maddox raises a flattened hand, tipping it back and forth. “Emotionally, I’m sure. But genetically, biologically, he is a Kayes. Relax,” he continues, eyes darkening. “If I had an interest in murdering infants, you’d never have known one another.”
Wicker grinds out, “You don’t have any proof,” and Maddox scoffs.
“I don’t need a DNA test to know that. To kill someone with your bare hands so violently, so artfully…” The energy of the room crackles with tension. “That’s an act of love. A father’s love. I’d know it anywhere.” Maddox tips closer, his low voice full of power. “It’s almost exactly what Benji Kayes looked like when I got through with him.”
I catch Wicker just before he lunges. “You backstabbing piece of shit!” he snarls.
Maddox steps back, as if the line connecting them has snapped. “And this is exactly what you can expect from Forsyth when you’ve finally taken Rufus’ crown. To the victor go the spoils? That’s a fantasy,” he sneers, meeting my gaze next. “You’ll be the monsters now, Ashby. No one will care about why it happened. They won’t assume it was deserved. Are you ready?” He looks between me and my brother. “Are you ready to be the ones in the mask? Because separating those parts of yourself is what it’ll take. Not fancy luncheons and desperate appeals to your frat.”
“If you’re trying to scare us into giving up,” I growl, allowing Wicker to shake me off, “then you’re going to be disappointed.”
“I want you to succeed!” I’m not expecting the sharp boom of Maddox’s yell, nor am I prepared for the slam of his fist on the table. “You—all four of you—are children of Royalty. You’re different facets in the legacy of Forsyth. Stop putting on a play and start leading your fucking kingdom!”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think this asshole was trying to give us advice. Wicker must feel it too because he suddenly asks, “What is this?”
“What is what?” Maddox asks.
He throws his arms out. “This! All this sentimental talk. The gift. The key. The reminders of my bloodline. The fact you let me and my brother walk in here, fully armed, and without any notice.”
Maddox makes a sharp, annoyed sound, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Is it a bad thing that I trust you not to murder me in cold blood on hallowed ground?”
Wick ignores this, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he says, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want the truth.” He doesn’t give the King a chance to respond. “Are you my real father? Is that what this is about?”
I reel back, not expecting that. I know the branches of family trees in Forsyth criss-cross through the generations; Verity is proof of that. But I didn’t see this coming. My heart lunges in my chest, suddenly terrified of an answer I didn’t anticipate needing to know.
Maddox deflates. ”No. Your real father is dead.” His response is without hesitation, thank fuck. Wicker exhales, but I’m not sure it’s out of relief, because it’s obvious he’s touched on something when Maddox continues, “But we are bound, Whitaker, through both blood and deceit.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask because I’m not sure Wicker can.
Maddox pauses in a way that makes me nervous. It isn’t until I see a crack in the facade that I realize how cool he’s always played it. Right now, he looks like he’s searching—desperately. “Did Rufus really never tell you about your father?”
Wicker takes a sharp breath. “You know our father buries secrets the way pirates bury gold.”
“He always was good at that.” Maddox seems to think about it for a long moment, nodding at two chairs in a seating area near the stone fireplace. Then he grabs a bottle of Scotch off of the shelf under an ornate stained glass window in the crucifix design and carries over two crystal glasses, setting them on a wooden table. He fills them, liberally, and takes the seat across from ours. Wicker lifts his and sniffs, and before I can slap it out of his hand, takes a long swallow.
Even Maddox looks disappointed in the lack of self-preservation on display, meeting my gaze before taking a long drink—proof that the Scotch is untainted. Having no time for formality, I throw mine back all at once, trying to figure out what we’re doing here. It feels like I’ve been watching these two dance around this moment since the first time we met the Baron King at a tribunal.
Maddox must feel the gravity of it too, because he begins, “I suppose I should have expected this moment ever since I put you into Rufus’ arms, almost twenty-two years ago. This is something you’ll come to learn about Forsyth. We always answer for our sins, one way or another.”
If there’s one thing that being Rufus Ashby’s sons has taught us it’s that when a King speaks, we should listen patiently. These bastards love to hear themselves talk.
Glancing into his glass, he goes on, “I’m not sure how your own initiation as Princes feels, but taking the journey down the wicked path changes you. It’s not rare for a Baron or Baroness—or even a King—to fall victim to the doctrine of death. You no doubt saw a bit of this in Will before taking his life.”
Wicker is eerily still and I don’t like it. It’s almost as if being in this place is gripping some deep-down, familiar part of him. “He was a fucking wack job.”
The corners of Maddox’s eyes tighten. “Your father, Benji,” he says, the words emerging slowly, thoughtfully. “It consumed him. Corrupted him.”
I snort. “Convenient.”
“You think I killed him for ambition,” Maddox tells me, shrugging. “Everyone does—it’s a tidy little story. One people respect. But actually, Benji was my second cousin, once removed. Oh, yes,” he says, seeing Wicker’s reaction. “Our families were close. We grew up together. Prep school, summer camps, shared holidays in Europe, and eventually Forsyth U. We served as Barons together, but although Benji was the heir, I couldn’t have possibly cared less. I was majoring in business and didn’t want to be tied to the parameters of royalty anyway. In fact,” he adds, gesturing with this glass, “I graduated, guided our Baroness off the wicked path, and had a son with her. I built a family. An empire. And all of that without ever needing this.” He lifts a hand, showing us the golden gleam of the pentagram on his middle finger.
“But Benji…” Maddox’s eyes darken. “He didn’t just want to be a King, you see. He wasn’t satisfied with worshiping death. He wanted to become death. His choices weren’t without risk. His actions…” His sharp jaw tightens. “They weren’t made from ritual, they were blasphemous. Selfish and inhumane. It would have been fine if he’d kept it to his followers, but when I found out Benji’s true mission…” The tension in his neck snaps when he cracks it, electricity squirming over his skin, as if he’s shaking off the memory. “Well, he had to be stopped.”
My knee starts bouncing. “What mission?” I ask.
But Maddox pauses, pouring out another glass of Scotch. “I want you to know I gave Clive, your grandfather, an honorable death.”
Steadily, Wicker replies, “There’s no such thing.”
Maddox gives him a significant look. “You know that’s not true.”
“So what, you shot him in the head?” I wager, already losing patience. “Made it quick? Who cares?”
But he shakes his head. “I gave him a much higher honor than that. The honor of claiming the sin.” His green eyes shift to Wick. “By hiding that his own son was the one to put the blade into his neck.”
Wicker blinks, brow furling. “You mean… my father killed Clive?”
“Surely,” Maddox drawls, “a mutiny against one’s father can’t surprise you, of all people.”
“You expect us to believe you murdered Wick’s father because he killed your King?” I bring my hands together in a slow, mocking clap. “A true hero of the ages.”
Maddox releases a chuckle that bleeds with malice. “Oh, that’s not why I killed him.” The laugh clips off, his face hardening. “I killed Benji because he corrupted my wife. He chained her to the wicked path, found the flaw in her mind, and twisted it until it devoured everything I loved about her.”
Wicker’s mouth parts on a rebuke, but before he can, Maddox leans back in his chair, holding up a finger.
“They wanted me to kill you.” The words are chilling, aimed at Wicker. “Saul Cartwright, Lionel Lucia, and Daniel Payne; the new Kings. They were willing to back my taking the throne, but with one point of advice. They all told me to get rid of you.”
Wicker’s teeth click shut. “So you gave me to him,” he growls.
Maddox sips far too casually at his drink. “He was the only one who disagreed with them. Rufus had just lost his son. For however little you might think of him—and however well-earned that opinion may be—he wouldn’t entertain the thought of killing a creation.” He dips his chin. “I knew he’d keep you and raise you as his own.”
I jolt up from my chair, the anger writhing like a snake in my chest finally striking. “You were wrong,” I snap, unable to hear any more of this bullshit. “He did kill him. Night after night. Used him. He put Wicker on a fucking platter for Forsyth to consume, and you sit here on the land you stole from his family, pretending you did him a favor? And for what? Because some goth fuckboy stole your girl?” Disgusted, I shake my head. “You’re worse than a monster. You’re weak.”
Maddox holds my stare, seeming unfazed by my outburst. “You’re right, Pace.” Setting down his glass, he rises to meet me head-on. “A stronger King would have ended it then. But I was blood-sick and drained, already facing what I’d have to do to my wife by locking her away. But then…” He cocks his head, as if he’s searching within himself now. “Even that’s not completely honest. The truth that took me so long to face, Whitaker, is that I could have killed you. If you were nothing more than Benji’s heir, I would have thrown you into the river and let death make its claim.” Worse than the words is the way he says them, so indifferent to the possibility of infanticide. “The only thing that saved you was the love I had for Remy. In the end, I couldn’t do it.” His eyes fix like lasers on Wicker, and in them, I see something aged and weary. Something horrifically sad. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of killing my wife’s creation.”
For a brief moment, the earth might as well stop spinning. I’m suspended in the gravity of what Maddox is saying, and for some reason, all I can hear is Lex’s voice whispering inside my mind.
Green eyes are inherently dominant over blue…
The Maddoxs’ green eyes.
Wicker’s blue eyes.
“Kayes or not,” the King confirms, turning away, “you’re still my son’s little brother.”